Night of the Hooligans!

Claire's stuffed bunny was lying on the floor, bathed in shards of glass. In the haze of the moment, I had a strange image of the cops drawing a chalk line around poor fluffy bunny, one of the victims of this random crime. Last night, my downtown Main Street studio apartment was vandalized. By vandalized, I mean some drunken moron thought that a night of drinking just isn't fun until you cap off the evening by smashing in the window of a stranger's apartment at 2:30 in the morning. Claire was much more prudent than I, and immediately called 911, begging me come back into the bedroom. I stormed into the kitchen (the "crime scene") and contemplated whether or not I should run out of the apartment and try to see if there was any sign of the scum bags (the "perps"). Glad I didn't in retrospect. The only weapons I had on hand were candles, a hard cover book about the progressive roots of fascism, and some butter knives - so unless the vandals wanted to read by candle light as I slathered them in marmalade while waiting for the cops to come, my plan to chase after the window kickers seemed rather ill conceived.

The cops were polite and efficient once they arrived (40 minutes after the 911 call. The station is located 2 minutes away). There were several anonymous tips called in regarding the incident; all contradicted the number of assailents and the ethnicity of the attackers. One guy called in to say he saw two stocky white guys kicked in the window. Another person called in to say that it was an African American male on a crazed window smashing rampage down the street with 2 to 3 scrawny white guys tagging along for the fun. Either way, I doubt I'll be getting a call from Cold Case Files anytime soon.

While it took the cops about an hour to finally kick things into gear, the folks at Economy Glass had the window cleaned and re-installed in about 25 minutes. I was recently givin an excellent description of the suspects by someone who was nearby the scene last night. I called the Codiac RCMP to give them the details. They told me someone would call me back on Thursday night. Probably too busy tasering squeegie people to be pestered with an actual crime.

It pains me to criticize law enforcement, as I support them as a good citizen, and on principle as a conservative. But time and time again, they continue to live up to every stereotype that their detractors paint them with. Only 2 months ago, a crazed man began to knock at my doors and windows at 4am. He screamed and kicked for 15 minutes before an officer arrived. I was informed that the lunatic screaming and kicking at my apartment just wanted to use the phone, and that I was over-reacting. The guy got a free ride home in a cab after he and the cop swapped jokes on the sidewalk. Late last year I watched as an officer man-handled some scrawny teenage kid with a big mouth at the Big Stop in Salisbury, throwing him violently against the counter when he could have been easily subdued by the 4 officers on the scene. The list goes on, but I can only honestly attest to what I have seen with my own two eyes.

Perhaps kicked in glass and people relentlessy beating on your doors and windows don't qualify as immediate action items to our local police force given the rising rate of more serious drug-related crimes, but when officers begin to pick and choose what crimes are more egregious and worthy of attention, they risk falling into a dangerous trap. As Rudy Giuliani - former Presidential candidate and the mayor who cleaned up New York - once said; "Murder and graffiti are two vastly different crimes, but they are part of the same continuum, and a climate that tolerates one is more likely to tolerate the other.”

Cordially

Joe

Governor Overshare

The New York Press is a cannibalistic animal that eats politicians the way Rosie O'Donnell eats fried Twinkies and cheeseburgers. There is no nook or cranny that is sacred to them, and New York pols - from obscure councilman to Governors - exist in a weird symbiotic relationship with them. It is perhaps propelled by fear of this bizarre carnival that New York's new Gov. David Paterson decided to come clean about everything...and I mean everything.

Paterson is New York's first blind African American Governor. I know this is a great achievement for him, but I am bedevilled as to why the news media is obsessed with this fact...nevertheless, he's the first. Maybe It would be a little more noteworthy if he were the first blind African American trapeze artist. Paterson, formerly the State's lieutenant governor, ascended to the throne as a result of the follies of the now infamous Governor Elliot Spitzer. Spitzer resigned - wife standing stoically at his side - after it was discovered that he spent over $80,000 on hookers - and not toothless, coked out call girls either! They were the silicone enhanced, weekly blood tested, would-you-like-me-to-bring-a-midget-along kind. Anyway, it all ended badly for Governor Spitzer - Democratic Governor Spitzer. The media loves to remind us when it's a Republican in trouble, but when it's a Democrat, they just say "senator" or "congressman". This is what they call liberal media bias. Those on the left think this is a fiction created by crackpots like myself, but let me enlighten you:

When Republican Senator Larry Craig got in hot water over trying to solicit a little slap and tickle with a male undercover officer in a Minneapolis airport restroom, MSNBC made sure to remind you he was a Republican. When Governor Spitzer got in trouble, they seemed to have thought it less important to remind us he was a Democrat. The first article screams out the word Republican - in the second, there is almost no reference to the fact that Spitzer is a Democrat....and people wonder why I say watching cable news makes you stupid.

