Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm ...

What you are looking at is the construction of an igloo of chocolate, the centerpiece of the Eurochocolate festival that just started in Perugia, Italy. Yeah, a chocolate igloo - made of nearly four tons of the stuff, mostly in the form of 10 kg bricks of dark chocolate.

Er ... I'm a bit too distracted to talk now, so just click the subject line to read up about Eurochocolate. And then I dare you not to go buy a Hersheys bar afterwards.

Cat fancy ...

Ah, kittens. Lovable, adorable little balls of fluff. Even those who are allergic to them, who may even hate the grown-up versions, usually manage to find a soft spot for the cuddly critters.

Wade Pilloud, a school principal in the small Minnesota town of Indus, says he loves kittens too. Has even raised them for a living, and owns two cats himself, he also says. That's why he shot two kittens on the property of the school he works at.

Or, rather, worked at. Pilloud resigned after word got out of his shooting spree, and he may face firearm charges for what he said was a humane act. Seems that the young kittens' mommy had been killed by an animal trap. The babies, he says, were starving.

For the parents of some of the school's students, that rationale wasn't good enough. They raised safety concerns, and the fact that some of the kids heard the gunshots probably didn't help either. So Pilloud is out of a job and maybe, eventually, his freedom.

I have a question. Did it ever go through Pilloud's mind that the best remedy for hungry kittens may not have been a bullet between the eyes, but rather - and I'm just wondering out loud - SOME MILK???!

Some people should not be allowed around our children. Or our cats.

Note: None of the kittens in these pictures were shot or otherwise harmed. At least, not that I know of.

Who is the real leader of the free world?

Let's put it this way - who's the only guy you know who can hang out with President Bush and Oprah Winfrey - in the same freakin' day?


His aura and power and grace is almost enough to make us forgive that lousy haircut. Almost.

"I didn't do nothin' I have regrets about."

Folks, if you want to begin your Friday the 13th like I always do - seething mad - click on the subject line for the story of Mark Downs, a not-so-mild-mannered T-ball coach out of Fayette County, Pennsylvania, who has just been sentenced to prison for offering one of his players, aged 8, $25 to injure a 9-year-old autistic teammate so that Downs wouldn't have to play him.

Yeah, you read that correctly. The subject line, in fact, is the quote Downs (by the way, a father of four - think about that one for a minute) gave to the press as he was being led away to prisons in handcuffs. "I didn't do nothin' I have regrets about." Lovely.

The price for Downs' crimes? Up to six years in prison. Considering the code in most of these facilities about felons who hurt children, I'm thinking Downs' time behind bars won't be especially pleasant, especially considering the inanity of the crime. Boo hoo for him.

(Note: The story behind the subject line is from last month; I'm still looking for a current article on the wires about the sentencing again. Also, maybe, a photo of this tool so you can spit on him.)

UPDATE: Here is an article about the actual sentencing of Downs. Some in the media have questioned the severity of the sentence against him, that probation or maybe community service with the autistic may have been a better punishment for him. Keep in mind, though, that Downs most likely had the chance to plead guilty to something to avoid a trial. He may have had a chance to be a man, and if so, he apprently declined. He'll learn what it's like to be a man in jail.

Two games for the price of one ... oh, never mind!

Despite the name of this blog and the obsessive nature of the Chicago Cubs fan who operates it, baseball has not been a common topic at this tiny piece of Internet real estate. A lot of that "neglect" may be because of the current state of the Cubs baseball club, which didn't exactly play to impress this past season. (Translation: They sucked. Hard.) But baseball comes today because this particular day is maybe the dumbest on the season's calendar. That's because tonight the Detroit Tigers and Oakland Athletics will play each other in Game 2 of the American League Championship Series, which will begin at about 8 p.m. (ET) tonight - at the same time that Game 1 of the National League Championship Series between the New York Mets and St. Louis Cardinals will commence.

This is at least the third year in a row that there will be this one-night overlap of the two LCS matchups, where baseball audiences will have to choose which game to follow. In some cases, the choice will be made for them. Fox, which owns the exclusive contract to both the LCS and the resulting World Series, will air one game on its over-the-air network and the other on its FX cable channel. Which game gets the broadcast slot will depend on the region, so for those cable-less households - and they do still exist - they'll be out of luck if, say, they live in Oakland but are die-hard Mets fans.

Why is this such a big deal? Because for many years Major League Baseball was one of the very rare league (the NFL being the other) where all playoff games were guaranteed national coverage. This could be done because of the relatively low number of contests in MLB's baseball cycle, and also because, in the cases where more than one game was played on a day, games would be played in the daytime. There was even a time, boys and girls, when World Series games were played during the day. Ask your mommies and daddies about those heady times, when they would often sneak their transistor radios into classrooms to subversively listen to the broadcasts. Or maybe they were lucky enough to have understanding teachers. One of my friends, who was a child when the Mets won their miracle World Series in 1969, told me about the thrill of having a old TV rolled into a school assembly so the kids could watch one of the WS games out in the open. (She lived in the New York region at the time, thus the special treatment. And, yeah, ’69 should have been the Cubs' year. That's another topic for another time, painful as it is.)

Alas, the days of daytime playoff baseball, at least for the LCS and World Series, are long gone, a victim of the increasing importance of the All-Mighty Dollar. Because ratings for daytime baseball are not spectacular (i.e. they suck. Hard.), The Powers That Be try to have as many games in prime-time - all of them, actually - as possible to maximize value. How this is better than the alternative, I don't know, particularly when the actual games often don't start until almost 8:30, which means that young kids - the future of the fan base, by the way - often are in bed well before the games end or even become exciting. But that's what the big bosses want, which is why we have tonight's overlap. You would think that MLB would have learned from the ill-fated 1995 season, when this freakish monstrosity called The Baseball Network rules the TV landscape and led to the entire playoff cycle being run with overlap, so that most communities only got to see one LCS. It was an universally condemned situation, which is one reason why The Baseball Network was gone in 1996.

Would it have killed MLB and Fox to have, for this one day, one of these games played under God's natural lighting? It would have been cool to have the Mets and Cardinals play in the sunshine of Queens - to have little kids and grown-ups alike playing hooky to go to the ballgame or sneak their tiny radios into the classrooms and boardrooms, or fire up their computers and listen to the streamed play-by-play. Instead, as is often the case, MLB has taken the easy - and the wrong - way out for the sake of a few bucks. Idiots.

UPDATE: God, in his position as the Ultimate Baseball Fan, has settled the schedule overlap in his own way; the Mets-Cardinals game has been postponed due to rain. So everyone watches Detroit-Oakland tonight. So there.

A Big Gulp to swallow ...

You may not know this, but I am not a fan of the Chicago White Sox baseball club. In fact, the White Sock is the natural blood enemy of the Chicago Cub - one of five blood enemies that the tiny creature of the North Side must contend with for survival. White Sox fans especially can be nasty critters, as I especially discovered during this past year, when said fans proved to be sore winners by lording their World Series triumph over their less fortunate cousins to the north.


Despite their dispositions, though, I sympathize with my baseball brethren over the increasing selling-out of the White Sox management. It was bad enough when they replaced the old Comiskey Park, one of the grande dames of baseball parks, with a new Comiskey that more resembled a strip mall than a place to play ball. Years later, that blight was made worse with the stripping of the time-honored Comiskey name in favor of a corporate logo, U.S. Cellular Field. For a few pieces of silver (actually, $68 million), one of the great names of both Chicago and baseball history was trashed, though many in the Chicagoland area have not gotten the memo and still refer to it as its Christian name. (Other call the ballpark "The Cell," a nickname that has more than one connotation if you've ever spent an April night there. A few even refer to the place as "The Joan," based on the fact that the lovingly quirky, Chicago-born actress Joan Cusack does their commercials. Never mind the fact that Joan and her brood are, for the most part, loyal Cubs fans. But I digress.)


