CRAMER vs. NOT CRAMER*

It’s pretty much a cliché to say that comedians are the only people allowed to speak the truth in a society. If there was any doubt, last night’s episode of the Daily Show was a pretty good example.

Jon Stewart spent most of the show interviewing “Mad Money” host Jim Cramer and it wasn’t quite what I expected. Stewart spent much of the past week attacking CNBC for its reporting before and during the recent financial collapse. His point was that the financial network was playing cheerleader for the investment banks that were taking unreasonable risks. In the process, the argument goes, CNBC encouraged people to invest in funds the network should have known were bad.

Cramer took exception with some of Stewart’s criticisms and made the rounds on various NBC-owned networks to make his case. Stewart did some more pieces mocking Cramer, and before you know it we had a full blown media feud. But the feud seemed a little manufactured by the 24-hour news networks that apparently had little else to report on.

So when I heard Cramer was coming on the Daily Show, I had an idea of what I would see. Cramer would come on and submit himself to some good natured ribbing from Stewart, then deliver some mea culpa and defend his network. In the end, the two would have a pleasant exchange that would end in a hug and perhaps even a commitment for Stewart to appear on Mad Money.

That’s not what happened. Instead, Stewart acted as both prosecutor and lead speaker at an intervention. He played numerous video clips of Cramer talking about short selling or how to talk the market down. Stewart swore, shouted, and at one point appeared to come close to tears. He clearly articulated popular rage at Wall Street and asked Cramer to account for his contributions to the financial crisis.

As a piece of television theater, it was riveting. Just about everything on television these days is so pre-scripted and pre-packaged that it wrings all the life out of it. But for about 30 minutes something truly unpredictable was happening.

I watched the interview with Julie and she mentioned that it was less an interview than Stewart lecturing Cramer. Several times, Stewart asked Cramer interesting questions that Cramer never really got a chance to answer. In fact, the unusually contrite Cramer had a hard time getting a word in edgewise.

Despite all that, I thought the interview was a useful exercise. First, it was a great catharsis. CNBC has been shouting at us so long, it’s about time somebody finally shouted back and said, “this isn’t a f---ing game,” as Stewart did. And while Cramer didn’t really have a chance to answer many of the tough questions Stewart asked, they’re out there now and they’ll be repeated often during the next several weeks. I promise you, a lot of the weekend political and finance chat shows will contain segments on the financial media, their role in the financial crisis, and their responsibility to the public.

Cramer’s best point during the interview was that journalists, financial and otherwise, can’t really call high officials on their B.S. He told the story of a reporter coming back from an interview with then-Treasury Secretary Henry Paulson and saying, “That guy did nothing but lie today.”

Of course, the reporter didn’t say that on the air. It breaks the rules. But I wish it didn’t. There are just too many self-evident truths reporters turn up that they aren’t really allowed to say. I guess that’s why we have comedians.

(*Title stolen directly from the Daily Show)

POISONED BY THE PROCESS?

Back in 2000, I was watching the Democratic and Republican presidential primaries unfold and I had a wonderful dream. "What if," I thought, "John McCain and Bill Bradley won their respective nominations?" It was a long shot, but I couldn't help but dream. After all, Bradley and McCain were said to like each other, and both had agreed to certain spending limits and to running something other than the typical presidential campaign.

Instead, we got Bush and Gore and one of the most depressing election cycles ever... until 2004, of course.

But I kept thinking back to that dream matchup. If only two principled people could come together and have a real, thoughtful debate about the future of our country, then America would be the real winner.

In the last eight years, I've grown older and more crotchety. But I'll admit my foolish dream of 2000 was revived this year when McCain and Obama won their parties nominations. Here were two intelligent, principled people who want to lead our nation. Now we can have that awesome presidential campaign I'd always dreamed of. Untethered by the divisive politics of the past rooted in the culture wars of the 1960s, this campaign would be about the future and about how American can live up to the promise laid out in its founding documents.

The election is less than a month away, and I'm now willing to admit that I'm a complete idiot for ever thinking this election would ever be anything other than the depressing slog it has become.

McCain has Palin out saying that Obama is making herbal tea for the Talaban. Obama is preparing to run ads linking McCain to the Keating Five scandal and the Savings and Loan collapse of the late 80s. It's pretty much conventional wisdom that the campaign will become increasingly negative over the next four weeks.

So how did we get here? How did we start with two people who seem basically decent and end up with the exact brand of dispiriting bickering both promised to stop?

