Codswallop!

Stop the Beerstapo!

In 1998 I finished the 16^th grade and moved thousands of miles from Madison. There was widespread concern that Madison would not survive this unscathed, and I’m sorry to say that the downslide of Madison has begun. The New York Times reports that Mayor Dave Cieslewicz and members of the Madison Common Council are pushing a plan to close several downtown bars and deny liquor licenses to new restaurants, to cut down on noise and crime.

In Madison, two Common Council members, convinced that much of what ails downtown can be traced to the proliferation of bars and restaurants known more for drinking than dining, introduced a plan intended to reduce the number of such establishments, and to restrict the approval of new liquor licenses.

The plan, which has the support of Mayor Cieslewicz (pronounced chess-LEV-ich), is preliminary and does not detail, for example, how many or which places may be closed. A final plan is expected to be ready for a Council vote in the spring.

That area of nearly one square mile — between Lake Mendota, Lake Monona and Blair and Lake Streets — has 120 places that serve only or mostly alcohol. They have a capacity of more than 11,000 people, city officials said.

The proposal has its critics, many of whom call it nothing less than modern-day Prohibition, and an assault on personal freedom and the free market that flies in the face of Madison’s traditional liberalism and Wisconsin’s entrenched drinking culture.

First off, one kudo to the Times for associating Wisconsin with something other than its entrenched cheese-eating culture. A second kudo for recognizing this as an assault on liberalism. Sure, alcohol use encourages noise, vandalism, drunk driving, violence, unsafe sex, sexual assault, theft, public urination, unwanted forearm tattoos, and most troublingly, hangovers. But to notice all that is to look at the Miller Lite bottle as half empty, or perhaps containing a floating cigarette butt. What about all the positive…well…the real point is that when we are not allowed in a free country to drink to our liver’s content, the terrorists win. The progressive way is to tax the bejeezus out of our sins, not ban them.

Why, you may well ask, is this happening now? After all, downtown Madison was not the quietest neighborhood when I lived there either, but no one formed a Beerstapo. Part of it is that the legendary Paul Soglin, UW student, Vietnam War-era activist and mayor of Madison by age 28, the person most responsible for downtown Madison’s revitalization, was narrowly defeated by this Dave Crossantwich character in the 2003 mayoral election. If only I’d been there, I tell myself, maybe things would have turned out differently. My civically responsible habit of loudly informing others as to the validity of their political opinions could have won Soglin…well, one more vote, at least if I made it to the polls on time. But still.

The other problem is more insidious. After years of building a reputation as a progressive community with a strong economy and high standard of living, Madison is now being invaded by…retired hippies! Not the tolerable ‘It takes all kinds, man’ sort, but the ‘Don’t you dare interrupt my nap time, because we old people vote’ ones.

But the arrival of so many newcomers has produced a culture clash.

Stefanie Moritz, a retired librarian, moved with her husband from Phoenix into a downtown condominium about three years ago, drawn by pedestrian-friendly streets, a university job for her husband and the community’s progressive politics.

“We decided that we definitely wanted to live downtown, so we could get rid of one of our cars, my husband could walk to work and we could enjoy the downtown experience,” Ms. Moritz said. “The reality is a little bit different.”

She said she quickly grew irritated at being awakened at 2:30 a.m., when the noisy bar crowd usually begins to make its way home, dropping empty beer cans and other trash along the way. One morning she woke to find that garbage had been torched and the flames had charred a tree.

“I want to live downtown, but I also want a decent quality of life,” Ms. Moritz said. “And I feel that that is being denied by the present level of alcohol use.”

You move to a major college town, park your ass at the nerve center, and don’t much care for it. That’s fine, but then leave it alone. You don’t see me moving to Phoenix and bitching about the trailer park sprawl, do you? How the hell can someone call themselves progressive, then expect different places and cultures to conform to their expectations? Take your gentrification and shove it up your card catalog.

I wish everyone living in Madison could spend some time in Westwood, near UCLA, to see what happens when the puritans seize control. Rather than Madison’s glorious 120 downtown bars, Westwood has but two mediocre bars. According to longtime residents, Westwood thrived in the 1980s, blocking off streets for pedestrians, but the noise levels led the community council to crack down, even following Utah’s lead by banning dancing. Now it has very little nightlife, despite being adjacent to a major university.

So please, Madisonians, vote Mayor Cissywedge and the rest of these knuckleheads out. Today it’s a crackdown on alcohol, tomorrow it’s a 12 pm curfew, and early next week sometime, Tuesday perhaps, a strip mall of alternating Applebees and Jamba Juices. Don’t let it come to that.

Habeas Corpus Sounds Kinda Icky, Anyhow...

The Decider has bravely stepped to the plate in defense of America with the Military Commissions Act of 2006, which is all but certain to pass into law after a 65-34 vote in the Senate. Previously, when a U.S. President has wanted to seize a U.S. citizen and lock them up without trial, there's been all sorts of pesky paperwork and nosy judges to complicate things. I ask you, has paperwork ever stopped an America-hatin' terrorist? When's the last time a judge swung into action, Jack Bauer style, and stopped an attack with a 'contempt of court' headlock?

After all, juries have exhibited a disturbing tendency to find a defendent innocent just because there wasn't any 'untainted' evidence. Also, liberal Clinton-appointed judges have generally held the fact that a defendent is obviously Arab-lookin' to be inadmissable as evidence! This is the judicial system we're supposed to trust to keep us safe? Thankfully, with this bill, we won't have to worry about habeas corpus¹ any longer. Anyone who is a terrorist, knows a terrorist, looks like a terrorist, or can spell 'terrorist' can now be thrown in a cell, with a secret military tribunal review a few years down the road, time permitting. None of this "I'm an American citizen, I have rights!" hippie nonsense. I would be remiss if I did not acknowledge the 11 Democrats who bravely defied their treasonous party leadership to pass this bill. Our more dangerous rights are best trimmed through bipartisan effort.

