Neanderthal Therapy

I really feel like punching something. So this post is about thicked-headed guy stuff.
You've been warned, ladies.

Man is no angel. He is sometimes more of a hypocrite and sometimes less, and then fools say that he has or has not principles.
-Honore de Balzac, Le Pere Goriot

They're at it again. Still trying to figure out why, even after years of relentless feminization of American society, men still identify with deeply flawed tough guys and anti-heroes.

The latest attempt at an explanation appears in today's New York Times "Fashion and Style" section (where else?) in a piece provocatively titled "What Men Want: Neatherthal TV." I knew right away that this article was going to reach deep into the male psyche and enlighten us all because the author was none other than Warren St. John, the "reporter" who brought us all, (I kid you not) both "metrosexuals" and "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy."

So what does Mr. St. John's story tell us about why guys prefer characters such as "Jack Bauer," and "Tony Soprano" to, let's say, "Magnum, P.I?*" The answer will shock you:

'"The code of such characters, said Brent Hoff, 36, a fan of "Lost," is: "Life is hard. Men gotta do what men gotta do, and if some people have to die in the process, so be it."'

Holy boxer shorts, Batwit. What a freakin' breakthrough. Guys like, well... to watch other guys doing guy things!!! Men want to watch guys beat up other guys, shoot things and blow stuff up! Amazing! Why, just think of what this could mean for entertainment!

But there must be more to it than just that. I mean why do we men feel the need to get in touch with, you know, our inner masculinity?

"It's about comprehending from an entertainment point of view that men are living a very complex conundrum today," he said. "We're supposed to be sensitive and evolved and yet still in touch with our Neanderthal**, animalistic, macho side." Watching a deeply flawed male character who nevertheless prevails, Mr. Randall argued, makes men feel better about their own flaws and internal conflicts.

"You think, 'It's O.K. to go to a strip club and have a couple of beers with your buddies and still go home to your wife and baby and live with yourself,' " he said.

Oh, yeah. I do that all the time. "Hey, honey! Me and the boys are going to down to the Paper Moon and throw back some beers. Don't wait up." Yep, that sure leads to learning how to live with by yourself. At least I'll feel better about my own flaws. Right.***

Still not convinced why men like to watch other men act badly? Then let's get a real live doctor to explain our condition:

"'These kinds of characters are so satisfying to male viewers because culture has told them to be powerful and effective and to get things done, and at the same time they're living, operating and working in places that are constantly defying that,' said Robert Thompson, the director of the Center for the Study of Popular Television at Syracuse University."

I know what your thinking: "There's a freakin' Center for the Study of Popular Television? You gotta be kidding me! How much federal grant money are they getting to watch %$#&@* TV?" But what Dr. Thompson is trying to explain to us is that guys don't like wimpy heroes. This is apparently news in certain circles.

Here's the deal, doctor. Guys have always liked movie anti-heroes. "The Outlaw Josey Wales," "Wanted, Dead or Alive" "Dirty Harry," "The Magnificent Seven," "The Wild Bunch," John Wayne's Ethan Edwards in "The Searchers," and yes, even pretty Brad Pitt in "Fight Club."**** These characters do what we would like to be doing instead of going to the office and pushing the paper around. We can't shoot people without getting in hot water, so we like to watch other people doing it. That's just the way it is. No further explanation is required. If you don't get it, then check your shorts to see if they're missing.

Now get your girly-man fingers out of my head. Gladiator's on in 10 minutes.

* All men out there who actually watched Magnum, P.I. without being forced to raise your hands.
Thank you. Please turn in your testicles as you leave.

** So what? Neanderthal brains were roughly ten percent larger than those of modern humans, you twit.

*** Who cares about his own flaws anyway? It is what it is. Get over it.

****Guys will always think that Tom Cruise sucks, no matter what role he's playing.

Bless me Father.....

Ok, so fellow cellar-dweller Sensible Mom tapped all of the Lowly Insects in the running for "The Best Blog Nobody's Ever Heard Of" award (given annually to the most persistant idiots on the net) to play a game of "I Confess." Now generally I don't do memes, but because confession is good for the soul (and I've got nothing else to say at the moment), I'll throw out some of the more pertinent lies.

I confess that I say "nuclear" the same way as President Bush (noo-cue-ler) which drives my wife nuts.

