If corporations are people, they should be subject to arrest

Since watching the documentary The Corporation, I've been aware of the psuedo-personhood corporations enjoy. It's sick. It doesn't make sense, although it does help bring into focus the feeling so many people have of being raped by a corporation. Now, the U.S. Supreme Court has all but drawn a mustachio and eyebrows on corporate personhood, wound its wristwatch and given it car fare. It's now no-shit personhood.

I don't see this as a bad thing, so long as we follow through entirely with this humanification of entities.

For instance, the term "lay-offs" should be eradicated. From now on, when corporations fire huge numbers of its workforce, we should term this an "abortion" -- a "late term aborition" if any of the employees have worked there longer than 7 months. Because that's what it is. And I think it would be worth some entertainment points to get the Right to Life crowd mixed up in this mess. I want to see headlines like, "General Electric trimmed its workforce by 9,000 people this week bringing the number of corporate abortions up to 300,000 for the month."

Let the Right to Lifers go after those abortionists.

Maybe now that they're designated "people," corporations might finally get around to paying their gawddamned income taxes.

Better yet, in the same way human beings can be involuntarily committed to mental institutions with two or three signatures of our nears and dears, I'd like to see corporations subject to this treatment, as well. After all, one of the startling facts to come out of the documentary The Corporation is that when a typical corporation's character traits were tallied and tabulated, it fit the profile of a dangerous psychopath/sociopath. As any other person who is a danger to themselves or to someone else can be taken off the street against their will to undergo psychological evaluation, I believe that Halliburton and AIG and Xe Services (formerly known as Blackwater -- Eric Prince, you vampire, you're not fooling anyone with that name change), among many, many others to be chased down by men carrying butterfly nets, taken away (for their protection and ours) and made sane.

If corporations are people, then they can be arrested. I want to see AIG, Bank of America, Bear Stearns and Newscorp arrested on charges of widespread fraud, and every other manner of criminality in which they've engaged which has been aired in the media like a bedridden, shut-in's underwear.

If corporations are people, then mergers are marriages. Two companies whose leaders are the same sex should no longer be able to merge because gay marriage is not legal. I think California's Proposition 8 should be enacted retroactively against all corporations whose CEO's are the same gender.

I mean, all men were created equal says in the United States Declaration of Independence (and we all know the mention of men there means all people). So, if corporations are people, I think they should be treated like people. OK, let them buy unlimited political ads, but also make them serve jury duty. As people walking their dogs must pick up the dog's shit on the spot, so too should corporations be immediately on top of the messes they make. They should be cleaning up after themselves daily. Hourly.

If corporations are people, they should be required to have passports, Social Security numbers and health insurance. But first, let's mobilize the psychiatrists and psych wards. Let's get an army of Justices of the Peace and signatories declaring that corporations are a danger to themselves and to others. Let the evaluations of these peoples' sanity begin.

5 years and 400 posts: Best of Inside the Hotdog Factory

• C.E.O. Stands for "Cheat Every One"
  
  
• North America 2071: The Path Paved by Yuppie Parenting
  
  
• CNN.com: "Muslim anger on cartoons spreads" - So, what the hell, here's mine, too
  
  
• Jesse of Nazareth
  
  
• America the Affable
  
  

"We Will Never Forget!"

As per the edict handed down so many years ago, no one could precisely pinpoint its exact origin, the banners were hung throughout the town on the appointed day. We Will Never Forget! they proclaimed in bold, Pillar-of-the-Earth font face, in the colors of patriotism, waving picturesquely in the breeze, against the blue, postcard sky.

Replica lapel pins were worn by all, proclaiming in small, sturdy letters -- in national anthem colors -- We Will Never Forget!

The grandstand had been erected out front of the Town Hall, and the public square thronged with the eager, though solemn, citizenry. Not all of them supported the mayor, but year after year, everyone turned out to be told in no uncertain terms how none of them -- big or small, rich or poor, young or old, man, woman or child -- would never forget.

Dugan was on vacation and his car had broken down while passing through the town. Because it was We Will Never Forget! Day, he'd been told he would have to wait until tomorrow for the local mechanic to look at it. He wasn't thrilled about the unscheduled stop, but it was a pretty town, and he managed to arrive on what appeared the most important day of the year.

After lunchtime, the church bells rang, and the townfolk moved en masse toward the town square. They gathered around the grand stand as their ancestors once gathered for public executions.

Dugan followed the crowd. He thought to take out his camera and photograph the event, but the solemn expressions surrounding him, the banners that flapped with martial crispness, and dagger-glinting lapel pins silently advised him to leave his camera in its case.

As the church bells wound down their clarion call, Dugan found himself standing beside a stern-looking man in work pants and a lumberjack shirt. The man's hair appeared to be flattened against his skull with Vaseline. Next to him stood a frail, weary-looking woman in a dusty house dress, along with two small, tow-headed boys. The man stared straight ahead as though readying to utter a sacred oath. Dugan hesitated speaking to him, but his curiosity was too great. He figured a simple, whispered question couldn't do any harm.

Dugan leaned over and spoke in a low voice: "Excuse me, sir, I'm a stranger in this town. What is it, exactly, that nobody will forget?"

The man turned his hard eyes on Dugan. "Are you crazy, or something?"

"I'm not from around here," Dugan said. "My car broke down and the mechanic won't look at it until tomorrow."

"'Course not," the man snapped. "Today's a sacred day!"

"I understand," Dugan said, wishing he could just slip away into the crowd. "It's just that, not being from around here, I don't know what special day --"

"Sacred day!" the man snapped.

"Right," Dugan said. "What sacred day is this? What is it that we won't forget?"

"The great tragedy," the man said in a low voice, suddenly overwhelmed with emotion.

"I'm so sorry," Dugan said, and stepped away.

Dugan meandered through the crowd, and found himself next to a woman he guessed was either a high school English teacher or editor of the town newspaper. He caught her eye and nodded. "I'm from out of town."

The woman looked at him; a glimmer of suspicion in her eyes. "You're not here to mock our grief, are you?"

"No, no, of course not," Dugan said. "I was just passing through when my car broke down."

"You won't get it fixed today," the woman said. "It's We Will Never Forget! Day."

"Yes, of course." Dugan paused, suddenly wondering if it really mattered all that much if he ever learned what exactly would never be forgotten. It did. "Pardon me, but what is the town commemorating today?"

The woman tensed as though he had just given her bad news. "Why, why," she stammered, "the . . . the horrible . . ." Tears filled her eyes.

"I'm very sorry," Dugan said and moved away as quickly as he could without drawing attention to himself.

When he came along side a man who unabashedly reeked of alcohol, Dugan relaxed. He wasn't a drinker, himself, but figured that his chances of offending someone liquored up at this hour of the day were minimal. "Excuse me, sir," he said to the drunk.

The drunk turned his rheumy eyes on Dugan. "What's 'at? Do I know you?"

"No, you don't. I'm not from around here."

"Who --? Whaddya want?"

"Would you mind if I asked you -- what is it that no one will forget?" Dugan said. "I'm from out of --"

"What?" the drunk bellowed. Dugan cringed, but any thoughts of escape were extinguished by the people crowing the square. The church bells had gone silent, so the drunk's voice carried all the more clearly. "You wanna know wha' we'll never forget?" he trumpeted.

Heads turned. Dugan burned under the heat of urgent, dismayed gazes. "I'm not from around here! I was just curious -- !"

"Is he an agitator?" a voice nearby inquired.

"Today of all days!"

Voices buzzed around Dugan, and a sudden, sickening sense of claustrophobia gripped him. There was no way to shove his through all of these people. The buzz of voices moved around on all sides of him, growing louder, angrier, more outraged. Finally, pinned within this maelstrom of queries and growing accusations, Dugan shouted, "I just want to know what you'll never forget!"

That set the voices into a frenzy of inarticulate offense, speculation, and patriotic angst. No matter which direction Dugan turned, he couldn't make out what anyone was saying.

An old man -- probably a former judge, or alderman, or state senator -- came forward. He had a pushbroom mustachio and wore a dusty bowler hat. In the midst of his confusion, Dugan wildly thought, I'll bet everyone calls him Gramps.

"You're not from around here," Gramps said to Dugan.

"Yes, that's right," Dugan said from the edge of hysteria. "I don't mean any harm! I was just asking a question."

"What we'll never forget," Gramps spat. "Well, lemme tell you, we will never forget, even after a thousand years!"

People around Gramps loudly and antagonistcally agreed. Some cheered. A few applauded.

"Fine, fine," Dugan said. "I understand. I see the banners, the lapel pins. I was just wondering what you'll never forget."

Gramps worked his lips a moment; looked like he was chewing his words before speaking them. "Well . . . the thing," he said after a moment.

"The tragedy!" a voice nearby offered.

"That's right," Gramps said. "The terrible, terrible, terrible tragedy."

"But what was it?" Dugan said. Whatever his fate would be among those people, he knew a few more words couldn't possibly makes things any worse.

"The thing," a voice said.

"The tragedy," said another.

"The . . . the . . ."

Suddenly a voice -- no doubt, the town's choirmaster -- struck up the hymn "We Will Never Forget." Everyone joined in with militant fervor.