One idea is that the bubble of the campaign is so complete that candidates slowly lose touch with reality as the rest of us know it. Once these candidates get Secret Service protection, they're pretty much isolated from everyone except immediate family, campaign advisers, and crowds of security screened adoring fans. How can that not warp your view of the world? The campaign also allows candidates little time to do much other than campaign. Obama was mocked by some for saying he wished he had more time to think during the campaign, but there may be something to that.

Another factor may be the the permanent campaign infrastructure in Washington. Drifting around DC are political hacks who drift from campaign to campaign over the course of their careers. They're hired guns who supposedly have the know how to help a candidate win. But they also have their own agendas. Many get kickbacks for big television ad buys, and all are certain they know the way for victory in November. I'm told by someone who should know that there are some decent political operatives out there, but from what I can see, they tend to be sleazy lot. In seems like they've got the same depressing playbook, and they just plug new candidates into the formula (if I might mix my metaphors).

But there is, perhaps, another more depressing reason why the campaign is taking a dismal turn. Perhaps the very act of running for president is harmful to one's soul. When I was in Washington, a reporter who had covered many presidential campaigns said nobody can become president unless they want it more than anything in the world. Maybe all that desire whithers the spirit.

If that's the case, then I guess it's time to take a cue from "The Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy." In that world, anyone who had the desire to rule the galaxy was disqualified from having the job. And right about now, that doesn't sound like such a bad idea.

NBC LIES!

I'm looking at the TV playing the Olympics. There's a graphic in the corner indicating I'm watching a live broadcast. I'm also looking at an AP wire story that tells me the result of the race that will be starting in a minute. It posted 3 hours ago. Lying bastards.

Isn't there a law against that?

MFR-PHX

I still remember the first time I rode in a plane with my father. It was part of a family vacation. We boarded a United Airlines 727 at Rochester "International" Airport and few to Chicago O'Hare. From there we hopped onto a DC-10 and flew to Hawaii. I was 21 years old.

For much of my childhood, I was quite put out that I had never been on an airplane. But with the wisdom of adulthood, I see the wisdom in his ways.

Our trip from Oregon to Arizona went off about as good as could be hoped for, which is to say it was excruciating. Nate and Will were actually pretty good on the plane, with the exception of a screaming fit as we were trying to board. But small children and air travel just don't mix. And small planes... those don't mix either.

Once again I am forced to curse the people who invented the regional jet. It's increased use on longer and longer routes has only helped make the unpleasant experience much more unpleasant. The problem is the size of the seats. They're just too small. If you're taller than 5' 2", you won't fit into those seats. Add a lap child, and the misery is compounded.

I had promised myself that, after I moved from Medford, I would only live in cities served by full sized jets (737 or larger). But there's no escaping these little terrors of the sky. On Monday, I'm flying from Phoenix to Los Angeles: two of the largest cities in the United States. I'll be flying on one of those nasty regional jets.

But I'd rather light a candle than curse the darkness (actually I'm quite fond of cursing the darkness, but that's another issue). On Monday that nasty regional jet will be taking me to Los Angeles. I'll visit some of my former teachers at my old school, and then take in some local theater. I miss Los Angeles every day and I'm happy I get to see it for a few days before heading off to Turkey.

I'll check in from LA if I can and let you know if I got my picture taken with Pee Wee Herman (it could happen... really).

YOU'VE COME A LONG WAY

Every school child in America knows the story of Rosa Parks: she refused to give up her seat in the front of a segregated bus in Montgomery, Alabama and helped spark the civil rights revolution.

Last Saturday was the 52nd anniversary of that historic act of civil disobedience. In Eugene, Oregon, the Lane County Transportation District decided to honor Ms. Parks by reserving a seat for her on all of their buses. The reserved seat included a picture of Rosa Parks and a short biography of what she did all those years ago.

There is one catch, however. The reserved seat is... wait for it... AT THE BACK OF THE BUS.

I learned of this story when we paid the tribute a short mention on a weekend newscast, making brief mention of the seat's location. The video sent over from the original station that covered it clearly showed the reserved seat about two rows from the back of the bus. Amazingly, I have seen almost no reference to this detail online. One newspaper report said the reserved seats were in front. A student run paper delicately suggested that the seats were "right before the rear exit." (Not quite accurate, but closer than the pros got.)

But before I get too wrapped up in journalistic minutiae, allow me to ask the following question: what was the Lane County Transportation District thinking?

No doubt this was a well intentioned tribute, and the organizers only wanted to honor a woman who helped change history. And there are certain constraints surrounding reserving seats on buses. Most of the front seats are already reserved for the elderly and handicapped.

But this was a symbolic gesture on the part of bus company. Obviously, the late Ms. Parks wasn't going to show up and claim any of her reserved seats. So why couldn't they see the symbolism of reserving her a seat at the back of the bus?