Anyway, I'm off topic. It's perfectly understandable for Governor Paterson to want to insulate himself from the New York press corps, but there is such a thing as overkill. In the past 2 weeks he's admitted to cheating on his wife, smoking marijuana, and using cocaine. It's like he's rolling out a never ending carpet of debauchery. Unless you were playing hide the pickle on the Government's dime or while sitting in office, no one really cares. I wonder if Paterson is really afraid of the media, or if he's trying to prove he's the Kurt Cobain of Gubernatorial politics. Either way, I hope he stops sharing with us soon.

On to other things. I saw Syriana last night, and it was everything I thought it would be, only it was more of a disaster than I was expecting. Four improbable plot lines compete with each other, strung together by cryptic dialogue, over-used tinted lens shots, and lots of left wing paranoia. It's not a "smart Hollywood thriller", it's the same pablum that the Hollywood left cooks up 5 times a year, only this one is much more stilted and annoying in its delivery. Please don't waste your time on this garbage, I've done the suffering for you already.

Have a great weekend.

Cordially

Joe

The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford

The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford made many movie critics' top ten list, and with good reason. The film - adapted from the novel of the same name by Robert Hanson and the first major directorial debut by Aussie filmmaker Andrew Dominik - is no small feat. It is a sweeping epic with a pitch perfect score by Nick Cave, magnificent cinematography, and brilliant performances by Brad Pitt as James and Cassey Affleck as the star struck, and ultimately spurned, Robert Ford.

Those who praised the movie almost seem to echo in unison that it is the best western since "Unforgiven", which, it would seem to me, is setting the bar rather low. What makes the movie so appealing is the absence of a Clint Eastwood style Byron-esque hero in love with his own damnation, running almost recklessly towards it, a thematic hero Eastwood has been unable to break with since "Unforgiven" swept the Oscars in 1993.

Conservative critics, most notably James Bowman, while praising the film's score and cinematography, have accused it of being a post modernist tale of celebrity worship, and oddly enough, like the film's defenders, claim that Brad Pitt's portrayal of James falls exactly into the category of Eastwood's self absorbed hero. While there is no disputing the fact that Affleck's Ford is a sycophantic admirer of James, I doubt the film is in any way meant to be allegorical, and if it is, it is more by accident than design.

The film, indisputably, has many flaws, the most glaring being it's 160 minute running time, whittled down from it's original span of well over 3 hours. When a film, especially a Western, asks it's audience to sit for over 2 hours, one would expect a little more action than the movie provides. The only heist scene the audience is let in on is the James' gang's last known train robbery that serves as the opening sequence of the film. Also, there is precious little seen of many of the supporting cast, most notably Sam Shepard (Frank James) and Marie-Louise Parker (Zee James).

The movie centers around Jesse's knowledge that he is a man living on borrowed time, who takes into his confidence the star struck Robert Ford, who James' misjudges as being too simple minded or spell bound by James' cult of persona that he feels no threat from him until it is much too late.

Jesse's brutality is slow and methodical, and for the most part, unseen, as he systematically hunts down the remaining members of the Blue Cut Train Robbery gang. What is brilliant about Pitt's performance is that his obsessive paranoia is always well masked behind a facade of cordiality and stoicism. His piercing blue eyes miss nothing, as he casually makes house calls to those who have betrayed him - not to discover where the chess pieces are falling, but to confirm what he already knows by peppering casual conversation with seemingly benign questions that telegraph in no uncertain terms that he is no one's fool.

Pitt allows us brief opportunities to witness the cracks in his veneer, the first being his maniacal beating of one the clan members young nephews to give up the location of his uncle, having to be forcibly subdued before he risks killing the boy in a frenzy. After leaving the barn, Pitt is seen sobbing uncontrollably, his arms wrapped around the neck of his horse. It one of many great moments of this imperfect film - Is his grief is the product of self-pity and the ever looming threat of the hangman's noose, or is he weeping in disgust at his unchecked brutality upon a child similar in age to his own children?