The liberal media, of course, won't stop whining about our 'rights'. They simply ignore the clearly stated right of the President to suspend all other rights to defend us against foreign-lookin' sorts². The other part of the act they keep harping on is the whole 'torture' issue. If you were to read, say, the New York Times, you might not even know that the bill actually prohibits torture! Interrogators will only be allowed to question detainees with moderate, practically friendly, methods like waterboarding (which only makes people think they're drowning, remember) and long-term exposure to extreme cold (which is probably quite pleasant for those just captured in 110 degree deserts, like Bakersfield). And yes, there's a big difference between letting a pitbull bite someone's nads off and just letting it get really close. These sorts of interrogative techniques have gained us the intelligence necessary to make such great strides in pacifying Iraq and Afghanistan.

If anything, I fear that this bill doesn't go far enough. Give money to a charity that diverts some money to some iffy, Muslim cause, and you disappear, fine. What about people who just would like to give money, but are clever enough not to do so? How do we catch them? Couldn't we require everyone to go in for a weekly polygraph, and ask them how much they like America and our government? How did no one think to add that on, as an amendment or something?

1.  Habeas crappus, is more like it.

2.  It's in, er, Chapter 3, I think.

Are You Ready For Some Football?

Los Angeles, the second largest city in the country, does not, of course, have a football team. This is a disgrace, and to some extent inexplicable; even if a lower percentage of locals care about the sport than most everywhere else in the country, you think sheer numbers would lead to sufficient support. The NFL, however, seems quite content to leave the city barren as a not-so-subdued threat to cities that might otherwise decide not to foot the bill for shiny new taxpayer-funded stadiums.

But actually go out to watch a game in an L.A. bar and it all makes sense, as you witness the shocking, depraved level of fandom in our fair city. There's a reason, after all, that Broadway musicals do not open in Kansas, microbrews fare poorly in Utah, and books do not sell in Georgia. While I was at Joxers, the Steelers-Dolphins opening night game provided ample opportunity to witness things that simply should not happen during the public viewing of a game, things that would cause Saint Vince to roll over in his grave.

First, most guys had on ties, and many had on actual suits. Now, games start early out here, and those who find themselves gainfully employed may be driving straight to the bar after work. I get that part. But take the damned tie off in the car, at least. Leave the marketing deals at the office, you're watching a football game. And no, major networks, you don't help when you increasingly target upscale viewers with your advertising campaigns. During a football game, no less than fifty percent of commercials should feature hot women who want nothing more in life than to sleep with 250 pound middle-aged guys who drink excessive quantities of Miller, Busch, or Coors products. This is your target demographic, you can fire all those 'advertising experts' who maintain otherwise.

Secondly, there is exactly one sort of beverage one should drink while watching football at a bar. It's called beer. No freakin' martinis. In an honest-to-God football city, a guy drinking a martini at a sports bar would probably get his ass kicked. Which is perfectly legal in the Midwest. You even get a tax break, I think. There's a time and place for drinking out of little triangle-shaped glasses, it's called...well, I don't know what it's called. But it's not called 'at a sports bar during a football game', I can tell you that.

Thirdly, lesbians. Now, I have no problem with lesbians. Some of my favorite people are lesbians. Particularly those who produce videos widely available on the internets. And I deplore a legal system that prohibits gay marriage, that monstrously denies the transfer of season tickets to one's same-sex spouse upon death. Actually, I don't know what my point here is, other than to convey just how unusual it was to see a lesbian couple out watching a football game, although it appeared they were mostly just making out. The sheer novelty of their presence was undoubtedly why I kept glancing at them. Yeah, that must have been it.

Finally, and perhaps most importantly, if there are a sufficient number of television sets behind the bar, it is only natural that some be tuned to something other than the main (in this case, only) football game. When I first arrived, the five television sets were tuned to the Steelers-Dolphins and to the Dodgers-Mets. A solid programming choice. After the end of the Dodger game, common sense dictated that the channel be changed to ESPN, particularly if SportsCenter was on, which it was. What you do not do, under any circumstances whatsoever, is flip over to Dr. Phil. Really, there should be something about this right on the liquor license application. I'm not sure what convoluted cascade of Rube Goldbergesque events caused this to occur, though I suspect the martini guy was involved.

And I never even mentioned the redneck with the heavy southern accent who insisted on playing the rap music and the hip-hop on the jukebox. I think Los Angeles will remain a football-free zone for quite awhile...

And the Award for Most Insipid Comment Goes To...

For some reason Westwood is currently full of tour groups consisting of (I assume) incoming foreign students.  I understand the tour part, but it's still a month until classes start, so it seems early.  I couldn't pass up mentioning one comment I heard from one of the group leaders, which was, close to verbatim:

Here in America, we don't have phones anymore, everyone has a cell phone.  In fact, the only public phone I know of is this one right here.

This was, of couse, delivered in an loud, slow monotone, the time-honored method used by all monolingual Americans for communicating with foreigners.  NO...I WANT A HAMBURGER.  HAM-BURG-ER.  Okay, it's a tour group, maybe she wasn't overly loud.  But moving on to the content, this is the most insipid comment I have witnessed in ages.  You have to admire it in a way, the craftsmanship, the compact efficiency, the multiple layers of idiocy.  Go ahead and try to say something this stupid in fewer syllables.  You can't.  Unless you're Katie Couric, who still holds the world record for her 2004 Olympics comment that "Swaziland is called the Switzerland of Africa, not only because of it's similar sounding name, but because of it's mountains and neutrality."  And before you jump all over me, I put that erroneous apostrophe in "its" because that's the way Katie Couric said it. 

I mean, "all Americans have cell phones"?  Really?  And I love the implicit assumption that foreign students must be, at best, only dimly aware of the existence of cellular communication.  Yes, they all left their mud huts a few months ago and hopped on bamboo rafts, floating to California while subsisting on a diet of twigs and beetles.  Plus, the bonus "only public phone I know of" comment is great.  You just know there's some story there, that her parents' BMW broke down late one night in Westwood, a whole mile from their home in Beverly Hills, while her cell phone's battery was dead, and she wandered the mean streets until she found this one pay phone.  She might have had to walk otherwise, and someone from high school might have seen her using the sidewalk, like a poor person or something.

Still, an attempt was made to top her when a different tour guide I passed (I tells ya, they're all over the place today) referred to California Pizza Kitchen as a "great pizza place."  He tried his best, but I don't think he topped his colleague.  I almost want to wander about and hear some more.  Will anyone call Jerry's Deli "my favorite restaurant?"  Will anyone try to explain the concept of crosswalk signals, which of course are far too sophisticated to exist in the students' home nations?  If one of the students says she is an Indian from Mumbai, will the guide apologize profusely for "stealing all your land?"  How do these people get in to freakin' college?

