I got an email today.
  As some of you know, I used to work in talk radio. I got an email today from the host of the talk show for which I used to produce, asking me what I though of the whole Rush Limbaugh thing. Here's what I said.

  My view on Rush is pretty simple. I don't think he's a racist. I think he's an elitist, but that opinion was cemented a long time ago. In fact, I believe him when he claims that he wasn't knocking McNabb as much as the media coverage and the fact that McNabb is so highly rated.
  The thing is, I don't agree that McNabb is overrated because he's black. I think he's just overrated. I don't have any love for the media in terms of its sophistication or its objectivity, but can you honestly tell me there aren't any white quarterbacks who aren't performing to the level that they were expected to reach?
  I heard something on NPR that really struck home for me. It would have been very easy for Rush to say that he thinks the media has overrated McNabb. Rush made a conscious decision to focus on a claim that his race as the reason, thus making it a racial issue. It was either pigheaded and insensitive, or deliberately provocative, and I'm really not sure which way is better. And his claim that the uproar he's caused somehow proves that he said something true is completely baseless. I get upset when Neo-Nazis claim that the Holocaust never happened, or when creationists claim that the Second law of Thermodynamics rules out evolution, or when conspiracy nuts claim that the black, featureless backgrounds in the pictures taken by the Apollo crews prove that the moon landings were staged, but my outrage doesn't make them right.

  Before you start, I used to produce our rebroadcast of Rush's show five days a week, so I have listened to him. I'm not relying solely on what I've heard about his comments. While I agree with him about as often as I shit golden statues of the Dalai Lama, I respect his ability to find and hold an audience. Frankly, I believe that his reluctance to ever admit that he could be even the slightest bit wrong has a lot to do with how popular he is. He simply powers ahead, and his confidence and self-assurance are attractive. People like someone who sounds as if he believes in himself, and Rush seems to possess the kind of self confidence that would have made Jesus Christ feel like a bit of a charlatan. So I'm not surprised that he hasn't tried to diffuse his comments beyond apologizing for the discomfort he caused the ESPN crew. His show would probably drop in the ratings if he appeared to be wavering or backing down. Still, I can't help but wonder exactly how the man sleeps at night.
  Wait a minute. I'll bet he sleeps on piles and piles of money. *sigh*

It's official...
  In this month's Journal of the American Mofo, I am listed among the top ten laziest mofos of all time. No, seriously, it's true!
  Okay, so there is no JAM, at least not yet. I'm trying to teach myself Flash, so there may be one at some point. If there were such a publication, I'd certainly be on their lazy list. I was off for two days, and I didn't leave the apartment for something like 36 hours. I only left to take a bag of trash over to a dumpster across the street. I stayed in my pajamas all day on Tuesday. I am a lazy, lazy mofo.
  In my defense, I did do some things while I was inside. I applied for some jobs, and I started trying to teach myself to use Flash. I also swept and emptied the trash. But I still feel like a special kind of slack ass for hanging around in my pajamas all day.
  Truth be told, it's not entirely my fault. My landlord decided to have the sidewalk in front of the apartment torn up and replaced. So, there was a one hundred square foot plot of wet cement outside my door for the majority of the day, which would have made leaving kind of a pain. (There's a funny story about how Amy had to have one of the workers carry her piggyback across the wet cement when she left for work, but I'm probably not supposed to tell you about that.) It probably would have been nice if my landlord had warned us that out sidewalk was being replaced, but that would have been considerate, and thus completely out of character. Some day, I will not live in the ghetto, with a crackhead for a landlord.

I'm kitty-sitting.
  The Barrymore is about one and a half, and Charlatan is around a half, so neither of them are kittens in that "Look, she fits my shoe! And in that saucer! And in the fold-up couch! Hey, where'd the kitten go?" sort of way. Still, they are young enough that they get pretty rambunctious. Putting a paper bag on the floor is a quick way of sentencing it to death, and anything that rattles or rolls on the floor will get batted around until it gets stuck under the couch.
  It's all hunting, really. They get some exercise, and it's much better than stumbling over headless rodents they've deposited on our doorstep. Still, it sometimes gets a bit scary when they run out of toys. If there's nothing worth batting about, they'll start harrassing each other. I've been assured by two sets of experienced cat-owning parents and someone at our vet's office that this is natural. The consensus seems to be that, as long as they aren't actually clawing each other, then they're just playing a little rough, and it's fine. Still, I can't help but be concerned when they're wrapped around each other, hissing or yowling like they're trying to kill each other. So I find myself compelled to drop whatever I'm doing and go distract them when they start to get too hostile.
  I do mean whatever I'm doing. Eating, web-surfing, sleeping. I'm supposed to go to the grocery store while Amy's at work, and I've been reluctant to leave them alone. They are certainly as cute as drastically mismatched buttons, but I won't be disappointed when they're old enough to be as lazy as I am.