The ambiguity of his inner torment and the cause of it are left for the audience to ponder. The only insight into the true motives - or competing motives - that are the centrifuge of his actions are given in scattered piecemeal throughout the film. In one scene, as the gang awaits the coming of the train in Blue Cut, Missouri, one of the bandits is heard singing an anti-union hymn about "that bastard Lincoln". Earlier on, the robbers engage in a conversation about the virility of General Lee. There is no doubt James has become a folk hero to buoy the spirits of the South after the humiliation of reconstruction, as is well evidenced by the penny books Ford lovingly collects in a box underneath his bed extolling and exaggerating the exploits of the James gang as redeemers of the South's honor. Is James the avenger of the South, or a common thug with a serpentine charm? The movie seems uninterested in answering this question, though it has close to 3 hours to do so.

In the end, Ford is mocked and becomes little more than an errand boy to James, fueling his rage and ultimately leading him to accept the $10,000 bounty for shooting James dead at the request of Missouri's Governor Crittenden.

James' demise is a classic reworking of the tale that has been retold countless times in movies, books, and oral tradition. It involves being shot in the back while fixing a picture - expect in this case, James is seen dusting the picture on a stool, after leaving his sidearms on the love seat. I had wrestled for some time with whether the scene is meant to show James as being careless, or whether it is an explicit act of resignation. The answer is no doubt the latter; James is clearly aware that Ford is simply biding his time, waiting for the opportune time to dispatch of him.

The fact that James removes his guns and turns his back to Ford is his way of removing any glory Ford hopes to gain for his treachery. As Jesse watches Ford aim the revolver at him through the reflection of the picture, Ford also sees the condescension on James' face reflected back, as if to say "There will be no parades for a coward who shoots an unarmed man in the back".

In the end, there are indeed no parades for Robert Ford. Though the act has brought him wealth, he is ridiculed, beaten, spit on, and ultimately assassinated himself.

If you're a fan of Tombstone or The Quick and The Dead, this movie will probably bore you to tears. If you fancy yourself a cinematic intellectual of sorts, you won't find the character's rambling on in any post modern soliloquies either. This movie is a visual treat, and as mentioned earlier Nick Cave's subdued but haunting score is complimented beautifully by the pitch perfect narration of Hugh Ross. Pitt and Affleck are spellbinding, and the supporting cast are flawless.

This movie is far from a masterpiece, but when set besides the endless junk being spit out of Hollywood, it is very watchable, and a film I strongly recommend to my readers.

INTERESTING TRIVIA NOTE!!

The movie was co-produced by Ridley Scott, director of Gladiator. In a salute to his fans, there is a scene in the early moments of the film where Jesse's hand is seen gliding over the top of a field of wheat - an almost identical shot that Ridley used at the beginning of Gladiator.

Cordially

Joe

Some Scraps for the Masses

(I am currently pecking away at a review of "The Assassination of Jesse James By the Coward Robert Ford. It should be done today, but here's a little something while you wait).

Hello dear readers. I am anxiously picking out a hiding spot downstairs to wait for Jesus to come down the chimney with toys tonight. Please, don't take offence. I was just reflecting on how yesterday, Good Friday, seemed to lack any of the solemnity it once held. Some people I know seemed completely oblivious that it was Easter weekend. "It's just another day to me", as many are fond of saying these days during once widely practiced observances. Sad.

I remember, when I was a kid, school ended at noon on Good Friday. We would hurry home and watch the Ten Commandments or Jesus of Nazareth, but not until we had attended Good Friday services. I remember the Cross and other statuary of the church being draped in purple, and the reverence and respect the priest showed during the occasion. None of these bizarre infomercial-like sermons Catholic priests are becoming more and more fond of.

And, of course, there was the dying of the eggs. I remember Dad used to fill 10 cups with clear water and vinegar and drop a different color tablet in each one, then dip the boiled eggs in by use of some metal hook. After they had dried, my brother and I had free reign to plaster the eggs with these minuscule stickers that came in the package. Ok, enough of that before I start rambling on about walking to school in 10 miles of snow wearing nothing but beaver pelts.

Looks like the passport security breach scandal that Senator Obama had hoped would be the last chink in the armour of the HMS Hillary turned out to be nothing more that a few harmless newbies at the State Department that got a little too nosey and checked the passport records of all the respective presidential candidates. Now, I don't like the thought of the Government rifling through my personal business, but what I like even less is the onslaught of media hyperventilation about whether "this can happen to you". Really, do you actually care if some snot nosed bureaucrat who doesn't know you hauls up your file and sees you went to New Zealand 5 years ago because he's bored? Do you think you're so important that the Government is checking into your traveling habits?