Imagine if Rosa Parks actually did show up to take a bus ride that Saturday afternoon. What would the driver say to her? "Welcome, Ms. Parks! We've got a special seat all set for you... just keep heading towards the back."

I have a feeling she would have declined the offer, no matter how well intentioned.

TORTURED LOGIC

The Senate Judiciary Committee has voted and it appears pretty much a certainty that Michael Mukasey will be confirmed as the US Attorney General in the near future.

His hearings brought up the rather uncomfortable subject of torture. I was always understood that we (meaning the United States) didn’t torture people. But once stories about Abu Ghraib and secret prisons began appearing in the news, I was forced to confront the grim notion that our hands aren’t so clean.

Perhaps most galling was the revelation in the New York Times last month that the US government was publicly declaring torture illegal, while secretly looking for ways to torture more people in US custody.

And on top of it all, Mukasey refused to say whether or not waterboarding is torture (hint: it is).

The White House argument for waterboarding (simulated drowning) goes a little something like this: the US is waterboarding prisoners, but the US doesn’t torture. Therefore, waterbaording isn’t torture. It’s logic that would make Socrates proud.

Furthermore, argues the White House, these “enhanced interrogation” techniques that include stress positions, sleep deprivation, extreme hot and cold temperatures, and head slapping, are not inhumane or degrading… and they provide useful and accurate information.

I’m willing to believe our president when he says this, and I’m willing to go him one better. If these techniques aren’t inhumane or degrading and provide great information, let’s give congress the power to use them as well.

Imagine how much more forthcoming Alberto Gonzales would have been if he had been taken out of a freezer, placed before congress and asked:

“Why did you fire those attorneys?”

Gonzales: I don’t recall.

(sound of head slapping)

Gonzales: Ouch. I still don’t recall.

(sound of water being poured down a man’s windpipe)

Gonzales: Oh, now I remember, I’m an incompetent partisan hack.

This should make C-SPAN much more interesting.

DANGEROUS IDEAS

I've already written on two separate occasions about Oregon's absurd outlawing of self service gas. Despite the fact that were are several years into the 21st century, Oregon's gas stations are stuck somewhere back in the 1950s. You have to pull up to the pump, and wait for some guy to pump your gas for you. It's kind of a hassle.

Over the past two years, only once have I openly flouted state law by pumping gas myself. But today, things got out of hand.

I'm in a hurry to get somewhere, but I'm almost out of gas. I pull into the closest station and wait at a pump. There are 7 other pumps at the station, and cars are pulled up next to all of them. Nobody comes up to my car, so I get out to see what's going on. Every single driver is waiting for a single attendant, who is in his little booth on the phone or something.

I look both ways, grab a nozzle, and start pumping. I thrust my fist in the air and shout, "Power to the people!"

An older woman gets out of her car and says, "Can you just do that?"

"Why not? I went to college, I think I'm perfectly capable of filling a gas tank."

"Yeah, me too. I grew up in California, I know how to pump gas."

"Take the power back, my sister!"

She swipes her credit card, grabs a nozzle and gets to work.

A third person gets out of her car.

"Really, can you just do that?"

I point to the gas station attendant.

"If he cares, let him come out of his shack and stop us."

"This is ridiculous, I'm going to start pumping my own." And she does.

"That's right, millions and millions of people in 48 other states* will pump their own gas today with no repercussions whatsoever. Don't let this lame station attendant keep you down."

Just then, my handle clicks. I'm full. I grab my receipt from the pump and get back into my car.

"Fight the power!"

I drive off. In the rear view mirror, I see the attendant finally leave his shack. I don't know if he was able to stop the other people from pumping, and I don't care. The idea is out there and it's spreading. There's no way you can stop it.

The revolution starts today!

BOO: THE PREVIEW

I’ve had to work for the past 8,000 Halloweens in a row, so I’m quite excited to have this coming Wednesday off. Unlike years past, I won’t be heading out to any cool parties or watching a parade of oddballs on some main street. Instead, I’ll be taking the guys to a few homes for Trick or Treating, then staying at home to hand out candy.

And it is here where I feel I must address the declining standards among our children today. And when I say “our children,” I’m actually talking about “your children.” The last time I handed out candy on Halloween, I was appalled at how many kids were completely ignorant of Tick or Treat etiquette.

If you’re a kid, Halloween has to be the best holiday in the world. You throw a sheet on your head, say “trick or treat,” and collect your loot. You’ll never find a better deal than that. One year when I was about 11, a friend and I spent a few days mapping out neighborhoods and devising strategy or maximum candy intake. By the time the night was over, we had each hauled in something like 18 pounds of candy. It was one of the proudest moments of my life.