As the people sang, Dugan felt he was witnessing the impossible -- everyone's attention moved away from him. Everyone was so caught up in the hymn, they no longer cared at all about him. Dugan decided he wouldn't wait to see what would happen when they finished.

He was just moving to leave when someone came up behind him and rammed the shaft of a long, rusty screwdriver into his back. The pain was blinding. As the assailant withdrew the screwdriver with the same violence with which he stabbed Dugan, the world for Dugan went askew and the voices around him melded into a single, gonging note. He fell to the ground, and his blood flowed out in a great pool. The people around him stood their ground, singing their hymn.

Letter to the Onionfield Purveyor: "There are podia-vangelists in my neighborhood!"

Dear Sir [Editor of the Onionfield Purveyor]:

There is a growing pestilence of foot-born podia-vangelists roaming around Onionfield neighborhoods. They travel in pairs seem to have some sort of knuckle-upon-door fetish, because they go from house to unanswering house, knocking on doors until their craven hearts are satisfied.

Since they come around at approximately 10 a.m. on workdays, there are obviously few people home, so actually speaking to citizens is not the focus of these podia-vangelists. I refer to these beings as such because they carry under their arms leatherbound books with gold-gilt edged pages. If these are not Bibles, then they are the most luxurious dictionaries I've ever seen (spied through a side window as I wait for them to depart my stoop).

I have not chanced answering my own door upon the sound of their depraved knocking because I believe in the urban legends surrounding the fates of those who interrupt fetishists as they seek to satisfy their subterranean deviance. I refuse to risk being turned into a pillar of salt, or having a hump spontaneously emerge upon my back.

Would the Onionfield Purveyor please send a team of its crack investigative journalists to get to the bottom of these strange, ritualistic convergences upon innocent, snow-pillowed neighborhoods in the Proud Town of Onionfield?

Sleight of Mind: How conservatives continually dupe ordinary people into voting against their own interests

According to the United States Geological Survey, America's own oil reserves might be substantially larger than anyone ever thought possible.

From a blog on Resistnet.com: How Much Oil Does the US Have in the Ground???

[E]enough crude to fully fuel the American economy for 2041 years straight.
. . .

HOW can this BE? HOW can we NOT BE extracting this? Because the environmentalists and others have blocked all efforts to help America become independent of foreign oil! Again, we are letting a small group of people dictate our lives and our economy.....WHY?

. . .

Don't think 'OPEC' will drop its price - even with this find? Think again! It's all about the competitive marketplace, - it has to. Think OPEC just might be funding the environmentalists?

Yes, those almighty, omnipresent, all-powerful environmentalists -- those Doctor Evils in burlap and Birkenstocks.

Whenever conservative Americans come across someone who doesn't agree with them, they make that person or group out to be much more powerful than they really are. So, environmentalists are keeping America from energy independence? Conservatives despise all regulation, even that which makes life livable. If working conditions had been left in the hands of conservatives a century ago, we'd still have children working 18 hours days in factories. There would be no Workers' Compensation, no unemployment benefits, no laws governing workplace safety. I'm sure the person who introduced legislation outlawing child labor was vilified and demonized.

A few years ago when gay marriage became legal in Canada, and marijuana use virtually decriminalized, conservative media in the United States made it sound as though Canada was the more powerful neighbor who was about to ram similar social changes down America's throat. Right.

That said, if such enormous oil reserves are present in America, they should be extracted. Personally, I want to buy an electric car because I'm sick of paying for gas. But is it the environmental movement putting the brakes on extracting this oil? American oil companies have no interest in keeping those reserves secret and off the international energy market?

The less we have of a commodity, the higher the price it commands. That was once the reasoning for the high price of diamonds -- they're so rare. If diamonds were as common as driveway gravel, they'd cost the same as driveway gravel. Many people now know that there's a company called De Beers that's been stockpiling diamonds for decades in order to keep the price of diamonds high. It's not a very difficult concept to grasp.

But somehow, the conservative American media has a way of convincing citizens who hold conservative views to vote and act against their own interests. The Teabaggers and health care reform opponents are a prime example. And so, this unhinged blogger on Resistnet blames environmentalists for stymying efforts and doesn't consider for a second that possible American oil companies -- not OPEC -- are the stoppage.

What conservatives won't allow themselves to think is that corporate executives have absolutely no loyalty or love for anyone or anything but profits. If they selling the glass eye out of their mother's head would increase profits, they'd do it. American executives couldn't care less about America. Look at the economic meltdown that's crippled the country for more than a year. It could have been headed off or softened, or possibly avoided. Except for the greed.

So, I'm dubious about all-powerful environmentalists thwarting attempts to access oil reserves in the northwestern United States. Oil companies have so much more to gain with oil prices remaining high. Remember, Exxon made a record profit in 2007 of $40.6 billion. That wouldn't happen if oil was $16 a barrel.

And $40.6 billion would buy a lot of a burlap and Birkenstocks.

Mr. Mayor, what we need is a Towne Fool

I've lived in the proud Town of Onionfield for six years now, and I'm surprised that the town believes it can get by without a Town Fool.

The Town Fool is a "figure of fun," a tradition that dates back to the time of Shakespeare. The Town Fool is usually a pitiful, dissolute personage, someone who is a sort of man/child, a buffoon, whom the town looks after. During festivals, the Town Fool is usually found at the center of activity, entertaining with pratfalls and inoffensive silly behavior. In the case of the Strawberry Festival Parade, the Town Fool would ride a float. In the grand tradition of buffoonery, the Town Fool would stand with his back to the assembled crowds, waving at the empty areas along the parade route, as though not intelligent enough to understand that he should be waving at the people.

Other duties of the Town Fool include bearing the brunt of the community in times of distress or dismaye. For instance, if one year the crop doesn't come in very well, the Town Fool would be flogged in front of City Hall. If severe weather pummeled the proud Town of Onionfield, the Town Fool might be paddled before City Council as symbolic punishment, or scapegoating of our bad luck.

In very rare times of very grim civic befallments, such as pestilence or plague, the Town Fool could be offered as a human sacrifice to appease the angry gods.

With the advent of the horseless carriage, the Twist and the Internet, so many of our grand traditions have gone by the wayside. I understand that this is "progress," but with progress there should also be room for hallowed, community-building traditions, such as the naming of a Town Fool before the the harvest.

I would like to come before Council sometime soon to deliver the names of some potential candidates for you to mull.

Big Gust O' Wind in the Pillar T' Post Tavern

It was always lively at the Pillar T' Post Tavern: jukebox blasting, laughter, the clink of beer bottles, animated conversations.

Amid the merry-makers there stood a large man at the bar. His enormous, bloated torso was sheathed in a gingham shirt. The man's name was Big Gus, but he was known around the Post as Big Gust O' Wind. He was six-foot-three and weighed 320 lbs. He wore an enormous cowboy hat and spurs on his cowboy boots. He had one of those boots perched on the rail at the base of the bar as he drank his beer.

Whenever Big Gus got drunk -- his lips glistening with beer, his bleached blue eyes wide and dull -- he would declare there "weren't no situation" he couldn't handle with his two fists. He guffawed and swilled beer, grinned and shook his head. The more he drank, the louder he spoke, the more spit he let fly, the more backs he slapped, the more brilliant he became.

The other patrons weren't so enamored with Big Gus' drunken extravagances. He bellowed over the country music playing on the jukebox. His backslaps caused men to spill beer on the ladies they were trying to pick up. Everyone cringed from the flying spittle.

As the evening wore on, and more and more of the Pillar patrons tired of Big Gus' carry-on, they took up the easy task of antagonizing him.

First, someone would walk by and bump into him, causing Big Gus to spill his own beer. Then, some good ol' boys would refer to him as "Big Gust O' Wind" within his hearing. The nickname infuriated him. Finally, one of the good ol' boys would walk past and mutter something to the effect: "You ain't so tough."

It was all Big Gus could bear, and more. As predictable as a sunrise, Big Gus would turn from the bar -- eyes blazing, lips slick with spit, face flushed -- and take a swing at the first good ol' boy going by. Big Gus fancied himself an accomplished bar brawler, but in truth it was merely his tremendous, unwieldy size that kept him from getting the good and proper ass-kicking he deserved. The object, though, wasn't so much to hurt Big Gus, but to merely get him ejected from the Post.

His haymaker punch was easily, laughably ducked by his target, and he took a few shots to the belly. Big Gus' next few punches were delivered with such sloppiness that he struck someone who wasn't even involved in the altercation. That didn't much matter to Big Gus. So long as he hit someone, he was satisfied. This often precipitated a wider brawl that left a trail of broken chairs, tables and spilled drinks.

Aside from the ever-present risk of heart attack, the worst Big Gus ever got was a pool cue in the face that broke his nose.

The moment the brawl got anywhere near the jukebox, the Post's owner, Utne Newman, vaulted into action. He was a small, fireplug of a man who was incredibly strong and knew the pressure points of the human body like a taxi driver knows his dashboard. He jabbed his thumbs into a few incapacitating zones on Big Gus, and hustled him toward the door. Although he was a heavy bastard, Big Gus' girth made his involuntary, lumbering dive out the Post door very satisfying to Utne.

