Use the force

If you're a Phillies phan, you're excited for the Eagles game Sunday.

If you're a Yankees fan, see you Sunday at the Frog.

If you're a Red Sox fan, same.

If you're an Astros fan, were you when they dressed like this?

Heroez and Not So Much with the Heroez tomorrow, lads and lasses. Slow news week but not at all. (Photo of Chewbacca showing better location than Ugee by the AP's Charles Krupa).

Uncomfortably fun

Gold.

Granted, we're already in love with Kate Winslet from her performance in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and because of, well, yeah so what if we cried during Titanic, several times? It's just that song. Man. That song. Does it get any better than "you're here/there's nothing to fear/and I know that/my heart will go on"?

So Kate carried the first episode of Extras. We love her. Quick review: Gervais being Gervais but not at all, really. He's quite likeable. Stephen Merchant, aloof. Kate Winslet - brutal in as good a way as brutal can be.

Watch this show. Some of you will hate it automatically. That brings a tear to OMS' eye because that means it's priceless.

Comment

Old Man Snap submits that David Bell has heart. Four for four with a hurt hand. He's a gamer. But we still don't want to get our hopes up this weekend, seeing as the Astros won again tonight, and we're running on 25 years of disappointment.

No Comment

Photo by AP. Loss by a team with no heart, but if you read the papers, they have a lot of "character." That sound you hear is most of Philly simply not caring anymore.

Because *that's* what it's all about

Awful headline verb aside, this is troubling on so, so many levels.

Reporting is all about ratings and making money. God we want to shoot ourselves in the face when we read that sentence over and over. Nevermind the telling people's stories to bookmark history or to educate people on what's going on in their town -- and the world.

Nevermind the built-in checks and balances of government and the need for reporters to practice their craft, every day, to perpetually nail the story and allow people the opportunity to think things out on their own and have the freedom to make a decision on who to vote for, or which cereal to buy at the store.

Most of all, the stories keep people educated. Education education education education education. *That's* what the media should practice. How to best educate within a fair and balanced story. It's a mantra, not a f*cking catchphrase.

This is all, like, wow, I mean like, man, so the ratings decade and it's, like, ruining stuff, OK? And we're all, like, sick of it and stuff, you know? It's like crazy.

It's a stretch. But keep underminding yourself, mediaespeciallyfoxandyourratings, and the whole world will talk like a character on the OC.

Can we wake up and not want to clothesline someone just once this week?

Yeah, but

There really are some idiots out there. And this blog is fast becoming a way to point out practically every other day that there aren't a lot of sharp bulbs in the kitchen sink. Or something.

SHE'S NOT A KID TOUCHER. And he's innocent. And the Old Man is a famous rock star.

Well, two out of three aren't bad.

Occifers. Oh with the occifers.

To the guy on the cell talking *way* too loud

Oh boy. So you walk out of your meeting at the big conference and immediately molest your phone.

"HEY WHAT UP?!" you say.

Then:

"CHILLIN' LIKE A VILLAIN." (OMS: Oh dear Lord. Can you be any whiter?).
"EVERYTHING IS ON THE TABLE." (Seriously?).
"IT'S ALL THERE BABY." (Is it? Dude. Shut the f*ck up, please).
"A LOT OF SH*T HAS COME OUT TODAY." (Wow. Stiiiiiill talking).
"FABULOUS." (LAAAAAAAAA!).
"I'M OUT." (You certainly are).

About the van in Utah

One of the many reasons Mitch Albom's book, "Tuesdays with Morrie," worked was his subtle reminder of real life events intermittent with his story of learning one more time from his dying professor. When we read the van in Utah that overturned and killed eight students and for some reason we can't link to the stories here, we had that feeling.

As wrapped as we get in our own drama, there's always a death or an accident or a lightning strike or a dying 10-year-old offensive coordinator to remind us that life is precious and life is short, and life is every other Hallmark cliche out there.

So today we may slow down a little bit, just to make sure we don't end up on the side of the highway, one head-lighted car in pieces and our head rolling down the embankment like Ralphie's bowling ball in Sopranos' Season Four.