But the entitled youth of today view candy as a right, not a privilege. What else can explain the scene that confronted me the last time I handed out candy on Halloween? It was about 7 years ago and I still lived in Los Angeles. On that day, scores of kids came to our door dressed in jeans and t-shirts and just stared at me.

“Yes? What do you want?” I would ask.

No reply.

“Is there anything I can help you with?”

More silence.

All these kids had to do is say “trick or treat” and they were entitled to free candy. But they couldn’t even be bothered to utter three one syllable words.

The strategy worked, though. Eventually I would throw some candy at them just to make them go away. So I guess I’m enabling the little slackers.Then there is the issue of costume. While Nate will be dressing up this year as a monkey, and Will will be a lion (see photo above), not everyone is so ambitious. The vast majority of kids who came to my door last time weren’t dressed up in any way. When I would ask them what they were dressed as, I would be greeted with more silence.

When I complained about this to my roommate, she said I was being too harsh on the kids. After all, perhaps these kids were poor and didn’t have money for a costume.

Fair enough, I replied, but you can always come up with an excuse for what you’re wearing. I knew a guy who never dressed up for Halloween. All he did was put on a sticker that said, “Hello, My Name is: Don Johnson.” He would change up names based on current events. My favorite was when he went as Michael Jordan.

And kids don’t even need a sticker, just the ability to think fast. If you’re wearing a button down shirt, say you’re Dwight from “The Office.” Wearing a knit shirt? Explain that you’re the entire cast of “High School Musical.” Jeans and a t-shirt? Looks like “West Side Story” to me. (Ok, I know, there isn’t a 8-year-old out there who would get that.)

But you can even take the literalist approach. Consider the following exchange I would like to have with a kid this Halloween who isn’t wearing a costume:

Me: So what are you dressed as?

Kid: I’m an elementary school student who wants candy.

That kid would get two fun size Kit Kats for being so audacious.

Alas, I expect no such candor from kids this Wednesday, and the extra Kit Kat will go to me.

So there.

A DAY FOR THE MAN

Yesterday I go to my favorite doughnut place for a healthful and delicious breakfast and find that almost all the good doughnuts are gone. Why?

"People have been coming in and buying lots of them. It's for Boss's Day, I think."

Boss's Day? Really? There's a Boss's Day?

The US has about a half dozen blue chip holidays, your Christmases, Independence Days, Memorial Days, that kind of thing. Then you've got the second tier holidays: the ones where you don't get the day off, but you'll probably celebrate in some way. Think Valentine's Day, Halloween, Mother's Day.

At the bottom of the food chain is a whole list of holidays that seem pretty much to be invented by Hallmark. These holidays are often little noticed by the general public, but they at least tend to recognize the underdogs of society: Grandparent's Day, Secretary's day, National Illegal Laborer Day, etc.

Then there's National Boss's Day. You could argue that National Boss's day comes every two weeks when your boss receives a paycheck many times larger than yours. Perhaps it comes when the corporate bonus arrives. Maybe the extra days of vacation your boss gets counts as a personal observance of National Boss's Day.

But no, someone got the idea that we needed to take time out of our busy work schedules to honor our bosses for being our superiors. According to Internet legend, that person was Patricia Bays Haroski, who was a secretary at an insurance company in Illinois. Her boss was her dad. His birthday was October 16th. Though some mechanism, she got Illinois to declare the day Boss's Day in 1962, and the whole thing has just spiraled out of control ever since.

While many people were scrambling for doughnuts to feed their bosses, others wrote songs and bought greeting cards. My colleagues at a competing station here ACTUALLY DID A FEATURE LENGTH INTERVIEW WITH THEIR BOSS to observe the day.

Apart from not eating my doughnut of choice yesterday morning, I did not celebrate National Boss's Day. My boss is a perfectly decent guy, but he'll never know I didn't celebrate because he was at his second home in Mexico. As for next year, I don't know how I'll celebrate.

Perhaps the best thing to do is promote other lesser-known holidays to dilute the power of Boss's Day. International Talk Like a Pirate Day is starting to catch on, and National Mole Day always gets some play on NPR each year. I think I'm going to put most of my effort into promoting Towel Day. Towel Day is a celebration of the late author Douglas Adams. On May 25th, observers are instructed to carry a towel with them as reference to The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.

That seems a perfectly worthy holiday, and It coincides with Nerd Pride Day, which I already celebrate. Perhaps I'll observe it from my second home in Mexico... once I become the boss, of course.