An Open Letter to the Solar System

To: mercury@aol.com, venus@glamour.com, earth@wallstreet.com, mars@alcanon.org, jupiter@weightwatchers.com, saturn@deathrowrecords.com, uranus@barelylegal.com, neptune@yahoo.com

From: sun@hotmail.com

Cc: pluto@gmail.com

Re: Knock This $*&# Off!!!

Hey everyone, I know I haven't been keeping in touch enough lately, I had to see the doctor about that sunspot breakout I had last week. Benign, thankfully. So imagine my shock when I hear you've all decided to kick Pluto out of the family! I got so angry I tossed a few flares! Pluto is as much a planet as any of you ingrates; maybe more of a planet. I thought I accreted you all a little better than this, frankly.

Look, we all know Pluto can be a bit eccentric at times. And sure, he's small. But I'll bet you remember being the runt of the litter for a long while, Mercury. How fun was that? And I know all about the way everyone else ridicules you for still living in the basement, when they all moved out of the neigborhood. Yet you turn around and pick on Pluto? Didn't you learn anything?

And Venus, what if everyone just decided that you had to have a penis to be a planet? Where would that leave you? You have eight brothers, are you telling me you don't know what it's like to be the odd one out? Maybe there's no room in the glamourous life of a supermodel for a brother who wears plaid shirts and blue jeans. But the atmosphere of the celebrity lifestyle can be crushing, even if you've weathered the pressure so far. Don't forget where you came from.

Earth, Earth, Earth. As soon as I heard this nonsense I knew you must have been the one to originate it. Ever since you started your own business, you've looked down on your siblings. And don't think they haven't noticed! The way you keep picking fights with Mars, talking about 'permanently settling' in his house, is reprehensible. You know how angry Mars gets when he drinks, we don't need you antagonizing him further. I don't see you picking on Jupiter too much, but kicking Pluto when he's at aphelion seems right up your alley.

And Mars? How many six packs of Old Style did it take to swing you around to this bright idea? Ever since your childhood, you've never really been one to stop and think things through. I can't remember how many times you got the asteroid belt for fighting and mouthing off. But now that we've established that we can just kick out members of the family, how many more displays of your infamous temper is it going to take before you get the boot?

I know, let's go ahead and declare a maximum size for planets! Why not try that on for size, Jupiter? How much mockery have you had to put up with over the years? Is this because you just can't stand how Pluto has found happiness in his relationship with Charon? Look, if you get on a diet and stick to it, you'll find someone too. Well, at least if that big ugly red birthmark ever clears up.

Saturn, you've grown distant ever since you signed that record deal. But bitches, bling, and benjamins can vanish just as fast as they appear, and that's when you realize how important family is. When all you have is the clothes on your back and that fancy set of rings, you had better hope there's a family left to crawl back to. Live it up for now, but always remember who really loves you, and who's just orbiting you for the secondhand fame.

I don't even know where to start with you, Uranus. Who first gave you a big hug when you found the courage to come out of the closet, even though, frankly, we all knew you tilted pretty far to the side? Pluto. Remember when you first brought Oberon to a family barbeque, and Mars got all hammered and belligerent? Who told him to shut up? Pluto. And when you told us you were starring in hardcore internet porn, who defended your choice of career? That's right, Pluto.

And finally, Neptune. In a way, you disappointed me most of all. You've always been the closest to Pluto, your paths in life have intersected so often. Is this because you were so used to being the youngest? Is it jealousy? You two were practically inseperable as children, but something knocked you two apart. I hope you can work things out.

Look, things were said and done, and we can't just sweep it all under the ecliptic. But we are a family, and I expect you all to apologize to Pluto for the hurtful things you've said. Yes, he can be cold and distant, but none of your orbits are exactly circular, either.

To hell with Ceres and the rest of the bratty little in-laws though. Screw them.

Well, Have You Tried Asking Them to Knock it Off?

One political issue you don't hear much about anymore is how to deal with crime. It's still a major local issue in all those, you know, crime-ridden American cities, but at the national level it's just not discussed much anymore. Back when the Democrats first instituted their wildly successful policy of running personality-challenged Massachusetts liberals against reality-challenged Republican Bushes, the Willie Horton ads were an infamous attempt to paint Dukakis as a criminal-lovin' pinko. I don't remember any Swiftboat Parolees for Truth this last round, though.

That doesn't mean there aren't some innovative new crimefighting methods sweeping the nation, however. Oakland is about to institute a new program that has apparently found success in Boston, Chicago, and Los Angeles, though you may not have noticed if you actually live in one of those cities. It's...Batman! Nah, I'm just kidding. It's much sillier than that. The police carefully compile a list of the 100 most notorious violent criminals, and then they go out and...talk to them. You know, politely ask them not to murder and rape people, stuff like that. Apparently, there's just a Three's Company-level misunderstanding between criminals and society, which can be solved with some discussion, and maybe a drum circle.

Let's concede that this tactic may work as well as the article's experts say it does. Is there something, I dunno, even more effective we could do than talk to these guys, most of whom are on parole, and therefore technically still serving sentences? Like put them back in prison? If the worst 100 offenders have a massively disproportionte effect on the crime rate, how hard would it be to have undercover police follow them around and arrest them the second they litter or double-park? If a ridiculous program finds modest success, how much better might a sane program work? The way we treat violent repeat offenders in this country just drives me up the freakin' wall. Why do we ever let these people out? 100 people can ruin the quality of life for law-abiding citizens across vast swaths of the urban landscape and we tolerate this, even when we know who they are? There's no subject that makes me feel more like some 19th century relic. If this were an 1876 election, I would vote whichever candidate ran on the "Just Hang the Damned Cattle Rustlers" platform.

But we live in such enlightened times that lethal injection is considered "cruel", so we need some other solution. I say, more vigilantism! Let's legally require all citizens to carry guns when in public. Don't bother with firearm training, it takes too long, and somebody could mug you any minute now. If we're all armed to the gills, think of how much safer we'll all be. C'mon, it works in Florida and Texas!