While I'm handing them out...
  Decently sized ups to me, for persisting in keeping my Blog fresh. At some point, updating went from being a dreaded chore to being an obligation. I know is sounds like a minor difference, but it matters. I used to sit and stare at the screen, not being able to come up with anything beyond a laundry list of the things I'd done that day, or a litany of things I hated. I discouraged easily, and I would avoid updating altogether because it was so tedious. Now, the new, improved Blogging me starts to feel guilty if I don't update every few days. I know that my girlfriend is just about the only one who reads this stuff on a regular basis, and I have a small (but hearty) cadre of friends who check in from time to time. I suppose it would make more sense to just email them all, instead of wasting bandwidth and BlogSpot server space. Still, there's something more... vital? Interactive? I don't know the exact word. (I know, bad writer, find the word.) There is some deeper sense of pride, a feeling like, "I made this, look at me! I can do a cannonball, Mom! Watch me! No, watch. Don't just say you're watching and then glance back at that trashy paperback, WATCH ME!!! No, wait. Now I'm too scared. Don't look." You know, that sort of pride/tension that you get when you're taking a risk, however miniscule, of looking stupid.
  That's right, stupid. For all I know, my Blog could be the Dude, Where's My Car? of your Internet experience. By posting this stuff here, I'm taking the risk that you're tuning in just to laugh at me. I'm exposing myself to ridicule and praise in (I hope) at least equal measure. The truth is, I think I'm a decent writer. Sure, I often go back and look at my stuff and find eleventy-billion things I could have done better, but on the whole it's marginally better than crap. But sharing it means that I have to risk the chance that you disagree.
  Strangely, I find myself becoming less scared of that as I go along. I'm certain that it has a great deal to do with living with someone who writes pretty prolifically. My girlfriend is writing a hilarious play, as well as maintaining an online journal. She's as sensitive as any of us to criticism. In fact, she gets pretty upset when I can't silence my inner editor long enough to praise her early drafts. But, despite that anxiety, she keeps writing because she loves it. She gets a kick out of finding characters and a story and bringing them to life. She persists, despite her fear, and I thank whatever that she does, because it helps me want to do the same. I haven't gotten any farther than updating my journal because I know she reads it, and cracking out a short story with characters she created, but it's building. I hope she knows that she's inspiring me, and that I am slightly in awe of her ability to work through writer's nerves. I hope that the things I produce do her talent, persistence and courage justice.

Now, let's totally switch gears,
  I need to pass out even more ups. Not so big this time, but ups nonetheless. I complain about... well, everything, but today I had a pleasant experience, and I thought I should give due credit. It starts with a trip that I made to Best Buy yesterday.
  B.B. is my secret shame. I know it's a big corporate monolith, and it stands for everything commercial that irks me so. Yet, I can't stay away. More to the point, I have to stay away, because I either buy things I really don't need, or I get depressed because I can't afford to buy anything. I feed my filthy habit by asking for gift certificates, for birthdays, Christmas, anniversaries, bar mitzvahs, other people's birthdays, Arbor Day... I suppose you get the idea. Anyway, I had a couple of these plastic pieces of capitalist paraphernalia saved up, and (for once) I had a specific item that I wanted to purchase. I was looking for a carrying case to protect my camera from my natural clumsiness. I found one, picked out a color I liked, purchased it, and took it home. Oh, and I wandered into just about every other department before I left. (Hi, my name is LBB, and I'm a Best Buy-aholic.)
  When I got home, I discovered that the case didn't have these little divider thingees it was supposed to have. I was disappointed. Crushed, even. That was the only one in the color that I liked, and I knew if I exchanged it, I'd have to settle for a less desirable color. (Don't let the word color fool you. The ones I liked were all varying shades of grey. Oh, and gray.)
  I dragged my LB butt into the store on my way to work this afternoon. Sure enough, the other versions of that case were less attractive shades of gray or grey. Then, epiphany! Why couldn't I just take the dividers from the one I didn't like, and put them into the one I did like? Simple, right? In fact, it turned out that the two different shades of grey (gray) even had the same UPC number, which in the eyes of technology makes them the same thing. I mean, the net total of divider-bearing and non-divider-bearing bags would be exactly the same, right? Still, I was convinced that it was fruitless. There would be some iron-clad policy, and I'd be going home with a slightly less wonderful shade of... light black.
  I guess you can probably see where this is going. As it turns out, fantasy met reality, and the returns/exchange department allowed me to take the dividers home in the bag I liked better. I was blessed with customer service which actually was, and it made me happy.
  So, ups to you, Best Buy Deptford. Not huge ups, because you're supposed to be helpful and agreeable, damn it, but ups just the same. Keep it up.