BROWN BEAR, BROWN BEAR? BULL S--- BULL S---!

“Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What do you see?
I see a red bird looking at me.”

With those two short sentences, a literary atrocity was foisted upon the English speaking world. Bill Martin Jr’s 1967 book may be considered a classic, but it’s got plot holes so big you can drive a truck through them.

These flaws may not be apparent on the first few hundred reads, but once you’ve read it 700 or 800 times (and most parents have) the problems can no longer be ignored.

Brown Bear begins with the titular question, and the bear replies that he sees a red bird looking at him. Fair enough. The narrative travels through a series of open doors that ultimately lead nowhere. The red bird sees a yellow duck, who sees a blue horse, who sees a green frog, who sees a purple cat, and so on, and so on, and so on.

But the story really breaks down when the sheep hits the scene. (It seems like sheep are often a source of trouble.) In the book, the sheep is asked what he sees, and he claims a goldfish is looking at him. This, in my opinion, is utter nonsense.

I can accept that a duck would have occasion to see a horse (be it blue or otherwise), and a frog would be in a position to see a cat. But I can’t think of any circumstance where a sheep would be in the same room with a goldfish.

Perhaps, somewhere in the world, there is a kid who has an irrational attachment to his goldfish… who has to carry it with him in a bowl wherever he goes… who just so happens to be visiting a petting zoo. But that would change this supposed children’s book into a psychology text book. If nothing else, the sheep would have at least made mention of this extremely unlikely circumstance:

“Black Sheep, Black Sheep, what do you see?”
“I see a child with a severe mental disorder who needs to be spending more time with a professional therapist and less time at this farm.”

The book continues with the goldfish being looked at by a teacher, who in turn is looking at children acting like various animals. Perfectly reasonable scenarios, but by the time I got there, I had mentally checked out. Once credibility is lost, you really can’t get it back.

Martin seeks to cover up these flaws by writing almost the exact same book again and calling it “Polar Bear, Polar Bear, What Do You Hear?” In this book, various animals claim auditory hallucinations that take the form of peacocks, walruses, zebras, etc. This time, the book is set in a zoo, so I guess that makes it all plausible. Whatever.

But perhaps Martin’s most audacious move was to write the entire “Brown Bear” book a third time. This time it was called “Panda Bear, Panda Bear, What Do you See?” and, once again, a series of animals sees a series of other animals. The hook this time is that they’re all endangered species, but that only makes all the more unlikely that they’d actually see each other.

“Panda Bear” really jumps the shark when it gets to the macaroni penguin. That animal has no place in this book. First, the syllables don’t fit. “Macaroni Penguin, Macaroni Penguin, what do you see?” Nope, I’m not buying it. But then I did a little research and learned that macaroni penguins (which I previously thought the author had made up for this book) aren’t even endangered. As a matter of fact, the International Penguin Conservation Group (and Wikipedia) says macaroni penguins are the most numerous of all the world’s penguins.

(Fun fact: the macaroni penguin was named after the line in “Yankee Doodle” about the guy putting the feather in his cap.)

So what are we to make of “Brown Bear,” and all the bear’s that have followed him? It is clear the author believes he can make a fool of his reader, and this is unfortunate. These days it’s more important than ever that we… hang on… I’m going to have to finish this later, my kids want me to read the book to them again.

Oh well.

Next in our children’s book series, we take a look at the post-modern classic “The Monster at the End of this Book”

PERHAPS THEY'RE LOOKING FOR THAT BIG TRUCK

Tonight we learn that federal agents raided the home of Alaska Senator Ted Stevens. Now I hate to be one of those people who feel like that German word I can't spell that means you take delight in the suffering of others, but it's hard to weep for Stevens. He's one of the nastier figures in the US Senate (and that's quite an accomplishment), but he knows how to bring home the bacon. Bridge to nowhere, anyone?

The FBI is reportedly investigating Stevens' relationship with an oil field developer who has pleaded guilty to bribing Alaska politicians. The investigation is still ongoing, but I learned through he Internet tubes that a major remodel of Stevens' home may have been bankrolled by this developer.

Between the investigation, Steven's advanced age, and an uncertain electoral picture in Alaska, we may not have Stevens to kick around much longer. He's already had his wings clipped since the Democrats retook the senate. Back in the heady days of the Republican majority, Stevens gave a famous speech on the nature of the Internet... the Internet he was in charge of regulating. So let's take a trip down memory lane and listen to the soothing tones of Ted Stevens.

Goodbye, Ted, we're going to miss you.


And if you're really hardcore, check out this great techno remix of that speech.