We'll take it slow to appreciate what we have, and then we'll apply to Hallmark to write cards in Kansas City. Or maybe finally go hang out with the wheelchair-bound burn victim across the parking lot who crafts rap lyrics and designs tattoos.

?

Why, Cindy, why? Why are you smiling?
A cynic would say you're mugging for the cameras.
A cynic would say it's time to go away for a bit.
A cynic would say he's sorry your son died in a senseless war.
A cynic would also say you seem to be enjoying this relentless coverage.
A cynic would say please, please stop smiling when you are arrested.
A cynic would also say he'd hug you, if the cameras vanished.
A cynic would say right message. But, well, execution of said message, not so much.

(Photo from drudgereport.com).

Pass right

Something to remember.

The Ol' Man remains quite cynical, and often on the verge of violence for virtually every little thing that doesn't matter, like a broken headlight on his rapidly aging car, or whether he'll get the balls, ever, to go to the open mic night DOWN THE STREET from the parking lot and actually, you know, do what he wants to do.

But this live for today mantra, spoken by a 10-year-old dying kid -- man, it's way past time to do just this. A friend of OMS once wrote that if you have a modicum of desire and the drive to put it together and roll with it, then it happens -- whatever it is that you want.

He was so right. So hurry. Before it's too late and you're really an old man in a home looking back at life like you're trapped in a Dixie Chicks video.

Hold up

Paris and Mariah and Britney? You're kidding, right? These are the popular names for li'l girls? Why not just name them Trash or Skank or Ho and be done with it? Or something benign, like Annie. Or Courtney.

Man the Ol' Man longs for the days of the Berthas and the Matildas and the Gertrudes. At least the odds were in his favor that he'd just have to feed them, not supply crack, cheetos and backstage VMA passes. Oh how he longs for the oldern days.

"GERTIE, where's my supper? A man must eat in order to have his strength for the long work week beneath the palm tree and being beholden to the Lord's ways, which are mysterious. GERTIE! Supper! Now!"

What about the chronic?

We made it about 15 minutes in, and then opted for the new Dylan DVD -- on tonight at 9 on the PBS.

ABC and Hollywood and PR machines and America's dumbness in general will end up killing this show. Granted Bree and Lynnette perpetually save it, and we did laugh at the whole bit over Rex's high school tie and Penthouse magazine.

But we're sooooooo tired of Teri Hatcher already that we almost turned the show off during the opening bit in the hospital.

Writers: "YAY! Let's have Teri fill her mouth with COTTON. Hilarity will ensue because she'll talk FUNNY! OMG LOL!"

Crickets: "Dead silence, not even a sound of."

***
Because we dissect photos for body language and the truth behind the scenes, we're happy celebrities are out there to remind us all that life isn't that bad after all.

First, Demi and Ashton. Then, Sharon. Spicoli, too. And maybe bum doubles, as well.

Look at these people. Now look in the mirror.

Don't you feel better about yourself? Sure you may suck it in because your good friend said "Nice tat" this weekend and you swore he said, "Nice fat," and you had fat kid flashbacks while downing shots of Jaeg later that night at the bar, still sucking in the gut and flexing the largest arms in the world more than usual, but whatever.

Life is good.

Friday Filler

So a regular Friday feature for the seven, tops, if that, probably more like three, readers the Ol' Man has will be HEROEZ AND NOT SO MUCH WITH THE HEROEZ. That's right folks: each Friday, OMS will express his snap judgement/judgment for a week in review glance at what matters and what doesn't.

He admits wholeheartedly that he's ripping this off from pretty much every hack out there, so OMS has deemed this unoriginal bit HEROEZ and NOT SO MUCH WITH THE HEROEZ -- because he represents full flava for your ears (and, simply, he has had a lifelong love affair with the letter Z and what it represents).

If the bit bombs, it really doesn't matter. It's not like he really wants to be famous or anything. He's lived a good life, the Ol' Man.

HEROEZ

Mr. Stewart, because he rules.

Mr. Sloan, for constantly making the Ol' Man laugh and admire the goodness life sometimes brings, especially the certain goodness of really, um, ah, shoot, wait, I got this...LINE! (talented), oh yeah, TALENTED actresses. (SFW, sort of).

