phelpspeak

"...Coming This Fall To NBC....The Wacky, Fun Filled Adventures of The Caligula Family!..."

2012-01-28T08:37:00.001-05:00

Props to Reader's Digest, it's time for "increase your word power".

rib·ald/ˈribəld/
Adjective:
Referring to sexual matters in an amusingly rude or irreverent way.

Example:

“Why do people say "grow some balls"? Balls are weak and sensitive. If you wanna be tough, grow a vagina. Those things can take a pounding”
― Betty White

This is, as my father's generation would offer, one funny broad.

For those who would like to repeat that analogy but might have a little problem with the R rated nature of the V word, though, I have an alternate suggestion.

Coming up right after this.

With every generation comes certain rites of passage. Benchmarks and/or milestones that, while inevitable, are only apparent as they are experienced.

Usually, these moments come in some form of "that was/this is'. Or as it has been phrased in a more pedestrian fashion, "in my day...".

And, again, in those cases, most often it's about music or art or movies or something/anything that brings into sharp and unavoidable focus the contrast between what "was" and what "is".

Believe it or not, for example, it was not so long ago that The Rolling Stones, for example, were considered to be Satan's own spawn and the music/presentation they offered was, in the eyes/ears of that generation's parents, almost certainly a one way ticket to eternal damnation.

Today, of course, the Stones are just some old guys who are fondly remembered by that generation and, at best, politely tolerated by today's generation.

Believe it or not, for example, it was not so long ago that sitcom characters could not share a bed, even if married. Check out any TV Land rerun of "The Dick Van Dyke Show" or, even "I Love Lucy" and you will see nary a double, let alone queen or king, bed to be found in said boudoir.

Today, of course, a sitcom featuring a robust rumpy pumpy requires nothing more than two individuals, regardless of gender, ready to ride whether they have a saddle or not.

Let alone a bed.

And believe it or not, it was not so long ago that the idea of skipping school for a day and wandering around the city in a "borrowed" car was considered such an outlaw adventure that an entire feature film portrayed just such an escapade, becoming a classic example of youthful rebellion.

Even going so far as to...wait for it....treat a snotty maitre'd with disrespect.

"Ferris Bueller's Day Off".

He was a righteous dude.

From my admittedly lofty, albeit Ben Gay scented, perch of elder statesman status, I reminisced today that I was an impressionable elementary school student growing up assuming that Rob and Laura and Ricky and Lucy were blissfully happy regardless of how much space they had to negotiate to procreate, a young teen in danger of losing my immortal soul by being in Sympathy For The Devil, via Mick and Keith and a young man with young kids of my own when Ferris and Cameron and Sloan made a ruin of Rooney with their adolescent antics.

And, now, here I am, still in relative possession of my faculties and bearing witness to a world filled with Kourtneys and Khloes and Kims (oh, my).

Not to mention Gagas and Sitches and Snookis. (on Donner and Blitzen).

Not to mention "Family Guy" that makes "The Simpsons" come off like "Ozzie and Harriet".

And chuckle though I might at the wisdom and obvious wit of the wonderful Ms. White, I believe, as mentioned earlier, I can offer up a more "family friendly" option for retelling the aforementioned ribaldry in such a raucous fashion.

Having been inspired, as it turns out, by fifty years, give or take, of witnessing the continued cultural pushing of the envelope.

To wit...

“Why do people say "grow some balls"? Balls are weak and sensitive. If you wanna be tough, grow an envelope. Those things can take a pounding”

"...Made You Look... Quote, Unquote..."

2012-01-27T08:43:00.001-05:00

Nothing gets the day going like a hefty mug of half caf and a splash of the "old switcheroo".

The former I brewed myself.

The latter was a headline cooked up by an AP writer on Yahoo's homepage.

"Kids try to bury big family secret in 'Yosemite'..."

Being, simultaneously, sentimentally attached to many of our national parks and naturally, even morbidly, inclined, along with my fellow mere mortals, to enjoy a modest modicum of murderous mayhem in the morning, I laid into that link and braced myself a little for what I was sure would be a prurient presentation of patricide.

Only to discover that the advertised "kids" "family" and "secret", et al were merely components of a new off-Broadway production entitled....wait for it....

...'Yosemite'.

Okay, having worked in, and around, the creative arts for most of my life, I'm as totally down as down can be with the concept of marketing a piece, be it musical or theatrical and whatever little tricks or gimmicks one might employ to get the attention of the already mentally overloaded mass audience.

And having done what some would offer was way more than my fair share of radio through the years, I'm not only hip to, but, if I do say so myself, pretty damn accomplished at what is colloquially known as "the tease".

So, while I wasn't particularly bunged about having been mistaken about my initial impression of what that headline would reveal, a couple of pickable bones did make an appearance.

First, I really do like a well executed tease as much as the next guy.

The key phrase there is "well executed".

This one seems to have reached just a teeny weeny bit over the line marked "reaching".

And even allowing for the little "wink wink" that provided a clue in the headline, the placing of the word 'Yosemite' in quotation marks indicating that all was not going to be what it was "advertised" to be, I'd still vote for "reaching" when it came to the aforementioned well executed "tease".

Second, I'm not familiar with the writer here, Jennifer Farrar, except that she, obviously, writes for the Associated Press, but having re-read the piece a time or two, my honest impression of her editorial style is that she is either...

a) ...writing her "reviews" while distracted by a phone call, TV program or fire drill.
b) ...writing her "reviews" by typing while she reads right out of a book entitled "1001 Cliche Theatrical Review Phrases".
c) ...the most promising talent to be found in her eighth grade journalism class.
d) ...all of the above

Third, whatever else the advent of the Internet has, or has not, positively contributed, to date, to mankind, one thing is crystal clear.

It ain't done nobody no good no how when it comes to advancing the evolution of social commentary and/or discourse.

Evidence of offered opinion to be found by...

a) reading Farrar's "review"
b) reading the less than erudite "observations" of the majority of those viewing the review.

Not singly but, most succinctly, exampled with the contribution of Sidney from Sacramento, California.

...I was expecting a story about Yosemite. Maybe some nice pictures. What a waste of time...

Aw, come on, Sidney. You got pulled into the old switcheroo.

No harm done. Show a little sense of humor.

Buffy Cary, on the other hand, seems to have gone completely off the deep end.

No quotes on deep end either.

...Kathryn Erbe is SUCH an amazing actress....

"Actress" ?

"...Thank Heaven The Commandante' Didn't Have Access To The Scoreboard..."

2012-01-25T08:25:00.000-05:00

Here's two names you don't often see linked together.

Antonio Banderas.

Billy Cundiff.

Link and explanation momentarily.

(Yahoo Sports) No one has provided more information on Billy Cundiff's miss than Stefan Fatsis, author of "A Few Seconds of Panic," a book about his brief stint as a backup kicker with the Denver Broncos in training camp. For Deadspin, Fatsis has talked with Cundiff and has his own uniquely qualified perspective on the yank.

To summarize — and you should go read the whole thing — Cundiff has a specific routine he follows when the Ravens get into field goal range. On first down, he does one thing. On second, something else. Third, something else. Unfortunately, the Patriots scoreboard had the down wrong, which threw Cundiff out of whack.

On Sunday, during what would be the Ravens' final set of downs, Cundiff completed his first-down prep and checked the scoreboard: second down. He ran through his routine and looked up at the scoreboard again: third down.

Then, suddenly, chaos on the sidelines.

Coaches were screaming—from the opposite end of the field to where Cundiff was thinking his third-down pre-kick kicker thoughts—for the field-goal unit. The play clock was ticking and Cundiff, as per normal, was back from the sideline and farther from the line of scrimmage than his teammates. As he was not expecting to go in yet, he had to run to get into position for a game-tying kick.

So there it is. The scoreboard was wrong, Cundiff was rushed, and his mechanics on the kick went goofy. I don't pass this along as any kind of an excuse for Cundiff — you can decide for yourself if his miss is excusable or something that even needs excusing — but it's an explanation.

Here's another question, though: Is it possible that the Patriots did this on purpose? Did they have their scoreboard operator display the wrong down, to mess with Cundiff's routine? Ravens kicking consultant Randy Brown is wondering that same thing. Via CBS Philly, Brown said to Angelo Cataldi on WIP in Baltimore, "I don't think you can rule anything out in New England, can you?"

It seems like a tremendous stretch to me. Since it's the Patriots, some level of dishonesty and underhandedness will be assumed, but I'll be surprised and more than a little impressed if it's somehow uncovered that they hatched a scheme with knowledge of Billy Cundiff's pre-kick routine and a scoreboard operator as a confederate.

I'm much more likely to believe it was an honest mistake. The Ravens thought they had a first down a few plays prior, when Anquan Boldin fumbled the ball out of bounds. They didn't. The ball was placed at the spot of the fumble, not the spot where it went out of bounds. The Ravens themselves were confused about the down, and it's far easier to believe that the scoreboard operator was, too.

I suppose since I am, and have never been, neither a trained athlete nor more than just a casual football fan/follower, some slack cutting should be offered on my part when it comes to getting my head around the idea that Billy Cundiff's job is, apparently, more complicated than I would have imagined.

Upon reading of Cundiff's intricate and borderline Sheldon Cooper-esque pre-kick routine, though, I have to confess the first name that popped into my head was...Antonio Banderas.

In the first (and in my o, best) of the two "Zorro" films that Banderas made, there is a wonderful scene where the Banderas character, Alejandro, the, as yet, untrained, untried "Fox" to be is asked, by the wise, but wizened and world weary "Fox I", Don Diego, if he, Alejandro, knows how to use a fencing sword.

With a charming look of both surprise and "duhh", Alejandro replies "the pointy end goes into the other man."

We live in a world of excuses.

The simple act of taking responsibility for one's actions, most especially one's mistakes and/or failings, seems to have gone the way of the Tyrannosaurus Rex and the eight track tape player.

Credit where due, it's not Cundiff personally offering up any "hey, don't blame me"s here, but the fact that this article ever saw the light of day is proof enough that the mea culpa grows more obsolete with each passing generation.

This concludes the "tsk, tsk" portion of the program.

As far as the Billy/Banderas connection is concerned, though, here's the kicker.

Pun inevitable.