Bite Me, Greenpeace

Staying on the whole one-planety theme, the thing I hate most about the modern environmental movement is, of course, any attempted interference with my right to eat animals. If pigs don't want to provide such a versatile source of sustenance that half a Denny's menu consists of glorious permutations of pork products, they jolly well ought to be less delicious. It's their own damn fault. Same goes for koala bears and dolphins.

But the thing I hate second most about environmentalists is their utterly irrational fear of all things nuclear. Nuclear power, in all its varied manifestations, has never hamed anyone.¹ Nuclear weapons programs provide jobs for thousands of hard-working physicists and engineers, particularly in rapid-growth sectors like Iran and North Korea. If these jobs disappear, those scientists may well be forced to build orbital death-rays, or an army of invincible robots. Nuclear power plants generate the electricity that powers our better-funded schools, maintains our homes at a comfortable 60^o when no one's home during the day, and protects our freedom through the shocking of terrorists' genetalia.² Plus, they hardly ever undergo catastrophic meltdown. And no, Pennsylvanians, close doesn't count! In fact, did you know that your body contains countless millions of individual nuclei? That if all those nuclei were suddenly removed, you would die?

Of course, anti-science organizations like Greenpeace don't want you to know that. They hate nuclear power, and want to stop the International Thermonuclear Experimental Reactor (ITER), the next big step³ in controlled nuclear fusion, and a possible prototype for future power plants. Their explanation is about as coherent and scientifically sound as a Flat-Earth Society memo.

"With 10 billion, we could build 10,000MW offshore windfarms, delivering electricity for 7.5 million European households," said Jan Vande Putte of Greenpeace International.

That's super. Exactly how many households are there in Europe again? And 7.5 million wussy little European households are equivalent to, what, maybe half a million red-blooded American households? How exactly are we going to afford several wars and a windmill farm the size of Canada?⁴ Let's instantly halt all research into feasible solutions!

Advocates of fusion research predict that the first commercial fusion electricity might be delivered in 50 to 80 years from now.

Er, no. Total crap. I'm about as pessimistic an "advocate of fusion research" as they come, and even I think 50 years is on the pessimistic end, with 30 years on the optimistic side.

Fusion energy - if it would ever operate - would create a serious waste problem, would emit large amounts of radioactive material and could be used to produce materials for nuclear weapons.

Codswallop! A reactor using deuterium-tritium fuel (currently considered the likelist candidate) will likely produce orders of magnitude less (and less dangerous) radioactive waste than nuclear fission plants. The main byproduct of this fusion reaction is helium. Now, helium may well cause moderate brain damage in children's birthday party celebrants, but no one has yet figured out a way to weaponize it.

Yeah, I know, picking on Greenpeace, an organization so inept it was successfully attacked by French special forces, is like arm-wrestling a quadriplegic. What's frustrating is that environmental groups can only possibly achieve progress by making public appeals using rational argument. Every public debate over global warming, for example, has to contend with the "well, I haven't noticed any problems" side, by citing studies and climate models and whatnot. When you hurl a load of anti-scientific fusion-bashing crap like a pissed-off orangutan, you'd better be ready for people to ignore you when you choose to make rational arguments on other subjects. Yes, I know that hypocrisy works for the intelligent-design crowd, but that's because they're just trying to sway a bunch of illiterate numbskulls. You have to do better, Greenpeace.

Still, the fear part is kinda fun. I've always wanted to work at a nuclear power plant, just so that, every so often, I could round up a bunch of employees at lunch time, put on our hazmat suits, and run screaming away from the plant down Main Street in the nearest town. Good stuff.

1 Who didn't have it comin'.

2 And those of other foreign-lookin' brownish sorts.

3 A misstep counts as a step.

4 Or Delaware or something. You like wind power so much, you calculate it.

First the Spotted Owl, Now This...

Before the Industrial Revolution and the resultant world population boom, animal species didn't go extinct. People lived in harmony with the environment. Yes, the exploitation of animals was ubiquitous, as grimly depicted in the harrowing Flintstones television series. However, even in subjugation, at least dinosaurs, woolly mammoths, and little green floaty alien guys survived. Mother Nature eschewed such brutal, inhumane tactics as setting species to compete against one another for scarce resources, with those more fit for survival passing their genetic advantage to succeeding generations.

Then human 'progress' screwed up this balance, and all of a sudden, animal species started to vanish. Animals whose ancestors had crawled out of the ocean in search of a better life for their families couldn't cope with a little acid rain and the occasional strip-mine. For the most part, we collectively ignored this. After all, we asked, why shouldn't animals be expected to adapt, learn a few new survival skills, and keep up with the ever-changing economy, like the rest of us? Zoologists derided that mindset as "close-minded" and "Lamarckian", and demanded the Endangered Species Act, which coincidentally provided the first-ever jobs for zoologists. Of course, they never told us that for every photogenic bald eagle the program saves, four dozen worthless species of beetles and leeches come along for the ride.

As the act is enforced by government bureaucrats, it has certain unintended consequences. A property owner is not allowed to develop land on (or near) which these feeble species are known to live. This renders the land essentially unsellable, so owners tend to get all bent out of shape over this. The endangered red-cockaded woodpecker, native to North Carolina, has inspired land owners to come up with a novel, and apparently legal, solution. They're cutting down all the trees. Tobacco-Chewin' Deliverance Hicks 1, Tree-Huggin' Global Citizens 0!

Apparently you can cut down a tree before woodpeckers are in it, which prevents woodpeckers from living in it thereafter, which is kind of like a pre-emptive foreign policy, except that it seems to work. Not exactly what the ESA intended. If this continues, the red-cockamamie woodpecker will go extinct, which will really open things up for possible development, with all those trees out of the way. The area could be transformed, simply by enforcement (such as it is) of the ESA, from a wooded little cabin-y area to a Wal-Mart. And before you say, "yeah, so, whatever," consider the vital importance of the woodpecker in that little thing known as the food chain. You see, the diet of ocean plankton consists of woodpeckers, spotted owls, and panda bears. Plankton in turn is the main food staple for whales and hippies. Without plankton to eat, and hippies to whine about Japanese and Norwegian whaling, whales will go extinct. And in a few hundred years, aliens will destroy Earth because there are no more whales with whom to speak.