I NOW PRONOUNCE YOU MATT & JOHN

So "I Now Pronounce You Chuck & Larry" opened in theaters this weekend and is now the #1 movie in America. This is bad news because the film looks like complete crap.

I've not seen the film, but it looks like two guys get married (I'm assuming in Massachusetts) to keep receiving health benefits or something. But these are two really manly guys so, you know, being gay is lame. So they mince about in public to keep the ruse up. But when nobody is looking, they prove how straight they are by burping and farting a lot and drooling over Jessica Biel's boobs.

If they really wanted to do the film right, they should have adhered to the first rule of the fake marriage genre: the people who pretend to be married discover that they actually are in love. Now that would be a daring comedy.

And what's more, this film doesn't look anything like my experience of pretending to be gay to cheat the system. I should explain.

It happened when I lived in LA. One of my best friends in town was a delightful gay Canadian named John. He had a high paying job working on the Tonight Show. I was unemployed and living in a garage. We met when I interviewed for a job. I didn't get hired, but John and I became good friends.

One Saturday afternoon, John called:

"Hey Matt, want to go to Disneyland?"

"You know I can't afford that."

"Of course you can't afford that. I'm paying, but I'll need your help with something."

He arrived about 30 minutes later and explained further.

"Here's the thing, Matt: every employee at Disney is a big old screaming queen." (apparenly he's allowed to say that)

"I didn't know that, but I guess it makes sense."

"So I need you as eye candy." (what with my rugged Stone Phillips looks)

"I don't get it."

"When the ride operators see us together, they'll assume we're 'together' and they'll let us cut in line."

"Shut up!"

"No, really, it works. It's like a secret club."

"Do you really think they'll believe I'm gay?"

"Every last one of my friends think you're gay, so I'm pretty sure the folks at Disney will, too."

"And they're going to let us cut in line?"

"Oh yeah."

So we arrive at the Happiest Place on Earth™ and get into the Indiana Jones line. We weave our way through the line's many caverns until we reach a place where the Head Line Guy (not sure what the actual title is) can see us. He gets on his tiptoes, points to us, and waves us forward. I couldn't believe it.

At the Matterhorn, a man came and opened a special gate that directed us straight to the next available train. Amazing. I had never seen anything like this.

Then we hit Space Mountain and learned the limits of the Disney Gay Underground. A girl was running the line. Humf! We pouted as we actually had to wait in the entire line.

With the excepion of that one incident, my day at Disneyland was filled with the kind of VIP treatment usually reserved for heads of state or those kids who are dying. A good time was had by all. (And I didn't even have to put out!)

A much better time, it would seem, than spending 2 hours watching "I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry."

FORGET PARIS

I was all set to pen my love letter to my new obsession: the Faroe Islands, but that will have to wait a few more days. Instead, I feel an urgent need to write about what must be someone elses new obsession: Paris Hilton.

I have long wondered exactly why anyone would pay attention to this woman. The phenomenon of being famous for being famous is puzzling one, but there is usually a formula. Take Zsa Zsa Gabor, for instance. She appeared in some films in the 1950s, got access to some cash and "Hollywood People," and soon she doing nothing more than making cameo appearances on the Love Boat. By the time she got arrested for slapping a cop in the 1980s, nobody could remember why she was famous. But the point is she actually did something at some point of her life that merited fame before her life went adrift. (This is likely where Britney Spears is headed.)

Then there's Paris. There is absolutely no reason why anyone should pay attention to her. She's a fairly skanky rich girl who has a thing for alcohol and bad taste in sexual partners. She can have anything she wants, but that's not enough, she also wants us to be obsessed with her. So she releases sex tapes of herself and frequents places where she knows photographers will be lurking and prances around half-naked on a sports car in an attempt to sell hamburgers. She doesn't do this because she needs the money. Instead, she covets our brainshare.

I've taken great pride in ignoring as much of Paris and her life as is possible when you work in the news biz. But I must admit I was riveted by media reports two weeks ago when Paris was released then thrown back in jail. But at least I have a degree of shame about it, unlike some people I know.

So Paris is in jail for just a few more days, and when she gets out, the media will scramble to plaster her on every single newscast, TV show, and magazine available. I've just learned that Paris will appear on Larry king once she's released. But I'm struck by a statement she released before she headed off to jail for a second time...

"I must also say that I was shocked to see all of the attention devoted to the amount of time I would spend in jail for what I had done by the media, public and city officials. I would hope going forward that the public and the media will focus on more important things, like the men and women serving our country in Iraq and other places around the world."

Ignore, if you can, the irony of this woman--who has spent her short adult life begging us to pay attention to her--expressing shock that people would take notice of the details of her life. Instead, let's take her at her word. Let's ignore Paris.