As Big Gus lay in the dirt outside the Post, many of the patrons gathered at the open door and at the windows, pointing, laughing and jeering. There might have been a single kernel of a moment in which Big Gus wondered if his carry-on was worth a trip into the dirt, and being the focus of drunk derision of the Post patrons, but it never lasted long. He always gathered himself to his feet and stumbled home, quietly soothed by the John Wayne clink of his spurs.

Did Dick Cheney Watch "Leave it to Beaver"?

I recently canceled my Cable in favor of the free HD channels available in my area. Never in my life did I think I would one day enjoy decimal channels. For instance channel 4.2 gives me This! channel, which runs excellent old, forgotten movies like Jodie Foster in the 1976 film The Little Girl Who Lives Down the Lane. On channel 7.2, I get the Retro Channel, where I watch Kojak, Quincy, Emergency! and The Incredible Hulk. I love old television. I just wish they aired the original commercials that went with those shows, but alas, this is not an a la carte world.

I recently saw an episode of Leave it to Beaver in which a new kid in Beaver's class took to stealing things and giving them to people, so that his classmates would like him. After a misstep led him to being caught in possession of a stolen item, the new kid panicked and said that Beaver was the thief. Beaver's teacher, Miss Landers, took the bull by the horns and got to the bottom of the controversy, unearthing the fact that the new kid was, in fact, the thief, and Beaver just an unwitting dupe. There ensued several lectures and soliloquys about the evil of stealing, given by Miss Landers and Mrs. Cleaver. Stealing was spoken of with same dread and gravity as incest or murder, if not with slightly more disgust. Mrs. Cleaver, in particular, mused mournfully over the sad, degenerate state of "the new kid" felt he had to steal in order to get others to like him. All was put right by the end of the episode, but I, along with the original audience, was left shaken and contemplative.

Amid my contemplation, I wondered if Dick Cheney had seen it when it originally aired in the late '50's. Being a member of the Woodstock Generation (albeit, non-participating), I wondered if Cheney watched Leave it to Beaver and what he made of the lessons it taught. I then wondered how he would fair under the virginal, holy light of Miss Lander's gaze. What contortions would the fluid-sac that passes for a soul within Dick Cheney perform under the stinging, just weight of Miss Lander's interrogation?

Unfortunately, I think Cheney would have merely lunged forward and bitten Miss Landers on the face. Surely, her holy-water blood would have curdled in his fetid mouth, but the damage would be done.

Maybe the pompadored 17 year old Cheney opted to watch more manly fare, such as Chuck Connors in The Rifleman (another staple on my Retro TV station), what with its distinctly masturbatory opening of Connors bracing a rifle butt against his groin and rapidly firing the weapon. I'm sure Cheney was re-enacting that classic opening when he accidentally shot his hunting partner in the face a few years ago.



It's an oft-debated subject in the media whether violence on television and in video games gives rise to violent children. If there's any merit to such dubious logic, then I wonder what it was about Howdy Doody, Father Knows Best, Leave it to Beaver, My Three Sons, etc., that gave us the Vietnam War, Enron, AIG and Rush Limbaugh. A thorough study should be made of Daniel Boone and Ol' Yeller, among other popular films of the time, to ascertain just what about those movies planted the seeds for the wars in Iraq, Afghanistan and soon, in Yemen.

A congressional investigative committee should be assembled immediately to determine: Did Dick Cheney watch Leave it to Beaver?

Intel officer: CIA officers' deaths will be avenged

From CNN.com: Intel officer: CIA officers' deaths will be avenged.

Excellent. The CIA is beginning the New Year by finally revealing themselves as the gang of thugs they've always been. Nothing more than a street gang that "avenges" deaths of its own like John Wayne or Lieutenant William Calley.

The problem is that the CIA has 62 years of crimes against humanity under its belt. I'm sure their current blood-soaked bravado plays well with the FoxNews crowd, but it must be remembered that the CIA is not Jack Ryan, it's MKULTRA, it's Dan Mitrione, it's E. Howard Hunt, it's Osama Bin Laden, it's Manuel Noriega, it's cocaine smuggling and the crack epidemic that's plagued communities throughout the United States; it's the 23 CIA agents convicted in absentia in Italy for the kidnapping and "extraordinary rendition" of so-called terrorism suspects to countries where these people could be tortured with impunity.

That said, there are seven families who lost loved ones recently in the quagmire of Afghanistan, families who probably didn't even know what those loved ones did for a living. If the CIA has proven one thing during its 62-year reign of crime and terror, it's shown how cheap human life is in this cynical, damaged world. Just ask President John F. Kennedy about that, the president who had planned to dismantle the CIA.

One thing that's become clear in my reading about the CIA, is the startling fact that so many of its operations and crimes (usually one in the same) are based upon personal vendettas, power-grabs, peccadilloes, and individual psychoses of CIA personnel. I can't imagine the horror that will be perpetrated by these faceless, soulless jackals as they "avenge" the seven recent deaths in Afghanistan.

Mike Ruppert speaks about CIA drug-smuggling


Crack the CIA


Secrets of the CIA: Part I


Secrets of the CIA: Part 2


Secrets of the CIA: Part 3


Secrets of the CIA: Part 4


Secrets of the CIA: Part 5


Secrets of the CIA: Part 6

Rock 'n' Bowl: Not all of the pins are at the end of the lane

Stupidity comes in numbers. No wonder most wars are PR disasters.

I went to the Rose Bowl last night for $10 rock 'n' bowl with my wife and sister-in-law and niece and nephew.

At first, it was interesting to witness the trauma of my niece and nephew learning that real bowling wasn't as easy as Wii bowling. My seven old nephew was incensed with reality, that it could be so unfair, so stupid, that it would thwart his unconventional Wii style -- which consists of wheeling his arm like Pete Townshend's pick hand striking a power chord. In the Wii universe, this is successful. In our world, it is not. He wasn't having any of it. The gutter that swallowed every one of his throws quickly turned into something metaphysical and existential, tear-provoking and irreconcilable.

So, we moved to a "bumper" lane, where the gutters are turned 45-degrees, making gutter balls impossible. The bowling purist in me was put off, but seeing the difference it made for the kids, I recognized this as a good move. Interestingly, my nine year old niece seemed only to need the psychological boost of the bumpers' presence, and ultimately didn't need them. She threw a couple of Sports Illustrated strikes, and cleaned up a few nice spares.

As the universal malignity would have it, a truckload of twentynothing louts were situated one lane away from us. They were your typical, banal gaggle of douchebags who travel by the baker's dozen, all mesmerizing themselves with the fire-fly flicker of their cell phone displays in the semi-dark; grunting their inarticulate runic language. There was only one girl among them. No doubt, one of the louts had brought his sister.

So, the douchebags were loud and palming eight-pound bowling balls, flinging them down their lane as though the object of the game was to inflict as much damage as possible to everything except the pins. After one lout guttered his ill-thrown DayGlo pink eight-pounder, he sopranoed "Fuck!" amid the maelstrom of the rock 'n' bowl music.

You're gonna hear profanity in bowling alleys; I've uttered my share. It's a fact of life, just like gutter balls and embarrassing-looking bowling shoes. But this lout had swaggered well into our area, and made himself much more audible to my niece and nephew than was necessary. My sister-in-law shouted over to him to cut it out, we had kids with us. Now, I despise the holding up of a children as social weapons -- "You can't do [X] because of the children! the children!" -- but in this instance, she was right.

It seems the lout in question was brutish and street enough to utter such profanity, but ill-equipped to handle someone calling him on it. He objected to being yelled at. Douchebags have skin thinner than Trojan condoms. He made some attempt to argue with my sister-in-law, so I chimed-in and told the guy to keep it on his side of the lane. He then tried pleading his case to me about the offense of being yelled at. This from a guy who looked like he'd have no problem belting an old lady over the head for her pocket book, or swarming with his friends some defenseless guy downtown. But being told that bellowing "Fuck!" in our hearing was just too much for his selectively sensitive sensibilities.

Even in my youth, I wouldn't have taken the situation any further. I've seen all of Charles Bronson's movies and have relished seeing him belt scumbags in the throat, kick them in the ass and then make them smell his armpit. There's a base, caveman part of me that would love to engage in such activity with the baggy-pantsed douches among us. But I know the difference between movies and real life, and the difference between me and Charles Bronson. The lout, however, was desperate to start some shit, no doubt so "his boys" could all jump in. Lord knows douchebags are less than useless individually. But I'm old, and even less inclined to indulge in the idiotic arts of pugilism.

So, after a moment where the lout's IV drip of testosterone wasn't enough to "force the moment to its crisis", he returned to his circle-jerk buddies and their pitcher of light beer; to their hypnotic cell phone displays as they texted absent douchebags; and the collective miasma of their "get laid" cologne.

That's sociology you won't find in a textbook.

Broken is the New Fixed: The only precaution left to make flying safe is to ban air travel

A guy gets on a flight from Amsterdam to Detroit on Christmas Day. He paid cash for his one-way ticket, had no luggage, and had bomb-making materials secreted in his underwear. He mixes his potion as the plane went into its final approach, luckily botched the concoction, starts a small fire, gets wrestled into submission, and air travel becomes even more cumbersome, unwieldy and inconvenient over night.