Mr. "Nature Boy" -- who gets two shout outs in one week from OMS -- for not only beating the diabolical Carlito this past Sunday night to score his first-ever Intercontinental Championship (on top of 16 World Championships, beeyatch), but then stylin' and profilin' his way to a successful challenge of said title on Monday Night Raw. All together now, everyone: WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

And Mr. Owens and Mr. McNabb, for two TD connections last Sunday. More of this in February, please, only with a win this time. (Photo credit: South Jersey's Newspaper).

NOT SO MUCH WITH THE HEROEZ

Rafael Palmeiro, for fingering a teammate and claiming B-12 is what failed him on his steroids test. Yo check this. We know B-12 is not about the juice. Itz bout bein tru2lifeplayaz on the hip hop scizzene cuz Eminem be blazin' son. What? Oh. D-12 is about the playaz and what not. B-12, is, well, nevermind. Point is, liar. Next.

El Presidente, for winning. *sigh*

Rita, 'cause she's a b*tch and she does bad things. This has got to stop, says Capt. Old Man Obvious.

And, finally, this guy. Oh boy. Wow. Oh no. Sheesh. *sigh*. Um. Yeah. Wow.

So that does it for the first round of HEROEZ and NOT SO MUCH WITH THE HEROEZ. Tune in next week for more offbeat shenanigans and tomfoolery!

Cheese and crackers

CAN WE STOP WITH THIS? WHO CARES? WHY JUDGE? LIKE YOU DON'T HAVE A FETISH FOR TIRE IRONS. ARE THEY AT LEAST HOT?

Seriously, we have no use anymore for anyone who thinks their holier than thou. This is one of the many, many reasons the Ol' Man walks around all day, voices in his head saying, "Punch them. Punch them hard. In the face."

How about an educated discussion on hey, people are different, it's what makes the world somewhat cool? But noooooo. You are a heathen, they say, so we shall burn thee on a stake and make s'mores.

Don't even get us started on this, too. "These things are graphic." Yeah. They are. And they should therefore be discussed, out loud. Many, many times.

LOVE THE WORLD, YA'LL. LOVE THE WORLD.

Please, before whatever higher power says, sooner than later, "You done f*cked up now. Gets a steppin'."

That Knight has a point over there...

Does anyone think, really, when he/she takes a good long hard look in the mirror, that people won't f*ck this all up?

Some will say God is punishing us. Some say Mother Nature is pissed about getting maced in her eyes pretty much every day for the last 200 years. Some say Ric Flair is still the best thing going today.

But we digress.

We can't wait until we all look like we're in the movies, running frantically from falling trees and puffy white clouds that suddenly have the power to whoop our collective asses.

Summation: He, like, sucks and stuff

The Ol' Man has seen a lot in his many, many years in this wonderful, wonderful country.

And he's glad he didn't move to Canadia because then the last nine months or so of meeting new and exciting -- and f*cking cool -- people wouldn't have happened, eh.

But talk aboot a no brainer. Literally and figuratively. HAH! The Ol' Man is bringing the funny today, kids.

FOUR MORE YEARS! FOUR MORE YEARS!

I learned how to tie a tie in 30 hot seconds

John Roy is funny.

We used to say things like, "He's a good guy," and then everyone was all, "Bid him!" and then we'd all hug tenderly and sing the first verse of "Goodnight Saigon," followed by a garbled second verse because no one knew the words.

Then your formerly lavaliered ex-girlfriend would throw beer at you and slap you because your new girlfriend emerged from your bedroom during the party in your shorts and t-shirt, and you followed her out of the room, hair disheveled, shirtless, and drinking a 40 of O-mothereffing-E mothereffer.

Then the brothers, real men, all, would band together and kick said ex out of the party after she'd cry in the kitchen for a good 20 minutes.

And since you had brothers, you manned up and drank more Natty Ice, after pouring the remnants of the O-mothereffing-E onto the chapter room floor for your homies.

Then after you'd graduate, one of your other brothers would take it too far and try the oral on his roommate and then it was one big brotherly mess.

YAY FRAT STORIES!

Fun with early morning haikus

Tyra Banks, they're real.
Real boobs! Real boobs! Great news! Wow!
We needs to know why?