Now comes the announcement that, starting with the 2007 season, all night games at New Comiskey will begin at 7:11 p.m. local time. This is a result of a new endorsement deal with, yes, the 7-Eleven convenience store chain, the idea being that every time the start time of the home games is announced, it's instant pub for the home of the Slurpee and Big Gulp. Now, on the surface, this isn't an entirely big deal. It's not like that's such a major shift from past history, when most White Sox games started at around 7:05 p.m. It's just so freakin' ridiculous. First of all, the price of this promotion is a mere $500,000, which won't buy a right-handed middle reliever with a sore arm these days. Second of all, it's another sign of how far sports entities will go to raise a few bucks. It's bad enough that so many stadiums have corporate names slapped onto them or that every aspect of the broadcast is sponsored. ("This crotch-scratching break is sponsored by Preparation H!") But this - this is just silly.


One wonders why the White Sox didn't take this idea all the way by having all day games start at 7:11 a.m. Maybe the idea of fathers waking up their sons at 4 in the morning to catch a ball game at The Joan was a bit too much.

Click the subject line to perpetuate the insanity.

Ol' Googly Eyes is back ...

Hmmm ... In the "why don't you go away already department," we have Jennifer Wilbanks, whom you may remember as the real-life "runaway bride" from last year. You know, the Georgia chick with the crazy eyes who skipped out on her fancy-schmancy wedding and faked out the entire country into thinking that she had been abducted before she turned up out West as just another bride with cold feet. Well, if you click on the subject line above, you will read about how Wilbanks is now suing her former fiance for half of the $500,000 he earned through selling his rights to the whole story to Regan Media. She's also looking for - get this- punitive damages.

Now, let's see - it was Wilbanks who jumped her own wedding, made everyone think she had been kidnapped and sexually assaulted by two unknown culprits (including a Latino man, and you know how lovely it is when we through stereotypical minorities into the mix), then was arrested for giving false information to the cops. She pleaded no contest (i.e. the wimpy way of admitting guilt) to those charges. So it was Wilbanks who admittedly broke the law. Oh, and let's also throw in that she got her 15 minutes of fame with media appearances - and that she allegedly made a cool half million through the sale of her rights to the story. (Jami Gertz is still on standby, by the way.) Oh, apparently she has used none of her proceeds to pay back the local authorities for the $40,000 or so they spent to find her bony ass, even though she really was faking the whole thing.

Seriously, can she just go away. Frankly, why am I giving her any additional pub? I'm an enabler. Great.

Frankly, if anyone should be suing anying, the ex should be suing her for pain and suffering. Or the Cookie Monster should be suing Wilbanks for stealing his act. And that's only because Marty Feldman is dead, and therefore can't sue anyone.

Another cute commercial!

Though I bet this stuff is vile. It was vile when I had to drink cough syrup as a child. Today, I just drink cough syrup for sport.

Priorities, people, priorities!

Took you long enough, Yahoo! guys. This story of most critical importance broke over three hours ago? What took you so long? Maybe you're upset about dropping the YouTube ball. Well, get over it and keep your heads in the game!

The cutest commercial ever!

If this doesn't make you smile, you're probably dead. Or have no soul. Or hate dogs, which is pretty much the same as having no soul. Unless you're allergic, and even then, it's not the dogs' fault that you're allergic to them. It's probably yours. ’Cause you're without a soul.

Safe at home ...

Around this time last year, I came home from a movie screening to the news that Rosa Parks, one of the great African American pioneers of the last century, had passed away, a long life of struggle and triumph finally over. Tonight, a similar experience, as I learned that John Jordan "Buck" O'Neil was gone at the age of 94. Buck O'Neil, one of the last of the great Negro League baseball players, may not have had the name recognition of a Rosa Parks or Jackie Robinson. But in his own way, this eloquent, literate man was just as important for the cause of civil rights as either of them. He also was the best ambassador baseball had going today.

Click on the subject line to read The New York Times' brief but excellent obituary about O'Neil. But here's my own short recollection of him: A few years ago, I had the extreme pleasure of meeting Buck O'Neil at a television press tour, where PBS was presenting a revival of sorts of some of the documentarian Ken Burns' most important works. Among these films were segments of Burns' epic Baseball, in which O'Neil, then a young pup of 82, was introduced to much of America with his colorful tales of life in the Negro Leagues. Buck regaled us reporters with more stories during the Q&A, then continued in followups with a small group of us afterwards. What I recall the most about that encounter was that this man who had more than earned the respect of anyone and everyone around him refused to answer to "Mr. O'Neil." He insisted that we call him Buck. It was that casualness, that ease with people and with his past, that I will always remember about him.

I hope Buck is enjoying the chance to run through the green outfields of heaven right now, and that he will do well in his first game alongside the likes of Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig and the other greats that he was denied the chance to play with in life. I've got a feeling they're going to be impressed with this newcomer.

Lost ...

If anyone out there can explain to me what exactly was going on on last night's season premiere of Lost - well, you're probably full of crap, ’cause I don't think anyone knows exactly what's going on there, with the possible exception of J.J. Abrams and the other producers. And I wouldn't be surprised if they don't know exactly what they're doing.

Which is why, perhaps, it's the best drama on network television, and the Television Academy looks progressively more foolish with each airing.

(Not) Black like me ...

You may or may not be aware that a new biopic about Jackie Robinson is in the works. Already Robert Redford has been cast in the pivotal role of Branch Rickey, the taciturn general manager of the Brooklyn Dodgers who chose Robinson as the perfect man to break baseball's long-standing color barrier. But the lead role has yet to be cast.

I have a great idea about the actor who could fill that part. He's versatile, he's athletic, he's an Oscar nominee. He'd be perfect for the role of Jackie Robinson.

I speak, of course, of Heath Ledger.

What's that? Ledger can't play Jackie Robinson? Why not? It's not because he's Australian, is it? What does that have to do with anything? Russell Crowe has played Americans before, as has many a foreign actor, and vice versa.

Oh, that's not it, you say. You say it's because Heath Ledger is ... white? Shame on you. How can you be so close-minded. Acting shouldn't be bound by race or color. Those days are over, right?

Absolutely right. But only to a point. A particular point, but a point nonetheless.

Of course it's ridiculous that Heath Ledger would be offered the part of Jackie Robinson. The first person to say that may very well be Ledger himself. The part of maybe the most important African American of the 20th century must be played by an actor of Negro persuasion. Just as, the next time someone does a movie on Babe Ruth or Mickey Mantle or John F. Kennedy or Albert Einstein, those characters must be played by Caucasians. It's a simple equation, a reflection on the real lives those movies would depict.


So why is it OK for Halle Berry, an Academy Award winner of exception talent (Catwoman notwithstanding) has been chosen to play Tierney Cahill, a real-life elementary school teacher who ran for Congress in the year 2000 with the assistance of her young students? Cahill, in case you haven't guessed yet, is white. Berry, of course, is not, having made history as the first African American to win the Best Actress Oscar in 2002.

My political beliefs, which I try not to voice on this blog because I don't feel it's the proper place, are nevertheless decidedly left of center. And you can tell from the picture of myself on the right that I come to this from a certain perspective. But this isn't right. Berry should have never accepted this part, even though I wouldn't doubt that she campaigned for it. How would Berry have felt if, say, Angelina Jolie had played Dorothy Dandridge instead of her or any other qualified woman of color? How would any of us had felt? And the fact that Cahill is not a household name or face is irrelevant. She's a real person. She is not black. End of discussion. Either you tell her story the right way, or you don't tell it at all.