In all slightly greater seriousness, I'm kind of split on what to do about this. One solution I initially leaned toward is to pay property owners for estimated lost development and resale costs using federal tax dollars. After all, if society has collectively decided to save the red-cockadoodle woodpecker, society ought to collectively pay for it. Then I read the article again, and it turns out that a lot of people are buying property in this area as an investment, not as a place to build a house. Now, I already am pretty negative on the whole 'build houses close to nature' thing. If you want to build a house in the woods, I don't want firefighters risking their lives to save you and your damn house from a wildfire; and if you get eaten by a bear, that's just natural selection at work, as far as I'm concerned. But this investment crap is ten times worse. You're rich enough to buy some wooded land just because it might appreciate? Screw you. Invest in something normal next time.

So if we're not going to compensate these people, and if the status quo is no good, there's only really one solution left. Genetically modify the woodpecker to become more aggressive toward humans, so it will fight back and start poking people's eyes out. That oughtta solve the problem.

Finally, a Deity I Could Worship, or at Least Hit the Bars With

So I heard one of the stranger opening sentences when I received a phone call in the lab last night. My mom called and instantly asked, "King of Jews, King of Beers?" This being entirely unlike something my mother would ordinarily ask, I requested clarification. She had just watched the 10 o' clock Milwaukee news and the big story was a billboard in Texas with Jesus holding a Budweiser, with King of Jews and King of Beers in large letters. I then asked her if she had seen anything on the news about Israel invading Lebanon, to which she replied, and I very nearly quote, "Israel invaded the what now?" Ah yes, the 10 o'clock news, where if it's not quintuplets or a missing blonde college sophomore, it's not worth telling you about.

This sounded too bizarre, so I googled it and sure enough, artist Ron English allegedly plastered a fake billboard that looked so real it's been covering up a genuine ad for a week. I didn't find a great picture, but there's one at left from the link above. Personally, I think this is a fantastic ad campaign, one that Busch should adopt in earnest. I mean, if companies can use old footage of John Wayne or Saint Vincent Lombardi to hawk their wares, why not use Our Lord and Savior? Sure, the Son of God used to be more partial to the wine bottle, but I'm pretty sure that the Mormons teach that while here in America, he plowed through the six-packs. I mean, if sending His only begotten Son to live amongst us mortal folk was the Lord's way of finally returning our phone call and getting in touch, what better way to relate than drink a few with us? I'm more inclined to believe a lot of things, including that someone is the Lord incarnate, if I'm sloshed; athough He may have to remind me of my belief sometime the next day. Produce a real cure for the hangover, and I'm sold.

Now, I know it's almost too easy to be critical about His specific choice of alcoholic beverage, but givest thou not into such temptation. Undoubtedly, He has chosen the best rice-brewed beer He could find. After all, does it not say, in Leviticus 13:21, "Breweth thou only with grains consum'd by the cloven ass in the paddies of Beersheba; and whineth thou not about its bland taste, for I am the Lord and I partaketh not of those heavy beers." It doesn't? Never mind then. The important thing to remember is that Jesus is looking out for you when you drink. That's why driving ability and general judgement skills are miraculously unimpaired by alcohol.

And let me just finish with the observation that it is difficult to remember to capitalize all those deific pronouns. I don't want Him to hit me with lightning though. Again, I mean.

Meet the New Boss...

You can always tell there's protestin' afoot at the Federal Building in Westwood by the cars honking on Wilshire. The more cars you hear at a distance, the larger the crowd. Tonight there was a medium-sized protest, but only a little honking. Why so little support from the commuters? This was a protest against an Iranian crackdown on student activism, and why show support for people demonstrating over an issue that cannot be blamed on Bush? Even though some blame does belong to presidents from Eisenhower through Carter. Unfortunately I could not take any pictures, as this is one of those days I don't carry a camera with me, ending in 'y' and all.

I felt bad for the protestors. Although some of them had that circle march 'n chant thing going, they're not quite ready for prime time. For one thing, they were carrying signs with too much information, which could not be easily read by responsible drivers. Okay, so the font size wasn't the key problem. But come on, you're in the U.S. now, people. If your views can't fit on a bumper sticker, if they don't rhyme or at least alliterate, they're not fit for American political discourse. And the symbolism of demonstrating at the Federal Building works best when you're protesting something the federal government has control or influence over, which doesn't much include Iran. Still, there's something, I dunno, just plain cute about immigrants actually believing that public demonstrations can make a difference in the U.S. I didn't have the heart to mention the Amendment stating, "The right to assemble, and be ignored, by passing motorists, shall not be infringed."

And how are scheduling mixups handled? You do see protests against the Iranian Government periodically, though in smaller numbers than the anti-Iraq War protests. What happens if both groups show up the same day? Do they rosham for it? I would love to listen to a conversation between members of each group.

"In Iran we do not have the right to protest the abuses of the government, so it is important that we make ourselves heard whenever and whereever we can."

"Oh, I know, totally. My cousin knows this guy whose roommate got busted for talking online about how Bush was really behind 9/11, no one's seen him since. I hope it's not as bad in Iran as it is here. That's south of Brazil, right?"

"Just last week my niece was arrested for demonstrating in Teheran. No family members have been allowed to speak to her."

"Wow, that really sucks. My friend got arrested for having a Kerry bumper sticker, they said it was for driving stoned with an half-ounce under the mat but he's a totally good driver, no way he swerved. He might lose his license for a year. Total bullshit, man."

One more tangentially related topic. Supposedly, Bush's poll numbers have climbed back up to about 40%, from the 30% or thereabouts early this year. Now, it's easy to make fun of that 30%, but both parties have their core voters who are going to support their guy no matter what, which is what Bush was probably down to. Bush is only losing them if he receives a blowjob or balances the budget, as these are the only ways to conclusively prove that a president is unfit for office in such quarters. My question is, what's going on with the other 10%? Did I miss some achievement by this administration in the last few months? Is he getting credit for the North Koreans being too stupid to build a decent missle? Are 30 million Americans actually saying to themselves, you know, back in January I wasn't real happy with Bush, but boy he's sure turned it up a notch since? Who are these people?

Cupclusion!