Again with the weight.
Healthy look from cokehead look.
Still love the Mean Girls.

Category Five!
Oh no oh no no no no
Hey! Did you see Lost?

Martha Martha Mar--
Do people still care? Do they?
No talent, you. Bye.

Speaking of goodbyes
Groovy, baby. So groovy.
Wait. The plane landed?

Someone please find us
clip of plane girlfriend message.
We need to post it.

Gaslight

The bartender who looks like he got lost on his way to Sturgis and ended up behind the bar instead of his hog. The Russian chick who knew all the words to every Metallica and Guns 'N F*cking Roses song. The martini tie guy across the bar. Old Man Snap. The two cute waitresses, one who looks like a Latina Phoebe Cates.

Everyone clapped. Sure, some did their best stand-up routines for the half-hour the plane was "landing in minutes," as stupid Fox said. "Wow they sure are f*cked. Heh heh. Another beer, barkeep?" Somebody even offered to open up a crash pool.

Fox kept that assinine banner on the bottom of the screen, and with the sound off, the entire bar kept thinking the plane was landing when it really was in Canadia still -- or hovering over the airport to ditch fuel and make sure the prayer count got to 3 million.

This pilot is one bad motherf*cker, though, and evidence that sometimes good things do happen, after all. Until tomorrow, of course, when Armageddon unleashes because God doesn't like poor, well, just because.

Opus would *so* kick all of your asses

OK. This is f*cking ridiculous. We'd heard of this weeks ago. But come on. It's a film about penguins. Nothing more. Nothing less. We learned that men get kinda pissed off when they're hungry, but they'll also spit phlegm into thier babes' mouths to extend the life cycle a bit. We learned that cuddling = always good, especially when one can freeze one's balls off.

We learned that women tend to be a bit protective of their first born. And they can become crazy psychotic b*tches if they lose their first born. We learned that penguins are a little bit chicken sh*t when vultures visit and they won't fight back, punk b*tches that they are.

We learned that we certainly liked Morgan Freeman better in Glory. But back to the penguins. We learned they survive and they don't b*tch about how cold it is outside, even when their cute li'l feetsies gets the frostbeetsies.

Finally, we remembered why Berkeley Breathed was the man back in the day. Religious talk. Ack, we say.

He'll probably die

So what's the big deal? It's not like the H ever killed anyone.

Ever. So why not ingest it on the air?

Score one for the fat kids

HA! In your FACE, Uncle Jesse.

Attaboy, Vern. I just wish you wouldn't have fired Jerry to get with that other guy. I don't care if he's with Nikki Cox now.

Wait. Well. Come to think of it, Mohr deserves an attaboy, too, and not just for snagging Cox. He also does a mean Walken and I still he think he was brilliant with Bailey in Go.

What a blessed day.

Why definitions are important

So the Ol' Man has had many an editor stop him mid-story and say, "But wait, what is a/an _______? Our readers might not know what a/an ________ is. So you have to explain it. Define it."

Journalism 101, he knows.

This, therefore, is priceless and should make every reporter out there roll his/her eyes pretty hazel/blue/brown eyes.

Swinging involves having social and sexual intercourse with someone other than a spouse, boyfriend or girlfriend. It primarily involves couples.

Does it, now?

Uh-oh

Well. No sh*t.

The old bat has a (garbled, mostly) point

From the October 2005 edition of the magazine we all love to read for the articles. Mr. Osbourne has a point:

It's a rocky road. I'm forever in pursuit of the person who wrote the words "And they both lived happily after." He must have been smoking some serious crack. It'a not all happy. Some days we f*cking don't talk. Some days we're like two kids. Some days we're f*cking not on the same planet. But you get on with it, you know? I did a good job of f*cking up mu first marriage through drugs and alcohol and thinking I was king of the f*cking universe.

You are, Ozzy. You f*cking are.

Willow? Wesley?

Willow? What have you done to your hair? And Wesley? Wow. You look good, bro. Nice work losing the glasses and gaining the hottie.

In other Emmy news, we're glad Lynette won. She's been through a lot with those li'l bastard kids, ya know.

(Photo by Steve Granitz, WireImage.com).