Beth asked me why I was not pleased about this announcement. This is what I told her:

Obviously I'm all for colorblind casting, but when it comes to actual people who actually lived, you're dealing with a different reality. Namely, reality itself. If Cahill is white, then something is lost from the equation of her true-life story by casting an actress of color, no matter how talented she is. To say you're looking for the best actor, period, isn't enough when you're telling the story of someone who actually lived. It would be like casting Kevin Spacey to play Colin Powell, or Antonio Banderas to play Bill Clinton. And if those are ridiculous examples, well, that kind of makes my point in a sense.

One more thing, and I say this as a proud liberal and a proud African American - if the roles were reversed, if a white actress was cast in the role of a real-life black woman, you know there would be hell to pay.

Variety (the article in the trade about this can be accessed - for now - by clicking the subject line) quoted a source close to the production as saying that the producers wanted to find the right actress as opposed the right white actress. That's a very noble sentiment - for a fictional role and/or a fictional story. When there are actual facts involved, though, new rules apply.

Oh, and if anyone can think of a good choice to play Jackie Robinson, let me know. Frankly, I'm stumped.


P.S.: This is the real Tierney Cahill. What, Julianne Moore wasn't available? Laura Linney? Helen Hunt?

There are pigeons living on my balcony ...

... and I don't know why. What I do know is that there is no sign of an actual nest anywhere, and there is pigeon crap all over the place. Maybe they're having a lost weekend or something. I won't bug them, but they better clean up after themselves.

The ghost of Tom Cruise ...

There's an old saying that goes something like this: Those who do not know their history are bound to repeat it. In Hollywood terms, we may be about to see a glaring example of that. Word is that Britney Spears has fired her longtime publicist with the goal of handling her own non-music p.r. from here on in. In other words, Brit has pulled a Tom Cruise, and we all know how well things went for poor Tommy after he kicked über-publicist Pat Kingsley to the curb in favor of his own sister. And considering the kind of pub Britney and her hubby K-Fed were getting with a professional lackey running things ... well, shudder the thought.

Get ready for some fun!

(Click the subject line to read the related article.)

Interesting campaign tactic ...

Click the subject line to read about how Jeanine Pirro, who is running for the position of attorney general of New York State, is now being investigated by the feds for plotting to illegally wiretap her wealthy husband over suspicions that he was having affairs behind her back.

This blog has purposely stayed away from political discussions for reasons both obvious and not so much. (Well, they're obvious to me, at least.) But I do have this observation: It may not be the best idea to break the law while seeking the elected position of upholding the law. Just a thought.

Oh, and notice Pirro's wonky eye in the photo accompanying the article. They can't help at the ballot box, either.

Wins and losses, in more ways than one

In sports - in life, actually - in order for a Goliath to exist, there must be a David. Just ask the Tampa Bay Devil Rays, the moribund baseball franchise that has spend its entirely short existence in the same division as the New York Yankees. But is there a point where enough is enough? Should there be mercy rules when defeat is inevitable.

Earlier this year Connecticut instituted a "mercy rule" for its high school football teams, mandating that the coach of any team that defeated an opponent by more than 50 points would be suspended for the following game. Now a Michigan school board has gone one better (or one worse), canceling the remaining games of the team representing Oscoda Area High School because of their 0-4 opening record - four losses, no wins and no points. The rationale was that the team was overmatched by all of its opponents (the full story can be read by clicking the above subject line). But what does it say to the players who were valiantly giving their all? We teach our children never to quit, to always try their hardest, but when their elders do the quitting for them, how can that be a positive lesson in life? And what about the seniors on the team? I would bet that, even in this situation, at least a few of them may have had aspirations of football scholarships, scholarships that would have paved the way to college educations. Are they screwed now?

Yeah, it sucks to get your ass kicked week after week, whether it be on a football field or some other field of life. But those are the situations where characters can be forged for the better. But not in Oscoda, apparently, where the easy way out rules the day.

Shiver your timbers indeed!

Hey, Popeye, put that spinach down! There is a crisis surrounding the leafy green vegetable, as an E. coli outbreak that already has killed one person has put the temporary kibosh on spinach consumption. The FDA is warning everyone not to eat spinach, particularly the fresh, bagged variety, until further notice. The full story can be accessed by clicking on the subject above, but if your kids start celebrating that they won't be forced to eat the stuff, remind them that there's always Brussels sprouts.

Talk about "extra point"!

The spirit of Tonya Harding is alive and well (!) and living in Greeley, Colorado. That's the home of the University of Northern Colorado, where the Bears take to the gridiron and compete in the Big Sky Conference of the NCAA's Division 1-AA. It's also where what has to be the most bizarre police blotter report of any college sport this year just was written. From ESPN:

"The backup punter at Northern Colorado has been arrested on suspicion of stabbing his teammate -- the starting punter -- in the kicking leg.

The motive may have been competition for the first-string job, police said Wednesday."

Wow, sure is nice that the police may have figured out the motive that allgededly led Mitch Cozad from attacking Rafael Mendoza. 'Cause it was confusing to me.

Not surprisingly, Cozad has been kicked off the team and, indeed, off of campus as well. No word on if Mendoza did his best Nancy Kerrigan and sobbed "Why?" as blood poured from his thigh. I kind of doubt it.

Read the full ESPN story by clicking the subject line.

A wee lovely idea ...

Well, Steve Jobs slapped on the black sweater again today and announced some more new toys for Apple devotees (myself included) to play with. Including in his presentation this time was a new iTunes application that now includes downloads of feature films, along with still more new versions of the company's iPod music player. There's a "monster" that has 80 GB of storage (that's as much as my MacBook), a new incarnation of the nano that has 24 hours of battery life - and my personal fave, a reinvention of the iPod shuffle that half the size of the first model, which itself was the size of a pack of gum. Now the shuffle (seen above) is only 1.6 inches long and can be clipped onto your pocket. Song capacity: 240.

Now, I won't buy the shuffle, partly because I had just purchased a regular iPod a few months ago, and partly because the shuffle is so wee, I would lose it within a week - if not on the bus or at the mall, then definitely in my train wreck of an apartment. But the reason the shuffle bemuses me so is because of a skit on "Saturday Night Live" last fall that involved Fred Armisen doing a passable take on Jobs and his singular presentation style, one-up-manship and all. Click here to check out exactly what I'm talking about. And click the subject line if you're actually interested in buying the shuffle. I bet it's popular with 4-year-olds and smurfs. :)

My hero ...

I spent part of my weekend on a film set in Atlanta, waiting until 5 a.m. to interview the star of the movie, who was just as tired as I was. Earlier, at 1 a.m., I had "lunch" with much of the crew, eating homemade mac and cheese.


My friend Beth Kujawski spent part of her weekend walking 60 miles through suburban Chicago on behalf of breast cancer awareness and prevention.

I am a writer. Beth, who is also a writer, happens to be a hero as well.

The word "hero" is something to be used carefully, especially on this particular day and date. But while Beth didn't run into a burning building, she did walk a long distance for the betterment of others and the world in general. That sounds like a hero, or at least a type of hero, to me.

At some point today or tomorrow, Beth will write her account of her weekend on her blog, which is bookmarked on the right. Be sure to read and pay close attention. You will be glad you did, trust me.

9-11-01

Say what you will about the mess this country is in right now - and, without getting terribly political, a mess is exactly what it is - but on this day, five years later, let's not forget why we're in the mess in the first place. May God, the Creator or whomever or whatever you believe in keep a look out for those who died on that horrible September day, and those who were left behind.

Crikey!