It's over! Italy defeats France on, you guessed it, a penalty kick shootout! A fitting end to a month of soccer that will be remembered for days to come. An estimated 1.3 billion people watched the match worldwide, totally affirming my low opinion of the 1.299 billion viewers outside the United States. And what, might you ask, has Italy won? A trophy that looks like a ball perched atop a rotted out tree trunk. It even looks like there's a chunk missing from the side shown in the picture at left. I wouldn't hand that out for third place in the Bakersfield School District Spelling Bee.

The big story is the complete meltdown of French captain and star Zinedine Zidane, who was tossed from the game 20 minutes into overtime in what was announced to be his final World Cup. He headbutted Italian player Marco Materazzi in the chest, possibly after Materazzi enquired as to the availability of Zidane's mother as entertainment for the Azzurri's post-Cup party.  Zidane was awarded a red card despite the fact that, in accordance with soccer's highest principles, he attacked Materazzi without using his hands. Zidane is considered France's most accurate kicker, and his dismissal rendered him unavailable for the shootout, which Italy won 5-3. For his part, Materazzi is believed to be the first soccer player ever to roll on the grass in unfeigned pain.

So Zidane loses his temper and singlehandedly ruins his team's chances to win the World Cup. No worries! French coach Raymond Domenech says he 'understands'. I don't know whether to attribute this to lower standards of behavior in soccer or to the French proclivity for defeatism. I can't think of a star player, or any player, blowing up like this in a championship game of an actual sporting event, let alone in overtime. I'm not saying it's never happened, but...it's never happened. If Dennis Rodman could keep his shit together for 5 NBA titles, if Terrell Owens could tone down the antics for the Super Bowl, and if Manny Ramirez could remember how to lace up his cleats for the World Series, then anyone can make it through a single game. Zidane needs to team up with Mike Tyson for a reality show that just watches them bumble violently through everyday life.

Oh, and on the same day the biggest sporting event in the world couldn't be bothered to play until a team won legitimately, the White Sox and Red Sox played a 6 1/2 hour, 19 inning midseason baseball game. I know, I know, they run more in soccer. Nevertheless, there were several subs on each bench who had pranced not one whit, who would be available for an extra 120 minutes if that's what it took. The difference is that, in most sports, the presumption among fans is that the sport is enjoyable to watch, that it is worthy of resolution. No one is masochistic enough to truly believe the same of soccer, whatever one might consciously profess.

Anyway, it's been fun ripping on the World Cup, but not half as fun as no longer having a World Cup upon which to rip. And I never even got in to the manifest absurdity of the offsides rule, and the consequent 'strategy' of defenders sprinting the wrong way in order to draw a call. Next time, perhaps. In a day or two we'll get to read laughable newspaper articles about how these Cup Finals 'broke records' in U.S. television ratings, just because its time-slot competition was the Billy Graham Power Hour and Retrospective: The Year in Monster Truck Rallies. But now that I've actually paid attention, sort of, to a World Cup, I know the truth. Soccer will never catch on in the U.S. It will forever, at most, remain a harmless recreational game for 6 year olds born to parents hyperparanoid about their children getting injured playing with neighborhood friends in any unorganized, unsupervised manner. Suburban parents who think that T-Ball just gets a little too rough and competitive for their little Taylor or Courtney. Let the metric-lovin' rest of the world have their World Cup.

And if the rest of the world could take golf and NASCAR off our hands as well, it would be much appreciated.

That '70s Post

I came across a good soccer article at ESPN by a writer who hung around with Pele as he slummed with the New York Cosmos, a soccer team of the 1970s. What makes the article readable is that not one syllable is wasted talking about on-field activities. Instead, this he-groupie writer focuses on the overlap of the whole Studio 54 sex, drugs, and disco crowd with a team playing a seemingly up-and-coming sport. I like the parallels between the scenes. The disco scene, after all, whatever its enthusiasts expected at the time, was completely fleeting. By January of 1980 Studio 54 was (I'm guessing) replaced with a XXX theater, with bouncers that didn't exactly turn you away for being insufficiently stylish and attractive.

Coincidentally, another '70s story came up while I was at the Dodgers game on the Fourth, which bothered me because it's a baseball story I knew nothing of. It was the basis for the trivia question at the game, but I read more about it on the internet later. Back in 1976, two guys ran on the field between innings with an American flag, lighter fluid, and some matches; you can see where this is going. Rick Monday, a long time Dodger, ran over and rescued the flag, already soaked in lighter fluid, just before they lit it. This has gone on to become a legendary story in Los Angeles, judging by the number of fans who knew the answer.

Both stories illustrate something about the 1970s that I think I've now figured out. Think about the aspects of the 1970s that set the decade apart from others in the U.S. The protagonists in films, even very popular films, had mixed motives and were seldom morally upstanding, while the plots frequently had either little resolution or downbeat endings. Would Rocky lose that match in an American film in any other decade? Would Michael have Fredo killed? Our faith in politicians was at a low ebb, as our presidents were either dour and corrupt, pathetically inept, or Gerald Ford. Hedonism hit an all-time high, and random sex and drug use were without even the lame "do it 'cause The Man doesn't want you to" rationalizing idealism of the '60s. After a long undefeated streak, we lost a war, prompting the '72 Dolphins to send a case of champagne to the Vietnamese. Soccer was on the rise, and nationalism was on the wane. In retrospect, what America was going through is obvious. We were turning European.

Then things changed in the 1980s, for some reason. In the '80s, we instead were turning Japanese, or at least we really thought so. Chuck Norris went back and won the Vietnam War after we had apparently lost it; after extensive research, I consider Rambo's contribution to be minor in comparison. When a downbeat, always whinin' '70s icon like Bruce Springsteen recorded a song with downbeat, whinin' lyrics, it nevertheless became the most insanely popular nationalistic song in American rock history. I mean, I still remember how popular Born in the U.S.A. was in 1984, not that I had any idea what the lyrics were beyond the refrain. After a boring decade of only half-hearted nuclear brinksmanship, Reagan kicked things in the ass and brought us close to nuclear war again, just like the good old days. And our movies were formulaic and trite, just the way we liked 'em.