Roses From My Friends

"I could have treated you better. You couldn't have treated me worse. Oh but it's he, it's he who laughs last, it's he who cries first."

Is it the Ol' Man, or is this still some of the best lyrics in any song ever, and he doesn't say this in his LIKE OH MY GOD THIS IS THE BEST EVERRRRRR! voice. He means that sh*t. Word.

Oooohweeee!

Boy do we miss you. Please come back. And keep talking. You have such a soothing voice. Sexy, even. We love you. We really don't like him.

Ich mochte ein bier, bitte.

Ja. Das ist gute.
Photo, thankfully, by Michaela Rehle, Reuters). According to the news service: Girls in traditional Bavarian clothes toast with one-litre beer mugs during the opening day of the Oktoberfest in Munich September 17, 2005. Millions of beer drinkers from around the world will come to the Bavarian capital Munich for the world's biggest and most famous beer festival, the Oktoberfest. The 172st Oktoberfest lasts from September 17 until October 3. Some six million people are expected to visit 14 enormous tents, each capable of holding up to 10,000 people at a time, drinking some 5.5 million litres (1.453 million U.S. gallons) of beer in the process.

He looks how I feel

So the old man feels a little off this week. Even retirees who strum the guitar and sip the Corona, always under a palm tree, can have off weeks. But at least this gem made him smile.

One can only imagine with breathless anticipation the late night cuddlefest conversations these two lovers had...

KC: I want to go back...
RZ: I know. You want to go back to the good times, the high school times, the watching-your-daughter-drive-off-to-college-in-her-Abercrombie-hip-huggers times. You sing about it in all your f*cking songs and can you please take that hat off in bed?
KC: ... to my ol' high school, where drinkin' beer and kickin' q***rs was better than being right here...
RZ: You know what? You had me at hello. But this is f*cking ridiculous. Where's my f*cking diary?
KC: ... I like simple things, like diamond rings, and remembering back when I was everything...
RZ: Can you please shut the f*ck up? Ooooooooooo. Chicago is on the on demand.
KC: You can have your Chicago, but I'll always have that time in Aruba with my ol' high school flame, sitting here with you is really f*cking lame...
RZ: I want a divorce, sweetie.
KC: Take it away, Uncle Kracker...

Just Want to Live Out Loud

Big Kenny did what now, and when?

eek

Only in Jersey.

Stop the f*cking presses, ya'll

Oh my gawd ya'll.

I so hoped it would be a girl so a futuristic-on-ice-Hef could get li'l Addison into editions in 2023. But li'l Preston will do for now, I guess. Can't wait until his album drops.

Remember when Britney was going to be Britney Snap? Those were the days.

AND NOW TIME FOR ANOTHER FUN GAME OF...

Makes our marriage issues disappear...

Scares us sh*tless...

MAKES US HAPPY...

This has been another fun game of makes our marriage issues disappear, scares us sh*tless and MAKES US HAPPY. Thank you.

(Photo credits: Erika, Louis Lanzano, AP; Mr. Roberts, Kevin Lamarque, Reuters; and cute talking red Panda bear thing, Gil Cohen Magen, Reuters).

IRACK (asap) -- OMG LOL ;-) Ur not gonna bleev...

So the ol' man really doesn't know how he feels about this one.

On one hand, obviously kids (and not of the baby goat sort) aren't as into old fashioned news stories and delieveries as much as they may have been in the oldern days. But this is a tad worrisome. One runs the risk of further dumbing down a generation of children who won't learn basic rules of good journalism practice.

With asap, the rules are bending toward the youngsters now more than ever. This is dangerous. Shouldn't the youngsters read news as it has traditionally been presented? Aren't there basic rules to follow?

The article says the AP will stick to its stylebook. We can only hope so or we risk further deterioration of the most sacred of all our rights: the freedom of the press.

We are more concerned about the line about blogging than anything else. Blog reporters make the story about them, and it's so clearly not. It's about the people you're reporting on and about, and how the event impacts them.

Fly on the wall. The fly doesn't blog. This is dangerous, the more we think about it.