I just saw Matchstick Men.
  I took my girlfriend on a date. I bought her tickets to a movie, soda and snacks. Someday, we will have regular jobs, so that nights off together are not such a rare and wondrous occasion.
  I rather enjoyed the movie. I can't help liking Nicolas Cage, and Sam Rockwell is really damn good at the likeable sleaze character. Allison Lohman was also very impressive, and I see big things ahead for her, provided this wasn't a fluke performance.
  On another movie note, did you know that Orson Welles almost shot a Batman feature? Neither did I! Big ups to REMY523 for letting me in on his ultra-geek-out. =)

Speaking of the Emmys...
  There is one thing that I have to credit the Emmy awards people with, that I think makes an awful lot of sense. It's the separation of the Primetime and Daytime Emmys.
  I'm sure, if you asked, the Emmy people would tell you that it's necessary to hold two ceremonies because of the vast amount of programming available on a 24 hour television schedule. My theory is that, despite the general lousiness of television, the staff of the National Television Academy are self-aware enough to realize that the really crap TV is on during the day.
  This might work in other arenas as well. There could be a second big football game in January, (I'm tentatively calling it the Stupor Bowl) which would decide who was the official worst team in a given season. There'd be play-ons, where you had to advance to the next round if you lost.

 "You wanna be home for Christmas?" Coach shouted, spittle flying through the air and misting on Johnson's shoulder pads. "Then you'd damn well better win, and prove that we're only the eighth worst team in this league! Otherwise, we're gonna be losin' until the end of January!"

  There are already places where the worst stuff gets acknowledged, such as the Darwin Awards or the Golden Raspberries. But I think it's much more effective when the organization or industry itself sequesters a group of its members, thereby tacitly admitting that they're second-class participants. Good for you, Emmy Awards!
  There's one other organization that I think would really benefit from such a straightforward reclassification of a section of its participants. Yes, AMPAS, I'm looking right at you. In my opinion, the Academy Awards committee should acknowledge what the rest of us already know by creating a Summer Movie Academy Awards. There could be awards for the most creative use of explosive devices, most excessive use of nudity, and most Matrix-esque special effect. They could recognize and reward the qualities that send these films into the box-office stratosphere in the first place.
  Of course, now that I've wasted your time and mine on this little diatribe, it occurs to me that there already is a "Crap Oscars." It's called the MTV Music Awards, and every year it proves that MTV is just as discerning about film as it is about music.

I am a national radio star.
  The scary thing is, this is only a slight exaggeration. My friend Pab has a weekly one hour radio show packed full of comedy and such. I've done some voice work for The Pab Sungenis Project before, including his intro and some character work, but I've never hosted the thing before. This is all about to change. Pab's stuck with jury duty for a couple of weeks, so he asked me to step in and take the reigns. Being the closet egomaniac that I am, I leapt at the chance to increase my public exposure even one millimeter. If you check out Pab's site, you can find a list of stations and net-casters, or you can wait for Pab to post the episodes in the Audio Vault. The shows I'm hosting will air the weeks of October 3rd and 10th, but you should check out the Project even if you hate me, because it's quality broadcasting, and Pab deserves your support.

The Emmys...
  I didn't watch them, and I don't care who won or lost. I find some shows entertaining, and some shows not, and I don't see what the opinion of hundreds of TV industry insiders should do to affect that.
  Most of the networks' lineups can be offered as evidence that those people know as much about quality television as I do about manufacturing crystal meth. And I'm ahead of the game, because I bet I could go online and download instructions for making crystal meth.
  Next topic.

This is an excerpt from Amy's new show, Live Nude Gods. Hilarity ensues. HILARITY!

