About two weeks ago the Daily Beast published an entire word-for-word piece written and posted last May. It was about Conan O’Brien’s lame effort to perform what might be the trickiest form of entertainment. The item pointed out that he had neither the skill-set nor dues-paying experience to attempt the art of standup comedy. (Oh, yeah? If you don’t think it’s an art, try it yourself. Sober.)
More importantly, the O’Brien critique was written for, and appeared on, LA Progressive, and became the property of LA Progressive. Okay, good enough, I like the Daily Beast…except, who the hell do they think they are?
Never mind me, the Daily Beast cheapskatedly (Look it up, under Neology) failed to accredit LA Progressive as whence it came, which made it look like one of their many staffers wrote it for them, and only for them.
The DB is a for-profit enterprise. What would it cost them to mention that it was lifted from (and was written expressly for) the LA Progressive?
I still enjoy reading the Beast, which I’ve mentioned here now more than three times. Wait a minute, here comes another one:
Whoever makes those kinds of decisions at the Daily Beast is an unprofessional, ego-driven, ignorant putz.
Jeez, how I love this gig.
Follow the Bouncing Ballbuster
It was very kind of Boom-Boom Annie’s family to alert me that, since Sarah Palin’s daughter, Whutsername, bought a house in the Phoenix area, Palin herself might move to Maricopa AZ (as a State From Which To Run for fellow-quitter John Kyle’s senate seat).
I hope that Palin does change her address, which will mean that she and John McCain can hang out and go to Friends Of Lobbyists For Multinational Corporations picnics together and…who knows? They may even start dating again. After all, there’s nothing more romantic than gunning down illegal aliens on a moonlit Arizona evening.
Six Degrees of Preparation
I got nothing. All day long I’ve been trying to figure out a logical way to use the above title, to slide it into print smoothly, like an Oakland Raider Special Teams deep safety slipping on astroturf. It’s been teasing me, laughing at me, making sport of my dwindling ability to twist words until they resemble a bus-full of Michele Bachmann-speak. I gave up several times and decided not to even try to squeeze it in, or give it any contextual relevance at all, but my mindless fingers went ahead and typed the damn thing without my permission. Six-Degrees-Of-Preparation. There, they did it again. BAD fingers! Before actually sitting down to write this paragraph, I should have been better prepa…
Celebrity Debts Roundup
For getting him out of the news spotlight,s Tiger Woods owes a debt of gratitude to Charlie Sheen.
Just like Amy Winehouse owes Lindsay Lohan.
Just like the delusional governor of Arizona owes the governor of Wisconsin.
Just like the delusional governor of Wisconsin owes Japan’s tragic tsunami earthquake.
Fear as a Weapon
Now that they’re in power, this current crop of self-serving blowhard politicians are suddenly quick to point out the dangers of the world in which we live. They pound home the message that they, and they alone, keep us safe from certain doom. Senators and representatives and other expensively-coifed puppets of the wrong Right want us to believe that, without the saving grace of their skillful southern drawls, we are all doomed to total annihilation. They will obediently parrot any ridiculous set of lies to convince us that we teeter on the edge of death and certain destruction. In other words, to quote one of my all-time favorite authors, Tim Dorsey, “Today’s Threat Level: DUCK!”
Life and Death and Ella Fitzgerald
The Rapture. Judgment Day. Really? Celebrate death? Wait a minute. Death is not the event. Life is the event.
The colors, the glee, the despair, the hope, the laughter, the whole incredible, unpredictable, unmanageable range of sensations that weave themselves into a lifetime, there’s your event. Life is the event.
It’s like when Ella sings. Sang. When she wanted it to, her last note faded into itself, and then there was sweet silence wrapped into its own perfect moment. And then, after a fraction of a beat, we got it. We exploded. We applauded. We cheered. We needed no more.
Life makes perfect sense because it’s the perfect event. It’s the greatest show that will ever be. It’s an impossible act to follow.
And so Life vamps into the mute mystery of whatever follows it. That, too, makes perfect sense. After a show like Life, you gotta have a little downtime.