On PBS Newshour this evening, the question was asked, "What technology could have detected the bomb-making materials Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab brought on board flight 253?"

I would posit: the telephone. Not surprisingly, the CIA failed to circulate report about bombing suspect.

Also, under ordinary circumstances, Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab would never have even gotten onto that plane bound from Amsterdam to Detroit. He had no passport with him. Witnesses have told the media that the attendant at the boarding area had told Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab that he could not board without a passport. But Abdulmutallab was accompanied by a very helpful person:

A passenger who boarded Northwest Airlines Flight 253 in Amsterdam with attempted plane bomber Umar Farouk Abdul Mutallab says the would-be terrorist had no passport and was aided by a sharp-dressed man who claimed Mutallab was a Sudanese refugee, just one of a plethora of startling inconsistencies surrounding an incident that has led to ramped up security and increased levels of harassment in airports.

Every single fact that has come to light since the attempted bombing on Christmas Day directly indicates that the bomber was deliberately allowed to board the plane and that his attack would have succeeded if not for the alert and brave reactions of the passengers and flight crew.

According to Kurt Haskell, an attorney with the Haskell Law Firm in Taylor, Michigan, “He and his wife were sitting on the ground near their boarding gate in Amsterdam, which is when they saw Mutallab approach the gate with an unidentified man.”

Alex Jones Interviews Eye Witness On Flight 253.

Mutallab's pitiful, impoverished appearance and being accompanied by a well-dressed, middle-aged man who exuded an air of wealth and prestige brought to my mind the similarity to Lee Harvey Oswald and the numerous sightings of him around New Orleans in the summer of 1963 with the wealthy, middle-aged Clay Shaw. Shaw worked for the CIA and was instrumental in "sheep-dipping" Oswald as a communist; setting up elements for the cover story that would come in so handy late in the day of November 22, 1963. Patsies need handlers.

* * *

Dick Cheney and George W. Bush provided reason enough for there to be hatred of the United States for the next few decades; provided America's enemies with recruiting opportunities and material to radicalize the next few generations. For the octillion dollars spent on security, spying on Americans, and repealing citizen and human rights, there are still only "two things have made flying safer [since 9/11]: the reinforcement of cockpit doors, and the fact that passengers know now to resist hijackers."

And that other arm of the United States government, the mainstream media, is as reliable as the TSA, CIA and Homeland security -- five days after the attempt to blow up flight 253, they are still not reporting about the "well-dressed" Indian man whose efforts and intercession got Umar Farouk Abdul Mutallab onto flight 253. Also, there is so far no further word about a strange man "who videotaped the entire flight, including the attempted detonation."

The only good thing that could come out of all of this is some airport security personnel were to upload to the Internet pictures of x-ray scans looking through the clothes of Anne Coulter, America's #1 advocate of racial profiling. I don't want to see those images, but I'd feel better if I simply knew they were on the Web. That is, if air travel isn't simply shut down all together against "those who hate our freedoms" and whose hatred we seem only able to fuel.

Dear Stephen King: Build a time machine, go back to 1990 and retire THEN

There was a time when no one was a more ardent fan of Stephen King's fiction than I was. During the first fifteen years of his career as a name-brand author, I couldn't get enough of his work. I even held off reading The Eyes of the Dragon and The Dark Tower series, like a survivalist squirreling away packs of Fig Newtons and RC Cola beneath the cot in a bomb shelter -- I knew King couldn't write forever and I wanted some gems to look forward to.

No artist is without fault or flaw. Some of Stephen King's novels that I enjoyed very much were overwritten and filled with flabby, should've-been-edited-out flourishes. Much as King's critics hammered him for his endless product placements and dated pop culture name-dropping, my focus was always on the stories. And so many of his stories were very entertaining.

King's novel The Dark Half was the first new-release hardcover I ever purchased. I devoured it and wasn't disappointed. It wasn't the greatest of Stephen King stories, but everything I enjoyed about King's style was present in that novel: his ability to sketch in full scenes and characters in a few deft lines; the interesting-genial-stranger narrative voice; his nearly seamless traversing of the boundary separating reality from the fantastic; and a story that was somehow telegraphed throughout the entire book, but somehow managed to present itself as a surprise.

The next indication that Stephen King was capable of poor publishing decisions was confirmed with the release of The Stand: The Complete & Uncut Edition. Ask any long-time Stephen King fan what their favorite King novel is and they will tell you, "The Stand." The original release was nothing short of brilliant. Had it not been published by a young writer who, by 1978, had been pigeon-holed as a "horror writer," it would have won The National Book Award for Fiction that year. The story is epic, endlessly engrossing, written with an eye for detail and humanity that would have shocked and amazed Charles Dickens. The novel is enormous, but leaves most readers voracious for more.

The 1990 release of The Stand: The Complete & Uncut Edition was that more. I dove into the novel and didn't look back. Although I enjoyed it, I felt an almost guilty sense of disloyalty to my love for The Stand because, having received more, I realized unequivocally that the originally published, edited version published in 1978 was far superior. The more of the expanded edition was filled with lateral and parallel moreness, but there was absolutely no more depth to the novel. In fact, the increased breadth of the book actually overwhelmed and diluted its original entrancing depth. I was honestly and foolishly shocked to find that more didn't mean better.

On the heels of that jarring realization, I bought King's collection of four novels, Four Past Midnight. After the disappointment of The Stand: The Complete & Uncut Edition, I was looking for confirmation that I could rely upon Stephen King. Four Past Midnight was confirmation, all right, but not the sort I sought. That poor book provided me with one of the first groundshaking indications that Stephen King might be human -- or, at least, that his seemingly boundless talent may have human boundaries on it. Each of the four stories was flat, forced, canned and to varying degrees, stupid.

Needful Things came out next. It was billed as the final story set in King's fictional town of Castle Rock. I duly bought the novel and thought it was absolutely dreadful -- a genuine, unquestionable piece of shit. In every other line, King appeared to be cracking a joke -- filling each paragraph with horrible quicksand soft spots that made the story interminable. The physical descriptions of his characters were absurd caricatures, again, geared more toward forced, misplaced humor than storytelling. I recall one description in particular of an overweight woman that left the reader with the mental of image of a creature that was barely human. Certainly, there are overweight people abundant in real life, and they have every right to appear in novels, but King seemed incapable of describing any of his characters in terms that were not cartoonish, or simply silly or stupid.

I soon ditched Needful Things without even finishing it, moving on to Gerald's Game, an entire novel written from the perspective of a woman handcuffed to the matrimonial bed, whose naked husband lay dead nearby after she'd kicked him soundly and directly in his erect penis. There's only one way to describe Gerald's Game: complete and utter piece of shit; an irredeemable, unreadable piece of shit; should-never-have-been-published piece of shit. I read more of that than I did of Needful Things, and the further I got, the more apparent it became that Gerald's Game was simply one of those ideas/manuscripts that most other writers would have written, and tossed out. But Stephen King, rich man though he is, over-published author though he is, somehow insists on publishing literally everything that comes into his mind. Maybe the childhood poverty he endured scarred him the point where he has to gather in every nickel his once-phenomenal talent drummed up, and every further nickel his established name mints. But Gerald's Game simply had no business being in print.

It did, however, give way to a sort of "sister novel", Dolores Claiborne. I didn't buy that one, but a friend had it and I read some of it. I was told the story was good (the movie was decent), but I couldn't even begin to get into book because of the bizarre way in which Stephen King decided to write the novel. Somewhere in the 1980s, King stopped using apostrophes in slang words in his dialogue. Goin' became Goin, Thinkin' became Thinkin, Go get 'em became Go get em, and so on. Dolores Claiborne is written in the voice of the novel's namesake, an uneducated, backwoods woman from Maine, who omits more "g"s in her dialogue than the entire cast of The Grapes of Wrath combined. As a consequence, the overall typographical and readability effect of this omission is that the narrative is more graffiti than text. I realize the novel is the confession of an uneducated person who is probably not current on the rules of grammar and punctuation, but that could have been easily gotten around by adding to the story that the original handwritten confession had been transcribed by a court stenographer or something.

At that point in his career, I stopped paying attention to Stephen King's output. I figured my interest is his work had been a youthful fancy. But every once in a long while, I would reread a short story in King's short story collection Skeleton Crew and instantly reconnect with my old fondness for his work. I reread the 1978 edition of The Stand and sadly found that I enjoyed it virtually as much as the first time I'd read it. 'Salem's Lot has remained one of my favorite novels since I first read it in 1987. I reread it at least once a year. Its clunks and awkward spots become more apparent with each reading, but so does the genius of Stephen King in his prime. His hungry prime.

