It's Okay, I Am Screaming For Her

Various news organizations are reporting that Scientologists have been sighted bringing signs into the Cruise-Holmes mansion that remind Katie to keep quiet during labor.

On Monday, huge placards saying, "Be silent and make all physical movements slow and understandable," were carried into the couple's home, to be displayed around the house to remind Holmes to deal with the extreme pain of childbirth quietly.

Usually I leave the TomKat news to T&A Lady, but I really could not let this pass unmentioned. The preposterous basis for these signs is Hubbard's belief that keeping the mother quiet would prevent trauma to the child as it was being born. He must not have ever witnessed a live birth, since what actually happens in the birth canal has got to be a lot more traumatizing than hearing Katie Holmes tell Tom Cruise that he should go fuck himself. In fact, I think the little tyke, like the rest of us, would actually be gratified to hear her say that.

And while we are on the topic of celebrity births, I hope you haven't missed this.

Culture Math

I have a formula for you:

Hustle & Flow - The Commitments = Big Love

And, yes, doubters, I have seen all three of these. I am actually quite certain that the minds behind Big Love ("Polygamy Loves Company") came up with the concept after seeing Hustle and Flow. Essentially, there's a man, with father issues, struggling against the mores of society to keep his hos fed, if not happy. Djay has three hookers to pimp; Bill has three wives. When Shelby shows up at Djay's, Djay actually says something like, "You Mormons have balls." Bill's a Mormon. And at one point when Djay is rhapsodizing in his car about some bullshit*, he says, "You gotta have big love." I could go on but you get my point.

And it may turn out that Bill has A Dream that involves Wilson Pickett coming to town to hear him and his band of ne'er-do-wells sing with their heart and soul, in which case the equation will be Hustle & Flow - black people = Big Love. I probably will not be tuning back in to find out, however. I am just happy to assume that Bill, like Djay, ends up in the Big House for his troubles.

*the theme of which was probably, "It's hard out here for a pimp."

Innovations in Architecture

Sometimes you drive past a strip mall or office park so ugly, you can only hope that the designing architect has been turned out of his bed at night and beaten senseless by his/her cohorts, given a purple nurple and had his/her pencils sharpened to a nub. Or something.

And then something like this comes along, and you have hope for humanity. It's so brilliant. Hermit crab housing, modeled on a Fascist architect's designs, in recognition of the intrusion-into-nature through control that this idea intends. I think that few of us can say that our profession has ever made a contribution like this one to, well, hermit crabs.

For the Three or Four of You Who Care

Only about 3 or 4 of you will care about this, and you already know, but I do feel like some public grief needs to be spilled about the sale of Puffers in Chicago to an alleged "politically connected contractor (and "teetotaler", in the words of one longtime customer) who plans on turning the bar into a country and western-themed establishment with no live music, no cookouts in the beer garden, and no "foreign" beers."

Let's pause for a second and consider the idea of a (1) contractor who is (2) politically connected in (3) Bridgeport* who is also (4) a teetotaller. WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT ABOUT?

Geez, the White Sox have a good year and now actual Christians** move into the neighborhood and open country-western-themed restaurants?? Is this implausible or what? Or just sadder than any other gentrification effort you have EVER heard of?

Many of my good memories of Bridgeport go back to Puffers. Some bad ones too. Like watching 15 black kids with "Support Lenard Clark"*** signs march up and down Halsted while sitting in Puffers at the front window. But I am glad to say the patrons of Puffers were supportive of those kids, offended that they had neighbors who would bring such infamy to the neighborhood.

Anyway, just my two cents.

*Note for non-Chicagoans: Bridgeport is where Mayor Daley is from. His moms still lives like 3 blocks from Puffers, although since she's 400 years old, I doubt she's ever darkened their door. Plus, the bartender wears chaps, so that probably keeps her away too.

** As opposed to all the non-teetotalling Catholics.

*** Non-Chicagoans: Lenard Clark was a 13-year-old black kid from across the freeway (Robert Taylor Homes) who dared ride his bike over to Bridgeport/Armour Square, where he was jumped and beaten by some white teenagers. Read a little here.

Side Effects of Botox

This story was just brought to my attention:

Woman injected with fake Botox dies

One of at least two women given fake Botox injections died "several weeks ago" and the woman who performed the injections could face possible manslaughter charges, Monterey County Sheriff's Sgt. Terry Kaiser said today.
The victim's name is not being released, Kaiser said.