I confess that I think the Three Stooges are way funnier than Chris Rock.

I confess that I leave the cupboard doors open all the time.

I confess that I swipe stuff like the cartoon above all the time and never bother to ask for anyone's permission. If it's on the net, it's mine.

I confess that if I was still single I would have yet to make my bed (why bother?)

I confess to being the one who hid the Budweiser cans under the sofa the afternoon of my little sister's slumber party and that her grounded for something like a year.

I confess to "the incident" at Adelphi College in 1968 involving a slingshot and cherry bombs.

I confess that Dante bores the crap out of me.

I confess that I voted for George McGovern in 1972 (hey, I was 18! What did I know!)

I confess that if I had it to do all over again I'd probably screw it up even worse.

How many Hail Marys am I up to now, Father?
Oh! That's all for today then.

There Is Always A Bigger Fish

Get Out the Vote Plea

I don't want to grovel for your vote for Heigh-ho in the Weblog Awards "Best of the Rest" category, so I'll just say this:

Vote for Heigh-ho or the kitten gets it!

Thanks for your support.

And in other revolting developments...

Michael Schiavo Launches PAC

WASHINGTON (AP) -- Michael Schiavo, whose effort to end life support for his brain-damaged wife divided a nation, is launching a political action committee that will challenge candidates based on where they stand on government's reach in private lives.
Nine months after a fierce political and legal fight over Terri Schiavo, Michael Schiavo said his experience with political leaders "has opened my eyes to just how easily the private wishes of normal Americans like me and Terri can be cast aside in a destructive game of political pandering."
Schiavo described himself as a lifelong Republican "before Republicans pushed the power of government into my private family decisions."

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Seriously, Mike.

You got what you wanted.

Your wife is dead.

Now go away.

Forever.

La Cage Aux Folly

Here's the dopey news story of the day.

Off-duty officer thwarts birdnapping
Associated Press
Dec 6, 2005
FRONT ROYAL, Va. - An off-duty police officer shopping for ferret food helped stop a shopper before he fled from a pet shop with a $1,200 exotic bird in his backpack.
Thomas Edward Lee III, 23, of Winchester, has been charged with felony shoplifting/concealing merchandise for attempting to make off with the African Grey parrot from Noah's Ark Pets and Aquarium.
A worker, Michael Williams, said Lee had concealed the 3-pound bird in his backpack, but had been thwarted in his attempt to leave the store Monday by Terry Leach, an off-duty Fairfax County police officer.
Lee was detained at the store until an animal control officer arrived and placed him under arrest.
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Seeing as it was an animal control officer that place him under arrest, one can only expect that the bird-brained criminal is currently being caged at the county pound until his arraignment before a kangaroo court.

Pickles

The anniversary of one our Nation's most paradoxical Constitutional achievements passed quietly yesterday. Not many noted that 72 years had passed since Utah became the 36th state to ratify the Twenty-first Amendment and thus seal the repeal of Prohibition. The "noble experiment" in national temperance lasted only 13 years, but it has left an indelible mark on American society

There has been much written about the history of prohibition, about its origins and whether is "succeeded" or "failed." I won't go too deeply into that here, although it is a interesting study. Suffice it to say that from about 1860 through World War I, ours was a nation of drunks. Not all of us, mind you, but a sufficient number to raise deep concern among the semi-sober population... particularly among those of the feminine persuation.

Let's face facts, many men are complete brutes even when sober. Throw a little 100 proof whiskey down their throats and this type starts hurting people...like their wives and kids. So it was then, so it is today. The difference between then and now, however, is that most women didn't drink. Women saw their men waste away the family rent and food on alcohol, running the society deeper and deeper into abject misery. Reformers such as Stephan Crane and Jacob Riis wrote forcefully about the evils the saloon wrought on the poor of New York City:

All the evil the saloon does in breeding poverty and in corrupting politics; all the suffering it brings into the lives of its thousands of innocent victims, the wives and children of drunkards it sends forth to curse the community; its fostering of crime and its shielding of criminals--it is all as nothing to this, its worst offence. In its affinity for the thief there is at least this compensation that, as it makes, it also unmakes him. It starts him on his career only to trip him up and betray him into the hands of the law, when the rum he exchanged for his honesty has stolen his brains as well. For the corruption of the child there is no restitution. None is possible. It saps the very vitals of society; undermines its strongest defences, and delivers them over to the enemy. Fostered and filled by the saloon, the "growler" looms up in the New York street boy's life, baffling the most persistent efforts to reclaim him. There is no escape from it; no hope for the boy, once its blighting grip is upon him.