When On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft, I would have none of it. I recall my wife pointing it out to me once in Costco, and I scoffed saying I'd never read another piece of shit by Stephen King. Later, I learned she had already bought me the book for Christmas. I laughed at myself when I opened the gift, and even cracked the book open to have a look rather than simply trade it in at the local used bookstore. And somehow, the old Stephen King emerged in that strange, wonderful book. I had always found stories of King's poor years very inspiring, and pored over descriptions of him working on his early stories and novels on a manual typewriter on a child's desk that rested on his knees. Then I got into his nuts-and-bolts advice about writing and was astounded by how useful it was. I started implementing the advice in my own work immediately and actually started to sell some stories to magazines. The most interesting part about reading all that good advice was why Stephen King would not use it in his own work.

Much as I enjoyed On Writing, it didn't bring me back into the fold. I was no longer a Stephen King fan. Although I hadn't yet read The Eyes of the Dragon or The Dark Tower series, I gave up on them. At the same time, I began to see Stephen King novels reviewed on arts shows on television. Strangely, the writer who was once despised by mainstream critics was now receiving praise. I recall on CBC's On the Arts, King's novel Bag of Bones receiving a rave review. I heard about him publishing in The New Yorker. And then came the National Book Award 2003: "Medal of Distinguished Contribution to American Letters" and the O. Henry Award 1996 for "The Man in the Black Suit."

Around 2000 I listened to the audio book edition of Bag of Bones, read by Stephen King himself. I was astonished -- it was an abject, unequivocal piece of shit. The characters were caricatures, the dialogue was terrible, canned, contrived. The story was forced and contorted and ridiculous. It was also grossly overwritten; paragraphs and paragraphs of description that covered territory the old Stephen King could cover in a few fine-tuned sentences.

Sometime after that, out of sheer morbid curiosity, I tried the audio book of Dreamcatcher. It was worse than Bag of Bones. It was the work of a fool. It was the hatchet work of a hack. Surely, no outside reader saw the manuscript, and certainly no editor gave a look beyond the author's name on the cover page. All it needed to say was "Stephen King" and it was doubtless rushed to the printer without a single sober, critical eye ever seeing it. There's just no way any credible, serious, responsible person saw the manuscript. They never would have allowed it into print. It paled in professionalism even to the very dismal Gerald's Game. It was garage-sale-novel-writing: King rounding up every stray, unused, unusable piece of shit idea in his head thrown into a single manuscript and set on the front lawn for some idiot to purchase.

And so I parted company with the work of Stephen King. I still admire the man, and have a great fondness and nostalgia for the works he created during the first 15 years of his professional career. Whenever I've seen him interviewed, I've always been impressed by his wit and insight. He'd be a hell of a guy to sit with at a BBQ or in the stands at a ball game. He appears to be an extremely gifted and interesting conversationalist. I just don't care much for his book anymore.

Two days ago I received Stephen King's latest novel, Under the Dome, for Christmas. From the moment it was announced and the plot was known, media commentators have pointed out the weird similarity between its story and that of The Simpsons Movie, in which Springfield is suddenly enclosed within a transparent, impenetrable dome. Even stranger, Stephen King -- master of all things pop culture -- has floated the improbable story that he wrote the novel having no idea about The Simpsons Movie. That's impossible. It's just impossible. This from the author mentions every fleeting one-hit-wonder and every passing fad in his novels, whose work -- at times -- is painfully and needlessly dated by these references. There is simply no way Stephen King didn't know about The Simpsons Movie.

That aside, I'm reading the novel. Enough time has gone by that I can do so with a clear eye and with a few more defenses against the inevitable disappointment. To his credit, King has so far -- in the first 100 pages of his 1,000-page novel -- done a good job of containing the frustrated comedian in his narrative voice. There are even a few decent turns of phrase. There are also some really embarrassing moments of dialogue, particularly between a doctor attending a tween skateboarder. It's as though Stephen King either watched a bunch of episodes of Saved By the Bell or simply looked up contemporary youth idiom on Wikipedia because it couldn't be more awkward, embarrassing and ridiculous. The doctor thinking he'd impress the kid by saying something was "radical." Holy shit, I actually physically cringed when I read that.

One interesting thing I've noticed reading this novel: the longer Stephen King writes, the more novels he produces, it seems that his confidence in his ability to describe scenes has diminished. Everything -- and I mean everything -- is over described. It's either that King doesn't trust his ability to be brief and on target, or, worse, that he believes his readers are idiots who need mundane points driven home with all subtlety and artfulness cast aside.

And there was this hunk of lazy writing that any first year writing student would be embarrassed to have appear in their weekly creative writing package:

Regarding character Dodee Sanders: "And when it came to brainpower . . . jeez, what could you say? Her father -- Andy Sanders, The Mill's First Selectman -- would never be a Mensa candidate, but Dodee made him look like Albert Einstein."

Terrible. Yeah, it's one example, but this kind of lazy writing appears through the 100 pages I've read so far, to varying degrees. King's in such a hurry to finish writing one book so it came be packaged and sold, and he can get on to the next bit of product. And this from a guy who is supposed to be retired.

Stephen King seems like a nice guy and I believe much of his best work has taken horribly undeserved drubbings from critics in years previous. From the "afterword"s I've read in many of his books, he hasn't been able to live with this too easily. The money his work brings in certainly hasn't been a consolation for the critical bed-panning of his work. Now that King is honestly writing crap, his work now receives reasonably decent reviews. And he continues churning out the sausage. I guess he believes in the philosophy articulated by Mike Love to Brian Wilson back in the 1960s when Wilson embarked on his aborted masterpiece, Smile: "Don't fuck with the formula." Spoken like a true artist. And it seems that the Stephen King Doorstop Factory will also continue with its own formula un-fucked-with. Which is an honest and wretched shame, because there was a time when Stephen King really could write.

For what it's worth, here's my appraisal of Stephen King's work, divided into three categories. He's written more books than are listed here. I only comment on novels of his that I've actually read or attempted to read:

The Good Books

• Carrie
  
• 'Salem's Lot
  
• Night Shift
  
• The Stand
  
• Dead Zone
  
• Firestarter
  
• Cujo
  
• Different Seasons
  
• Christine
  
• Pet Sematary
  
• Thinner
  
• Skeleton Crew
  
• The Bachman Books
  
• It
  
• Misery
  
• The Dark Half
  
• On Writing

The Sloppy Books

• The Shining
  
• Cycle of the Werewolf
  
• The Talisman
  
• The Tommyknockers
  
• Four Past Midnight
  
• Dolores Claiborne
  
• The Stand: The Complete & Uncut Edition
  
• Nightmares & Dreamscapes
  
• Under the Dome

The Garbage Books

• Gerald's Game
  
• Needful Things
  
• Hearts in Atlantis
  
• Dreamcatcher
  
• Bag of Bones
  
• Blaze

Star Wars Nativity by Doug MacPhisto

Brokenhagen

My father worked for a dairy in the 1950s. The vehicle in which he made his deliveries was an electric truck. From what he's told me, the electric truck kept up with traffic, and held its charge long enough for him to make his day's rounds. Although the cars in those days were different than today's ultra-modern gas guzzlers, the municipal speed limit in those days was still 30/mph as it is today. That truck carried my dad safely and effectively everywhere he needed to go in his modest pursuit of a livelihood.

That was well over 50 years ago. There are still no viable electric cars on the consumer market. At the same time, the bloated, arrogant, uninnovative North American auto industry has never been in worse shape. Had our auto engineers not spent the last four or more decades perfecting "built-in obsolescence," maybe they would not have been reduced to becoming executive suite beggars. Yes, absolutely, our cars are much safer these days -- no question. But have you also noticed that they break down so soon after their warranties run out? Now that takes real engineering!

The fact that a species as self-destructive and counter-intuitive as the human race has existed so long is nearly enough to force a belief within me in a supreme being; in an intelligent designer who is also a Swiftian satirist with an insatiable taste for the macabre.

So, the climate talks in Copenhagen were a debacle from first to last, and nothing worth anything came out of them. Considering this counter-intuitive species sent the most self-interested and corrupt of its line into these talks, I can't say I'm shocked. The United States placed demands upon its landlord, China, to little effect. Developing nations mutinied when they felt their grievances weren't being taken seriously by the developed nations, and thus were cast as ungrateful recipients of our e- and other types of waste.

President Barak Obama certainly made it sound like wonderful things came out of Copenhagen, but it must be remembered that he could make leprosy sound like incremental weight loss.

What is it that people don't get about climate change? There are any number of people we hear about in the media -- politicians, often -- who don't even believe that it's occurring, though a preponderance of scientists around the world say that, Oh yes, it fucking well is.

Personally, I don't care about ice that's melting in a region of the world I'll never visit. I am, however, sick of breathing pollution. I'm also sick of paying for gasoline. (No doubt, the day we actually do have viable electric cars on the consumer market, our power plants will be run on gasoline.)

Why can't we get back to calling climate change what it really is? It's pollution. Nobody can say that pollution doesn't exist.

I'm also sick of the specious reasoning that says reducing pollution would hurt our economy. Again, let's call this what it really is: A few of Dick Cheney's friends might make a billion or two dollars less this year, and thus not pay off their mortgages on Neptune, Uranus and Saturn as quickly as they'd hoped. Yeah, Dick Cheney's old news, but he remains a useful thumbnail sketch of unalloyed evil.