***
And the feel good story of the day, led by the pupils at Delone Catholic High School in Pennsylvania.

Admit it. You *loved* the Hanson and even sang MMMMMBop in your beat-up '94 pick-up truck once in a while, but only with the windows down and volume pumped up. Way up.

G*DDAMNIT MOTHER F*CKER MOVE!

I must be thick, or golly there'd no way in heck I would ever swear it up like dat.

But to the 162 card in the fad lane on northbound 202 today, where most dayd we all simply dop for the red light and continue on our merry wayd when it'd green: MOVE OUT OF THE G*DDAMN WAY MOTHER F*CKERD!

Seriously, what the f*ck id there to look at addhode? So there'd an accident. It'd gone already. I jud see f*cking dud and li'l remnand of glad on the road. IF THAT. I don't dee blood or dedtruction or even pilled beer cand.

I see f*cking dud. Now move the f*ck on.

I'm tired and cranky and I want to go home and eat chowdah and go to bed because my node id duffy.

Addhode.

"Turn the color down; it's too bloody."

So Old Man Snap once had an executive editor make an executive decision on a bloody buck photo in Central Pa. The story was on the first day of buck season, which is HUGE in them there parts.

The photo accompanied a story on butcher shops and how dey gets big bidness when people come in there with them bucks there.

Problem was, the buck was bloody. So Mr. Executive Editor, known for his shiny silver ties that matched his shiny slicked back hair and his shiny weatherman smile, made the call.

"See headline," he said.

OMS and the photographer argued in vain that the shot was what it was; that we should know our audience and that it wasn't a big deal. "People like blood," OMS said. "Haven't you watched ol' Stone Cold on Monday Night Raw?"

What does this have to do with anything, you ask, impatiently and rather rudely?

Show the bodies. Respectfully.

Tell the friggin' story.

And buck season starts Nov. 28 in Pa. Yipee we'll get dem Duke boys!

The Speed

So the weekend, thankfully, is over.

Well, OMS is still enjoying his, technically, because he took today off from his usual duties of fishing for breakfast and raking up palm tree leaves so as to not disturb his threefold naps. Plus he's coked out of his mind on the coffee and the DC. 20 ounces does that to a fella.

While taking a break from said leaf raking, fish fishing and Diet Coking, OMS visited his local tattoo parlor to set up an appointment for a none-menacing dragon, as well as his local DMV office in hopes of finally switching his registration from that island to this one.

Overheard in the wonderful DMV office:

"THIS IS THE FIFTH F*CKING TIME I'VE BEEN HERE SO TELL ME EXACTLY WHAT I NEED," yells angry mom. "Tommy, let's f*cking go."

Tommy, packing up his PSP: "Jesus, Mom. Now what's the problem these people?"

"BUT EVERYTHING IS IN MY WIFE'S NAME," says Wally Whipped. "HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO GIVE YOU ANY OF THIS INFORMATION? IT'S IN MY WIFE'S NAME AND I'M A CITIZEN!"

OMS felt safer next to Bull the Biker and his flexing mothers back at the parlor than he did standing in line.

Good times.

Mom! I can't find my shoes...

Diggity Biggity.

Because of this, we smiled, cynically, when we saw this.

I lied once when Mrs. Catani asked my why I was wearing cleats to kindergarten class and I said I couldn't find my shoes. Truth was, Tom Michaelski wore cleats a week before and seemed *so* cool, stupid follower I was.

Snap Clarkson

Thanks to the Golden Fiddle (AKA Best Blog EVER!!! ;-) for this.

Does she know she's crazy? Well, we know she does. And her. And her, too.

But seriously, does Mrs. Joey?

*sniff*

Now more with the death and the oops and the things that really matter, and the punching ourselves in the face repeatedly for the next couple days or so. Or maybe we'll just check out the Real World marathons.

Oh yeah, there's this anniversary, too.

Happy drinking/sobbing/praying/punching -- again -- this weekend, one and all.

Nice

Well, God Bless America.

Sometimes, I wanna hear myself on the radio

So without the normal form of 100,000-mile-service-engine-light-on-for-the-last-8,000-horn-doesn't-work-either transportation for the day, it comes to one's attention once more how God-awful regular radio is.