Anyway, I've got a movie review to write, so Happy Easter, and God Bless.

Cordially

Joe

Stress Test of Death

She told me to bring sneakers and wear something comfortable, "she" being the chipper receptionist at my cardiologist's office. I have to take a stress test on Monday, which is a test that helps a doctor determine how your heart handles physical labour. I can save them the time - nothing in my psychological or physical make-up handles labour well. I would not do well in a prison camp, and would probably die within the first 15 minutes of a marathon. I'm not some obese, acne plagued gamer living in my mother's basement, nor am I lazy. I just shudder at words like "shovel" and "exercise". They are permanently eradicated from the memory banks of my brain and I have to be shown cartoon illustrations before I am required to perform either of the aforementioned tasks. I volunteer, work hard, give back to my community and all that other good stuff that still goes on in every community without requiring big government, lefty legislation. I just don't do grunt work.

Now, why does a 35 year old seemingly fit young man have to endure the rigours of a cardiologist and other specialists? Well, as long time readers know, there was a time 4 or 5 years ago when breakfast was a mug half filled with coffee, a bit of milk, and lots of Jack Daniels (my breath was resplendent). It seems this breakfast of champions was not on Health Canada's approved guide to a nutritional breakfast.

Ironically, I own a pair of the abominable eye sores known as "sneakers" due to my past life of debauchery. About 5 years ago, when I first tried to sober up, I was in detox with a nice enough young fellow who had an upcoming court appearance after he had slapped around some kid who owed him money for drugs. He was a kind and intelligent enough young man now that the drugs were coming out of his system, but he didn't own any dress shirts or ties. I felt sorry for the kid, and spruced him up in one of my suits (luckily the fit was perfect). The judge went easy on him. As a gesture of gratitude, as I was leaving, he gave me a pair of expensive sneakers of some brand or the other. He asked me not to ask any questions as to where he had gotten them (I didn't), and they were a perfect fit.

Anyway, I have to get ready to jog on a treadmill strapped up to wires and machines like some lethargic version of the bionic man. I have a feeling this is going to go as well as the time I tried to be a gentleman and light a lady's cigarette with my spanking new Zippo lighter, inadvertently setting half of her hair ablaze (true story).

As for the kid who loaned me the sneakers, he's a pillar of the community now and has helped countless kids come off the junk they're on and lead productive lives. I saw him recently, and the guy went from a skinny coke head to a muscle bound, chiseled-chin crusader. He could probably run the stress test treadmill for 12 hours, then eat the machine for a snack. I expect to be sweating like a fat man eating tacos in a sauna after about 2 minutes. Wish me luck, and send donations in lieu of flowers.

Cordially

Joe

A Beautiful Case for Staying the Course

The following is an Editorial written by actress Angelina Jolie that appeared in the Washington Post.

Staying to Help in Iraq - We have finally reached a point where humanitarian assistance, from us and others, can have an impact.

By Angelina Jolie Thursday, February 28, 2008; 1:15 PM

The request is familiar to American ears: "Bring them home."

But in Iraq, where I've just met with American and Iraqi leaders, the phrase carries a different meaning. It does not refer to the departure of U.S. troops, but to the return of the millions of innocent Iraqis who have been driven out of their homes and, in many cases, out of the country.
In the six months since my previous visit to Iraq with the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees, this humanitarian crisis has not improved. However, during the last week, the United States, UNHCR and the Iraqi government have begun to work together in new and important ways.

We still don't know exactly how many Iraqis have fled their homes, where they've all gone, or how they're managing to survive. Here is what we do know: More than 2 million people are refugees inside their own country -- without homes, jobs and, to a terrible degree, without medicine, food or clean water. Ethnic cleansing and other acts of unspeakable violence have driven them into a vast and very dangerous no-man's land. Many of the survivors huddle in mosques, in abandoned buildings with no electricity, in tents or in one-room huts made of straw and mud. Fifty-eight percent of these internally displaced people are younger than 12 years old.

An additional 2.5 million Iraqis have sought refuge outside Iraq, mainly in Syria and Jordan. But those host countries have reached their limits. Overwhelmed by the refugees they already have, these countries have essentially closed their borders until the international community provides support.