While I'm not so ignorant as to think that the art of place kicking is not without its nuances and subtleties nor espouse that simply because it looks easy to do that it is, in fact, easy to do, I admit that I was more than a little surprised to read the amount of detail, planning, processing, choreographing and systematizing involved in, at least, Cundiff's style of acquiring the one or three points available at the end of his toe.

The pointy end goes into the other man.

The ball gets kicked between the two poles in the end zone.

Wind, rain, snow, icy field, sloppy grass, all of these this untrained eye can see would be factors.

Which down is listed on the scoreboard?

Not so much.

"...The Skinny On Slim Down Sayonaras..."

2012-01-24T17:30:00.000-05:00

New Year's resolutions traditionally begin on January 1.

Everybody knows that.

Here's something I bet you didn't know.

First, though...

Seen any good weight loss commercials lately?

Sure you have.

Today, after taking care of my chores and tasks like a good worker bee, I was satisfying my minimum daily requirement of syndicated reruns (today's menu features "Law and Order {SVU and non}, "Friends" and an occasional surf back over to the TCM all day birthday tribute to Ernest Borgnine), when it dawned on me that nary a commercial break had come and gone during my viewing time that did not include, at least, one appearance of Marie Osmond, Jennifer Hudson and/or some "regular folks just like you and me" cordially hawking the merits of Nutri System, Weight Watchers and/or Jenny Craig.

Being the connect the dots kind of guy I am, I began the process of processing in order to connect the dots.

This particular dot matrix shakes out like this.

Post December 25th each year, sharing time and space with the after Christmas sales hype comes the avalanche of weight loss hype in anticipation of those holiday revelers who find themselves preparing to ring in the new with more of themselves than rang in the old.

And, of course, the traditional New Year's resolve to be less a person in said new year.

Best intentions, and all that, notwithstanding, though, it's pretty much a given that the majority of folks making the majority of resolutions will, in fairly short order, be giving up on the majority of resolutions made.

It's only, like the ceremonial dropping of that Times Square ball, a matter of time.

Resolutions, for the most part, have a shelf life.

Everybody knows that.

Here's what you might not have known until now.

Resolutions also have an exact expiration date.

Judging from the sudden slew of slim down sales pitches on the screen...

...that expiration date looks to be January 24.

"...Hmmm...The Lion King III Must Have Been Delayed...."

2012-01-24T10:39:00.000-05:00

Learn something new every day.

Today is no exception.

Oscar nominations just announced.

Weeding through pretty much the "same old, same old", a couple of lists caught my eye.

Best picture

"War Horse"

"The Artist"

"Moneyball"

"The Descendants"

"The Tree of Life"

"Midnight in Paris"

"The Help"

"Hugo"

"Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close"

Original song

“Man or Muppet” from “The Muppets”

“Real in Rio” from “Rio”

Ten best picture nominees.

Two best song nominees.

Like I said, learn something new every day.

The nominations, you say?

Oh, yeah, those, too.

What I was learned today was this.

Apparently, both Randy Newman and Elton John decided not to work in Hollywood this past year.

"...What Matters Most Is Mostly What's The Matter...."

2012-01-23T10:54:00.000-05:00

Picture this.

CNN's homepage at this writing.

Notice they are front page featuring both Gabrielle Giffords and Joe Paterno.

That seems about right.

Or, at least, half right.

Sign of the times, and current cultural priorities, that CNN thought to put both of these people on their front page this morning.

In exactly the reverse order of space and size they respectively deserve.

Picture that.

"...On Maestros...And Mortals..."

2012-01-22T11:45:00.001-05:00

Sad day.

In so many ways.

State College, Pennsylvania (CNN) -- Joe Paterno, whose tenure as the most successful coach in major college football history ended abruptly in November amid allegations that he failed to respond forcefully enough to a sex abuse scandal involving a former assistant, died Sunday, a family spokesman said. He was 85.

The longtime Penn State head coach was diagnosed with what his family had called a treatable form of lung cancer shortly after the university's Board of Trustees voted to fire him.

He had been hospitalized in December after breaking his pelvis in a fall at his home and again in January for what his son called minor complications from his cancer treatments.

"It is with great sadness that we announce that Joe Paterno passed away earlier today," the family statement said. "His loss leaves a void in our lives that will never be filled."

The gracious thing to do, with this passing, is send thoughts, prayers and well wishes to the family and let it go at that.

Joe Paterno's life, from conception to completion, makes that an inevitable, and regrettable, impracticality.

That said, speculation of any kind is both inappropriate and insensitive.

Judgement, of any kind, even more so.

What is also inevitable, and regrettable, though is a simple, fair and reasonable truth.

If Joe Paterno sincerely knew nothing about the horrific behavior of Jerry Sandusky, then any tainting of the coach's character, reputation or legacy is both egregiously undeserved and unfair.

If Joe Paterno knew about the horrific behavior and chose to act in any other way but that which would prevent any child from harm, then he, as any of us would rightly be, is accountable for that failure to act.

In either case, it's not for us to say.

And neither vitriolic recrimination nor shows of blind faith support are appropriate.

Judgement, as the old sayeth goes...

The gracious thing to do, with this passing, is send thoughts, prayers and well wishes to the family and let it go at that.

Sad day.

In so many ways.

"...Say Cheesy..."

2012-01-22T10:56:00.001-05:00

Here's a common cranky.

Not being crazy about having one's picture taken.

Personally, and not to engage in superfluous splitting of hairs, but I think we all, secretly, like to have our pictures taken, being the essentially possessed of low self esteem, grateful for any and all attention underneath it all flawed mere mortals that, truth be told, we all are.

And the whole "not liking it" thing is simply self deprecation in disguise, a pro-active, pre-emptive effort to satirize and/or sabotage the outcome before anyone else has the chance to do it.

Put simply, a pixelated management of expectations.

Another photographic psychobabble comes to mind here.

It turns out that we really do appreciate the way we look in pictures.

Once we have evidence of the way we once looked in pictures.

Something along the lines of "well, I'm not crazy about the way I look here, but, thank God and Eastman Kodak that I don't look as ridiculous as I did __________".

Admittedly, this isn't unfailingly true for everyone.

Some people really do photograph well from the get go and then lose that sparkle, shine and/or waistline as time marches on.

This sociological/physiological tendency resulted in the Godsend technological advance known as Photoshop.

That said, most of us find that the camera cringe factor is less in the here and now than when reliving the there and then.

And with a little application of a healthy sense of humor, we can look back with graciousness and gratitude that what we thought looked good years ago makes how we look now a stone cold case of looking good.

To wit...this picture from my checkered past appeared, courtesy of one of my precocious children, on Facebook recently.

The picture is thirty years old, give or take trip around the sun or two.

And, while remembering the times, I do not remember ever seeing this picture before.

My first reaction was two fold.

And acyronmic.

OMG.

BWAHAHA.

And, at this moment, a third emotion has arrived.

At this moment, I'm looking pretty good.

How about a song?

"...Diamonds...and Rubies...In The Rough...."

2012-01-20T11:47:00.000-05:00

Just had a Kenny Rogers moment.

More precisely, a Mel Tillis moment.

For those, either culturally or generationally, who find the references obscure, permit me a few lines of back story.

Kenny Rogers was a very successful country/pop singer.

Mel Tillis was a very successful country singer and songwriter.

Mel Tillis wrote and recorded a song that did fairly well for him on the country charts.

Kenny Rogers recorded the same song and did phenomenally well for himself, and Mel, on the pop charts.

"Ruby, Don't Take Your Love To Town".

Digging through the celeb dumpsters this morning, I came across a story that activated my Mel music memory chip, playing the first line of said superhit.

"...you painted up your lips / and rolled and curled your tinted hair...".

The story that conjured up the country song, though, wasn't about a Ruby.

It was about a Snooki.

Yesterday Nicole "Snooki" Polizzi of "Jersey Shore" tweeted pictures herself without liner, lashes, blush, bronzer, or, in fact, any makeup at all.

"No make up day :) and IDC :)," Polizzi wrote.
The consensus was that she looked really good without all the extra glitz.

I haven't been bashful about my disdain for "Jersey Shore" in general or, specifically, the whole "cheap" girls and guys presentation that frames the whole thing.

But, on a purely "non-partisan" basis, here's my impression of the au natural Nicole vs. the slathered up Snooki.

Nicole is an attractive young woman.

And neither needs, nor benefits from, the paint job that turns her into, at best, a caricature of the girl in high school that everybody "dated" but nobody took home to meet mama.

But, sexist stereotypes notwithstanding, there's a couple of obvious, more insidious issues hidden underneath the hues and shades.

First, the slathering screams lack of self esteem.

Long before there was a Snooki, I was beating a drum in print and on air about the lopsided message that contemporary culture, mostly the testosterone soaked faction, sends to women regarding the need to "paint and curl and roll and tint".

My bumper sticker philosophy on the whole matter has been oft repeated.

"God made women beautiful....Maybelline and Max Factor spend millions trying to convince women that they're not....think about it".

I still don't much care for Snooki or JWoww or The Sitch (or Sleepy or Grumpy or Dopey or Doc, for that matter) but I'd be the first person to tell Nicole that she's a good looking girl who should take a pass on the Maybelline and Max Factor and go with what God gave her.

Given the show's ratings, there's not much chance that Snook is going to stop taking her love to town.

Seems, though, like all that painting and rolling and curling and tinting is a waste of a pretty face.

"...If Only The Brightness Control Worked On The Programming, Too..."

2012-01-15T07:52:00.000-05:00

con·cept/ˈkänsept/
Noun:
An abstract idea; a general notion.
A plan or intention; a conception.

In television, that word is ordinarily defined as whatever premise a particular show offers the viewer.

Admittedly, while, theoretically, all television shows have a premise, the sometimes glaring inevitability is that some shows do not.

Unless you stretch the point.

Beyond what you learned in high school was the maximum amount of stretching possible in any universe we know to exist.

For example...if asked, how would you define the premise of "Jersey Shore"?

Or, stretching the point even past existing physical laws, "Keeping Up With The Kardashians"?

The more clever and/or devious among us could, of course, play the circular logic card here.

The premise of these shows, and others like them, being that they have no discernible premise.

A 21st Century spin on the whole "show about nothing" concept that Seinfeld and company milked and mined so successfully.

But that undeniably smacks of the "I meant to do that" school of rationalizing falling flat on our asses.

The paradox being, of course, that "Seinfeld" was a fictional "show about nothing" while Snooki and Kourtney and Kim (oh, my..) are, in fact, actual shows about nothing.