Steve Irwin, the Crocodile Hunter, lies dead tonight, the victim not of a bear or a python or a shark or even a croc, but of that most deadly of aquatic life - the stingray. Yes, in what may end up being the freakiest celebrity death of 2006 - that is, unless Andy Dick rears his peculiar head - the 44-year-old Irwin was done in by a chance encounter with one of the otherwise graceful sea creatures during a diving tour off of the Great Barrier Reef. It seemed that as Irwin jumped into the water, the stingray, buried in the sand underneath the water, picked that exact time for its barbed tail to spring out, where it stabbed Irwin in the chest and punctured his heart. The great Aussie environmentalist probably never knew what hit him.

This is a time to mourn the loss of a larger-than-life figure, to feel for his American-born widow and partner in business and nature, Terri, who now will have to raise two young children on her own and most likely maintain the vast empire she and Steve had created for the benefit of the wildlife of Australia and beyond. But it's also a chance to smile - not only for the good times Irwin brought to his fans, but out of envy for a man who died doing what he loved, and how many of us will be able to do that? Well, maybe Andy Dick eventually, though that's the fodder for an entirely separate blog entry. As wacky as Irwin could be, and that was pretty damn wacky (did I mention he was from Australia?), he inspired a generation of young people worldwide to get involved, in ways big and small, in the preservation of this planet and the fascinating creatures who live on it. And he did more for the fashion of shorty shorts on men than anyone this side of Richard Simmons.

So as you sit at your dinner table to say grace or whatever tonight, think a good thought for Steve Irwin. Better yet, hoist a pint or two of beer in his honor. Bonus points if it's a Foster's.

Dylan Goes iTunes ...

I don't whether this is the end of the world, or the beginning ...

Read more by clicking the subject line.

Pluto voted off of the solar system island ...

Well, not exactly, but it sure seems like that after the International Astronomical Union - wow, just imagine the keggers those guys have - finally determined, after a long and acrimonious meeting in Prague, that Pluto, the icy sphere that has been considered the ninth planet in our solar system for more than 75 years, really doesn't deserve to be called a planet in the "classical" sense. In short, Pluto was bringing down the value of the neighborhood, so it is has been relegated to the ghetto of the land of "dwarf planets."

Pluto's major crime? It didn't help that its orbit isn't totally smooth, that its elliptical path around the sun overlaps with that of Planet Number Eight, Neptune. (In fact, from 1979 to 1999, Pluto was the eighth farthest "planet" from the sun because of that wacky orbit. Hope Plutonians enjoyed that brush with fame.) The official term being used by the IAU is actually "clearing the neighborhood" - really technical, guys.

Besides, stats prove that Pluto is a horrible place to raise children. You know - rampant crime, unattractive environments, average temperature of -387.4 degrees Fahrenheit. That's not exactly Vegas, guys.

So woe for fans of Pluto. Once again, the little guys get the shaft. Residents of Pluto probably will file a protest, but since they do have about 3.5 billion miles to travel to the meet with the IAU, this could take a while.

NOTE: One member of the IAU mentioned that few people would be "excited" by this decision, yet the organization's Web site was down when I just checked, apparently overwhelmed by that teeny level of excitement.

NOTE 2: Some may ask, if Pluto gets ejected from the planetary club because its orbit crosses that of Neptune's, then why isn't Neptune out? Apparently they wrote a footnote for Neptune dismissing that problem. So how does Neptune get out of that mess? Maybe they have photos of some of the more prominent IAU members playing with Uranus! [rimshot]

Snakes in a ... well, guess

You had to know this was coming ...

From a news Web site in, of all places, central Florida, where you know something like this would happen:

Two live diamondback rattlesnakes were released in an Arizona movie theater during a showing of the new film "Snakes on a Plane" ...

Authorities said pranksters released the young venomous rattlesnakes in a dark theater at the AMC Desert Ridge near Tatum and Loop 101 in Phoenix.

The two snakes caused a panic in the dark theater, according to the report.

"That to me is very scary," herpetological association representative Tom Whiting said. "I would hate to be watching a movie about snakes and have a rattlesnake bite me."

Wranglers were called to collect the snakes, the report said.

No one was injured in the incident and, so far, the culprits have not been caught.

Officials believe the snakes were smuggled into the theater in backpacks.

"This thing is under someone's chair and they go to sit and they just push your foot in the air and startle it -- obviously all they got to do is startle this thing," Phoenix Herpetological Society spokesman Daniel Marchand said. "It's dark. They can't see you, you know that well. If it's scared, boom it strikes."

The snakes were released into the desert.

I supposed in a day in which every other movie starring a rapper as a cop or a robber or something in between is greeted with at least one report about some "prankster" bringing a loaded weapon into a theater, this thing was a no-brainer. But then, how come this crap doesn't happen whenever there's a film about vampires? Where are the rattlesnakes then, eh?

Click the subject line for what I'm sure is some dazzling video.

Well, THAT was interesting ...

Last night, I was seen by a couple million people or so shilling for my new Snakes on a Plane book on MSNBC's Countdown with Keith Olbermann. It was quite the odd experience for someone who hadn't been on television since he was 17, and that was when I was the captain of my high school's academic team, and it's not that difficult to forget that there's a camera capturing your every move when you're trying to remember who was the President when the League of Nations was formed. This was something new and different, and an eye-opener for a guy who covers TV for a living, I must say. But rather than get long-winded, I thought I would tell this story in picture form. So, here we go!



This is the Lincoln Town Car that MSNBC sent to pick me up. Yeah, just like Herbie Stempel in Quiz Show, only without the NBC logo on the side. Fancy! The car even came with its own driver, Rich, which is good, 'cause I don't know how to drive. Rich was really cool - he knew how to get to the studio without any help.



This is Pacific Television Center, the West L.A. facility where I did my spot. I though they were going to take me to Burbank, but this was much more convenient to my location. Besides, there would be no place for Rich to park there since Leno hogs the parking lot with his 25 cars.




This is Patty, the women charged with the most difficult of tasks - to make me presentable for the air. I'd never had makeup applied to me before, and I can't say I was looking forward to it. But Patty was very gentle with me, and I didn't sneeze once during the process.

Note the protruding bald head, by the way ... scary!





This is the "green room," which of course isn't really green. It's weird to watch a show that you're going to be on actually in progress, especially when they promote your upcoming appearance. It really gives you a lot to think about.



See?



Finally, about 10 minutes before I went on the air, they called me into the actual studio, which is a fairly small room with a chair and a camera directly in front. Here one of the techs is preparing to wire me for sound, as it were. Notice the green wall behind, which was magically transformed into a nightscape, something I didn't even realize until it was all over, distracted as I was.




"Pay no attention to the person behind the black man ..."




This is what I saw directly ahead - a monitor of just me (which I had them turn off because it was way too distracting), a monitor that shows the actual broadcast (which was about 30 seconds behind what the actual interview) and the camera. Note the smiley face below the lens; that's what I was supposed to focus on while I was on the air.

Oh, and this may be a good time to note that Keith Olbermann, who is a SoaP fanatic, was actually off last night. I was interviewed by Brian Unger, whom I believe used to be on The Daily Show. I coped. :)




Patty does a final touch-up ...




I'm all ready to go. Slightly terrified, but ready to go ...


And ... and then I went on. The consensus seems to be that I didn't screw up. If you want to see me in action - and you have a PC with the proper equipment (no Macs allowed, sadly) - you can click on the headline to go to the Countdown page, where there have a link to my interview. But I lived. And as you can see below, I was very, very relieved to have done my thing without saying anything stupid. And on Monday - Geraldo!




A big thanks to my friend Anne, who was my support system and chief photographer for this mission ...