I'm not a security expert, but it doesn't take one to see that Syria and Jordan are carrying an unsustainable burden. They have been excellent hosts, but we can't expect them to care for millions of poor Iraqis indefinitely and without assistance from the U.S. or others. One-sixth of Jordan's population today is Iraqi refugees. The large burden is already causing tension internally.

The Iraqi families I've met on my trips to the region are proud and resilient. They don't want anything from us other than the chance to return to their homes -- or, where those homes have been bombed to the ground or occupied by squatters, to build new ones and get back to their lives. One thing is certain: It will be quite a while before Iraq is ready to absorb more than 4 million refugees and displaced people. But it is not too early to start working on solutions. And last week, there were signs of progress.

In Baghdad, I spoke with Army Gen. David Petraeus about UNHCR's need for security information and protection for its staff as they re-enter Iraq, and I am pleased that he has offered that support. General Petraeus also told me he would support new efforts to address the humanitarian crisis "to the maximum extent possible" -- which leaves me hopeful that more progress can be made.

UNHCR is certainly committed to that. Last week while in Iraq, High Commissioner António Guterres pledged to increase UNHCR's presence there and to work closely with the Iraqi government, both in assessing the conditions required for return and in providing humanitarian relief.

During my trip I also met with Iraqi Prime Minister Nouri al-Maliki, who has announced the creation of a new committee to oversee issues related to internally displaced people, and a pledge of $40 million to support the effort.

My visit left me even more deeply convinced that we not only have a moral obligation to help displaced Iraqi families, but also a serious, long-term, national security interest in ending this crisis.

Today's humanitarian crisis in Iraq -- and the potential consequences for our national security -- are great. Can the United States afford to gamble that 4 million or more poor and displaced people, in the heart of Middle East, won't explode in violent desperation, sending the whole region into further disorder?

What we cannot afford, in my view, is to squander the progress that has been made. In fact, we should step up our financial and material assistance. UNHCR has appealed for $261 million this year to provide for refugees and internally displaced persons. That is not a small amount of money -- but it is less than the U.S. spends each day to fight the war in Iraq. I would like to call on each of the presidential candidates and congressional leaders to announce a comprehensive refugee plan with a specific timeline and budget as part of their Iraq strategy.

As for the question of whether the surge is working, I can only state what I witnessed: U.N. staff and those of non-governmental organizations seem to feel they have the right set of circumstances to attempt to scale up their programs. And when I asked the troops if they wanted to go home as soon as possible, they said that they miss home but feel invested in Iraq.

.

They have lost many friends and want to be a part of the humanitarian progress they now feel is possible.

It seems to me that now is the moment to address the humanitarian side of this situation. Without the right support, we could miss an opportunity to do some of the good we always stated we intended to do.

Angelina Joli

You Asked - I Delivered

Hope everyone had a great weekend. My dear readers have asked me for a light and fluffy blog piece - like a nice piece of French toast, or Barack Obama's positions on dealing with rogue states. No dry dissertations on Rudy's meltdown, which James Bowman called "far fetched" (I would have to agree with Mr. Bowman on his assessment). No state of the race stuff, no tub thumping about the benefits of limited government, low tax rates, and water boarding liberals everytime they use "the children" as an excuse to justify any tax hike, or wasteful spending. Just fart jokes and armpit noises, so to speak. I shall try my best not to disappoint, and proceed with my trademark blogging by numbers.

1 - You know when a husband's wife asks him to make a wish after blowing a loose eye lash away, or blowing out a birthday candle? This warm and fuzzy look appears on his face, and she's thinking he's wishing that in 30 years, they'll be sitting on the porch as grandchildren scuttle about their feet. Now, imagine as she's looking at him making his wish, a skanky, coked-up hooker suddenly appears behind him. That would be priceless.

2 - I somewhat reluctantly watched the "The Incredibles" this weekend, and was surprised to find some admirable conservative messages. The cartoon took pot-shots at our overly litigious culture, and the importance of extraordinary people in our society. None of this lefty, 'it takes a village' schmaltz about how everyone is special in their own way.

3- I'm going to be celebrating 44 months of sobriety on the 5th of March, so have a drink for me...or a Diet Coke.

4-We will be officially endorsing John McCain in a upcoming blog. We do not do so with the enthusiasm we may have had for say, Fred Thompson or Newt Gingrich, but we must rally around Senator McCain to save us from the dangers of the dragon Lady, or the charming guy with the silver tongue and the head full of spam.