Meanwhile, back at the flat screen.

Historically, the most successful shows in television have been, in fact, less about premise than about performance, less about concept than about connection.

In television comedy, for example, think about iconic programs and their "premise".

"I Love Lucy'...a bandleader and his wife live in an apartment.

"The Andy Griffith Show"...a small town sheriff and his family live in a small town.

"The Dick Van Dyke Show"...a TV writer and his family live in suburbia.

"The Mary Tyler Moore Show"...a TV producer lives in an apartment.

"Happy Days"...a hardware store owner and his family live in 50's suburbia.

"Cheers"...a group of people hang out in a bar.

"Frasier"...a radio psychiatrist lives in a swanky apartment with his father.

"Friends"...a bunch of friends hang out together in a coffee shop.

Sensing a pattern here?

Can't imagine any of those "taglines" impressing any network executive sufficiently to insure a sale.

Russell Dalrymple, maybe. (Obscure, but trivially delightful, historic TV reference).

The aforementioned shows, though, all, in their execution, shared two common qualities.

Common qualities, that ironically, are very uncommon in the big picture of what makes its way to our big home screens.

Qualities, I think, that this program offers up in spades.

Apologists and/or advocates of other currently successful sitcoms like "Two and Half Men", for example, will offer them up as programs worthy of inclusion on any list of seminal sitcoms.

Insert short, sharp sound of annoying buzzer here.

"Ohhh, I'm sorry, that's incorrect...thanks for playing our game and what do we have for our contestants, Johnny...?"

Here's the subtle, but key, difference.

"Two and Half Men" is funny.

People have been laughing at gas passing and wink-wink sexual double entendre's for generations now.

And "funny" is, in fairness to Kutcher and Cryer and Sheen (oh, my...), one of the two aforementioned qualities all iconic comedies share.

But, to put it simply and, arguably, arrogantly, any fool can get a laugh by cutting the cheese or referencing the rumpy pumpy.

That might make the situation funny.

But it doesn't make it smart.

"The Big Bang Theory", like the best of television comedy throughout the generations, never settles for the easy laugh.

The writers and the wonderfully diverse cast obviously work hard to make it look easy.

That's smart.

And funny.

What a concept.

"...If It Please The Court, We Respectfully Submit That The Founding Fathers Clearly Meant For T&A To Be A Part Of The Bill Of Rights..."

2012-01-08T10:36:00.001-05:00

"The problem with Scotland", Longshanks said with a sardonic smirk, "is that it's full of Scots."

Funny moment in an otherwise pretty depressing situation.

I think I can top that.

First, check this out.

A Colorado teenager whose yearbook picture was rejected for being too revealing is vowing to fight the ban with her high school’s administration, but the editors of the yearbook insist it was their decision alone on the photo.

The five student editors of the Durango High School yearbook in Durango, Col., told the Durango Herald they were the ones who made the call not to publish a picture of senior Sydney Spies posing in a short yellow skirt midriff and shoulder-exposing black shawl as her senior portrait.

“We are an award-winning yearbook. We don’t want to diminish the quality with something that can be seen as unprofessional,” student Brian Jaramillo told the paper on Thursday.

Spies was joined by her mother, Miki Spies, and a handful of fellow Durango High students and alumni in a protest outside the school Wednesday after, she said, administrators informed her the photo would not be permitted because it violated dress code.

“I feel like they aren’t allowing me to have my freedom of expression,” Spies told the Herald. ”I think the administration is wrong in this situation, and I don’t want this to happen to other people.”

The five editors, who said their decision was unanimous, said Spies’ blame was misplaced, in both targeting the administration, and believing that it was a dress code issue.

They also offered her an opportunity to include the photo in the yearbook, just not as her senior photo.

“If she (Spies) chooses to, the picture will run as her senior ad, not her senior portrait,” Trujillo said.

Despite the clarification from her peers into how and why the decision was made, a meeting Spies initiated between herself, her mother, and the school’s principal, Diane Lashinsky, was held today as planned.

“The editors all turned their backs on me and changed their minds,” she told the Herald. “I really do feel like they were intimidated by the principal.”

Neither Spies nor the school responded to ABCNews.com‘s requests for comments today on the meeting’s outcome.

The Durango School District, which oversees the high school, issued the following statement to ABCNews.com

“The editors of Durango High School’s yearbook informed a senior student in December that her photo in question would not be included as a senior portrait in the yearbook and asked her to submit a replacement. Durango School District 9-R’s administration supports this decision.”

Prior to today’s meeting, the Spies family told local media they planned to meet with a civil lawyer in Denver to review their daughter’s case.

First, I'm inclined to think that anyone with a lick/whit/smudge or smidgen of common sense has no problem in understanding why the use of this picture as a senior high school class portrait has been prohibited.

Granted, there is the use of that pesky term "common sense" to be considered.

Second, I'm inclined to think that mom Miki's contribution to this whole fracas would be a wonderful first brick in the quest to build a convincing case that having children should, at some point in our future, be a privilege extended only to those who are capable of passing some rudimentary, basic level intelligence tests.

Third, I'm inclined to believe that given the tone and tastes of pop culture in this period of, and I use the term loosely, civilization, it should come as no great shock to anyone that a) Miki's monkey truly wants to represent herself this way and b) monkey's mama truly believes this is an issue of...wait for it...personal freedom.

And, there it is.

The old freedom of expression.

The old freedareeno.

The old expressaroo.

Which brings me back to my original boast/brag that I believed I could go ol' Longshanks one better in the one liner department.

And, in the interest of full disclosure, it's a line I wrote a while back and have used, in different contexts, more than once before.

But, certainly, and not just a smidgen sadly, it seems spot on appropriate here.

"The problem with freedom," he said with an sardonic grin, "is that you have to give it to everybody."

"...Silence Really Is Golden...In Large Measure, I Imagine, Because It's In Such Short Supply..."

2012-01-02T07:53:00.001-05:00

Nature, we are taught at some point in our elementary educational experience, abhors a vacuum.

Put into a more "mottos for dummies" form, any space left lying around empty will inevitably get filled up with something, anything.

One universally relatable example is that hole we all try to dig in the sand at the beach, the one that fills with water and, no matter how hard we try or fast we dig, we can't keep ahead of the water determined to fill it.

I'm reminded of that hole, among others, every time I scan online news sites or spend more than five or six minutes watching any kind of "news" program on television.

And try to determine, for myself, what's wheat and what's chaff amongst the miles and miles and miles of crops being grown out there.

Don't mind tellin' ya, I think the chaff is getting the upper hand.

A lovely lady from my checkered past who spent her working years as a reporter for a medium market news station used to make reference to "feeding the monster", the metaphorical allusion, of course, being that television, by its twenty four/seven nature, required a never ending supply of "in" in order to facilitate the "out" required when you're broadcasting twenty four/seven.

Then, of course, in recent years, the original, accept no substitutes media monster had an offspring, so to speak.

"...from the twisted minds who brought you the monster classic, "T.V", comes a ravenous beast that makes television look tame....look out, it's everywhere...all the time...it's...it's...."WWW dot"...........

Buzzkills (read common sense advocates and most Republicans) will simply roll eyes and offer that the solution to the "problem" is a simple, classic "duhh" category no brainer.

Turn the damn thing, or things, off.

Fair point.

But let's keep it real, okay? and just admit to ourselves and each other that approach really doesn't work for most people.

If it did, then "just say no" would have been the end of the drug problem in this country.

And Jenny Craig would have never become a household name.

I'm not sure how to whittle the www down to make it taste great and be less filling (obscure TV ad reference, Googling required for those under the age of thirty five), but I remember a time when television kept itself trim and toned by following that aforementioned buzzkill suggestion.

And, in effect, turned itself off every night.

Then, the whole monster feeding issue became moot mathematically.

Fewer hours to fill, less mindless, mundane, mediocre material necessary to fill them.

That's the problem with this technologically wondrous time in which we live.

There's never a good national anthem and test pattern/snowy screen around when we need one.

'...What A Friend We Have In Jesus...Provided, Of Course, We Have Sufficient Friends In Common..."

2012-01-01T09:16:00.000-05:00

ox·y·mo·ron/ˌäksəˈmôrˌän/
Noun:
A figure of speech in which apparently contradictory terms appear in conjunction (e.g., faith unfaithful kept him falsely true).

Military intelligence.

Jumbo shrimp.

Free gift.

Facebook friend.

For not the first, nor, I'm sure, the last time, I've inadvertently pau de deux'd myself into a faux pas regarding the "policy" Facebook has when it comes to sending friend requests.

Here's my petulant pau de problem with their policy of preemption.

First, I was simply scrolling, innocently and innocuously through the list of "People You May Know" that Zuckerberg's zone of social zeitgeist, itself, zapped up on my page. It's not like I was hanging around the status update bar waiting for chicks I could hit on to come wandering by.

Second, the "policy" seems (and this isn't my first rodeo with this issue) contraindicated on a "social networking" site. Isn't one primary facet of social networking in the "real world" getting about the business of meeting new people and/or potential new contacts and/or friends.

Hellloo. Markie Mark? Mingle. Ever heard of it? It's something people who interact with one another in ways other than typing on a keyboard/clicking a mouse somewhere other than their mother's basement do when they socialize.

I'm pretty sure that Zuckerberg and his gang of geek have never read, let alone grasped the concept of, "Catch-22" as evidenced by the fact that this friend policy apparently puts one and all into the position of being solicited, even encouraged, to make new friends, provided, of course, that any new friends you wish to make are friends you already have.

Third, I'm not sure whether to chuckle good naturedly or change my name and move to another town to avoid the shame and embarrassment of having people find out that my "friend request privileges" have been "suspended for two days" because I "apparently sent friend requests to people with whom I do not have a sufficient number of friends in common" to justify having sent said friend requests.

Ostensibly, the purpose of the policy is to protect the populace from "abuse", whatever that means and/or however that is defined on planet Facebook.

Gotta tell ya, though, while I'm totally down with bouncing people's sorry asses off the site should they send inappropriate, offensive, profane, et al messages, pictures, et al to other Faces, I'm having a hard time getting my head around the logic behind "hi, nice to meet you...would you like to be added to my list?" being perceived as a threat to anybody.

Can't help but be reminded of a favorite theological perspective.

You can ask God for anything.

Anything.

Because God can always just say no.