Perspective ...

Wow.

It's true what they say when they say that friends are the most valuable commodity that a person can have.

True friends are always there for you. They cheer you up when you're down, they pat you on the back when you've achieved something, and they snap you back to reality when your head grows too large for the rest of your body and soul.

I just experienced the last part of that equation, in a subtle but valuable way, thanks to one of my best friends in the world, the lovely and fair Beth.

Beth has been my friend for several years now. She was a co-worker at a previous job, and when that gig went away for both of us, we actually grew closer. Thanks to the companion known as unlimited long distance, we speak on the phone nearly every day, often multiple times, as well as e-mail and the occasional instant messaging. Hopefully some of you have checked out her own blog, which is bookmarked on the right side of this one.

Beth is really an extraordinary woman. She's a great writer, a good singer, an excellent cook and baker. (Brownies - mmmm.) And she's also a good bullshit detector. And I had told her when I started with the Snakes on a Plane book to keep me honest, to make sure that any part of the process didn't go to my head.

And today, it kind of did.

Today, believe it or not, I shot a story about me and my book for Geraldo Rivera's syndicated show, Geraldo at Large. (I know, I know. But it was interesting to see how such spots are put together.) The story will be on Monday - check local listings. But the point of this is that when I got home, I called Beth to tell her about it, since she works out of her place like me and thus is usually more readily available for impromptu conversations than some of my other, office-bound chums. And after telling her my tale, I threw this in: "I hope nothing happens in the world that would bump me out of the show."

What did I say, Beth asked. And, like a lummox, I repeated what I had just said. And then I knew what I had done.

There is a lot going on in the world today, something I don't have to tell you guys. And most of it is far more important than Snakes on a Plane or the book that I wrote about the response to the movie. Sure, films like this are, at their best, necessary diversions from the seriousness of the news. But that's all they are, diversions. And for me to put myself above Iraq or Israel or the oil prices or even the JonBenet Ramsey story - yeah, that was a bit much. And Beth said so in a way that was not scornful or mean, but nevertheless hit the nail on the head.

So I may get bumped on Monday if the world blows up or something. It won't be the end of the world. Well, it may be, but you get the picture. So Beth did her due diligence as a friend, which is precisely why she's my friend. That, and the brownies.

P.S. If the spirit moves you, donate some legal tender to Beth's 3-Day Breast Cancer Walk, the link to which can be found on her own blog site. She does it every year, it's a really good cause, and she is quite the good egg.

A quick thought about JonBenet Ramsey

Now that an actual suspect has been arrested in the murder of JonBenet Ramsey nearly 10 years after her slaying, and it appears to be the guy, I wonder if all of the people who publicly accused John and Patsy Ramsey of killing their 6-year-old daughter will have the balls to go up to John - and to go Patsy's grave - to apologize to them personally.

Just a thought.

Pigs.

And now, a word about women. I love them. Just about all of them, with one or two exceptions (cough-Ann Coulter!-cough), but like most men or gay women, I do have my preferences. They aren't dealbreakers, but they're my things, and that's part of the tapestry that makes this planet so cool, or maybe so frustrating to the point of deadly warfare. Maybe it's somewhere in between.

One of those preferences is size. I prefer women who are curvy. This is not to say that I would turn my head away from a thin woman, but a lot depends on how thin she is. If she's, say, Sarah Jessica Parker thin, where there's some tone to her frame, that works. If she's Nicole Richie thin, then it's a no-go situation. If I'm with a woman in bed, I'd rather not slide off of her during the intimate moment. So you can guess that I'm not a big proponent of the trend that never ends, the Hollywood starlets that think that the best way to show off, to get that big part or that hot guy, is to have the figure of a 12-year-old emaciated boy from the Sudan.

So on the one end, I'm happy to see an article by Holly Millea in Details magazine about the revival of the curvy, healthy Hollywood babe in the forms of such actresses as Scarlett Johansson and Evangeline Lilly, not to mention "old" stalwarts such as Kate Winslet, Catherine Zeta-Jones and Drew Barrymore. What I am not happy about at all is the supplements the Details editors felt the need to add to Millea's piece to make it - oh, I don't know - punchier? Was it really necessary to use a headline such as "Why Fat Is Back in Hollywood"? Since when is Scarlett Johansson "fat"? This country has a serious, real problem with obesity, but it's not a solution to slap that label, however indirectly, on Liv Tyler or Katherine Heigl? And how clever is it to begin an online slideshow of famed voluptuous women with a shot of a pig wearing glittery high heels?

By invoking this tasteless imagery, the Details folks have dropped the ball. Millea's curve-positive article, standing alone, could have been a celebration of the notion that a woman doesn't have to starve herself to be sexy and desirable, in Hollywood or otherwise. Instead the editors went for the cheap thrill in an effort to be funny or cute. All they are, apparently, are idiots. We know where their bread is buttered now.

Click on the subject line to read Millea's article. It may help to use the printer-friendly version.

He's still dead!

These photos of Castro and Hugh Chavez prove nothing - except, perhaps, that they are about to be wed. But would Chavez marry a corpse? Maybe - he's a bit of an odd duck, no?

Look, they match!

He's dead!

Fidel Castro is dead. How he died, how long he has been dead - no one knows that except the powers that be in Cuba. But ever since they announced last week that he was relinquising power temporarily because of intestinal surgery, I had a feeling that there was more going on than meets the eye. This has all of the signs of what went on in the days of the Soviet Union when one of those old coots in charge would disappear for weeks or months on end, they would say that the codger had a head cold, and next thing you know, they're having his funeral. Since Cuba is the closest thing we have to a Soviet-like system, why wouldn't they do the same thing when their leader gets sick or worse?

And now today, the authorities in Havana have released some photos of their fearless leader to prove that he is still with us. One of them has Castro holding up a newspaper allegedly from today. See, this proves to me that Fidel is wormmeat. To have hom hold up a current newspaper as if he was a hostage or something - no, this has Photoshop written all over it.

Mark my words - in a month, they'll make the announcement. Relapse, they'll call it. But Fidel's in a freezer somewhere.

Snakes on My Blog!

Blogs. Wow, they are pesky things.

They are pesky because once you start one, there are those who, you know, feel that you have an obligation to update it on a regular basis. And that's not as easy as it sounds.

My dear friend Beth has a blog; it's bookmarked to your right (donate to her breast cancer walk!). She managed to blog about something at least once a day. It may be a review of a DVD she just saw or a musing about the state of the world, or even something as silly as an update on her hair. But she sticks with it. Considering she's a writer by trade, and that she's good at what she does, that's not that surprising. But I'm a writer by trade, and I've been told that I'm pretty good at what I do, and yet I've dong exactly one posting in the past two months. The spiders who have spun cobwebs on this blog are going to be pissed that there's disruption going on.

So what's my excuse?


Well, I have been busy, you know, writing my first book and seeing it actually published for consumption by the public. You can see the book pictured to your left, along with the curious face of the author. The book is called Snakes on a Plane: The Guide to the Internet Ssssssensation.

No, really, it is. Can't you see the cover?

It's a long story to explain what it's about and how it happened. Suffice it to say that there is a movie that's about to be released called Snakes on a Plane. It is about ... well, snakes on a plane - more specifically, the crate of poisonous snakes that has been smuggled onto a jet plane going from Hawaii to Los Angeles. The plane that is carrying a witness to the murder trial of a notorious crime lord, with federal agent Samuel L. Jackson covering his ass. The snakes are there to kill everyone on the plane, especially the witness, with no fingerprints from the crime lord remaining. Well, Mr. Jackson gets wind of the plot, and then everyone else did, which explains the flood of SoaP material that has turned up on the Internet, created not by a marketing department but rather by ordinary people with vivid imaginations about what they want this movie to be.