I say this because of the ENDLESS commercials on the commercial radio, and the SENSELESS DJs on the commercial radio. I've been spoiled by Lucy, Fred, Earl Bailey and others. Not so much by Bob Kelly, though.

Thank you to XPN and Mr. Imus for at least making the commute a little more bearable today.

And thank you, XM Satellite Radio, for making the daily three hours in the car more gooder every other day.

OK, terrific.

HOO HOO. Tell 'em, Fred.

And... DODGEBALL!

This *so* gets our panties in a bunch.

Q: Okay, but that's not at all what I was asking.
MR. McCLELLAN: Sure it is. It's exactly what you're trying to play.

AGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

I wish they'd just create a Web site...

So I took four dames to the airport for their trip to Vegas bright in early this morning.

Overheard in the Chevy Blazer on the way to Newark:

"Don't f*cking talk to me," hottie one tells this driver before we even leave the ol' parking lot. "Way too hungover. No use for words."

"I can't wait to find out what I forgot to pack when we get there," hottie two blurts out from the middle back seat.

"Ewwwww," says hottie three. "Five hours on a plane and I am NOT going near the bathroom. It's just smells way too clean and it's clearly not."

"Hover," hottie two says. "Hover and cover."

Ah, the clock is ticking on the required debauchery.

Fancy some tea?

Actually, sure.

Leave it to those stuffy Brits to nail this story on its big ten-gallon fluffy redcoated-stand-the-post-and-don't-blink-when-we-take-pictures-hat thing. This is brilliant.

Not so much with the humour, though, with this (all from the BBC link):

"The very day that this emerged in the press, I was on a video conference with all the officials, including state and local officials. And nobody, none of the state and local officials or anybody else, was talking about a Convention Center," (Michael) Chertoff told CNN.

"It was midday Tuesday that I became aware of the fact that there was no possibility of plugging the gap, and that essentially the lake was going to drain into the city," he said on NBC.

"Anger has been focused on Bush and his administration to a degree unprecedented in his presidency," Washington Post correspondent Dan Balz said. "Senator Mary Landrieu [a Louisiana Democrat] said in an ABC News interview that aired Sunday that she would consider punching the president and others for their response to what happened there. Local officials, some in tears, have angrily accused the administration of callousness and negligence."

Can Sen. Landrieu be Olbermann's running mate?

My friend Mike is right, again

Find Olbermann. Watch Olbermann.

He's my vote for President.

In the meantime, we're f*cked.

To the old man in the locker room

It's not like no one saw you standing in front of the mirror with your skimpy white towel and man boobs that made some of us a *lot* less self conscious.

But there you were, standing, wait... scratching. Scratching? Holy sh*t. Scratching where I think you were scratching? Hold up. No. Not scratching. More like cranking. Yes. I saw this.

So did thank-God-he's-fully-clothed guy next to me. Cranking. Subtley beneath the towel. You made eye contact with us, too.

Ew. Gross.

The Professor and Mary Anne...

Has there been a lot of good news lately?

Why Horoscopes Rule, Part 2

PISCES: As overwhelmed as you might currently feel, try to get past a self-imposed sense of inadequacy that may be nothing more than your fears in a clever disguise. Your friends and coworkers see a superstar, and rightly so. You're about to be handed an opportunity that's tailor made for your skills and gifts -- don't let strong (and undeserved) feelings of self-doubt prevent you from taking what's rightfully yours.

Wait. I thought a snowball was when...

People are either dead or on their living room couches, still hoping to catch the season premiere of Joey.

Meanwhile, this f*cking dog is more than likely frolicking across the heartland by now, scared of rain and li'l boys who say, "AW WOOK AT DA CUTE PUPPY HE WOOKS WIKE A SNOWBALL."

My dog Tasha spent Hurricane Gloria knockin' da boots with Rusty, the neighborhood pimp/mutt.

I'm sure Snowball is just fine.

Now can we get back to the bodies and the missing and the people needing food and water and hope and a ticket to somewhere other than a disease-infested hellhole? (Photo by Robert Sullivan/AFP).

I look like Tom Cruise on Vanilla Sky

In the blink of an eye, his whole life changed.

Priceless

Finally, something to goof on for weeks.