Creating solar panels for the consumer housing market wouldn't help the economy? Geothermal heating would be a loss-leader? There's nothing to be gained by simply using rain barrels at one's house, and saving a little on the water bill? And given the sustained outcry for electric cars, I suppose that electric vehicles also wouldn't make any money. Actually, that last one might actually occur if the homunculus Detroit executives are involved. Those stupid motherfuckers could lose money dealing cocaine.

So, the talks in Brokenhagen failed. Everyone except President Obama knows it. North America has shipped hundreds of thousands of jobs to China in the past 20 years, and now turns around and thinks it can dictate terms to its landlord. Reducing pollution is deemed not economically feasible; or, at least, not profitable enough for our greedhead potentates to be interested. And my father got to use technology in the 1950s that is unavailable to me today.

This is Swiftian satire on a global scale.

The Thirsty Traveler: article from Dec. issue of The Drive Magazine

There is a great Canadian ambassador who goes by the moniker "The Thirsty Traveler." Since 2002, when the show first aired on The Food Network, Thirsty Traveler, Kevin Brauch, has been a welcomed guest around the world on his adventurous and entertaining search for the finest spirits, wines, beers and food at every destination.

A Toronto native, Kevin Brauch is widely acknowledged as having "the best damn job in the world!" The "Thirsty Traveler" concept was born in a pitch Brauch made to Food Network producers at the Banff Mountain Film Festival back when the Food Network was celebrating its tenth anniversary. At that time, the network was looking at ways to diversify within its genre, and Brauch came forward with the perfect idea -- a man traveling the world, bringing the stories of famous and obscure libations, alike, to an audience that was doing more of its own traveling each year.

The show was originally called The Epicurean Traveler, with an emphasis on exotic food. But Brauch had a different vision, focusing on the nourishment that came in pint and wine glasses, whisky tumblers and snifters. The first episode had Brauch jump into the arena with both feet, going to Scotland in search of the Whisky Trail.

In a recent chat with The Drive Magazine, Brauch described the birth pangs of The Epicurean Traveler growing into The Thirsty Traveler. "After a long day of filming in Scotland, with tiredness, hunger and thirst setting in, there was some debate with producers about what I wanted to contribute to the show. It was getting near sundown and I was standing in a field of barley, anxious to wrap and get to the pub." The bone of contention revolved around Brauch and his crew believing the show should have a casual and humorous feel, while producers envisioned a more serious approach to the locales and drinks presented. Amid the fraying nerves, Brauch suddenly threw himself backward into the dense growth of barley, shouting, "It's the barley!" speaking about what makes scottish whisky so unique and revered. In that moment -- which his talented and dedicated cameraman, Brad, caught without flaw -- Brauch defined the tone and style of The Thirsty Traveler. "After that," he says, "the whole team seemed to 'get it.'"

The show took off from there. In the first season, alone, episodes were taped in Japan, Greece, Jamaica, Ireland and even Newfoundland, where the finer points of the province's famous drink, "Screech," were discussed. The show is now seen in more than 75 countries. It is also shown on Air Canada airlines, as well as the Food Network, Fine Living, Discovery Asia, BBC Food, CTV and E! Canada. The Thirsty Traveler recently reached its 60th-episode milestone.

In the Season 3, The Thirsty Traveler came to Windsor for an episode about Canadian whisky at Hiram Walker & Sons. Brauch was hosted by Canadian Club brand ambassadors, Dan Tullio and Tish Harcus. "I had a blast," Brauch says. "Being with Dan and Tish was like hanging out with Steve Lawrence and Eydie Gormé," referring to the legendary entertainment couple known for their singing, but also for their comedic banter.

Hiram Walker distillery on Riverside Drive may be just another part of the landscape to most Windsor residents, but it's worth noting that Canadian Club is actually older than Canada. It's also had some very famous -- even infamous -- fans of its product. Not the least of which have been Queen Victoria, England's longest reigning monarch, Don Draper in the AMC TV show Madmen, James Bond, and, of course, Al Capone.

"The fact that Canadian Club is located in Windsor is what's made Canadian whisky," Brauch says. He's not only current on how drinks are brewed, blended or distilled, but he knows his history, too. "The proximity to the U.S. certainly didn't hurt, but even with its ready-made customers during Prohibition, C.C. was always about quality." Part of the region's colorful history is the fact that legendary mobster, Al Capone, smuggled thousands of cases of Canadian Club into Detroit.

As for Canadian Club's high status among whisky drinkers, Brauch says, "Canadian Club is a very easy and enjoyable way to get into Canadian whisky. It's so clean and smooth because it's distilled very well." He also spoke very highly of the distillery's tour.

So, how does a person get "the best damn job in the world"? Thomas Edison's equation of "one percent inspiration and 99 percent perspiration" seems to apply. Brauch entered the food and beverage industry as kitchen help, washing dishes, and basically doing every unpleasant behind-the-scenes chore that keeps all bars and restaurants going.

"I worked at the Old Spaghetti Factory," Brauch recalls, "and places like O'Toole's. One day, a bartender couldn't make it to work, so I was brought out to fill in for him. I immediately loved tending bar."

Harnessing his years of bartending and extensive mixological experiments, Brauch merged that experience with his love of writing and performing. After narrowly missing out on becoming an MTV VJ in the 1990s, Kevin became involved with no less than five award-winning children's television programs at TVOntario and CBC. His early on-air experience included a stint as "Revvin' Kevin" at Toronto's 102.1 FM and co-hosting Canadian Gardening Television on Life Network and HGTV Canada.

And so was the apprenticeship of this jet-setting Jedi knight of the pub, wine cellar and windowed cocktail lounge.

Aside from an undying thirst for adventure and fine food and drink, Brauch brings to the show a unique sense of humor and folksy interview style. He also brings a piece of his past: the silver tankard shown in the opening credits of The Thirsty Traveler. The tankard was a gift from a friend for standing up in a wedding. It is so identifiable that Brauch was once offered $7,000 for it -- an offer he did not accept.

When asked if he's approached by fans while filming on location, Brauch says that he is recognized by viewers. "But I'm not really asked for autographs," he says. "People just want to buy The Thirsty Traveler a drink and take pictures." And Kevin is cool with that.

But with a job that calls for imbibing copious amounts of alcohol, and rich or heavy food, how does Brauch remain fit and keep his wits about him while on location? "I try to run every morning, though it often turns out to be more of a walk," Brauch says. "Also, my standard M.O. is to drink 'one-for-one' -- one glass of water with lemon or lime in between each drink. That keeps me hydrated."

Beyond the picturesque locations, "the best damn job in the world" is not all that we see on TV. "I've traveled the world through terrorism, SARS, and avian flu, which can make for some stressful days," Brauch says.

When asked if he had ever worried about his safety in a particular part of the world, Brauch recalls filming in Northern Ireland. He's quick to say, "Belfast is beautiful, and the North of Ireland is much safer than what people in Canada usually think." But he describes retiring to a "local" in a small town outside of Port Rush, one evening, after filming at a famous nightclub called Kelly's. In the local, Brauch and his crew encountered the scourge of any drinking establishment: the drunken lout. "There was just this drunk guy who kept calling us Americans. When we said 'No, we're Canadian,' he said, 'Same thing.' When I jokingly suggested that he might be Scottish, things started to get dicey." Ultimately, there was no altercation, though diplomatic help from the barman was needed to see Brauch and his team to safety.

"For all of the flying I do," Brauch continued, "the worst turbulence I ever experienced was on a flight to Kelowna." He laughs. "You know, I've been to Asia and the middle east -- all over -- and I was thinking, 'Oh my God, I'm going down on my way to Kelowna?'" The plane landed safely, and The Thirsty Traveler lived to drink another day.

"There were some security concerns, too, when we were in Russia," Brauch explains. "None of us were personally in danger, but there was concern about our cameras and equipment being stolen. So, we traveled with this guy who I took to calling 'Barney Ruble.' He had a duffel bag with him at all times, and while in the bar car of a train, I asked him what he had in there. He didn't speak English, but he understood my hand gestures and unzipped the bag. Inside, there were about half a dozen handguns."

So, with 60 completed episodes under his belt, where would Kevin Brauch like to take the show that he hasn't seen yet? "India," he replies without hesitation. For all of the exotic drinks he's enjoyed during that time, what are some his favorites? "I'm primarily a beer guy, though, one of the real gifts the show has given me is a growing appreciation for wine. I also love tequila and Jägermeister."

At the moment, Brauch is on a break from the show. In his "spare time," he traveled to Victoria, British Columbia, to the four-day Art of the Cocktail -- an epicurean event connected to the Victoria Film Festival. He was invited to give a lecture on "Our Palettes." Given the success of The Thirsty Traveler, and Kevin Brauch's dedication to on-the-ground research, there is no question that he is an expert on the subject.

To read more about The Thirsty Traveler's adventures, check out Thirstytraveler.tv.

Canadian commerce and the "Fuck You!" economy

We Plebeians should count ourselves lucky that we are even allowed by our overlords to exist. Having a bank account, mortgage, or credit card is a privilege, not a right. Our landlords and overseers, ombudsmen and masters are only looking out for our best interests; we -- the Rabble, the Great Unwashed, the Masses -- being but simple biped cattle who know only how to shop, copulate and watch hockey. We need someone to look after us. Make safe our souls.