In fact, the fan reaction became so rabid that New Line did the only sensible thing they could - they got out of everyone's way. In the past, other studios have become very protective of their intellectual material, often showering industrious online fans of their projects with cease-and-desist orders to remove any material that comes to close to comfort in their eyes. But New Line went the other way. In fact, they went so far to authorize five days of reshoots back in March based mostly on the ideas of the fans. The result should be a gorier, sexier and much more profane SoaP than the studio was planning for. Soon after than, New Line coordinated a contest to pick an up-and-coming musical act to contribute a song to the SoaP soundtrack. And the official Web page now includes images and mini-apps that people can use for their own sites.

And now, a book about the phenomenon that has been thrust upon us by SoaP. It wasn't my idea. An agent called me out of the blue in early April, had an idea that a book about this would be a big success. I agreed, especially after a cursory review of the stuff that was out there. And so I wrote the proposal for the book, then it sold, then I had basically the month of June to churn out a 96-page manuscript, complete with the images that would accompany the text. That meant a lot of interviews, a lot of transcription, a lot of everything except for sleep and healthy eating.

And the result? Hopefully not only a compendium of the best, brightest and oddest that is out then in terms of SoaP fandom, but also an examination of how a simple, silly movie can motivate so many to put their own brains to the grindstone to produce thins such as a movie short or a song, or a poem or a children's story, or a line of T-shirts. You don't see anyone doing this for Mission: Impossible III now, do you? This is heady stuff we're dealing with here. And by this time next week, we should know how ultimately effective it all was. Personally, I'll be surprised if SoaP makes less than $40 million for its opening weekend. And the worse it is, the better. Just as long as it's not boring.

So that is primarily where I have been for so long. The book kind of took over my life, and it's still there. Because now comes the publicity. Actually, it's been going on for a while. Already I've been interviewed by E! Online, Reuters, The Christian Science Monitor and the Toronto Star. Entertainment Weekly quoted me in their big SoaP cover story last week. And in about five minutes I do the first of several radio interviews set for this week, which is the big push for the book. Oh, and I'm going to be on TV with Keith Olbermann on MSNBC on Wednesday. Olbermann has been a big fan of the film for months now, so me being on with him is to be expected, I guess. This is all so weird for me. I hope I never get used to it.

By the way, if I get a big head about all of this, you'll let me know, right?

Right?

Buy my book! :)

Amazon

Barnes & Noble

I knew it!

From CNN, regarding today's foiled terrorist plot:

Plotters were to carry a "British version of Gatorade," detonate it with iPod or cell phone, source says ...

You see. I knew that crap would be the end of us someday! Ick!

And don't even get me started on what a British version of that stuff must taste like. Probaby makes Red Bull taste like pure heaven.

Cobwebs and dust bunnies ...

Pardon my deliquency when it comes to posting regularly here. I've got a reason, I promise - I've been writing a book, which is now available both in bookstores and online at Amazon and B&N.com. I promise I'll get back to writing here soon enough. For now, though, allow me to clean up a little bit ...

Helmet head ...

Ben Roethlisberger may be the luckiest son-of-a-bitch in Pittsburgh today. But he's also one of the dumbest as well.

Roethlisberger, as some of you may know, is the 24-year-old quarterback of the NFL's Pittsburgh Steelers, who won the Super Bowl in February. That makes Roethlisberger one of the very top dogs in the city. He's rich, he's good-looking, he's off to what promises to be legendary career in one of the country's most football-crazy cities. And he loves to rides motorcycles - without a helmet. He points out that a long-standing law in Pennsylvania requiring motorcycle helmets was changed a few years ago to make helmets optional. He's been chewed out by both his coach, Bill Cowher, and by former Steelers QB Terry Bradshaw for going sans lid when he rides, told that he's putting his career in jeopardy, let alone his life. Neither of those formidable men seemed to make an impression on Roethlisberger.

Maybe this will: This morning, as Roethlisberger was rolling through downtown Pittsburgh on his ride, he apparently was cut off by one car, an action which threw the young athlete off his bike over his handlebars and into an oncoming car - head first. He then tumbled onto the pavement and was taken to a local hospital's trauma center. Early reports indicate that his injuries are not life-threatening, that he has a bad gash on his forehead and a possible concussion. One called to ESPN Radio indicated that Roethlisberger may have a broken jaw.

So, like I said, Roethlisberger is very lucky to have apparently escaped this accident with non-serious injuries. But, my God, what was he thinking? It's good to be young and independent and without a care in the world. But it also can be very dangerous. It was, of course, Roethlisberger's right as a citizen of Pennsylvania to choose not to wear a helmet while riding his motorcycle - indeed, to ride a motorcycle, period. But for someone who has shown such poise and maturity on the football field, he proved today that in other ways, he is still just a kid.

If nothing else, Roethlisberger should have paid attention to recent sports history, to the stories of Chicago Bulls point guard Jay Williams and Cleveland Browns tight end Kellen Winslow. Both men came into the pros of their respective sports loaded with potential - and both nearly threw it away in devastating motorcycle accidents. Williams nearly died in June 2003 when he crashed into a Chicago intersection, and suffered injuries to his lower body that were seriously enough that the Bulls released him. Winslow, a top draft choice of the Browns, already had missed most of his rookie season with a broken leg when, in May 2005, he blew his knee out while executing stunts on his bike and missed all of the 2005 season. As a result, Winslow has to forfeit some of his big Brown bucks for violating a clause in his contract outlawing "dangerous activities."

Right now it is unclear if Roethlisberger has such language in his Steelers pact. But even if there isn't such a clause, the Steelers should seriously consider taking back some of their millions if Roethlisberger misses just one game as a result of his injuries. In a sports world fueled by money, that seems to be the only argument that athletes will listen to these days. Roethlisberger can ride his motorcycle all over the place the day after he retires from professional football. But now, with so much cash on the table and so many Super Bowl rings to win, is not the time.

We in the transplant community refer to motorcycles as "donorcycles" because of the idiots who ride without a helmet and the fresh organs they supply to others after pulverizing their brains in accidents that they may have walked away from otherwise. Thankfully, it seems that Roethlisberger has avoided that fate. The question now is, will he see the light, or remain a kid at heart and mind?

[UPDATE - 11:30 a.m. pt] ESPN Radio reports that Roethlisberger is in serious but stable condition and is now undergoing surgery. ESPN host Dan Patrick just said that he is being flooded with e-mails and calls from the Pittsburgh area with info about Roehlisberger's situation but he said he won't report on them on the air until he gets confirmation, so as not to "alarm" listeners. This may be worse than thought.

[NEW UPDATE - 12:05 p.m.] ESPN now reporting that Roethlisberger suffered a broken jaw, the loss of most of his teeth, a laceration to his forehead and - and this may be the key football-wise - serious damage to both his knees when he hit the ground. Uh-oh ...

The Number of the Beast ... kind of

Today is June 6, 2006 - or, as those with little time on their hands, 6-6-06. You know what that means. Yes, an excuse to release another bad remake! I mean, what other justification could there be for the production of a new "Omen" movie, other that it could be released on this once-in-a-century date? But if you needed more proof of the power of this ominous day, consider this. Today the Los Angeles Angels (of Anaheim) play the Tampa Bay Devil Rays in - wait for it - St. Petersburg, Florida. Not only does this baseball match-up combine words that convey of heaven and hell, but it also takes place in Florida, maybe the closest thing to hell this country has today.

Oooooooo. Freaky.

R-O-C-K O-N

(From left) Saryn Hooks, Finola Hackett, Katharine Close. Behold the future. Bow down and grovel.