Who misses snake Britney and I-have-something-to-say Britney now that preggers Britney is on the case?

Remember when love was real and true?

Boy don't we all long for the days of innocence, like maybe when we used to rock out to "Nookie."

Seriously?

And here endeth week one.

Definition of Not a Slow News Week

So things keep happening.

"Could I have been... a parking lot attendant?"

AP Photo by Martha Raddatz. She took it on Tuesday.

Maybe no one could really comprehend just how bad it would get in New Orleans. But less with the criticizing right now and more with the praying and the donating and the supporting.

Because it's bad.

Really bad.

Why Horoscopes Rule

PISCES: Wincing at the thought of some less-than-stellar behavior on your part and feeling, oh, just a touch defensive? Brush off criticisms -- including your own -- and focus resolutely on the present and future. Flagellating yourself will only lead to a treacherous bog of low self-esteem. Instead, take a look at what you can change for the better, resolve to correct any inappropriate behavior and apologize when necessary. Now move on.

Bathrooms

So I admit to a daily ritual of doing crossword puzzles and Sudoku in the public restrooms from time to time.

But I find myself less with the crosswording and problem solving and more with the telling other bathroom visitors to f*ck off under my breath when I hear them say the dumbest things ever.

Today's submission?

Way-too-happy-whistler-don't-you-know-the-world-is-ending? Guy: "The only thing I want to know is if they found Fats Domino..."

That got a yes, a f*ck you and a flipping of the ol' bird. I'll show you, Mister.

Is there anything else to talk/think/pray/scream about, really? You have food and water, do ya?

Scott Gold of the LA Times sums it up quite perfectly:

NEW ORLEANS — A 2-year-old girl slept in a pool of urine. Crack vials littered a restroom. Blood stained the walls next to vending machines smashed by teenagers.

***
"I'm not god. If I was, you'd all be home with your family."

Unreal.

***
Photo by James Nielson of AFP. It led the NY Times today:

To the woman on the treadmill

You're not really *working out* if you're walking on a treadmill and talking on your cell.

The only thing you're really doing is making the other treadmillers secretly wish you'd trip and pancake yourself on the tracks.

The only thing better than that, they're thinking, is if the dullard you're talking to on the other end would hear you orbit the treadmill tracks several times, squishing.

My friend Mike is right

The 2000s pretty much suck ass.

Christ. We didn't even get into that thing in 2001 or that other thing last November when we really thought we'd move to Canadia.

The Argument

I pretended I wasn't watching, which is easy when you bury your face into the neck of your guitar because you still have trouble with barre chords.

It was hard not to miss her, though. We'd first met in February, when snow embraced her car and I had just moved in. I did what any neighbor should do, new or otherwise. I grabbed a shovel and dug her out. We introduced ourselves and as usual, I forgot her name within seconds.

Six months later, I cautiously watched her storm out of her mother's apartment and onto the handicapped ramp. She lit a sprag and shushed me from across the parking lot.

"Am I playing too loud?" I shouted from the porch.

"No," she said, pointing to her cigarette.

"Oh," I said. "Because I have this thing about playing loud and awful..."

Enter mom, who waddled out onto her stoop. Forgothername flicked her butt and stormed back to her mother.

They whispered and returned inside. A minute later, daughter bolted from mom's place and out to her own, down the hill and behind the building.

"HOPE YOU HAVE A NICE LIFE!" mom shouted from inside, door still bouncing on the frame.

I continued playing "When You Say Nothing At All."

Finally

So I created a blog.

I vow not to bore you with who I am or what I eat for breakfast. I'm more inclined to just muse about my apartment complex, how irrelevant pop stars (except for Kelly Clarkson) truly are, or how transparently dumb guys can be at bars.

To wit:

"I'll have a PINT of GUINNESS!" yelled way-too-loud-receding-hairline guy at the bar last night.

Um, yeah, when was the last time G came in anything but? And why are you yelling so close to my ear? And come to think of it, is that your arm I feel or mine?

"What do you have on tap?"

Um, yeah, shouldn't you know by now what you're beer is and whether your local watering hole serves said beverage? Make a decision and stick with it, Wally Waffler.

More to come, the Ol' Man is sure.