Martha Vasquez, 39, does not have a license to practice medicine, which is necessary to administer Botox injections. Investigators believe Vasquez administered the injections at the homes of her clients, who lived in the Salinas area.

Tests to determine what the fake Botox actually was are still under way, according to Kaiser.

Vasquez is currently in custody in Monterey County Jail. The sheriff's office is not releasing any further details about the case at this time because the investigation is ongoing. A spokeswoman for the Monterey District Attorney's office said no decision about possible charges against Vasquez had been made as of this morning.

I was also sent this picture, and I am going to pretend that this photo goes with the previous story, because it should, shouldn't it?

The State of Healthcare

As if nurses and patients don't already have enough problems, with overflowing hospital wards and crazy medical bills... This is in today's paper:

Neurosurgery chief arrested in Oakland operating room - Thursday, March 9, 2006
(03-09) 09:40 PST Oakland, Calif. (AP) --
The chief of neurosurgery at Highland Hospital was wrestled to an operating room floor by deputies and arrested after allegedly throwing a drunken fit when a nurse refused to let him operate, authorities said.

Federico Castro-Moure, 45, was arrested Monday night on suspicion of being under the influence of alcohol and interfering with the duty of officers, said Alameda County sheriff's Lt. Jim Knudson.

Castro-Moure became belligerent after insisting on operating on a man who broke his ankles and fractured his spine in a two-story fall, according to the sheriff's department. Two other surgeons had determined the injuries were not life-threatening, but Castro-Moure insisted the man would die if he did not receive immediate attention, the report said.

He "threw a fit" and began yelling and cursing at staff when they told him equipment for the procedure needed to be transferred from another hospital, according to the report. When the surgical instruments arrived, a nurse refused to allow Castro-Moure to operate until they could be sterilized.

Castro-Moure threatened the nurse by punching his fist in his hand. He took a swing at deputies after they were called to intervene. "Do you know that I am a (expletive) doctor, and I'm going to do what I want," he said, according to a witness.

He was booked into Glenn Dyer Detention Facility in Oakland and was released several hours later in lieu of $4,000 bail, a jail official said Thursday morning.

Castro-Moure was placed on leave while the hospital investigates the matter, hospital spokesman David Cone said.

A woman who answered the phone at Castro-Moure's home Thursday morning said the doctor had no comment.

How is This Funny?

Two little shitheads were arrested for the Alabama church fires. Their defense?

A witness quoted Cloyd as saying Moseley did it "as a joke and it got out of hand," according to the affidavit. Moseley also told agents the four church fires in west Alabama were set "as a diversion to throw investigators off," an attempt that "obviously did not work," the affidavit said.

Fucking idiots. Sorry to sound like some sort gold standard advocate or something, but what the hell is wrong with people these days? Whoever thought it would be funny or something to set churches on fire? No one. Not even white supremacists do it for shits and giggles. They do it to propogate terror and evil, not because it's fucking funny.

Message to the AMA

Dear AMA:

Save your freakin' money. At first I thought this news was a misplaced Onion article, but no, it's true, the AMA has found that (drum roll, please) spring break is bad and unhealthy for young women. Read about it here.

Kathleen Fitzgerald, a 21-year-old junior at Illinois State University, said the AMA's effort to raise awareness is a good idea, but probably won't do much to curb drinking during spring break.

"I think a lot of students wouldn't really pay that much attention to it," Fitzgerald said. "They would just be like, `Duh, that's why we do it.'"

Genius.

The only reason that The Onion never wrote this article is because here's how it would have gone in the pitch meeting:

Writer 1: How about an article about a medical study finding that Spring Break is bad for women? You know, all the alcohol and sun and unprotected sex?
Other Writers: (Silence)
Editor: See me in my office after this.

Writer 1 was even lame enough to create dumb graphic to accompany his stupid story.

My Apologies, Gentle Readers

A reader says, "I realize that you're probably busy but could you please post something new on your blog! I'm getting sick of seeing those butts." She later remarks that there is something particularly distressing about the butt/backpack combo. Probably gives her flashbacks to her honeymoon, but I won't explore that any further.

Anyway.

Another reader shares this from Range Life. NoCal folks will appreciate it most, but I think all NPR listeners will find something in this letter that resonates:

Dear KQED:

It's time now to kill "Perspectives."

Every weekday morning at 7:37, whilst Morning Edition fans in other markets are learning important things about the sorry condition of the world, Bay Area listeners are subjected to three minutes of personal stories about the pain of being bi-racial in Berkeley, or about the pain of being a nerdy teenager who doesn't wear Abercrombie, or about the pain of transcending consumerism during Christmastime.