There are very few problems that will go away if you ignore them, but annoying famous people are the exception. Think of OJ Simpson, people eventually tired of him and you hardly hear anything about him anymore (all that nonsense about his book went away mercifully fast).

So lets do it, let's ignore Paris. We can do this. I had considered registering the domain ignoreparis.com (it's available) and launching some sort of online campaign. Alas, I don't have the web savvy to launch my own website. So instead, I'm asking you, fair reader, to make your own pledge to ignore Ms. Hilton. When you see her on TV, change the channel. If she's on the cover of your favorite magazine, don't buy it. Avoid the temptation to click on the link that says "Paris Converts to Islam While Jailed."

Don't worry about ruining her life. She's got all the money she needs, and she's quite capable of ruining her own life, thank you. So ignore Paris. Ignore her because, no matter how dim you are, she does not deserve one synapse in your brain. Ignore her because she has no talent. Ignore her because she's tarnished the good name of the most beautiful city in Europe.

The media blitz is coming. It will be loud and furious. But you can resist it. I know you can. Just repeat after me: I will ignore Paris...

DIGITAL DARKNESS... THE HEAD-FAKE EDITION

This morning I received the joyous news that my computer was given a clean bill of health and could come home once again. I rushed over to the repair store and parted with an obscene amount of cash and took my laptop home again.

I plugged it in and hit start and within no time I was not back online. For some reason, my new "fixed" computer was unable to access anything online. This was most disconcerting as I didn't have that problem when I took it in. Perhaps the technicians didn't understand that when I said "fixed" I meant "repaired" not "neutered."

The computer goes back into the shop tomorrow. I have no idea when I'll see it again.

In other news, I found an old Palm Pilot I haven't used in a long time. Somewhere, I've got a full size keyboard that plugs into it. If I can get them together, I would at lease be able to write without putting pen to paper. My little Palm and keyboard setup was once considered quite impressive. In 2001, I was on a flight to France and I was doing a little bit of writing with my Palm. The flight attendant saw my collapsible keyboard and thought it was really cool. She paid lots of attention as I showed how it folded down into a container the size of a cassette tape. She was French and quite beautiful. I was quite married.

Alas, my nifty technology had arrived too late to make me cool to exotic foreign women. Of course, that nifty technology was a birthday present from an extremely awesome American woman. So I guess that more than evens things out.

I'm completely out of podcasts.

DIGITAL DARKNESS-DAY 3

I've been trying to keep a diary of my life without my laptop, but it's not easy. What am I supposed to write on? Pen and paper? I don't think so. It would be easy to say that constant use of computers has caused me to lose the ability to write things by hand. But that overlooks the fact that I was never able to write things by hand. I have handwriting so bad it actually counts as a learning disability. (really) But I've got time on someone else's laptop for a moment so I thought I'd check in.

First off, all the rhythms of my life are messed up without my computer. When I wake up, I have a routine. I stagger out of bed, update my podcasts, check my email, and then brush my teeth while my iPod is syncing. Now I get up and I don't know what to do. Of course, I have discovered that I have two children that are usually awake when I get up. Apparently, they are the same two children I have been posting photos of on this very blog for the past 9 months. Who knew? They're actually quite cute in person, too. So I guess there is some good that has come from all this.

But it is the lack of podcasts that is really wearing me down. In my job, I have to drive a lot, and podcasts are my way to pass that time. I have long since given up on radio, what with its commercials and insistence on playing shows and music on a schedule and not stopping their programming when I get out of the car. Luckily, I had about 18 hours of podcast programming on my iPod when I sent my laptop off to the Mayo Clinic. But things are getting a little thin now. Gone are the back episodes of "On the Media" and the Hospital Drum and Bass podcast. Now I'm actually listening to those BBC "In Our Time" podcasts that I downloaded just to make me feel smart. "In Our Time" features a panel of scholars speaking at length on some subject like Greek love poetry or symmetry or some obscure philosopher. I have listened to them all now, and I don't feel smart, I feel very stupid.

Right now, all that's left is an Australian program called "The Night Air." "The Night Air" is a program that mixes elements of "This American Life" with sound art and even some hip hop production values. I once actually heard a host of the program utter the following sentence regarding a fellow sound artist, "David works primarily in the medium of VHS tape hiss." I have only a few more episodes left, then I'm left with nothing but... the radio.

As an experiment, I listened to the radio this week, and it was just as lame as I remembered it. It pains me to say this because radio is my first love. I actually worked as a DJ for a while when I was 17 and it literally changed the course of my life. But things have changed a lot. Now all you hear is automation and angry right-wingers. (NPR is the exception, but I podcast most of their stuff anyway.)