And so I should have been moved to give thanks to one of my overlords today when he denied my request for service -- because he, and one of his underlings, just intuitively knew better than I did. But I gave not thanks.

In detail:

Today I called TDCanadaTrust to have my EasyWeb banking password reset. After giving two pieces of information and personal data to the operator, I was informed that I would, in fact, have to go into my local branch to do this. Why? The EasyWeb page clearly said the phone number I dialed was for password resets.

As it turned out, TDCanadaTrust customers are not only serviced by dedicated citizens of Mumbai and other locales in India, but also by the best of Canadian psychics minimum wage can buy.

The Feudal Lord supervisor who came on the line to answer my complaints explained that if any operator has the least inkling that something isn't right -- if their spider sense tingles; if their tarot cards twitch or astrological sign throbs even a tad; if their lunch gurgles dyspeptically in their digestive tract -- that operator can and should pull the plug on helping the customer over the phone. TDCanadaTrust operators use their intuition to winnow out frauds. Based upon this minimum wage slave's gut feeling, I now have to go to my local branch.

There is no more humble and altruistic master than TDCanadaTrust, so I was to take this news with a glad heart. The Masters of the Universe were looking out for my well-being.

And yet, somehow, I could not help feeling rankled. In fact, I felt a distinct pang of ingratitude. Truth be told, I was irked, miffed, PO'd, put off and more than a little discommoded by these tidings from my master. But then I remembered myself, and thanked His Dutifulness for bearing with me, with my frailty of heart and mind, for continuing to look after my meagre funds. I asked if my burble of doubt and disquietude would go on my permanent record. He would not answer that specifically, but I am sure whatever he decides will be in my best interest.

After all, this is Canada where monopolies rule the day, where a person such as myself may one day find himself commercially excommunicated. Lords Bell, Cogeco, Rogers, CIBC, TDCanadaTrust, et al, will only tolerate so much grumbling before they decide we are unworthy to be their customers.

What We Say About Ourselves (and What That Says About Us)

In the spirit of reports with titles like:

• Our Mania For Awards (and What It Says about Us)
  
• Traffic: Why We Drive the Way We Do (and What It Says about Us)
  
• Why We Went Zany for Zappos (and What It Says about Us)
  
• Deconstructing The Debate - Welfare (and What It Says about Us)
  
• The Troubling Paradox Behind State Uses Of Electrocution And Lethal Injection (and What It Says about Us)

Inside the Hotdog Factory has conducted a blind, exhaustive study about "What We Say About Ourselves (and What It Says about Us)."

For the most part, people are extraordinarily -- almost to the point of error, psychosis and boastery -- complimentary of themselves. After overhearing thousands upon thousands of cell phone conversations, Inside the Hotdog Factory has determined that modern North Americans between the ages of three and 73 are really into themselves.

This trend was offset by randomly uttered phrases, such as "Oh, I'm so stupid!" or "How dumb can I get?" But on the whole, these statements were followed by positively reinforcing remarks that were often tinged with delusions of grandeur.

Here's how the numbers break down:

• 3 percent of overheard cell phone conversations involved a person's plans for taking over the world
  
• 5 percent need new clothes
  
• 79 percent think they will one day be famous
  
• 13 percent believe they are already famous

So, what are we saying, and what does it say about us? Thirteen percent of those observed masturbated to pictures of themselves. Eighty-seven percent did so in front of mirrors.

The next study of this nature conducted by Inside the Hotdog Factory will be "The Many Faces of Ourselves in Our Auto-erotic Line-ups (and What It Says about Us).

Luddites Throughout History

Carl Wreckman, of Louisville, Kentucky, has stated in numerous conversations around The Lamp & Lather Barbershop on Hoover Street that he "don't know nothing about any of this 'computer' nonsense, and don't care to, neither. I want to read my newspaper on paper, not on some Jap contraption the kids use for killing aliens or whatever the hell they're doing on them things."

During the 2008 presidential campaign, Senator John McCain admitted, "I am a [computer] illiterate that has to rely on my wife for all the assistance I can get."

Modern day luddites often provide great 30-second "offbeat" story filler on TV and radio. What's often forgotten is that there have been people throughout history who have shunned advances in technology. Most of the earliest luddites' actual identities have been lost to history, but their stories endure.

Much as we take it for granted today, toilet paper was once innovative technology. There are stories, however, found on ancient scrolls about crotchety old men in the marketplace -- luddites do have a very specific demographic, no matter what age in which they appear -- who insisted the invention was just a fad. They steadfastly continued using the traditional, old technology of a handful of rocks to clean things up after answering nature's call.

Long before there was a word for luddites, there were crotchety old men who believed sandals were just "a flash in the pan." They waved their hands with disgust, and shook their grizzled heads at the newfangled foot contraption, as they stuck with the soul-edifying practice of walking their feet bloody on rocks, getting to where they needed to go.

Even back in the carefree, open-minded days of 8,000 B.C. Asia, luddites scoffed at the technology of the time: the wheel. Although the wheel revolutionized the world, and is ubiquitous in transportation to this day, there were crotchety old men at the time who waved their hands and spat upon it as "some new gadget them kids invented instead of getting serious about real work." The luddites of that era were steadfast in their rejection of the wheel, continuing to use the old tried-and-true square wheel, which the trendy new "round" wheel would quickly replace.

Luddites of the 20th Century provided no end to entertainment. It's a little known fact that astronaut Neil Armstrong believed the earth was flat. Authors of textbooks have continuously refused to include this information when detailing Armstrong's life. "How can anyone who's been in space and actually viewed the earth from there still believe it's flat?" asked librarian Elma Windroper. Only once, in October 1974, did Armstrong reply to such a question, saying, "The earth is flat, but discus shaped. When I viewed it from space, I was seeing the earth's flat side, rather than it's edge. There is no contradiction in my being an astronaut and believing the earth is not round."

Get in shape for only $14,615!

The ROM - The 4-Minute CrossTrainer © is a Salad Shooter for your body! It not only builds muscle and burns fat, it bends time and alters reality. That's why doctors and metaphysicians recommend that you not spend more than four minutes at a time on this machine.

And machine it is! Look at all of its moving parts. Behold its terrifying warning label. If just getting on this machine frightens you, just think of how your fat and flabby muscles will feel. This machine literally terrifies your body into shape.

Heed all of the warnings on the label. For maximum effectiveness, you should never use the machine outside the presence of an attorney or orthopedic surgeon. For optimum results, have your guru or representative of your religious organization on scene, as well.

Prolonged use of this machine may produce strangelets, and potentially a blackhole in the room where used. Do not use in the presence of pregnant women, people under four feet in height, vegetables, such as parsnips, rutabagas, pumpkins or leeks. Do not use if stupid people live on your block -- this machine will only further lower their intelligence. Do not use if you listen to Yngwie Malmasteen or Chee-Yun.

In fact, do not use.

The Great Alouette-Potash Riot of 1952

Discussion Board Post:

there is a team called the Alouettes? seriously? a FOOTball team? do they get beaten up on streetcorners?

Discussion Board Reply:

My grandfather fought and died in a street demonstration in 1952 so that goddamned team could be called the Alouettes, and now you assholes are laughing at that name?!?! This is an outrage!

It's too painful to fictionalize. This is the first and only time I've felt moved to share this horrid piece of family lore. Before my grandfather was burned alive, he managed to crush the skulls of eight men who wanted the Alouettes to be named Potash.

All I have to remember my grandfather by is a lower row mollar found the ashes of the confrontation days after the boil over. I've had it mounted in my wedding ring. When I hear someone dissing the Alouettes, the hand on which that ring rests turns into a fist, and I rock the house with a cry, "Vive l'Alouettes!"

I don't know, man, you're probably right about using "les" in front of Alouettes, but it's just too traumatic for me. We have a grainy photograph of my grandfather's burial -- his pork pie hat filled with ashes, gravel, and his partially immolated handkerchief. In honor of his death, his entire neighborhood with held their garbage from trash collection for over a month. A drink at the corner bar was named in honor of my grandfather's demise -- hot cider with whipped cream on top, called The Extinguisher.

Every August 15th my family meets at that corner bar, we get shitfaced on Extinguishers, wear pork pie hats and burn our handkerchiefs in the street.

How have you wrenched this out of me?!?! Seven analysts, a bathtub of psycho-active medication and several hospitalizations have not been able to dislodge this from me.

You might be thinking that my grandfather was of French descent. You would be wrong assuming so. He was full blooded Irish from the fields of County Kildare. He simply supported the naming of the football team "Les Alouettes" because he loved how the French handled themselves during the French Revolution. His name was Fergal McClusky, though everyone called him "Ferg." He wasn't a large man, but he was a powerful man. He once won a competition at a county fair by lifting a rock that weighed 11 stone (1 "stone" is 14 pounds; this rock weighed 154 pounds) above his head with one hand.

Man "who invented Love" now talking about inventing immortality

All right, Dr. Sanjay Gupta: Put. The test tubes. Down. Put the test tubes down and step away from the incubator and lab equipment. Keep your hands where we can see them.