Facebook actually provides a similar option for people who receive "friend requests" from people they're not interested in adding to their list.

It's called delete.

So, paraphrasing a poignant old saying, to all those folks who aren't strangers, just friends I haven't met yet, I'm sorry that I won't have the opportunity to make your acquaintance.

Mark Zuckerberg won't let me meet you because you and I haven't already met.

And should you decide, in some moment of weakness, that you might like to meet me, you want to be sure that we've already met.

I don't want to be responsible for you having to spend two days in the penalty box.

No need to thank me.

That's what friends are for.

"...Apparently, The Criteria For Death Has Undergone Some Changes..."

2011-12-28T17:14:00.000-05:00

First, the "fair is fair" disclaimer.

My own matrimonial house is, without question, made of glass.

And far be it for me to start throwing stones.

So, I'm not going to offer any criticism, observation, pontification or chastisement to anyone who decides that "til death do us part" is just a tad overly rigid in the scheme of all things pronounced man and wife.

Marry as often and for as long, or short, as you and/or your conscience dictate.

That said, though, I'd would like to offer the following proposal.

No pun intended but not strenuously avoided either.

Let's call it the two year rule.

Any celebrity who marries anyone for any reason at any time is perfectly within their rights to null the nuptials at any time for any reason without fear of reprisal, retribution or remorse.

Under the provisions of this suggested new rule, though, they may not, at any time for any reason under any circumstances announce said marriage to anyone at any time in any way that might make said announcement public to friends, family, fans, media outlets, social networks, press agents, talk show hosts, tabloid show hosts, potential reality show producers,potential literary agents, potential movie producers, passers-by, innocent bystanders or anyone outside what we will call "the circle of three."

The bride, the groom and the officiant.

Said "gag rule" will be in effect for a period of not less that twenty four calendar months, effective from either the "I now pronounce you" moment and/or the "you may now kiss the..." moment, whichever comes first.

If, at the end of the twenty four month period, the celebrity couple is still, both legally, literally, physically, spiritually and emotionally joined in holy matrimony, then, and only then, are they free to trumpet to friends, family, fans, media outlets, social networks, press agents, talk show hosts, tabloid show hosts, potential reality show producers,potential literary agents, potential movie producers, passers-by, innocent bystanders or anyone outside what we will call "the circle of three", the happy news of their oneness.

At the very least, this imposition of a two year minimum commitment before said commitment can be used for purposes of publicity, profit and/or career advancement and/or resurgence will, hopefully, restore, at least, an itsy bitsy teeny weeny yellow polka dot of reverence and respect to the hallowed and sacred institution of marriage.

And what the hell, maybe even turn the whole idea of staying together and working things out the "new" celebrity fad, as opposed to the apparent current fad of going for the "fewest days on record."

Or, dare we dream, inspire celebrities to stop using marriage as a means to divert the ever busy public eye in their direction?

Maybe not.

Start small, dream big I always say.

And, once again, I've made my share of marital mistakes.

Hell, I've made my share, your share and a couple of other guys' shares.

But, in fairness to me, all I was ever going after was happy ever after.

Not the cover of the next Entertainment Weekly.

"...On Warm Fronts and Cold Fronts and Keepin' It Real...."

2011-12-24T04:32:00.001-05:00

Along with various and sundry revelers, carolers, frenzied shoppers and/or loonier than usual area drivers, irony has been out and about this Christmas weekend.

NASHVILLE, TN (WSMV) -Bill Hall, the long-time Channel 4 weatherman and a beloved Nashville television personality, has died. He was 65.

Bill joined WSM-TV on February 1, 1974, as a weather reporter, and in 1977 he moved into the chief weathercaster position.

Bill spent 31 years on the air at Channel 4, as his distinctive and calming voice filled the living rooms of his beloved viewers nightly.

He will be remembered as a trusted and reassuring presence for viewers, as well as a loyal and caring friend for his colleagues.

Bill was known for his love of nature, and his outdoors and gardening segments became popular features.

He also always found time to provide assistance to charities, churches, schools and community groups.

And generations of school children remember his friendship with the one and only Snowbird.

Funeral arrangements are pending.

If you've never lived in Nashville, Bill Hall's departure will, understandably, only register with you as another passing on another day, circle of life kind of stuff.

Fair enough.

But, if you're a past or present Nashvillian, you can't help but feel, if only just a bit, like you've lost a member of the family.

Which brings us around the aforementioned irony.

In a world where assorted Kardashians, Braxtons, Situations, Snookis and housewives, real and/or un, show up regularly on our flat screened doorsteps in their efforts to turn a profit by attempting to ingratiate their families into our own, we find ourselves most sincerely, and poignantly, connected to another group of video visitors.

Local news folk. Sports folk. Weather folk.

Folks like Bill Hall.

Who graciously, cordially and sincerely showed up every day for years to share a little humor, a little style and, at least, a little useful information with us.

No pretense, no posturing, no faux drama,melo or otherwise, no sniping, no backstabbing, no pinching, no biting, no pulling hair.

Just a little humor, a little style and, at least, a little useful information.

Like a loved and trusted member of the family.

Can't speak for you, but that's what I call a reality show.

Ironic, huh?

"...And Then, What Next?...People Who Are Half Black Can Only Say It Half The Time?..."

2011-12-21T15:53:00.000-05:00

Old saying.

Things aren't always what they seem.

Turns out that even applies to "no brainers".

Here's the deal.

Eva Hoeke quits as Editor-in-Chief of Jackie magazine

As a result of a recent publication in Jackie magazine, issue 49, a worldwide outcry arose over an article on page 45 entitled “De Niggabitch”, which refers to Rihanna and her fashion style. This word is used as slang in the United States.

Throughout the various social media there has been an emotional response to this choice of words, as published in Jackie. As a first reaction to this editor-in-chief Eva Hoeke said via Twitter that the choice of words was meant as a joke and offered an apology to anyone who felt offended. This reaction stirred up even more commotion, as Hoeke herself also referred to the term elsewhere in the magazine.

In a second reaction through Twitter, Hoeke came to the following conclusion: ‘1. Don’t publish bad jokes in the magazine 2. Don’t pretend bad jokes to be funny. Sorry guys. My bad.’ The response on social media now took on an international character. In a third reaction Hoeke even stated that she would rectify in the next issue of Jackie. This morning Rihanna replied on the article through Twitter. She was furious over the use of the word ‘niggabitch’ and ended her message with ‘Fuck you Eva’. Through social media Hoeke was taunted and threatened in various ways.

Following these events she consulted with publisher Yves Gijrath of GMG. Together they came to the following conclusion: In the interest of Jackie Magazine and all involved she will quit her job as editor-in-chief effective immediately. Hoeke states: ‘I realize that my first reaction through Twitter, in which I indicated that it was a joke, has been an incomplete misrepresentation what me, and also the author of the article, meant. The term ‘niggabitch’ came from America and all we did was describing a style of dress. Because of the enormous pressure through social media I was enticed to promise amendment regarding the linguistic usage in future issues of Jackie. Apart from that I also offered an rectification. I have now come to the conclusion that rectification is not the right solution. I regret that I have taken a stand too quickly regarding an article in Jackie — which moreover had no racial motive at it’s basis. Through the course of events, me and the publisher have concluded that because my credibility is now affected, it is better for all parties if I quit my job as editor-in-chief immediately. After putting my heart and soul into Jackie magazine for eight years, I realize that these errors – although without malicious intentions – are enough reason for leaving.’

Publisher Yves Gijrath regrets the state of affairs and praises Hoeke’s attitude, who primarily thinks of the credibility of the title, which – as she realizes herself – would have been damaged had she stayed. According to Gijrath there’s no doubt about the intentions and qualities of Eva Hoeke, however he does think this joint decision is the correct one. Hoeke concludes: ‘I should have counted to ten before taking unsubtle stands through social media channels. Through this my credibility has been hurt and that neither fits the role of an editor-in-chief, nor Jackie Magazine.

Jackie Magazine will invite Rihanna to share her feelings and thoughts on the article in the next issue.

The offense committed here is obvious and both the resulting reaction and resignation combine to make up the aforementioned no brainer.

Then, again...

While it certainly qualifies as the most celebrity centered, even dramatic, example, to date, of this issue, it's also, just as certainly, not the first time we've been round this corner.

And our old friend, Mr. Double Standard, has reared his/her ugly head.

One need not subscribe to, or reject, any particular racial, spiritual or even moral philosophy to be aware that terms, slang or otherwise, like this are commonly used as part of the black cultural vernacular.

The very same American black music business where Rihanna makes her living is saturated with examples.

Let alone the daily conversational tone of any number of a variety of racial/socioeconomic groups in the country today.

And while that elusive rascal, common sense, not to mention its equally ambiguous first cousin, good taste, cause people to instinctively take offense at, and reject the use of, these kinds of references, the unambiguous truth is that, common sense or no common sense, their use is common.

So, the knee jerk question that arises here, "how dare you call me such a thing?" gets replaced with another, seemingly fair, question.

"...why is it okay for you, and others, to say these things, but not alright for me and others?"

The easy out is the oldest out.

Two wrongs don't make a right.

But the easy out is too easy.

Because, fair being fair, we all have to deal with a simple truth.

We can't have it both ways.

Regardless of race, creed, color or our own particularly unique individual way with words.

So, it needs to be considered socially acceptable to use the term.

Or it needs to be considered socially unacceptable to use the term.

For everybody.

Personally, I'm not down wit callin' my homies "nigga".

Let alone "niggabitch".

I like to think I've got a little more to offer my friends and/or acquaintances from my vocabulary.

And I sincerely do understand the idea that Rihanna would be offended by being referred to that way.

But when the very same commercial music culture where Rihanna lives and works repeatedly, and more and more frequently, sends me the message that it's become socially acceptable to do just that, I have a problem being chastised for it.

And an even bigger problem with someone from that culture crying foul.

Not to mention "fuck you".

It's either okay.

Or it's not.

Simple truth has no color.

"...Well, I'll Never Hear 'Give Mommy A Kiss' The Same Way Again..."

2011-12-18T07:14:00.001-05:00

Pop quiz.

What is one of the most durable inventions known to man?

Answer shortly.

A pep rally prank intended to bring laughter and cheers at a Minnesota high school has instead sparked a firestorm of controversy after parents of some senior student athletes took a practical joke too far.