If things had continued as it looked in the '70s, we might have universal health care, rampant female nudity in films, actual science taught in public schools, voters who could find the Southern Hemisphere on a globe, and a tiny army incapable of going abroad and fighting ambiguous wars. We snapped back to being American not a minute too soon!

Celebrate American Independence With Shoddy, Chinese-Manufactured Incendiary Devices!

As we celebrate the birth of the greatest, most kickass nation the world has ever seen -- the nation that brought to the world baseball and apple pie, even if most of the world barely noticed -- it is worth pausing to reflect on some of our now endangered, long-cherished freedoms. I'm speaking, of course, of the inalienable right to play with fireworks, particularly the fun ones, the ones that could take out half a Canadian brigade.

The 'journalists' at CNN Online, whose seething, terrorist-like hatred of our freedom is always roused this time of year, have an article up about the rising level of firework-related injuries. The article claims that 6,000 children were treated in emergency rooms for injuries due to fireworks last year. Does it include the total number of children who weren't stupid enough to injure themselves? Does it mention that parents rush their pampered kids to the hospital these days on the slightest pretense, like the loss of only part of a finger? Of course not. And where does that statistic come from? The U.S. Consumer Product Safety Commission. That's right, your tax dollars are being wasted tabulating injuries incurred in patriotic celebration of our nation's birth.

The article focuses on an interview with some idiot 14 year-old in Ohio, injured last year by sparklers, which is just pathetic. Were I injured by a sparkler as a teenager, I sure as hell wouldn't admit to it. I'd claim it was an M80, at least. The sob story:

Carpenter, now 14, was lighting a handful of sparklers for a group of younger children when the first one ignited the others, "and they all went off at once," she recalled.

"I looked down and my hand was on fire," she said. The result was third-degree burns requiring two days in the hospital and several months of therapy. Her left hand bears permanent scars.

Were any probing questions asked of this dissembling ne'erdowell? Was there any, in short, journalism going on in the preparation for this article? If you stack a handful of sparklers together, is there any way you're not going to light several at once? Are we to blame the sparklers for Kelsey Carpenter's manifest stupidity? Do we blame the trains when numbskulls try to speed up and beat them at an intersection? And we're supposed to get all weepy about a few permanent scars on a hand that is evidently intact? Hey CNN, I've got a few permanent scars. One from running into a radiator at age 4, and one from a pencil, one of those sneaky #2 bastards. Are you going to interview me? Are we going to ban indoor heating and writing utensils? Sure enough, by the end of the article some jackass from the American Acedemy of Pediatrics is calling for a total backyard fireworks ban.

For those of you unlucky enough to have grown up in some Communist area of the U.S., some of my earliest memories involve waving sparklers around in our front yard. Fireworks are fun, and that is reason enough to allow their use. Yes, some stupid children are going to get hurt. Stupid children always find a way to injure themselves, no matter how hard you try to coddle them. Some children are going to find a way to accidentally off themselves using nothing but Legos. But my grandfather didn't storm the beaches of Normandy so that safety fascists could chip away at our freedom here at home. In fact, my grandfather didn't storm the beaches of Normandy at all; but if he had, it would not have been for that reason, I assure you.

This also brings to mind lawn darts, or jarts, another staple of my childhood. At outdoor family gatherings, both adults and kids would play with these. If you're not familiar, jarts are like giant versions of regular darts, that you throw underhand with a high arc to try to land in a plastic circle maybe 30 feet away. We kids were carefully taught how to play with these, including a rigorous 40 second safety lesson by recently sober fathers and uncles. And you know what? Nobody ended up with a jart sticking out of their skull. Because we weren't freaking idiots. But in 1988, jarts were banned throughout the country by the Consumer Product Safety Commission, the same beaurocrats now whining about fireworks.  Did I miss the article of the Constitution that says, "Congress shall have the power to regulate all things pointy"?

So celebrate our freedom this Fourth of July! Put a lit sparkler in a five year old's hand. They'll remember you fondly for it, assuming they survive. And if they don't, hey...Darwin works in mysterious ways. Happy Fourth!

Cupset!

Only one week until the World Cup Final Match! Which means, only one week until the beginning of a glorious 47 months of no soccer tournaments! Europeans and South Americans can go back to watching, I dunno, rock formations erode, or whatever it is they do when the excitement of international soccer is denied them. American Americans can return to baseball, and...well, that's all there is now that the NBA is done. But that's plenty! Did you know that every baseball game this weekend featured a winner that scored more than zero runs? That not one ended with a home run derby after a 12 inning scoreless tie? That's right, every game began, and concluded, with the playing of baseball!

In soccer, the same can be said of only 50% of the quarterfinal matches. The big news, though, was the upset, in regulation, of the favored Brazilians by France, 1-0. I am willing to accept that this was an exciting game, as Pierre, my French co-worker, recapped the match for a good ten minutes, which is ten minutes longer than I have ever heard him talk about a sporting event. Brazil had not lost a World Cup match since 1998 (also to France), which sounds impressive until you realize that's only 8 or so matches. What's more, the decisive goal was scored by a French player, as opposed to one of those fan-tastic 'own goals' that tend to make South American players, well, dead. It did, though, follow a 'volley' after a 'free kick', which sounds suspiciously like another '100 point free throw' type situation. But this is as good as it gets in soccer, so some half-hearted praise is due. Besides, it's not like Dwyane Wade didn't have about 100 dubious points on free throws during the NBA Finals, so real sports aren't immune to this either.

Meanwhile, Portugal defeats England 0-0, proving yet again the World Cup's undiminished ability to rise to my level of mockery. Any other sport would at least feign shame and award the winning team a faux point to look good. England ended up on the defensive in the second half, after losing team captain David Beckham to injury:

England lost Beckham, seven minutes into the second half. He fell awkwardly after a heavy challenge and, despite trying to continue, was forced off.

The England skipper sat in tears on the bench as Lennon made an instant impact.

Tough captain you got there, England! I mean, this guy has had freaking movies titled after him. He's supposedly the biggest athlete in the world. He married a Spice Girl for chrissakes, and not the one that was actually kinda ugly when they showed her close up. And he leaves with an injury so debilitating the ESPN article I linked doesn't even mention what it was. Try to imagine, for one second, Michael Jordan pulling his cuticle or whatever in the playoffs and then bawling on the bench like a 2 year old who just had Elmo taken away. You cannot. It would never happen. Didn't MJ score 50 points in one of his last games in the Finals while suffering a case of the bubonic plague? That's the way I remember it, anyway.