Satan: (whining) Damn it! Could you two just decide on something before my head explodes from boredom?

Holy Ghost: I’m not going to leave until God agrees that Adam can’t mate with a monkey.

God: He can mate with whatever he wants!

Holy Ghost: No he can’t!

Satan: If Adam wants to fuck a monkey let ‘im! I’m hungry! I want pizza!

I haven't forgotten, I promise.
  I'm still going to take pictures of my new car, and tell you all about Grandma and Flora. I've been sick, though, and there's a hurricane, so y'all will just have to wait.
  I hate being sick, incidentally. *whine*

I'm sure I'm not supposed to do this,
  but fuck it. The management of the Deptford Mall has decided that it is appropriate to remain open, ignoring the fact that the Governor of New Jersey has declared a state of emergency effective a 4 pm this afternoon, and despite the inland tropical thuderstorm wind warning in effect until tomorrow morning. What this means is that any store which decides to err on the side of caution and close up early will be facing a fine from the mall for violating the terms of their lease.
  On a more personal note, it means that my girlfriend, who is already uncomfortable driving in the dark and the rain, will now be forced to drive home after 10 pm in a fucking tropical storm! I cannot imagine the depths of greedy self interest that you need to plumb before the safety and well-being of about a thousand people matters less than keeping a mall open on the off chance that some crack-smoking asshole will feel the overwhelming need to go out in a tropical storm to buy jeans.
  I somehow doubt that this blog gets me enough exposure to foment a serious boycott, but it certainly couldn't hurt to try. If this bothers you as much as it bugs me, please email the mall at info@deptfordmall.com, or their management company at kravco@kravco.com to voice your displeasure. If you know anyone who is employed at the mall, please think seriously about whether you want to support an establishment which holds so little regard for the safety or your friend or loved one.

Dear LBB,
  I want to take my boyfriend to NYC for his birthday to see a Broadway musical called "Wicked," based on the novel by Gregory Maguire.
  I am worried that he won't like it. What if it sucks? What if he has a horrid birthday and it's all my fault?
  What else could I get him? He is emphatically opposed to gift cards, but he likes books, DVDs, computer equipment, electronics... he is, however, an impulse buyer, and if there's something he wants to buy, he tends to go get it himself shortly after it comes out! Oh, LBB, what's a girl to do?????
Signed,
Bugged in Bucks County
Dear Bugged,
  As you know by now, I do not routinely counsel optimism. However, in this case, I believe things are going to be okay, for two reasons.
1) Wicked is basically a retelling of Frank Baum's The Wizard of Oz, with the Wicked Witch of Some Direction or Other as the main character and narrator. It's a musical, based on a book, based on another book, which has previously been adapted into what I believe is fair to call a fairly successful musical. In short, I think it's likely to be pretty good, for a musical. If he likes the book, he should like the show.
2) If he's a decent guy, he won't complain about being taken to New York City for the evening. Hell, if he isn't a decent guy, but he still has some kind of brain in his head, he'll sit through the show and still not complain about being taken to New York City for the evening. If he's a total schmuck with a scooped out tortoise shell for a brain, he'll probably still know enough to act grateful in order to preserve his chances of getting laid ever again.
  In short, don't worry too much about it. He'll enjoy it, or pretend to, and everyone will go home happy, provided you have sex with him. If you're still unsure, skip the trip and give him the never-fail gift of fellatio.

I have many nuggets of wisdom.
  I keep them in a little velvet bag, and I hoard them like delicious candy. Every once in awhile, I notice that they've started to melt and soak through the bag, so I dump them out on the floor, have the bag dry-cleaned, and I start accumulating new ones. The last time around, before they became a trodden-on lump leaching into my floor, I found this little gem.
  Don't like something so much that you can't stand to hear it mocked even a little bit. I know, I know, everyone has their favorite band, movie, deity, etc. that they don't like to see the piss taken out of. Go ahead, have your obsessions. But for the love of your sacred cow, if your advocacy is so devoted and so total that even good-natured teasing or disagreement with your opinion will offend your sensibilities enough that you'll quarrell with an otherwise stalwart and cherished friend, you're taking it way too god damn far.
  After that sentence, I need to have a lie-down. *pant pant*

No, seriously
A haiku for those of us looking for a second cat to keep our first cat company.

We love every
single kitty. One by one.
On the Internet.

(Author's note: It only works if you pronounce it ev-er-y. That makes the first line five syllables.)