As reported by the Minneapolis Star Tribune, a recent winter sports pep rally at Rosemount (Minn.) High featured a comedy skit which took advantage of unknowing captains of the various winter varsity squads. After the team captains walked into the gym blindfolded, they were told that they were going to be kissed by a special someone, and then were asked to guess who it was that kissed them.

It turns out that the person who kissed the athletes -- in every circumstance -- was their own opposite sex parent. While no one has questioned the comedic intentions of the prank, the stunt itself has still drawn plenty of criticism not for the student athletes, but for what the parents did in executing the practical joke. As you can see above, some of the parents took their roles as "special someones" to a level that left many onlookers feeling uncomfortable and even queasy.

Here's how the Star Tribune described the sketch's lowlights:

Some of the parents during the 59-second YouTube video are seen holding the kisses for several seconds, cupping their child's faces or embracing and swaying.

One mother moved her son's hand down to her behind during the encounter. Another mom has her son down on the gym floor to the delight of two male students nearby.

According to the Minneapolis paper, a number of those in attendance called and emailed to make it clear that they felt offended by the sketch, despite the fact that none of the students or parents involved in the kissing antics complained about the routine at all.

Still, Rosemount Principal John Wollersheim insisted that the school wouldn't repeat the comedic routine, despite the fact that a similar routine had been a huge hit at a prep rally at the school years earlier.

"There is no question that people were offended," Wollersheim told the Star Tribune. "I apologize to those who were offended, and we won't do it again.

"Anything that happens at this school is the principal's responsibility. I take full responsibility. ... There shouldn't be an event in a school that we offend people with."

For obvious reasons, I'm reminded of a joke/definition dating back to my misspent youth.

"...the epitome of grossness is when you go to kiss your grandmother goodbye...and she slips you some tongue..."

Apparently, the grossness goal post has been moved back a yard or two in recent years.

And the answer to the riddle?

What is one of the most durable inventions known to man?

The envelope.

Cause with all that pushing, you'd think the thing would be shredded by now.

"...Anyone Who Believes It's Really The Thought That Counts Has Obviously Never Heard The Term 'Chia Pet'..."

2011-12-18T06:49:00.000-05:00

Old saying.

Learn something new every day.

Every season, too, apparently.

As we head headlong towards the festive frenzy finish line, the air, broadcast and otherwise, is abuzz with gift ideas for all races, creeds, colors, sexual preferences and personality types, functional and dys, you find on your naughty/nice list.

And soon, of course, the focus of our attention will, as it has for generations, be finally turned away from the gimmies and gift cards and Griddlers (oh, my) and we will arrive, mercifully, together, to ponder and reflect...

...on which diet plan/pill or program best meets our needs in the new year.

For the moment, though, the ideas abound, the suggestions saturate.

Here's a thing, though.

A kind of new thing, actually.

The anti-suggestion.

Not "here's what to get" as much as "here's what not to get."

Okay.

Knowledge is, admittedly, power, I suppose.

Although I'm not sure the manufacturers, sellers, et al of the following items are all that thrilled with this particular power being parceled out at this particular time of year.

Here, from a piece I came across on Yahoo, from Kaboodle.com, are "7 gifts you should avoid this holiday season"

Household Appliances

She may have expressed her desire for a fancy Dyson vacuum cleaner or a convenient Kitchen Aid mixer sometime this year, but that doesn't make a household appliance a good gift idea. No woman wants to be reminded of household chores or think you're thinking of her as the one who does the cooking and cleaning when she opens her gift.

A Pet

Even if you think your little ones are ready for a puppy or kitten, save pet adoption for after the holidays. With guests visiting your house, holiday decorations on display, and myriad other distractions during the week, it's the worst time to try and introduce a small animal to its new home.

Jewelry You've Seen on a TV Commercial

Despite the plethora of television commercials with messages to the contrary, most women do not want a heart-shaped pendant from a chain jewelry store. If your loved one is an accessory lover, opt for something special and one-of-a-kind from an independent jewelry designer on Etsy.

Gift Baskets

The one thing there's never a lack of during the holidays is food. From cookies, candies, and fruitcakes to ham, mashed potatoes, and gravy, there's always something to pop in our mouths in the last weeks of the year. That's why no one needs any more food coming their way. While a nice gift basket full of cured meats, cheese spreads, fruit, and candy might be delicious, there's already more than enough to eat without giving someone more.

A Sweater

There's no denying a cashmere sweater is a nice thing, but opening a box and discovering a plain sweater is sort of dull. Plus, the chances of getting the exact style, size, and color the recipient would prefer is slim. Instead, add a nice cashmere scarf or pair of gloves to your loved one's stocking.

Credit Card Gift Cards

While a nice shiny Amex or Visa gift card sounds like a great gift idea, it can be a hassle for the recipient to use. They're processed as credit cards with a limit of whatever is loaded on the card so it can be difficult to use them for purchases that exceed that amount. And most of these cards have an activation fee you'll have to pay at the point of purchase. Instead, opt for cash or a gift card to a store you're certain your recipient likes to shop in.

Lingerie

Most women love pretty lingerie, but let's face it, if you're a man buying a woman lingerie, the gift is as much for you as it is for her. And, if you're opening gifts in mixed company, it could be really embarrassing for the recipient. Save the sexy underthings for a Valentine's Day gift and get her something she really wants this holiday season.

Gotta tell ya, there were a couple of surprises on that list for even this grandfather/oft married veteran of the mall wars.

Sure, for years, on the radio shows and in print, I've been doing my part to wave guys off the almost always fatal act of classifying anything that looks like it belongs on a kitchen counter as a gift, if only by suggesting that the same result can be achieved for much less money by simply taking a vow of celibacy.

And though my morning show actually currently does a weekly segment with local animal shelter folks helping to find the little critters a new crib, I think we can all agree on the logic of not freaking out a little Fido or Furball by "birthing" them smack ass knee deep in the middle of the holiday hoopla.

But, sweaters? I mean, come on.

That's been a staple of gift giving since each/any of us got our very first Rudolph the Red Nosed, with an actual bright red, fuzzy tennis ball kind of thing attached as the nose, Reindeer sweater.

And gift cards? Wasn't/isn't the whole purpose of buying the "generic" credit card type gift card to deal with not knowing what the hell to get somebody and/or not knowing where the hell they like to shop and what the hell they would buy if they were in said shop?

I mean, what the hell?

And, while we're at it, I think a little service charge is a small price to pay for not being burdened with fifty bucks worth of credit at Fred's Deer, Fish and Raccoon Hunt-O-Rama.

Not to mention a Rudolph the Red Nosed, with an actual bright red, fuzzy tennis ball kind of thing attached as the nose, Reindeer sweater.

Lingerie? Okay, that one can be conceded.

As any one who has ever been in the living room on Christmas morning at the same time as Granny, Grampy, MeeMaw, PopPop, assorted toddlers and/or pre-schoolers and a package that unwraps to reveal admittedly stylish, but undeniably, crotchless panties can attest.

But, let's stop this final madness, once and for all.

And ask ourselves the most real, heartfelt, soul searching, sincere as all giddyup question of this most blessed of seasons.

Who among us would not wipe away tears of joy to the world upon the discovery, under tree or in lap, of a fine assortment of cheeses and salamis from Hickory Farms?

There is, I think, some useful information to be gleaned from the Kaboodle article.

But I also think the writer's disparaging of these traditional and very popular gift ideas reveals a little attitude, a little bitterness, perhaps.

Even, I'm sensing, a little trauma experienced along the way, a ghost, if you will, of Christmas past.

I'm thinking really ugly sweater.

Wrapped up in a cheese log.

"...You're A Mean One, Mr. Kimmel...."

2011-12-17T05:51:00.001-05:00

Hey, kids, as you excitedly wait for that jolly old man to make his way to your house next weekend, here's a little secret old people won't tell you.

We don't really like getting older, but, after you've lived a certain number of years, you start to understand an even older saying.

"...it beats the alternative..."

And because we always, at least just a little, want to keep proving to ourselves that we are kids at heart, we are inclined to do stupid, even childish, things.

That will explain why we sometimes do things that you think, or even wish, old people wouldn't do...like making silly faces or doing silly voices...

...or asking you to pull our fingers.

And sometimes, when other old people put us up to it, we do silly things that, at first, we think are funny but, after a little while, realize we probably shouldn't have done.

Like, for example, what this old guy named Kimmel asked us to do.

Kids are cool. Pranks are awesome. Pranking kids? Really cool and very awesome.

Earlier this week, "Jimmy Kimmel Live" aired a video segment of parents taping their kids opening underwhelming (to put it mildly) Christmas gifts. Several days later, the clip is still buzzing on blogs and social networks. Yahoo! searches on "jimmy kimmel christmas gift" surged 953% on Thursday.

As the San Francisco Chronicle points out, the video has called into question whether this tactic is all in good fun or a case of parents emotionally abusing their children for the amusement of others. Is Kimmel a Grinch?

The clip, which features kids excitedly opening presents, thinking they might be a new toy, and instead finding old bananas, empty juice jugs, and half-eaten sandwiches. The reactions of the kids are, of course, what makes the video a hit.

While some old people who watched this video said they thought that it was mean to do that to kids, a lot more people said they thought it was funny.

And most of them said something like, "well, life can be tough and it's important that kids learn to have a sense of humor."

Personally, this old person agrees and disagrees.

First, I think that, just like religion, sex and why the Kardashians are popular, you have to be a certain age to understand about practical jokes.

And pretty much all the kids in that video aren't even close to that age, yet.

So, it's probably not very cool to do something that adults think is funny but only comes off to kids as mean.

If kids did something like that to other kids, old people wouldn't call it a practical joke.

They would call it bullying.

So, that's why, on one hand, I disagree that with what a lot of old people said about this.

Now, as far as why I agree...

Kids, life really can be tough...and you really do have to learn to have a sense of humor.

And learn to laugh at some of life's disappointments.

Because if you think it's totally, like, mean and wrong to excitedly unwrap a Christmas present in December just to find a rotten banana...

...wait until you see what happens in November right after you close a curtain behind you and flip a bunch of little levers.

Merry Christmas, kids.

Enjoy it while it lasts.

"...The Twelve Days Of Christmas...Give Or Take Seven Decades..."

2011-12-11T13:48:00.000-05:00

In this season of seasons, I found myself...