So anyway, I turned on the radio a few days back and heard some man yelling at the top of his lungs about Iraq timetables or something like that. He was screaming so loud I thought he'd damage his studio microphone. I was about to turn the radio off and enjoy the silence, when I heard something even more disturbing on this radio station... me!

That's right, it was me reading a story on zebra mussels. Our station has a deal with a radio station group in town and reporters have to record radio versions of most of their stories. I've been sending out stories for more than a year, but I never had any idea what happened to them once I hit "send" on the mp3 file. But there I was, on conservative talk radio. Ah, if my parents could see me now.

So I'm hoping to hear from the repair place soon an learn that I can have my digital life back. But for now, I'm drifting back into the darkness. Until next time...

WE'VE ALL THOUGHT ABOUT IT

But this guy actually did it.

We've installed an automation system at work, and things can get pretty rough sometimes. Some days, you just want to freak out when things go wrong. But here in market size #141, we're too professional for that. So when the robots decide to pump the show's audio into the studio really loud, we just soldier on. But when you get to the larger markets like, say, Honolulu, well... they're kinda babies.

SPRING BACK

Well, the last weekend in March is behind us, and I'm sure you all enjoyed the spring ritual of setting your clocks back an hour. Some of you might have looked at that sentence and asked two questions.

1) Don't you set your clocks ahead an hour for daylight saving time?

2) Didn't daylight saving time start three weeks ago?

You're right on both counts but, at the same time, you're wrong. As you might imagine, the confusion is the result of a Technological Marvel of the Modern Age (TM).

When I was living in Texarkana I had a few problems. The first was that I lived in Texarkana. The second was an unreliable power supply. For whatever reason, the power went out in Texarkana with alarming frequency. Perhaps it was a move on the power company's part to show solidarity with their brothers in Baghdad. Perhaps the utility company didn't think we really needed electricity all the time. But whatever the case, it was not unusual to come home from work and find all the clocks blinking.

After a while, I got annoyed and bought a self-setting clock. Now before you get too impressed, this was not one of those fancy clocks that receives radio transmissions from the atomic clock in the US Naval Observatory. Those are expensive, and they certainly aren't for sale at a Target in Texarkana. Nope, I got a $15 clock radio from a company I've never heard of called Emerson Research.

The "Smart Set" clock has some inexpensive computer chip inside that runs a simple time program. It also has a calendar function. All you do is plug it in, and within seconds it knows the date and time. You do have to do is set the time zone, but that's the only alteration you should ever have to make. Ever. Not even for daylight saving time.

Then congress had to go mess everything up.

Despite my clock's designation as "smart," it didn't know that congress changed the starting date for daylight saving time this year. In fairness, it also didn't know about the massive oil company subsidies stuffed inside the energy bill that changed daylight saving time. So I guess I can't blame it.

So what that meant was, three weeks ago, when daylight saving time took effect, my clocks (yes, I would up going back to the store and buying more) did NOT change. The only way I could get them to display the proper time was to LIE to my clocks and tell them I was living in the Mountain time zone. Can you understand the humiliation of having my clocks thinking that I live in the lamest time zone in the US? It's not anything I would wish on my worst enemy.

So three weeks after I set all my clocks ahead, another thing happened. My "smart" clocks decided daylight saving time had come to the Mountain Time Zone and jumped forward. I actually saw it happen. I was trying to get a teething baby back to sleep when I glanced at the clock. It was 1:59 AM. Moments later, I looked up and it was 3:00.

(That's not some sort of literary device I'm employing there. It's not like I'm trying to describe how quickly time can pass when you're sitting with a screaming baby. It's all literal. It was just moment later, and the clock really did say 3... even though it wasn't. Everything clear? Good, then let's move on.)

As I saw the clock change, I realized that I was one of a few, proud Americans who won't just change their clocks twice a year. Instead, I get to change mine FOUR times a year.

I was complaining about this at work the other day (I complain about a lot of things at work) and someone mentioned that these clocks are cheap and easily replaceable. Why don't I just go to Target and plunk down another $15 for an updated clock? Nice try. Congress has changed daylight saving time on a trial basis. That's right, they could decide to change it back in a year or two if they wish. And by then I probably would have donated the old clocks to poor people who don't care about daylight saving time. What am I supposed to do then, huh?

I apologize for that outburst, it was uncalled for. I also apologize to poor people who are passionate about daylight saving time. It seems I should end this post before I cause any more trouble. But any suggestions on how to resolve this would be most welcome.