5-And in closing, here's some news from the Hype's files of the weird. Fox news reports that things got ugly at a Massatuchettes Chuck E. Cheese when the mother of the 9-year-old birthday boy apparently became enraged because another woman's son was "hogging" an arcade game, Natick, Mass., police said. Catherine Aliaga, 38, and Tarsha Williams, 33, both of Boston, will be summoned into court to answer charges of simple assault and battery stemming from the scuffle, Sgt. Paul Thompson said. Thompson told the MetroWest Daily News that police received a number of 911 calls about the fight Saturday night. He said what started as a birthday celebration turned into a "birthday melee."

6- It ain't easy, bein' cheesy.

Cordially

Joe

William F Buckley JR - RIP

When I was 14 years old, I picked up a magazine that had no business being in the waiting room of an Emergency department of a small city hospital in Northern New Brunswick, Canada. The magazine was National Review. Suddenly ideas and thoughts that had been discussed around the kitchen table with my dad came to life with a clarity and irreverent wit with which I had never possessed the ability to articulate.

And those words. Those beautiful words, that jumped and glistened like sun reflected off water on the most glorious summer day. They were the words of a man named William F Buckley Jr. He taught me how to write, and he helped shape the man I am today.

Of the many fond memories and reflections on a man of such importance and faith, few have moved me more than that of Lieutenant Colonel Jerry Wiffler, writing in National Review Online.

"My younger brother and I were stopped at a light at West 56th St and 7th Ave in Manhattan in 1991, when we both saw WFB crossing the street between our car and the one ahead of us.
Jaywalking, now that I think of it. I opened my driver's window and yelled "Mr. Buckley!" He turned, and I shouted "hello," and said "Good Afternoon, Sir! National Review subscriber!" He smiled and said thanks, giving a little wave. I pushed my luck, saying "Can we get your autograph?" His response was priceless. His smallish grin transformed into a huge one, he turned on his heels and came over to our car, responding "Certainly!" As he arrived at the car, he asked if I had received the latest issue. I said that I had, and it was at home. "Lots of good stuff in that one," he advised. He scribbled his signature, and said thanks for making him feel like a celebrity. We could not have been happier if we had met The Beatles. "

Cordially

Joe

Senator, You're No Jack Kennedy

Jonah Goldberg recently opined that watching CNN makes you stupid, and if you are already stupid it makes you stupider. He wasn't referring to the endless replays of Paris Hilton's latest gin-fueled Mercedes Benz crash, he was referring to those who fancy themselves politically informed because they watch election coverage on CNN. I refer to these unfortunate armchair pontificators as pseudo-intellectuals, people who like to think they are a cut above their friends and colleagues because they watch AC360. To their peers, they may seem like polymaths of wisdom, dispensing an Obama view here and a Hillary comment there. But if these same deluded sages were suddenly dropped into a cocktail party of Washington insiders, their blathering wisdom would provoke stares as if they had just landed from Planet Retard. The latest case in point, those who compare Barack Obama to the late President John F Kennedy...but we'll come back to that in a minute.

Pundits, those guys and gals on cable news with pearly white teeth and very important hair are not the geniuses you may think they are. Punditry is simply regurgitating the latest - and often ludicrous - talking points in the media until their iron-clad assertions melt like an ice sculpture in July. They then move with ninja-like stealth to fill your heads with a brand new idea floating around the news room water cooler, completely forgetting that the last 3 things they had been peddling about had turned out to be dead wrong. It's like they're a bunch of bulemics with amnesia at a party who keep ordering buckets of KFC until someone gets a feeling they're tired of chicken and starts ordering party pizzas from Domino's.

You probably know these people. Some may work with you. You may overhear them in coffee shops. They may be your friends or family. Maybe you are one yourself! But don't fret! I bring you salvation!

No, I'm not going to dip your head in a pond off some back road in Arkansas, I'm going to smack you upside the head and hope you go forth and CNN no more.

So, is the Senator from Illinois the next JFK? To quote Lloyd Benson from the 1988 Vice Presidential debate, 'Senator, you're no Jack Kennedy', and just because that drunken groper Ted Kennedy says you are doesn't make it so. If Angelina Jolie said I looked like Brad Pitt, you may think the source is beyond reproach, but I look about as much like Brad Pitt as Cindy Crawford looks like Rosie O'Donnell.