In other words, it's a pointless segment of "I me my me me I my me me me me me," sort of like a LiveJournal site, but one that you're forced to read all the way through while it rubs your nipples with a cheese grater.

Today's edition, however, was such an atrocity against all that is holy and virtuous about public radio that I feel compelled to speak out. Adrienne DeAngelo's "Perspective" this morning consisted entirely of a long advertisement for Bugaboo strollers, a wildly expensive product line that Ms. DeAngelo wants to acquire for her baby. She went so far as to list the models, plus the features and benefits of each.

It would be annoying enough to hear Ms. DeAngelo whine about how much she misses her grandma or how much she hates traffic, like your other insightful "Perspectives" contributors, but to hear her engage in such flagrant shillery left me feeling like I'd been ear-raped by a car dealership.

What was it like in the studio when Ms. DeAngelo recorded this disaster? Did the
engineer and producer shoot each other an awestruck "This is gold!" look and high five? Is Ms. DeAngelo going to be invited back to brag about her new Bose iPod dock, or whine about her husband not buying her a Lexus RX350?

It's time for "Perspectives" to go. In the Internet age, we don't need NPR to encourage ordinary citizens from Rock Ridge and the Castro to add to an uninformed cacophony about how schoolkids need more art classes, or how happy they are they gave up coffee, or how badly new moms should want an $800 stroller. Let them go get blogs like the rest of us fools, so we can ignore them.

Yours truly,
Seamus

It's True

There's a lid for every pot.

I Didn't Want to Be the One to Say It

I thought it didn't need to said outright, but John Roberts sure is flaunting his persuasion these days, if you know what I mean.

May the Circle Be Unbroken

I don't want you to think I was actively cruising the Lebowski Fest website, but I do need you to know that the site features two circle closures for this blog.

First of all, it IS Liam, and someone thought it was funny enough to make one of these dumb fake church signs out of it.

Second, lebowskiites have already participated in at least one documented bed race. A bed race, dude.

I can't promise that I am done with any of these topics, but I will try very very hard.

Mmmm Good.

Once upon a time, there was a tiny little burg called Haggis-In-The-Can-By-The-Sea. It was a lovely place, and quiet, where all the movies were rated PG and folks left perfectly good wood outside for their neighbors to use as firewood. That kind of place. The kind of place you might like to hunker down and watch from a distance as Atlantic City blazes to the ground in The Rapture, knowing full well that you will survive and be assumed whole cloth into Heaven.

Anyway, one day, the good people of Haggis-In-The-Can-By-The-Sea decided that they wanted to share their local delicacy with the greater world. And in their goodness, they knew that they needed to expand their product line to ensure that it was all-inclusive. Thus, Vegetarian-Haggis-In-The-Can was born. I thought I could help them out, spread their message, spread their joy.

In a hopefully related note, Dismas House is soliciting recipes for its Dismas cookbook. Please join Mike Dukakis "Dukakis Clam Chowder", Sister Helen Prejean "New Orleans fried catfish", author of Dead Man Walking, Kay and John Bassett from Clark University, "Meatloaf," and submit a recipe for the Dismas House cookbook. This cookbook will feature Dismas cooks' recipes, inmate creative recipes made on hot pots, "Honey bun and snickers sandwiches," and photos/profiles of people who live in the community and support Dismas!

This is Getting to be Very Awesome

Pork Roll Shunners! Take Heed! Brown Bread Haters! Run! I bring you Cross & Blackwell Hunger Breaks All Day Breakfast. Have you ever been gladder that we won the Revolutionary War?

Here's the breakdown:

Description: All Day Breakfast baked beans in tomato sauce with sausages, button mushrooms, chopped pork and egg nuggets with cereal, and bacon.

Thanks to KMLC for the tip. Your case of All Day Breakfast is in the mail.

Question

Does anyone know whether, in The Big Lebowski, Jesus Quintana's bowling partner is named Liam or Seamus? I could have sworn, rewatching it on Friday night, that it's Liam, but then Dools found the script on-line:


QUINTANA: I see you rolled your way into the semis. Deos mio, man. Seamus and me, we're gonna fuck you up.
DUDE: Yeah well, that's just, ya know, like, your opinion, man.