Thenceforward the logic of the slums, that the world which gave him poverty and ignorance for his portion "owes him a living," is his creed, and the career of the "tough" lies open before him, a beaten track to be blindly followed to a bad end in the wake of the growler.

Peer behind the "yada yada yada" and you can hear the true urgency of the times. Things were as bad as the crack epidemic of the 1980's-90's, but it was far more prevalent. There was no, or nearly no, regulation of alcohol. Sure, you might have to get a license from some corrupt city official. But generally the booze ran freely. And because of the competition among brewers (i.e. capitalism), more and more saloons were opened, and kept open around the clock. It was getting ugly. And untaxed. Imagine that.

In steps the Anti-Saloon League, the Women's Temperance League, the Prohibition Party (which, by the way, still exists), and a host of other pro-prohibition organizations founded by some of this nation's strongest women to take on the liquor interests and their friends in the government. In an era where women had no franchise, they were, at first, easily ignored or treated as a nusiance. As the womaen's sufferage movement gained stream, however, those politicians shrewed enough to see the train coming down the track were brought on board. The anti-German sentiment that rose from the First World War was a tool for the prohibitionist. It wasn't hard to stretch such obvious aryan names as "Anheuser-Busch" "Schlitz" "Scheaffer" " Blatz"or "Pabst" into symbols of subversion. Moreover, it is testament to the times that the Eighteenth Amendment establishing prohibition was ratified in 1919, just after the war, and one year before women received the vote. It was, in fact, a complete victory. The nation agreed.


And therein lies the paradox. For 13 years the nation's thirst for alcohol went unslackened... except in the speakeasies of the city, college campuses, and the nips joints fired by homemade liquor in the heartland. During this period, however, a curious development occurred: First, the price of liquor went through the roof and thus it cost a helluva lot more of the rent money for a man to come home stinking drunk; Second, women, freed at last from the shuttering confines of disenfranchisement and second-class status, started drinking themselves.
Hoo-boy. What a recipe for destruction.

Thus the repeal movement, which since the early 1920s had been a sullen and hopeless expression of minority discontent, astounded even its most dedicated supporters when it suddenly gained political momentum. What had not been articulated in 1928 was that the nation had been moving away from the concerns that from the beginning had lay at the heart of Prohibition. The postwar industrial society and the new lifestyles of individualism and personal freedom—apparent in Europe and America—were making the protection of the Victorian home and family seem less and less urgent. The powerful accelerators of change were mass production, the automobile, the telephone, the radio, the new literature, the movies—all with their stunning potential for broadening individual freedoms, including the freedom to use intoxicating beverages. But the most powerful accelerator was the Great Depression, which for many people everywhere marked the end of a cultural and social era, an era that had embraced Prohibition.

Perhaps the most curious aspect of all this is that, today, per capita consumption of alcohol is as high, or higher, than it was when prohibition was enacted. Of course, only the male population was imbibing then, so you can only imagine what a man was throwing down on a daily basis.

All in all then, Prohibition cleared the way for state/community enforcement of alcohol laws, and curbed abusive drinking tremendously. Given my own predilictions, I am hesitant to term it a "success." Nevertheless, it was a program of national "intervention" the likes of we'll never see again. Hopefully.

Happy Birthday all.
Cheers.

Today's Sigh

You may have seen this story pop up somewhere.

WASHINGTON (AP) -- A 73-year-old man who received a $5 jaywalking ticket after he was struck by a car later died from his injuries, police said Monday.

Charles Atherton, a former secretary of the U.S. Commission on Fine Arts that advises the government on architecture and design in official Washington, was hit Thursday while crossing busy Connecticut Avenue. He died Saturday night at George Washington University Hospital.

Although witnesses said he was badly injured and unresponsive at the scene, police issued him the ticket. His family found it with his belongings when they went to the hospital.

"We knew it was a serious injury, but we didn't know it was life-threatening," police Capt. Willie Smith told The Washington Post in a story for Tuesday editions. He said officers would not have issued the ticket "if we knew he was going to die."