Last night the viewing public was treated to the kind of reality program I can get behind - a live presentation of the finals of the 79th Annual Scripps National Spelling Bee, in which 13 of the best and brightest of North America gathered in Washington D.C. to spell their little hearts out. Now, I can expect some cynics out there to scoff at this event, at the garishness of thrusting young ones into the harsh spotlight of primetime television and ripping the innocence out of a precocious event in the name of ratings. But nothing could be further from the truth. In fact, last night's show was not only a thrilling competition, but a celebration of the coolness of education and intelligence.

ABC, which has had a checkered history in the reality-TV realm (for every "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition," there is an "Are You Hot?" or "The Bachelor: This Time They'll Stay Together - We Promise!") did a splendid job with their presentation, never overselling the deal or going overboard with caustic elements. No kid was forced to eat a cockroach or sit in a confessional box and spill their guts. They were all clean-cut and charming and displayed loads of personality. And they all were very, very smart, spelling words so complicated that Microsoft Word's spell check won't even bother with many of them.

There was drama when Saryn Hooks, a 14-year-old from North Carolina, was eliminated from the competition for misspelling the word "hechescher" and then reinstated a few minutes later when judges determined that they screwed up their spelling of the word. (She eventually finished third.) There was surprise when the presumed favorite, confident 13-year-old Rajiv Tarigopula of St. Louis, was knocked out after flubbing the world "heiligenschein" (a bright light around a shadow of a person's head cause by dew drops - or something like that. God, did they make these words up or what?). And there was white-knuckle suspense as the final two competitors, Katharine Close of New Jersey and Canadian Finola Hackett, went toe-to-toe for several rounds nailing with ease words that God Himself wouldn't know how to spell before Finola finally got tripped up and Katharine ("Kerry" to, well, just about everybody) sealed the deal with the word "ursprache," which means parent language. She responded as any kid would and should - with utter disbelief, even though her confidence had shown through all night long.

I was very happy to see education on display for all of the nation to see. I was stoked that the final three spellers were all girls, 'cause you can never give enough attention to that aspect of the education issue. And I was very pleased for Kerry, who looks like the type of kid who will be able to handle the extra attention - and there will be a lot of it. Already she has done the three network morning shows, and I'm sure Leno and Letterman, among other things, are in the offing. (Kerry wants to be a journalist. We'll see if she sticks to that after dealing with the same questions over and over again.) If native sons Bruce Springsteen and Tony Soprano give her congratulatory phone calls, her year will be complete. Oh, that $42,000 in prize money won't hurt, either.

There always are signs that the bloom could pop off of this rose pretty damn quick. Some bettors actually laid odds on this year's competition. There's talk that the prize package could skyrocket if the finals remain on broadcast primetime, and who knows if that would destroy the camaraderie the spellers obviously build among each other. (Would it be long before some ambitious parent puts a hit out on his kid's main rival, or at least gives him a very sore throat?) But let's not think about that right now. Let's revel in the triumph of what happened yesterday. Can you spell a-w-e-s-o-m-e?

P.S. An interesting sidebar - last year Kerry Close was randomly picked to be the audience speller during a Broadway performance of the Tony-winning musical "The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee." Foreshadowing?

Click on the subject title for Newsday's take on the hometown girl done good.

Operation Perish Hilton

And now, I give you a reason to hate Hilton Hotels other than the existence of Paris Hilton. But first, a story. Once upon a time, there was a restaurant in Washington D.C., not to far from Walter Reed Army Hospital and Bethesda Naval Hospital, that decided to do a nice thing for the seriously wounded Iraq veterans who were recuperating at the medical facilities. This restaurant, called Fran O'Brien's, made a plan to hold free steak dinners for the wounded soldiers every Friday night, giving them a place to have a good meal with all of the trimmings, to enjoy bottomless drinks and, hopefully, to have a welcome respite from the pain of rehab and tests, and from the harsh adjustment process that comes with losing one or more limbs in a combat zone. The proprietors of Fran O'Brien's pulled out all the stop to make their special clientele comfortable, even going so far as to purée steaks for those who could no longer chew - you know, 'cause part of their jaws were gone - and to purée them in a way that they could still tell they were consuming steak. In other words, Fran O'Brien's gave a damn about these men and women and what they had given up for the sake of their country.

All of this is now in the past tense, 'cause Fran O'Brien's held its last Friday night dinner a few days ago. You see, the restaurant was located in the basement of the Capitol Hilton Hotel in D.C., and the folks at Hilton have seen to evict the restaurant from the space. May 1 is their last day of business. The folks at Hilton, if you ask them - and many have in the weeks since this story first went down - will tell you that this is only business, that it had nothing to do with the weekly sight of wheelchair-bound people regularly appearing on their property. They say that negotiations for a lease renewal broke down, and just recently pulled out the old "late rent" chestnut. Hilton even offered to continue the tradition elsewhere in the facility - just not at Fran O'Brien's, and not with the staff who was catered to the veterans' needs for the past two-and-a-half years.

There's the likelihood that the Friday night dinners aren't done yet. The owners of Fran O'Brien's say they are looking for new permanent space, and several D.C. locations, including the Italian embassy (!) have offered temporary refuge. But that's almost not the point. The bigger point is how Hilton Hotels, a major international corporation, could have made such a boneheaded P.R. choice - and, worse, how they seem hellbound not to submit to pressure - pressure coming from all political stripes and from all opinions about the Iraq war itself - to change its mind and do the right thing.

So I ask everyone who reads this blog to make it a bit clearer to the Hilton folks about what's going on here - by never, ever staying at a Hilton property again. Ever. If you have a Hilton account, cancel it. If you're a member of Hilton's HHonors program, cancel that. If they ask you why you're canceling, tell them why. (I would have posted some direct e-mail addresses to Hilton executives, but it seems that most of these have been disabled, making the fat cats something the wounded vets aren't - cowards.)

Click the subject line (which I didn't think of, by the way) to read the Washington Post article about the last Friday night dinner at Fran O'Brien's.

P.S. Hilton Hotels would have never pulled this stuff during World War II. Just something to think about.

Memories ...

Today is Barbra Streisand's 64th birthday. Say what you will about her politics (or, maybe more precisely, how she talks about them) or her quirks or her obsession with her legs and nails. (Well, she does have great legs.) But it's safe to say that there are few individuals who have had the life or career she has had. (Or, according to a recent unauthorized biography, the sex life. Both Princess Di's ex-husband and one-time lover? Yowza!) And she's still going strong, with her box-office success in Meet the Fockers and word of yet another "farewell" concert tour to take place later this year. Though Ms. Streisand would be well advised not to go crazy with the ticket prices, as there are already reports that they could be as high as $1500. You're great, Babs, but unless you're going to shoot golden eggs out of your bum and distribute them to the audience, all while singing "The Way We Were," that's not cool. Especially when people will have to spend that much money just to drive to the arena.

BTW, who sings "Happy Birthday" to Barbra Streisand? Does she record herself doing it and then play it back to herself?

Primal primates!

Click on the subject line for a horrible story about a pack of maraduing chimpanzees who are wanted by the law in Sierra Leone - literally - for killing one man and injuring at least four. Seems that the chimps broke out of the preserve they were living in and then ripped a taxi driver to bits while injuring the Americans who were in the car with him. Yeah, they look cute and all, but apparently they also can be total badasses when crossed or onery or something. Let's just hope that al Qaeda or the CIA doesn't hire them.

Keith Hernandez - former MLB player, current Neanderthal hairdo ...