From CNN.com:

Vital Signs host and CNN Chief Medical Correspondent, Dr. Sanjay Gupta will be joined by best-selling author Dan Buettner who has done extensive studies on the areas in the world people live the longest, healthiest lives, known as Blue Zones, and shares their formula for a long life.

The other panelist is geneticist Dr. Aubrey de Grey, best-selling author of "Ending Aging: The Rejuvenation Breakthroughs That Could Reverse Human Aging in Our Lifetime." He believes regenerative medicine could, in a matter of decades, extend life expectancy to 1000 years.

Of course, Dr. Sanjay Gupta could not leave a good thing alone. Since inventing Love in the mid-1990s, he's been haunted by the spectre of the "sophomore jinx." No easy feat getting over that. Just look at Gawd Almighty -- after the success of inventing the world, he followed up with an utter flop by inventing human beings. Or, Thomas Harris, who followed up his novel Silence of the Lambs with the execrable Hannibal. It happens to the best of us.

But now Dr. Sanjay Gupta is delving into the netherworld of anti-aging. He's a humble man, that's why his research is being couched as simply part of a program where he is hosting a panel of experts. But we all know what's happening -- he wants to invent immortality. How wrong can one guru be? He wants to extend the lives of the most selfish, short-sighted, counter-intuitive, violent, frivolous, stupid, sanctimonious, theocratic, psychosomatic populace that has ever walked this planet.

A devil's advocate might argue, "He'll never do it. We can't even get people to live out their own natural life-spans by getting them to eat sensibly and exercise once in a while. How could anyone bridge the Food Porn gap?"

Persuasive and compelling as that argument appears, there is no question Dr. Gupta will succeed. Worse, he'll probably find a way to make us all better people while succeeding.

So, Dr. Gupta gets people to live to be 1,000 years old. What good is that in our youth worshipping culture? What's the point of being 987 years old in a world where 30 year olds are considered "passed it"? Kids are entering puberty earlier than ever before due to better nutrition. At the same time, we're seeing adults living a prolonged adolescence -- as evidenced with the toyification of automobiles, consumer electronics, and our increasing need and obsession with gadgets -- due to our already prodigious life-spans.

Can you imagine 881 year old Wal-Mart meeter-greeters? How in the world will Bob Evans and golf courses keep up with the avalanche of immortal, milkshake humanity knocking down its doors? If I'm about to have an aneurysm driving behind a pokey 78 year old on the highway, what cardiac and psychological horrors will motorists have to endure driving behind someone who's 778? Will we have to institute a cut-off age? No driving after the age of 600? By that time, AARP will be in control of the One World Government, and will probably outlaw youth. Bob Hope, Milton Burl and Sarah Palin will be on our one-world currency.

The frightening part of Dr. Gupta is that he's probably taken all these scenarios into account -- and is still moving forward! He'll be the Overlord of the Aged. The L. Ron Hubbard of the string-saving-buffet-and-bargain-obsessed. The Immortology uniform will be sun visors, Yoko Ono shades, pastel colored trousers and blindingly white sneakers. The new call of the wild will be "Whaaaat? You want vermin on your stereo?" "No, I said 'Lemon on my sturgeon'!"

It'll turn out to be the reverse of what the sci-film Soylent Green depicted in our future: suicide stations will, indeed, be opened, but they'll service the young rather than the grudging, angry aged.

Groups of people in their chemically sustained 400s and 500s might descend like jackals on fetuses of a mere 30 or 40 years old, clubbing them so that there will be more pharmaceuticals for people in their middle hundreds. Such instances of violence will be "Age Rage."

No matter what, it must be stopped. Personally, I do not want to be held hostage on this earth for potentially 1,000 years. Dr. Sanjay Gupta must be halted, if not outright destroyed. There is only one sure way for this to happen:

Someone please take him to Las Vegas for a long weekend.

Black (& Blue) Friday - shopper within the maelstrom

Being a person who "thinks outside of the box," I did my Black Friday shopping on Saturday. A few sacrifices had to be made: living with the disappointment that I would likely not witness anyone being trampled to death; knowing the odds of witnessing shopper-on-shopper violence had decreased from the day before. But I made do with the day, anyhow.

One thing I did notice -- paying for purchases at Borders Books is like checking in for a flight at the airport. You're holding a product(s) in one hand, a mode of payment in the other. The transaction should move at the speed of the electronic cash register. But it doesn't. There is a litany of questions to be answered: "Do you have a Borders Reward Card?" If you don't: "Would you like to open one?" Once that is over with, the customer is asked if they'd like to donate a dollar to some Borders-sponsored charity -- complete with brief explanation of said charity and even mode of gift and delivery. And then finally: "Would you like a gift receipt?" I answered "no" to everything -- even the query, asked in semi-shock: "Would you like open a Borders Reward Card?" -- and it still took me about three to four minutes to checkout. This after waiting in line behind people who answered "yes" to these various questions, and whose checkout procedures took between four and eight minutes. Honestly. To buy a fucking book, CD, DVD or calendar? I wouldn't be surprised on my next visit to Borders if I should bring my metaphysician to help me explain whether or not I am worthy of my purchase.

I was not only engaged in my own shopping, but had the pleasure of chauffeuring -- and it was a pleasure, though they were a little light on the tips -- three Shopping Titans for whom Saturday outings are treated like Olympic events. As they conducted their commerce, I availed of my freedom in the car, spinning by to pick them up at various venues when summoned telephonically.

So, in picking up my passengers, I had occasion to venture into other stores where I would not normally have gone.

I was disappointed to find that Costco wasn't under martial law. It appeared to be hemorrhaging 50" television sets, but aside from that, all was in order. We even had lunch there. Turkey wraps. And I was endlessly amused to see an octagonal metal box bolted to the napkin and condiment counter, which bore the following legend: Onion Dispenser. At a glance, I guessed that the box was bullet proof and probably impervious to radiation.

Target looked like it might offer more action. For instance, there was a bird flying around inside the store -- a small sign of nature's intent to one day encroach and overtake the place, growing wild mushrooms in dressing rooms, saplings in the toy department, tar pits in the music, movie and "books" departments. Other than the usual bovine, mouth-breathing lumbering set in electric wheelchairs and wheezing over laden carts, there was no need for tear gas or truncheons.

One place where tear gas, truncheons and water cannons were needed: on the roads.

Michigan is the only American state where I've logged enough hours and miles to make a true judgment on its drivers: they're dangerous, unthinking, with the red needle of their mortality quivering every moment between homicide and suicide. Although I've yet to secure verification, here is my best guess at how their driving system works: Michigan drivers are rewarded (probably with fuel credits) for every accident in which they're involved. Instigators of accidents are eligible for more rewards, but the victims aren't left out entirely. That's the only explanation for the way people conduct themselves on Michigan roads.

Where I come from, automobile accidents are viewed as something negative. There's the risk of injury or death -- then dealing with doctors, hospitals, recuperation, rehabilitation, lawyers, and the whole mire of insurance. There's also the damage to a needed vehicle, and once again dealing with the insurance company. Even when the accident isn't serious, it's an enormous inconvenience. Often, the police are involved. At the very least, the drivers involved must convene at the nearest safe location to exchange insurance information -- or blows. In fact, automobile accidents in my neck of the woods are so inconvenient, so no-win, that most people actually do their utmost to avoid them. The problem for me driving in Michigan is I do not know how to collect the rewards for engaging in a collision, and thus appeared to be a bit of a kill-joy on the motorway.

By afternoon, my party was in the Great Lakes Crossing shopping center. There, things began to get dicey. There was no violence, not even a whiff of a threat of violence. There was only the untended mayhem of so many people in the same place at once. I'm sure there's a formula from the realm of physics to explain a phenomena I witnessed -- the larger the single group of people walking together, the slower they walked. Whole systems of round, planet-shaped people clogged the walking area like asteroid fields.

This is where shopping mall cops -- some hilariously on Segways -- need to act a little more like rangers on golf courses. Gotta get those herds moving. One method I think would work is to make any person moving substantially below the average speed of the other walkers (some calculations would be required, as well as speed monitoring equipment) should be made to wear large orange cones on their heads. This would give the dual messages of "Pylons" and "Dunces Ahead." I mean, clearly, intelligence is linked to how quickly a person walks. Margaret Mead or Thomas Edison determined that.

One final sociological note: health care in America costs a fortune and obesity is the leading cause of diabetes, heart disease, strokes, etc.. You see where this equation is going. Yet, the same counter-intuitive curveball I witnessed on the roads was on display everywhere I encountered shoppers: people are eating themselves right into intensive care wards, which few of them can afford. So, there must be some hidden reward system at work that I could not figure out. I did see an enormous number of tattoos, though I didn't stare long enough to make sense of any of them. Maybe these peoples' bodies are like NASCAR cars, covered with logos of sponsors. Maybe they're sponsored by the makers of corn syrup and all the other science fiction ingredients found listed in soda or chocolate bar.

I believe there is a documentary to be about that hidden world.

So, after a day of disappointing civility, no reward points from any car collisions, I took my charges away from the action and delivered them to safety. We had engaged in commerce on the most herniated shopping weekend of the year and had only our purchases to show for it.