Italy beats Ukraine by a margin of -- are you sitting down? -- 3-0. The match was pretty much over by the 6th minute, when Italian player Gianluca Zambrotta kicked the first goal. Italy now gets to face the Germans in a thrilling 'Battle of the Axis' semifinal match. Ukraine, meanwhile, has the satisfaction of knowing that they did well in their first, and given the resovietification of Russia these days, potentially last World Cup. Finally, Germany beats Argentina 1-1 in the other shootout of the quarterfinals, in a game that split the loyalties of the sizable octogenarian German neighborhood of Buenos Aries. Germany came back to tie the game with only 10 minutes left in regulation, and won the shootout 4-2.

And the stage is now set for the could-just-be-watchable semifinals! Can France, having knocked out the favorites, live up to its newfound overdog status against...wait, let me scroll back up, I already forgot...Portugal? Can the Germans bring the Italians to heel? Could we witness a France-Germany grudge match in the finals? Will the French feature an impenetrable defense in the middle of the field, only to give up after the Germans walk around it to score in the third minute? Will I bother to watch a single minute of either game, as I have not done since Day 1? Find out on, er, whatever day the matches take place!

On a final note, on this 4-day 4th of July weekend, I feel an uncharacteristic impulse to be charitable toward the lesser nations of the world. In the course of the extensive fact-checking for this post, I found that, earlier, when I refer to baseball as being the only active sport for the next few months, I neglect to consider NASCAR. When I reflect on this great nation's inexplicable fascination with watching guys drive in circles (sorry, ovals) several hundred times, I have to admit I would sooner watch the dullest soccer match than endure ten minutes of a NASCAR race. I would like to think that racing fans are only watching for the crashes, but even so, there's no escaping that many Americans have a taste in sports just as crappy as that of foriegners.

...And Then There Was One (Curse)

I have to admit, World Cup fans have impressed me with their fanatical devotion to their favorite pastime. I mean, in baseball there is no more devoted a fan base than that of the Boston Red Sox, yet when they recently won their first World Series in a long while, only one half-hearted riot broke out, with a single measly fatality. If Germany wins the World Cup, much of Europe will be left in ruins. Of course, that used to happen when Germany lost, as well.

In American sports, we have instead a fan base such as that of the Chicago Cubs, which today bore yet another humiliation of their laughable team in their decrepit stadium, delivered by the cross-town Defending World Champion Chicago White Sox. Were I a fan of the most miserable team in professional sports, a team that has not won a championship in nearly a century, a team defeated at home by its archrival, I would probably kill someone, and that someone would probably be me. But the extensive ‘Cub Nation’ just shrugs and moves on. Cub fans rarely get too animated about anything; they’re just happy to be here. They love their team, but in that zero-expectation "There’s nothing wrong with Billy living unemployed in our basement, even if he is 50 years old" way some parents regard their more questionably-conceived offspring. I mean, not even the Dalai Lama would have any patience left with the Cubs were he a fan.

I don’t want to get all socioeconomicky on y’all (or y’one, as the case may be), but partially this is a difference between the areas of Chicago that most fans call home. Cubs fans are generally wealthier, more arrogant, and more white-collar than their south side neighbors, whom they regard with fear and open contempt. While I’m not from Chicago, I’m from a Wisconsin city that’s more like Chicago’s South Side than its North, and I notice that sort of class arrogance. For Cubs fans, going to Wrigley is just a big picnic. You don’t care who wins that family softball game at a picnic, do you? For Sox fans, going to the Cell is a grim, serious affair. You care who wins or loses, even if you usually (used to) lose. The contrast is sharpest if you compare the stadium neighborhoods. Wrigleyville has a trendy, dynamic night life even on non-game days. In the neighborhood around the Cell, 'fun', 'charming', and 'a place I'd walk unarmed at bar time' are the sorts of phrases that flee furthest from one's mind.

Even the name, Cubs. Is there a less intimidating mammal than a bear cub? Was another team already using ‘Pandas’ or ‘Kittens’? Could a cub take down any other sports mascot, if it came to that? I mean, we’re not talking about a real intimidating crowd here, considering the San Diego Chicken, the Phillies Phanatic, and Mr. Met. But I’d put my money on any of them against a Cub. No wonder the Cubs always choke at crunch time, even against teams with dubious names like the Padres. Now, a White Sock, on the other hand, is a feared, er, predator…um, maybe I should shut up now.

To illustrate White Sox fandom, my favorite baseball trips were to see the Sox play the Brewers in the old, pre-league-defectin’ Milwaukee days (thanks, Bud) at County Stadium. Lots of White Sox fans would drive up to Milwaukee, the crowd would be split, and all the mutual Wisconsin-Illinois hostility would bubble to the surface through countless plastic cups of Miller Lite. We usually got $4 bleacher seats which shockingly weren’t reproduced in the new stadium (thanks again, Bud), and you could pretty much bet on near-riots by the 8^th inning. My favorite incident was when a fan being escorted out of our section by two police was hit in the head by the accurate throw of a souvenir Packers mini-helmet (clearly, not by a Brewer pitcher). In contrast, when I first moved to Los Angeles and saw the White Sox rally from 3 down to beat the Angels in the 9^th, I waited for the inevitable dumping of beer on my obnoxiously-cheering person. But Angels fans have all the passion for baseball of a Tibetan yak-herder, and I was strangely disappointed to emerge unscathed.

My point? I have no point. Other than that the Cubs will never, ever play in another World Series. Even when their fans’ passion was roused to an unprecedented level against local buffoon Steve Bartman following their latest choke-a-thon, well, last I checked Bartman is still alive and intact, living in Chicago. Sox fans would never tolerate that shit. But I do feel some sympathy, Cubs fans. I remember what it was like to root for a team that never won. It remember that it sucked. The only thing that would have sucked more is if the team I hated most had gone out and won the World Series last year, but luckily that didn’t…oh, right.  It's too bad that watching one's team win a World Championship cannot be expressed in mere words; if it could, then maybe you could read a book, close your eyes, and pretend it's the Cubs.