UPDATE:

Okay, I am vindicated. The correct version of the script reveals that I was, in fact, stone cold sober throughout the entire movie (this time):

Jesus Quintana: You ready to be fucked, man? I see you rolled your way into the semis. Dios mio, man. Liam and me, we're gonna fuck you up. The Dude: Yeah, well, you know, that's just, like, your opinion, man. Jesus Quintana: Let me tell you something, pendejo. You pull any of your crazy shit with us, you flash a piece out on the lanes, I'll take it away from you, stick it up your ass and pull the fucking trigger 'til it goes "click." The Dude: Jesus. Jesus Quintana: You said it, man. Nobody fucks with the Jesus. Walter Sobchak: Eight-year-olds, Dude.

I feel so much better now.

But less better because it turns out there is a major Lebowski subculture filling the Trekkie void. It bums me out a little. It's enough to make a woman dwell on the goofs so that the good parts are somehow . . . less good.

If You Thought Pork Roll Sounded Gross

For those of you who think the regional/state specialty of Taylor Ham is wierd and stomach-turning, then maybe you would enjoy the Massachusetts' classic Bread in a Can. My hubbis recalls this from his youth, and to rival my cravings, has threatened to order it from the internets.

Stay tuned for information about our upcoming pork roll and brown bread party....

Cute Overload

I added a new link over there to the link, to Cute Overload. I stumbled on it while unsuccessfully* trying to vote for Go Fug Yourself to get a Webbie or a Bloggie or whatever. It's basically the opposite of GFY. I am just bringing to your attention because you might be tired of checking this blog unrelentingly for new content that is not, in fact, here yet.

*My unsuccess arose from being distracted by this new website.

Nelson Marans: Chemist, Writer

In an earlier post, I included a letter published in the NY Times and written by Nelson Marans. It was a good letter. I noted in dicta that Mr. Marans seemed to write to the NY Times a lot. I have not found a letter, published in Today's Chemist at Work, wherein Mr. Marans brags that he has written "nearly 6,000 letters"in his retirement. Damn. While I admit I am impressed, I hope that when I retire, I find a more interesting hobby. Or at least one that takes me outdoors more often. But when I look within myself, I realize that, in all likelihood, I too will spend my golden years writing sharp letters to national and trade publications. Sigh.

Oh.My.God.

Thank you SO MUCH, Taylor Hammie, for the Amazon tip. That is exactly what I needed. Not that buying my own slicer is still outside the realm of possibility.

Maybe I should just drop this law gig and start a Jersey deli out here in the O-town. The problem is, there probably aren't mobsters to buy off and then fireman pals to "help" ensure the place is totally incinerated when the lazy-ass boyfriend of my daughter drops his cigarette butt into a trash bin full of dry paper and salami wrapping.*

Probably before I switch careers, I will get some Taylor Ham and make sure I still like it first. Do any other NJians want me to get them some? Dunes? MW? Cuz in LA? It'll be my treat.

*This is all a reference to a job I had in high school. I worked at the deli at the corner until it burned to the ground under the above-described circumstances. The local fire department hastened the demise of the place by breaking in areas of the deli that would draw the fire towards combustibles, e.g. the hundreds of gallons of cooking oil that were inexplicably stowed everywhere. I did not share this theory with the arson detective with whom I spent six hours replaying my last day of work. I did, however, use said arson detective as an excuse for why I was too traumatized to work for the rest of senior year.

This Blog's New Sub-Theme

Taylor Ham. Pork Roll. Some of you know what I am talking about. Most do not. Possibly this is a pregnancy craving. It's certainly not due to a shortage of sodium in my diet. The thought of a pork roll sandwich makes my mouth water. I am not sure if I can find it out here. But I have found some excellent websites about it, which saves me the trouble of starting yet another blog. Thank God.

For the uninitiated, Taylor Ham, aka pork roll, is a regional specialty of New Jersey. I can't even find other East Coasters who eat the stuff. I can't even remember if I really liked it when I still lived in NJ.

You can buy it online at these three places,* but I want to find it locally. One of those places sells Pork Roll ornaments and magnets, just f your i.

*Please, readers, DO NOT get the hot idea that you should order me a 6 lb. pork roll from one of these places. I will get one in the mail, and think, damn, we need a slicer. And we don't have room for a slicer in our apartment. So it will never get eaten and certain people that I live with will make fun of me, and then get annoyed with me that there are like 17 Taylor Ham rolls stashed throughout the house. And my only defense will be, "I like Taylor Ham and I am going to get a slicer next time I have a chance!" which my spouse will not believe, because, come on, Dre, where are we going to put a slicer.