So I haven't blogged in a few weeks, partly because of a possible business project that has dominated my existence (and hopefully will for the next two months - and no, I can't tell you what it is), and partly because I haven't had anything to say (though I did have plenty to say about Derrek Lee breaking his wrist on Wednesday night, none of it printable on a family-friendly blog). But, alas, something has come up, and it also involves the world of baseball.

Seems that Keith Hernandez, a former Major League first basement of reasonable skills who has now become a TV broadcaster for the New York Metropolitans, was doing the Mets-Padres game in San Diego the other night when, early on, he noticed a woman in the Padres' dugout congratulating catcher Mike Piazza after he homered. To which he made the enlightened comment:

"Who is the girl in the dugout, with the long hair? What's going on here? You have got to be kidding me? Only player personnel in the dugout."

What Hernandez didn't know, or didn't care to find out before he opened his trap, was that the girl with the "long hair" was fully authorized to be there. She was Kelly Calabrese, the massage therapist for the San Diego Padres. In short, she had more business being in the dugout that Hernandez now has. Upon hearing that Calabrese was indeed street legal, he came around - not.

"I won't say that women belong in the kitchen, but they don't belong in the dugout."

Now, I guess Hernandez can be forgiven for his thought process concerning this issue. After all, he cut his teeth in the '70s and '80s, when women were much more likely to be carrying out their baseball duties in the hotel rooms of traveling players than in the clubhouses or front offices. And, true, that's probably still the case in many cases. But in 2006, women are deeply involved in most aspects of the game with full legitimacy. There are female co-owners. A woman came very close to becoming the general manager of the Los Angeles Dodgers last winter. Oh, and by the way, Keith, women are also in Congress, in the president's cabinet, in CEO offices and currently are in harm's way, and sometimes beyond, on the front lines of Iraq. And I will tell Hernandez and everyone else something - there will come a day when a woman will be in uniform for a Major League Baseball team. And she will most likely be 6 feet tall and a left-handed pitcher, 'cause when you find a southpaw hurler with good mechanics and a wicked change-up, it won't matter much what chromosomes are in play.

And if Keith Hernandez doesn't like that prospect - well, I'm sure he'll tell us about it. Or he can just lock himself in a room and put his Seinfeldepisode on a loop on his DVD player and remember the "good ol' days," when women knew their place.

Three strikes, you're out.

Read the article describing this by clicking the subject line.

UPDATE: Hernandez "apologized" for his comments during Sunday's broadcast - while pointing out, without actually saying it, that Calabrese's presence in the Padres' dugout may have been against MLB regulations anyway because teams are only allowed to have the "head" and "assistant" trainers there during a game. Wow, Keith, good job there at being contrite. He'd be great as a politician. (The New York Daily News reports that his sorry act was kind of forced on him by his bosses at the SNY sports network, which further waters down its validity.)

Life ...

... is fleeting. No one really has to be told that these days, what with the growing casualty list out of the Middle East dominating the current news cycle. God knows no one has to tell me that, as I have a sobering reminder of that each morning when, after my shower, I look in the mirror and see that very long scar on my belly, under which somebody else's liver has resided for the past 16-plus years. Yeah, life isn't a permanent condition, but that doesn't mean that you can't still get royally pissed off when it's swiped away from someone for what seems to be no good reason.


Three weeks ago Maggie Dixon was on top of her world. The 28-year-old has become one of the fuzzy feel-good moments of the college basketball world. In her first year as the head coach of Army's women's basketball team - a job she had taken just 10 days before the season began - she had taken her young squad to the NCAA tournament, an impressive accomplishment considering the Lady Black Knights had been a nondescript program beforehand. What's more, Dixon had made history as half of the first brother-sister tandem to ever coach their teams into the NCAAs in the same season, as her beloved older brother Dixon had led the University of Pittsburgh's men's squad to the Big Dance. The biggest dilemma the Dixons' parents had was how to watch both games in the same weekend. The fact that both Jamie and Maggie lost their respective first-round games didn't dampen the ebullient occasion for the family. After all, the future was bright for both of them.

That was three weeks ago. This morning, Maggie Dixon is dead, struck down in the prime of her life by what at this point remains a mysterious cardiac arrhythmia suffered while at West Point, hours after having breakfast with her brother.

One can only imagine what the siblings talked about over their last meal together - I would guess their conversation was filled with the excitement both Maggie and Jamie had to still be feeling over their own fortunes, and each other's. Maggie definitely was a rising star among her ranks, a talented and energetic young woman who had charmed her players and peers with her magnetic charm. One photo that sticks in my head centered on Maggie Dixon giving one of her players a chest bump following a thrilling win. It was a moment of pure joy.

Yeah, the future was bright for Maggie Dixon. Now, she has no future.

I am not a religious person for reasons I will not get into at this juncture. But I believe in God wholeheartedly. The fact that I am still alive is for me proof that God exists. But there are times when I don't get God, when I'm even angry at God for the stuff that sometimes occurs on this mortal plane. This is one of those times. They always say that there is a purpose for everything. But why this young, vital woman lies dead less than a month after such a huge personal and professional triumph, with everything ahead of her - I don't get that, and I really don't want to get that. Even if it inspires her brother, her players, total strangers who never met Maggie Dixon in some way, I'm not sure it justifies her abrupt passing.

It's just not fair. But no one said life is fair, I guess.

It definitely is fleeting, though.

Read more about Maggie Dixon by clicking the subject line above.

Lose Her ... Again

Word has broken that Marshall Mathers, the artist currently known as Eninem, has filed for divorce from his wife Kim - three months after marrying her for the second time. You will recall, true believers, that the Mathers had given the matrimony thing a go the first time around in 1999, after meeting in high school and dating for several years. That marriage ended in 2000 and resulted in much acrimony, a vicious custody battle for their daughter (who is now 10) and mucho material for Eninem's top-selling CDs about how he'd like to, you know, kill his wife and all. So now it's Round Two and maybe more stuff for Eninem to rant about on his next album - if there is a next album, as there have been hints about him retiring from performing. But to Marshall and Kim, a word of advice: One way or another, make up your damn minds already! It was kind of cute with Liz and Dick, but this is ridiculous.

Read all about it by clicking the subject line above.

Note: Not to get terribly political, but for those who crow about how same-sex marriage would marginalize and weaken the institution overall, I present to you the preceding story as Exhibit B. (Exhibit A being the legendary 55-hour union between Britney Spears and Jason "I'm not George Costanza" Alexander.)

Opening Day 2006: Cubs 16, Reds 7

Yeah! The season's over, Cubs finish year undefeated, World Series bound!

If only ...

Still, a good start. Let's go for 162-0! (Might as well ...)

The Cubs did what?

I have been a Chicago Cubs fan for 25 years. And being a Cubs fan, that means I've been through a lot of stuff, good and bad. Mostly bad. The slings and arrows that have been cast toward the lot of the Cubbie faithful have been plentiful. Leon Durham. Steve Bartman. Lights at Wrigley Field. The White Sox - gasp! - winning the World series. And now this - the Tribune Company, the dictators, er, owners of the Cubs, announced today that the newly renovated bleachers at stately Wrigley Field will henceforth be known as the Bud Light Bleachers.

I'm sure that if Harry Caray, legendary Cub fan and Bud man, were alive today, he wouldn't have a problem with this. Or, at least he'd be too drunk to care. But for me, it just seems, well, unseemly to have naming rights encroach onto what many devotees of both the team and the sport considered sacred ground. What's worse, there's a nasty feeling in my bones that the cash that will come from this deal won't be going toward the salary of a talented free-agent pitcher or outfielder, but right into the pockets of some Tribune Co. fat cat who think it's kind of cool that the Cubs haven't won the World Series in 98 years.

There's another report that Tribune may be considering finally selling the Cubs. If there is a God ...