...looking on the shelf under the laptop showing Facebook, moving aside a Christmas gift catalog, uncovering a copy of Rolling Stone, which, when set aside, revealed the USB flash drive I was seeking to use in downloading some recent Amy Winehouse, Gaga and Nickelback...

And there it was...

...sitting in plain sight on top of this month's AARP Magazine.

At this joyous time of holiday wonder and discovery, I discovered....

...that I truly have become a man for all seasons.

"...You Can't Bitch About What They Ask You When You Asked For It..."

2011-12-11T07:09:00.000-05:00

On the odd chance that you're not getting either enough fiber, junk mail or information essentially useless to your life and well being...

Kris Humphries says he feels ambushed by the rapid-fire line of questioning about his short-lived marriage to Kim Kardashian during his appearance on Good Morning America, TMZ.com reports.

Humphries appeared on the morning show Friday, where anchor Josh Elliot asked him about his separation from Kardashian. "For me, it's just certain things happen in life and you've got to move forward," Humphries said, getting more and more uncomfortable as the questions continued.

TMZ reports that Humphries was aware he'd be asked about the relationship, but didn't expect to be grilled. However, an ABC rep insists, "There were no ground rules."

Open letter to Kris Humphries.

Dude,
At your earliest convenience, please Google "Harry Truman". Look for a very famous quote attributed to the former President that has the word "heat" in it. Substitute the words "television studio", "press conference" and/or "media's sight" where you see the word "kitchen".
Re-read revised quote as needed.
Happy to help.

Sincerely,....

"...Champagne, Peaches, Wimbledon and Rock and Roll

2011-12-07T15:23:00.001-05:00

A Barbara Orbison story you won't get anywhere else...

(excerpted from "I've Never Heard Of You, Either", @2010, Blurb Publishing)

"...If there is any justice in this life, once before I die I will have one more opportunity to talk with Claudia Crochet.
She, alone on the planet Earth, would fully appreciate finding out that I got laid on Roy Orbison’s pool table.
1964. Suburban New Orleans. T. H. Harris Junior High School.
Claudia Crochet was the first girl I ever kissed.
Calling her my first love would be overstatement; saying that she was just a fling would be selling her short (not to mention the fact that at age thirteen, what we shared could hardly be defined as fling).
She lived just four or five houses down a side street adjacent to the school and, since she was the lady and I the gentleman, I would ride my blue Murray with the banana seat and spider handlebars to the school grounds on Saturdays, where we would walk together in the tall grass behind the main building, find a spot both private and comfortable and spend the afternoon necking, groping ever so tentatively and listening to the transistor radio I brought along to provide the proper adolescent ambiance.
“Our” song was “Oh, Pretty Woman”.
If the gods were on my side and that song happened along at the same time we were sharing the tall grass, there was inevitably a longer kiss and a little more time granted before the hand was moved tenderly back down from a young breast covered in bra, slip and dress.
Small wonder, somehow, that Roy was my hero.
By the time I entered the senior high school just two miles up the boulevard, Claudia Crochet had gone on to Catholic school, some new hand trying to caress undetected and, presumably, some new song.
And by 1981, she was very likely married, with children old enough to be sneaking off to sit in the tall grass behind their junior high school, necking and groping and listening to the boom box brought along to provide the perfect adolescent ambiance.
By that time, I was living in Roy Orbison’s house.
Cutting his grass, picking up his kids after school, running errands, driving any one of his nine collector automobiles, getting paid two hundred bucks a week....
...and getting laid on his pool table.
After divorcing and returning to Nashville, I had the good fortune of living with Danny and Ruby Hice, a married pair of songwriters who had had some minor success, Ruby with some mid level country artists, Danny as co-writer of a tune that appeared on Whitney Houston’s first album. Gracious and loving family people, they offered me bed and board when I first came back to town.
Danny, like so many writers who had had a taste of success, was trying to parlay it into a successful publishing company. The American dream was alive and well in the Hice household, the father trying to build a publishing empire from the living room of his three bedroom apartment, the wife writing songs in the kitchen, while maintaining the household, and raising an extended family of teenage son, twenty-ish daughter and the five year old son of twenty-ish daughter who, when offered the life choice of studying medicine or qualifying for a guest spot on the Jerry Springer show, opted for the latter. (“...on today’s show....sweet young girls who get knocked up by white trash rednecks and have to move back in with mom and dad to hide out from the psychotic wife beater....”)
It wasn’t too many weeks after moving in with Danny and Ruby that I realized I was not only living out my dream of writing country songs, I was now being offered the chance to live in one.
Living in that environment was interesting, but neither comfortable nor productive.
And soon, being broke all the time started to wear pretty thin.
Ruby, bless her heart, solved both problems at once.
While Danny made tapes and phone calls and walked that fine line between persistence and denial, Ruby spent thirty hours a week working on Music Row, managing the affairs of a fairly well known singer/songwriter, acclaimed and admired the world over who had, unbeknownst to him, been the inspiration, almost twenty years earlier, for some pretty serious necking and groping.
One day in 1982, Ruby came home with a special smile and an offer.
Roy Orbison and his second wife Barbara lived in a beautiful multi level home on several acres of lakefront north of Nashville, next-door neighbors, in fact, to Johnny and June Cash. Even then, Roy was still a very much in demand touring artist and spent weeks on end overseas playing and singing for adoring audiences. But that life left wife and two young sons home alone for those weeks on end. And Barbara, charming and gregarious, was of German royal ancestry and not particularly thrilled with the more mundane demands of the routine she faced.
Two million dollar home or split level suburban, housework is housework. And grass cutting is grass cutting. And Roy and Barbara were, quite frankly, in what could only be described as the “awkward stage”, wealthy enough to afford a home by the lake and a big screen TV. in the days when big screen TV’s cost as much as some small cars, but not so wealthy as to afford maids and gardeners and housekeepers.
What Barbara really needed was a houseboy...someone who could clean up, cut grass, run errands, pick up the kids from school...and be willing to do it for room, board, a couple of hundred bucks a week...and the chance to actually live in the home of a childhood idol.
“So,” Ruby said to me with a very excited smile, “what do you think?”
Gee, let me get back to you.
And so, it came to pass that a young man whose first Sears Silvertone guitar had clumsily sputtered the opening guitar lick to “Oh, Pretty Woman”, whose first kiss and feel was accompanied by that very lick, who had first picked up a guitar and started playing it in the frenzy of Beatlemania and then been delighted to find that the Fabs had actually opened in Europe for the amazing tenor voice dressed in black and wearing the ominous, but totally cool, black shades, now found himself standing in the kitchen of the house on the lake talking to the wife of the man who had written those very notes and who was, as we spoke, asleep two floors above us in the master suite.
“Zo,” Barbara spoke to me with just the perfect blend of friendliness and blue blood condescension, “do you zink zis is somezink you would like to dew?”
Gosh, let’s see...........live in the spacious lakefront home of a pop legend and get paid for it.........or go on living with two sweet people who have to schedule their lives around the regular police visits which follow the unexpected door pounding visits of the drunk redneck guy who knocked up their daughter?
Tell me, does the job come with a health plan?
“Vood you like to meet Roy?”
I could say nothing. Ruby smiled politely, “Oh, we don’t want to disturb him, Barbara, he must be exhausted after just getting home from the road.”
“Nunsense,” Barbara was already beckoning us to follow her up the stairs, “he’s not zleeping anyway, he’s just laying up zere vatching the tellyvision.”
“Well...”, Ruby took one last shot at gracious.
I know there are people who cannot understand the emotional impact of such an experience. We’re talking about a singer, for God sake, we’re not talking about meeting Gandhi or Teddy Roosevelt. It’s just a guy who sings and plays guitar and has had some hit records.
Yeah, right.
As we reached the second floor of the house, Barbara stopped and turned, “vait here, I vill go and make sure he’s not azleep.” She disappeared for a moment into the darkened room with the huge oaken doors.
Ruby turned and looked at me with an expression that needed no narration.
She knew exactly what this meant to me.
There were muffled, soft voices behind the doors and the faint, but clear, sound of “tellyvision”.
Then, the doors opened and, as so often happens in our lives, an entire video history of this man and his career played in my head in just a split second. The black clothes, the dark glasses, smiling in a pose with John, Paul, George and Ringo in the days that they opened for him, that magnificent operatic voice, that voice that inspired and moved and brought tears and laughter and sang in the tall grass behind the junior high school while two kids necked and groped, that sang in the tall grass behind a thousand junior high schools while thousands of kids necked and groped. And, then, fade to black, return to reality and walking toward me was the man who possessed that voice and that power. Walking toward me was the legend in flesh, the idol incarnate, this amazing huge powerful operatic dark glassed man in black.
“Hi,” he said, reaching out to shake my hand, ‘I’m Roy.”
He was wearing striped pajamas.
Standing, at full height, around five ten.
Clear eyeglasses about two inches thick.
And the words “I’m Roy” sounding just slightly deeper than Woody Allen.
Mercy.
I should have been disappointed.
Somehow, finding I could stand eye-to-eye with an idol was an enriching experience.
It made him just slightly less a legend.
But it made him infinitely, and delightfully, more human.
And it taught me my first, best lesson about the difference between myths and men.
I stayed with Roy and Barbara for only a few months, before moving on to the next adventure, but the time there is a cherished series of photos in that place in the heart where such things are stored. From picking up his young boys from school in the new Porsche to being awakened at six a.m via house phone and commanded lovingly to “come down and make ze peenya coladah so ve can vatch Vimbledon” the year that time differences brought the Connors-McEnroe finals and local rooster to life at about the same time, it was a wonderful couple of pages in the chapter.
And then there was that thing with the pool table.
After our meeting in the upstairs hallway that night, I saw Roy, himself, only once more, picking him up at the airport on one of his brief returns home.
Barbara, on the other hand, was home for the majority of that time, alternately bored and enthused, the perfect picture of the “princess” who gets away with it because the brat in her always wears just the right amount of charisma. She was, and is, a strikingly beautiful woman although I could tell from looking at the various photos and portraits of her around the house that she was struggling with a weight problem at the time, an effect of the loneliness she was feeling, no doubt, and we spent many a summer afternoon sitting in lawn chairs placed in the bottom of the Jacuzzi section of their pool, drinking champagne with peach slices, she, probably grateful to have someone to just talk with, and I, feeling the oddest sensation when I realized that I felt totally comfortable and right at home sitting in the Jacuzzi section of the pool and drinking champagne with peach slices.
If it sounds decadent, so be it. At the time, it seemed like the perfectly natural thing to do with someone like the wife of Roy Orbison.
What a letdown it would have been to relax by going for Slurpees at the local 7-11.
Toward the end of my time with them, Barbara, too, left to join Roy for the last leg of his current tour. While I actually found myself missing Barbara’s charming imperialism, it was certainly a magic time, finding myself sole resident of the home of a rock and roll legend.
And I would be a bold liar, not to mention a poor storyteller, if I were to say that I respected their privacy and merely kept the place safe and clean in their absence.
Okay, before you let that tsk, tsk come out, look me in the eye and tell me if you were in my shoes you wouldn’t have peeked into a drawer or closet or two.
All right, then, now shut up and let me tell you the rest of it.
Not wanting you to go away with the impression that I spent days rooting through the private possessions and looting their property, let me place confession into focus.
I didn’t steal any money, including any cash from the drawer in the kitchen where people like you and I keep coins, keys, pencils, old receipts, take out menus, etc.
In Barbara’s case, the drawer was filled with petty cash.....fives, tens and twentys..just in case of “oh, Scott, vill you go get some moh peach slices?....just grab zome cash from ze drawer.”
In a household like this, that happened more than you might imagine.
Nor did I root through drawers, cases, or boxes that were clearly private. I will confess, though, for purposes of cleansing the soul (not to mention increasing book sales) that one night, home alone, after one too many Jack and cokes, I did, after showering and changing clothes in the master bathroom, succumb to the temptation of opening one very small drawer in a wall of drawers inside the walk in closet bridging bath and bed and appropriated, for the souvenir hunter in all of us, one freshly laundered pair of the charming Mrs. Orbison’s panties.
So, come to think of it, I guess I misspoke when I said I didn’t root through drawers. Hey, I was young, drunk and how many times in your life does the opportunity arise to conduct a panty raid at the home of a legend?
The third floor of the house was actually a glorified attic, although in a huge chalet style home like this, attic does no justice. This room was carpeted and couched and chaired and unusually bright, since the backside of the house, the lake facing side was, from the second floor up, windows from floor to ceiling.
But the light of the sun was not the cause of the shine in this room.
That glow came from the walls.
Circling the room, on every wall and on every space that could be utilized without making it seem cluttered, were the gold records. Clearly framed and hung with care and love, these were the tangible documentation that this was, in fact, a home where rock and roll history resided.
“Oh, Pretty Woman”...”Crying”...”Running Scared”.........”Only The Lonely”...........they were all here, and more, many more. I wandered around for hours, reading, admiring, dreaming, a spellbound visitor to a museum closed to the public, a fan allowed to view the inner sanctum, to touch the hem of the garment, to...........
.... play the guitar?
Leaning in one corner of the room, between couch and wall was a Fender Stratocaster whose look and condition easily dated it early sixties. Could this, I asked myself, be the instrument where those killer licks came to life? I picked it up carefully but firmly, and brought it to my chest, in playing position. I struck the first few notes of the intro that had once brought Claudia Crochet lips a little closer to mine..........
da-da da-da-da
I gently put the guitar back down.
No further notes necessary.
Later that same evening, still buzzing from the attic trophy room experience, I sat in the main living room, sipping sour mash and luxuriating in the splendid opulence of it all. Resting comfortably on a huge sofa facing an equally roomy fireplace, I sipped and savored and let tired, but still wide, eyes wander about.
And there, on the mantle above the fireplace, placed discreetly among family photos, candleholders and other everyday people fireplace mantle kinds of things, my eyes came to rest on the penultimate symbol of musical achievement.
The Grammy.
For his performance with Emmylou Harris on the song, “That Lovin You Feelin Again” Roy, with Emmylou, was awarded the Grammy for Best Vocal Collaboration for the year 1978.
And here, right in front of a former grocery clerk turned songwriter, sat the Holy Grail itself.
I stood up and approached slowly, trying to simply savor the moment as much as youthful impatience would allow, and reached out tentatively, needing to make contact, but fearful of violating some reverence.
Supported by both the sheer joy of it all and the sour mash, I wrapped my hand around the sacred symbol and lifted, to bring it closer to my eye and heart and soul.
And the nameplate fell off, fluttering to the floor.
Nothing that had ever happened to me before, or after, that sent me a clearer message about the myth of fame and keeping things in perspective,
This coveted, revered grail of achievement was a simulated wood based high quality gold plate topped trophy with a plastic name plate, printed economically and attached to said base with what was obviously less than top of the line glue.
My best guess...about ten bucks in the local trophy shop.
Before inscription, of course.
Some days after that, in the course of putting away the stacks of cleaned laundry that had piled up on a table in the living room, I made another interesting discovery.
The laundry table, covered from edge to edge to edge to edge with folded, or needing to be folded, washed and dried was no laundry table at all.
It was a fairly new, regulation pool table.
How wonderfully perfect it was, being able to not only afford the finest in recreational equipment, but wealthy enough to stack towels and jockey shorts on it.
It actually was the companion piece to the table I had come across in the main foyer one day, draped with some heavy tablecloth and bearing stacks and stacks of old and new LP’s.
Feeling a surge of work ethic, I removed the LP’s and put them where they belonged (which probably wreaked havoc with the family after I left their employ, the last place they would look for records being, no doubt, the stereo cabinet...)
Then, pulling the tablecloth in order to launder it and determine what use to make of this table, I was taken aback (but only just a little, cause I had lived here awhile and knew the drill, by now) to discover this foyer table to be more than it seemed.
“Hey, Barbara,” I called to the lady of the house, who was sitting by the side of the pool, dipping toes, sipping champagne and reading Harlequins, “what do you want me to do with this television?”
The surprise factor was sufficient to get her on her feet and cutely waddling toward me.
“Vot tellyvision, Scaht?”
Kicking into the best game show prize girl impression I had ever done, I silently stepped aside, raising my arm and turning my hand in the celebrated “here it is” flip as I revealed what was behind door number two (or, in this case, tablecloth number one).
“Vell,” Barbara mused, “vot in de vorld have ve here?”
She seemed puzzled, then thoughtful, then reflective.......and then, the light.
“Oh, yes, zis is de set I had delivered zree months ago. I couldn’t figure out vot to do wit it, so I asked dem to just put it here till I could find a place for it.”
So, for three months, a brand new 25 inch mahogany console Curtis Mathis color television had sat in the foyer of their home being used as a table to stack old records.
Rich people....you got to love’em.
“Just put it anyvair, Scaht” and with that, Barbara was headed back to poolside and peaches.
Those last few weeks, alone in the house, with Barbara and the kids overseas with Roy, were probably the most fun I ever had with clothes on.
And, if I had set out to write fiction about the kinds of experiences one would expect living in the home of a superstar, they would have read nothing like the truth:

...leaving the house one afternoon on an errand and choosing the red Porsche as my chariot, I was driving up the long driveway to the always open gate when I spied one of the inevitable tour buses parked shoulder side. Though Roy’s gate was kept open, there was an understanding that buses could stop on the street and take pictures from there, but were not to enter the grounds themselves. As I approached the gate, evil imp whispered in my ear that there was a pair of sunglasses in the visor. Quickly, putting them on, and then adjusting my hair to suggest someone else, I pulled up in front of the bus, pausing only long enough to make sure the street was clear and then pulled out onto the street, passing along side the bus. As I looked back over my shoulder, two dozen faces and camera lenses were pressed against the windows of the bus and I swear that even over the roar of a finely tuned Porsche engine, I could hear the shutters clicking like castanets at a flamenco festival.
It still warms me to think that on a mantle somewhere in Des Moines, my picture is the center of conversation...

...one early afternoon, standing in the kitchen and fixing bologna and cheese, I was suddenly startled by a knock on the door, startled because the house itself was a good hundred and fifty yards from the street and the kitchen door was on the side of the house, not the first place any UPS driver or pizza guy would knock.
Opening the door, I was faced with a Norman Rockwell meets Andy Warhol portrait of the nuclear tourist family. Mother with wide brimmed straw hat, dark glasses and Polaroid draped around her neck, father with tastefully tacky tropical shirt, Bermuda shorts, black socks and wing tips and 2.3 children standing restlessly, but politely, at the side of either/or.
“Can I help you?” I asked in my imitation of the gatekeeper.
“Hi,” the dad barked cheerfully, “is this Roy Orbison’s house?”
“Yes,” I answered politely but evenly, “what can I do for you?”
“Is Roy home?”
By now I was fairly certain this was no stalker event or assassination attempt, but it was, still, my job to prevent incident and protect property (Barbara’s panties notwithstanding).
“Mr. Orbison isn’t at home right this second, what is it you wanted?”
“Well, we wanted to meet him and say how much we admire him and.....” and he blathered on for a good couple of minutes in the same sort of endearing babble that fans seem to speak from birth.
Finally he came up for air.
“Well, thanks, I’ll tell him you stopped by. Now, if you will excuse me....”. By now even I was impressed with my ability to sound official.
“Could we maybe take a picture of the house and pool?”
By the strict letter of the law, I should have showed them the door.
Or the gate, at least.
But, suddenly feeling the kindred spirit that had moved me to stare for hours at gold records on a wall, I thought what the hell.
“Sure. Look, I can’t let you in the house or let you touch anything, but if you’ll be careful, you can walk around back and take a couple of pictures.”
From the faces, you would have thought I had granted them eternal life.
“Thank you, God bless”, said Dad, leading the en masse’ turn toward the back yard and the pool area.
Ten feet or so later, Mom suddenly dropped back a step, turned and looked back at me, pulling her sunglasses down to make sure she saw whatever it was she thought she saw.
“Say, “ she said as if she had just thought of it, “...........are you anybody?”
My friends tell me I can’t resist the temptation to enlighten.
“Lady, “ I said in my best enlightening voice, “.........everybody is somebody.”
She looked disappointed.
Sorry.
Next time take the tour bus. I hear the chances of getting some great photos are really good...