Certainly, there are superficial similarities - Obama seems like a pretty cool fella, and JFK appeared to be a pretty cool fella; JFK had a natural talent to inspire, Obama possesses the same gift. That's where the similarities end. Finis. End of story. Roll credits. (Oh yeah, I forgot to mention they're both black...oh wait, they're not.)

Barack Obama is the most liberal of liberals. He's anti-war, wants to raise taxes, cut military spending, and envisions a government that takes care of all your needs from cradle to grave. If you doubt this, the National Journal ranked him as having the most left-wing voting record of any member of the Senate.

JFK was a war hawk, and won the election largely because he ran to the right of Richard Nixon. He wanted to cut taxes, he brought the United States into the Vietnam War, he wanted to increase troop levels there, and - if you're under the delusion that he was a great equal rights crusader - he had his brother Bobby, then the attorney general, bug the offices of Martin Luther King Jr. Just before he was shot, he was bragging to the Fort Worth Chamber of Commerce about how he had increased special force troop levels by 600%.

Obama often brags that he was opposed to the war before it even started. Obama claims he is a fresh face from outside the beltway establishment. JFK was part of a deeply entrenched, corrupt old boys club that bought and many claim rigged the election. If Obama is outside the establishment, JFK was the establishment.

Barack wants to sit down and chat with the worst dictators in the world with overtures of olive leaf diplomacy. JFK tried to have Fidel Castro assassinated by the CIA.

Scratching your head? Wondering how the media could have missed all this? Let me be gentle - punditry is just left over, re-heated spam, served up daily by uninspired chefs. It's soft and mushy, but easy to digest. So the next time Anderson Cooper or Keith Olbermann serve up their latest spam casserole, just remember there are better things on the menu.

Cordially

Joe

Enter the Dragon

The weekend is over. Well, it is for me, or us, meaning the lovely Miss Claire and I. We had a four day weekend that started Wednesday, which is a tribute to our respective good judgment or, more precisely, dumb luck as we rode out two days of a most unpleasant stomach malaise. You know, the kind that has you clutching both sides of the toilet bowl and howling as if you were riding a mechanical bull at an interstate honky tonk bar, hopped up on watered down draught and cheap tequila shooters. We don’t drink, her by choice and I by necessity, but I still remember those morning after Linda Blair ala Exorcist moments clinging to cold damp porcelain wondering if any vital organs were going to begin ejecting from my body as a result my self inflicted debauchery. Those days are long gone, but being sober for close to four years apparently doesn’t inoculate one from projectile vomiting and other unpleasantries brought about by opportunistic germs in the atmosphere.

My new sweet studio pad, which I have now officially dubbed “The Corner” in tribute to the noble sages at NRO, has been decorated with all the little touches that make one’s abode one’s home, but not before the we completed the final battle last Friday. The apartment was cleaned (or so I was assured) by professional cleaners prior to my arrival. The only mystery was that when you walked on the tile and looked at the undersides of your feet, it looked as if you had just walked barefoot on the floor of an Indonesian pay toilet. It puzzled me, so we mopped, swept and Swiffered repeatedly (I have a fetish for all products that start with the word Swiffer), but it was to no avail. Our meticulous janitorial assaults on the floor were utterly useless, so with the aide of a friend we attacked the tiled maze medieval style on our hands and knees with the help of hand held scrub brushes and a bucket of water laced with an industrial strength cleaner with a non-threatening name. The floor is now safe for sock-footed pedestrian traffic, requiring only 8 hours of labor and over 32 refilled buckets of water.

The problem was that the tiles of my apartment have many small crevices and grooves, and the previous tenant, whom I met only briefly, looked like the sort of chap who was more familiar with the words “bong” and “Doritos” than he was with the words “broom” and “cleanliness”. As if to leave a testament to his character, he left all his belongings behind in the apartment, including his cat, and only took one thing with him - A framed velvet portrait of Bruce Lee.

On Saturday night a hemp fueled Gilgamesh proceeded to knock on my door for 15 minutes at 4am, no doubt attempting to score some hooch, which I assume the previous tenant provided ample supplies of. I had to call the police to get the nitwit to go away. Once the officer arrived, he acted as though having 6 foot scary looking people with resplendent mullets pounding relentlessly on your door at 4am was a common occurrence, and I got the impression that he felt I was overreacting. Where are the taser-happy Johnny Blues when you need them?

Some people just use up air, as a wise friend of Claire’s once opined over coconut pie. I’m sometimes inclined to agree.

Cordially

Joe