...during that last couple of weeks, I invited a visit from a lady friend who lived in another state. Whatever pick up line I first used to make her acquaintance couldn’t hold a candle to the one she got on the phone call that started, “so...how would you like to come to Nashville and fuck my brains out in Roy Orbison’s king size bed?”
You can have your wine, candy, flowers and sentiment dripping couplets.
There is nothing quite so seductive or erotic as the chance to have sex dead square in the middle of rock and roll history.
Our time together was somewhat strained, as I think we were both beginning to realize that this was not to be the love of our lives, but we did manage to share some laughs, she got a chance to see gold records and cheap Grammys, swim in a pool with a beautiful view of the lake where Johnny Cash and Barbara Mandrell and their peers boated and frolicked.
She also, responding to the original invitation, fucked my brains out in Roy Orbison’s king size bed.
After she was, of course, bubble bathed and pampered in the oversized, mirrored, ornately decadent master bathroom.
Hey, I’m an animal, not a pig.
And then, in one of those once in a lifetime moments, we managed to drink, stumble and grope our way into the main living area where we took advantage of the small stack of freshly laundered and soft towels spread across the expanse of the regulation pool table.
Eight ball in the corner pocket, indeed...
I never saw her again after that visit as we both, as expected, moved on.
Five or six years later, I was sitting in my apartment, eating a bologna and cheese, listening to a good friend of Roy’s named George Harrison on my stereo when I got a phone call from my television reporter girlfriend.
“Did you hear that Roy Orbison died today?”
For the rest of that afternoon, I sat quietly, thinking about tall grass behind junior high schools, first kisses, champagne with peaches and giant walk in closets.
And even today, I get a warm feeling when I walk past a pool hall..."

Thanks, Roy and Barbara, for sharing your home and lives with me.

And, Barbara, though he had no way of knowing it at the time, Roy wrote, at least, the last two lyric lines of "Oh, Pretty Woman" with you in mind.

Godspeed, guys.

"...Ob-La Di, Ob-La-Da......With Frame..."

2011-11-20T08:54:00.001-05:00

Old saying.

One picture is worth a thousand words.

New saying.

Six pictures tells one complete story.

Simplicity can be stunning.

Wouldn't you say?

"...The Southfork School of Sympathy...."

2011-11-20T08:30:00.000-05:00

Carla is a very witty chick.

And my referring to my friend of twenty five years in that fashion is neither patronizing nor denigrating, regardless of any feminist jerking of knees that might result.

The story of why I call her Chickee and she, me, "Scoot" is a fun story all its own.

One of these days.

Meanwhile, the wit I attribute to Carla comes in many forms, but I was reminded, lately, of one "cism" in particular.

Asked for an opinion on any given cultural junk food/news item, Carla offers up what I consider a classic, and classy, response.

"In the first place," she opines, "...who cares?"

"...and in the second place.....who cares?"

Bada bing.

Carla's comedic comment popped up in my medulla this morning as I read the latest installment of the Adventures of Demi and Ashton", still, to paraphrase Paul Simon, newsworthy after what seems like all these years.

Here's a chunk of one tome', for backdrop purposes only.

"...Demi Moore and Ashton Kutcher are a couple no more, two months after Ashton's sixth-anniversary gift to Demi of a scandal around his alleged infidelity with a San Diego party receptionist while she was off working in New York City. Her belated gift to him was, of course, her decision Thursday to get a divorce.

After his-and-hers statements Thursday, speculation -- some of it humorous -- has filled the information vacuum. Prepare yourself for some gossipy gossip, which we hope you'll keep in the proper perspective.

Who gets Bruce Willis? What will @mrskutcher's new Twitter handle be? Will this drama, like the life of Charlie Sheen, be incorporated into Ashton's "Two and a Half Men" character's story line? (Whoops, too late on that last one, as Kutcher's Walden Schmidt has already been suffering the pain of a divorce from a wife who told him he was emotionally immature.)

Then there's the open-marriage buzz. "Everyone in Hollywood knows about their arrangement," an unnamed "insider" told the Star tabloid, "but they've managed to keep it a secret from the general public."

Chelsea Handler, who said she doesn't know them "personally very well," opined to a shocked, simply shocked Piers Morgan on his CNN show that "I think they probably had a lot of good times with some other women... Clearly they had a lot of threesomes, that led to twosomes without Demi and that leads to a divorce." After watching tape of the couple on a previous "Piers Morgan Tonight," she added, "I absolutely feel for her."

One such twosome was allegedly with Sara Leal, who went public with her claim that they'd had unprotected sex twice, that Ashton was not "weird or perverted," and that they'd talked about astrological signs and politics afterward..."

Truth be told, I've pretty much been in the Carla camp since the moment this "breaking news" broke.

Because, in the great scheme of things, after all, seriously.....take it, Chickee...

"...who cares....and in the second place....?"

Well, it turns out, in the interest of fair and balanced reporting (something Fox News Channel uses as a shroud slogan, but, hahahaha...)I think it right and proper to admit there really is a who to be offered up as the answer to that question.

Who cares?

Obviously, we do.

Or we wouldn't keep reading about it, thinking about it, talking about it and/or wanting to do some or all of those.

I think the more interesting question, the one that doesn't really get asked, let alone answered satisfactorily, is this one.

Why?

Ooh. I know. Call on me. I know.

And I even have a snappy slogan for it, too.

Dallas Syndrome.

Not as in the ultra-right wing capital of the Southwest, home to oil barons, cattle kings and Governors who get to run for president because their rich friends pay for it, but, rather, the infamous drama series/soap opera of the 1980's.

Jock and Miss Ellie, Sue Ellen, J.R./ On Pamela, Bobby, all our favorite stars.

And the reason that we find ourselves drawn back, time and again, to the foibles and follies of Kutcher and company is the very same reason that "Dallas" held our attention for years in prime time.

A very simple, basic, primal quality we all share, if not admit.

Misery loves company.

Most especially when the company is stinky rich and privileged.

Something in our human natures, the inverse, perhaps, of the quality that has us pull for the underdog, compels us to take some kind of satisfaction in witnessing the unhappiness of those who seem to have so much but, alas, have just as many upheavals, heartaches and heartbreaks as we mere mortals.

And it's not necessarily a perverse or petty attitude, at all.

Neither a "na-na-na-NA-na" or a "neener-neener".

Actually, an authentic "awwwwww".

Turns out that really rich people put their pants on one leg at a time just like us.

And they get kicked out of their marriages for fooling around just like us, too.

All the money in the world, or at least north central Texas, doesn't insure happiness.

Those of us who don't really have any money (and that, of course, is most of us) are comforted by the fact that it wouldn't matter anyway.

So, in an odd sort of psychological way, we find ourselves drawn closer to these star crossed celebs because their human follies mirror our own...and the falling of their stars metaphorically, and literally, brings them down to earth...

...ergo, closer to us.

At which point, it's then that we return to our own struggles and, at some point in the evolution of the breaking news, realize that we have to deal with our upheavals, heartaches and heartbreaks without benefit of day spas, day care or dollars upon dollars upon dollars of swanky therapists.

And as we hear just one too many reports on how the suffering celebs are coping, we find ourselves quoting my irrepressibly witty friend, Chickie.

"...in the first place...."

"...And, Yes, I Get Plenty Of Fiber, Thank You Very Much..."

2011-11-19T06:30:00.000-05:00

Been a year now.

And I haven't broken anything yet.

It was this time last year that my father passed away, making me, by age and place in line, the oldest living male member of my family.

The patriarch.

Although those who know me, very likely and not un-deservedly, think that a title like that is more honorary than honorable.

Because, hey, let's not kid ourselves, I'm not exactly "head of the family" material.

At least not in the conventional, traditional sense of the term.

And, just so we're clear, I'm offering that self deprecation in a spirit of truth in advertising without any intention of irreverence.

Because, the whole truth and nothing but be told, there are times when I wish I could be a better role model for future family key holders.

I do, though, take some measure of pride in two core personal qualities.

I do love, respect and admire my family.

And I recognize that I'll never be the kind of "father figure" that is instantly recognizable as such.

Come to think of it, just like the guy whose place I took at the head of the line.

Subtle shades of Linda Ronstadt and/or Warren Zevon fading out on the chorus of "Poor, Poor Pitiful Me" aside, I realize that I have, in the process of becoming the old guy (old, of course, being a relative term, as I consider myself still vibrant, virile and voracious, admittedly post George Clooney but decidedly pre Regis Philbin)that I have, simply by evolution, taken on some old guy traits.

Not counting the ones I've had since I was, say, fifteen or so.

Trust me when I tell you that curmudgeons, like Lady Gaga, are born this way.

And one of those old guy traits is a growing number of moments when one of these two phrases seem to come out of still vibrant, virile and voracious lips ...

"what the hell...?"

"tsk, tsk, tsk...".

Moments like this morning when I came across the story of the seven year old daughter of the Texas A&M basketball coach who sits in the stands at games and, as the opposing players come to the free throw line, lets loose with a piercing shriek, designed, obviously, to rattle the cage of the opponent about to take a shot.

It looks, and sounds, like this.

If you check this video out on Yahoo (where I found it) or You Tube, do a scroll down and look at some of what the peanut gallery has to offer in the way of comment.

I didn't do an empirical data compilation, but I'm guessing, from quick view, that the votes fall somewhere in the fifty fifty range, half thinking this little stunt is funny/cool/hip/clever/good strategy, yada, yada and half thinking that it is, at best, inappropriate and, at worst, raging, screaming (literally) poor sportsmanship.

Which will bring us back to do-re-mi...and the aforementioned old guy trait.

Just as I heard the piercing shriek of the little gym minx, I heard the simultaneous voices of generations of past patriarchs in my ear, the voices of past generations who had subscribed to, and preached, the basic values of good manners and common courtesy and, wait for it, good sportsmanship and, though hard to discern one from the other, I got a pretty good sense that those voices were a heady concoction of these two primal sounds...

"what the hell...?"

"tsk, tsk, tsk...".

At that moment, I realized that I truly had joined the patriarchal pantheon.

Because, much to my own surprise, my own voice was mouthing pretty much those same sounds at the same time.

And if leaving behind the childhood of lack of consideration for others, selfishness in pursuit of satisfaction, good sportsmanship in pursuit of gratification and an attitude of "lighten up, dude, it's only a game" marks me as a top of the line AARP material, then bring on the Depends and the Dentu-Creme, kids.

Because this head of the family thinks anybody who thinks that behavior is funny, let alone acceptable, should be ashamed of themselves.

And to those whippersnappers and/or whiners who would roll their eyes and offer up, "what's the effin' big deal, old man?", I can only, respectfully respond thus...

"what the hell...?"

"tsk, tsk, tsk...".

How'm I doin', Dad?