Capt. Smith's remark struck me as perfectly silly. Does he mean to say that police will only issue jay walking tickets to badly injured unconscious persons who might live and let badly injured unconscious persons who might die get off with a warning? Do the police have to certain that the injured person will die before they will grant a pass? What if the injured person doesn't die? Can the police ticket him later while he's recovering?

This is a tragic case, and I don't mean to make light of it. But any cop who would write up a $5 ticket and then stuff in the injured guy's pocket while his live ebbed away is a far more cynical human being than I.

Disgraceful, really.

Side Effects

An interesting thing has happened to me on the way to quitting smoking. What? You didn't know that I smoked? How could you not? Everything about me just screams "irresponsible." I started smoking at age 13 with a pack of Marlboro's swiped from the Seventh Street News store by a guy named Clinton. I had swiped a Playboy and we traded. Sometime later I got caught with a pack of cigarettes by my old man and he sat me down in the basement and made me smoke the biggest, greenest cigar you ever saw. You bet I got sick. But that didn't stop me. Smoking was cool.

In high school we had a "smoking area." I kid you not. (Right Portia?) There was an open air quadrangle in the center of the building where kids could smoke themselves stupid. At the same time, it was absolutely forbidden for the school to have Cokes or coffee available to students. Wouldn't want them getting hooked on that caffeine.

By the time I went off and joined the Navy, however, I had really cut back on being a smokestack, primarily because of the lack of funds. But once I discovered that puffers got to take smoke breaks in boot camp, well I was back on the pack. Plus, smokes were only 25 cents! How could you lose? I fell in with some of the "brothers" aboard ship (which was interesting, as I had never had any black friends growing up) and the next thing you know, I'm smoking Kools.

Kools. What's up with that? Those things are strong as hell and the menthol in them is powerful enough to kill an elephant. It's as if I said "Gee, what's absolutely the very worst thing I could stick in my mouth and suck into my lungs? Give me that!" Kools have always been marketed to the black community, and they still are. For a kid who grew up in a lily-white world, becoming addicted to Kools is a ironic kick in the social ass.

So where did I start this? Oh, yeah. I was about to tell you about quitting smoking. I do this a lot. Ms. rdr hates my habit. I hid it from her the best I could while we were dating, and even after we were married I didn't smoke in front of her. I've tried to quit countless times, and inevitably wound up sneaking a butt while walking the dog or taking out the trash. Who was I kidding? Kools stink like hell and the smell clings to everything within a 20 foot radius. But I did my best to accommodate her. I've never smoked in her house and have always promised to quit again "next month."

So here it is, "next month" again and I'm gearing up to take down the beast once more. I know I've tried most of the methods without long term success, but this time it's going to be different. This time I'm using drugs. Surprised? Don't be. I know when I'm licked. If I can't do it straight, then it's high time I let the chemicals take over. I've been taking something called "Wellbutrin" for almost 2 weeks. It's an anti-depressant like Zoloft or Prozac, but it also supposedly reduces the urge in smokers to light up. I've noticed that my smoking enjoyment has really dropped off over time. I still puff a few puffs, but it doesn't give me any pleasure and I stub it out quickly. Next week is the big test where I try to put them down completely. Who knows? Maybe it'll happen this time. I want it to. Very much.

But the interesting part of this whole long ramble is this: the drug has had an effect on my personality like I never expected. Shit that used to drive me crazy just doesn't bother me any more. Not just the little stuff, like a teenager mouthing off or a rude cashier, big stuff. Important stuff. Ted Kennedy sized stuff. I now read the newspaper without swearing. I haven't called anyone an "idiot" in days. I am patient behind the wheel as the old lady in front of me fumbles through her purse for exact change at the toll booth. It's subtle, but amazing. I am exactly the same, except I've stopped being such an asshole. How about that.

Which brings me to the point of this post. I haven't felt the urge to blog recently. I don't know why. Certainly there are things in the news that are blog-worthy. I still recognize the moronic behavior running rampant across the screen. But I don't blow up about it anymore. My sarcasm meter is down in the red zone. I've lost the "edge" to my cynicism. Strange. I don't know where this is a good thing or not, but it is what it is. And if I can smack this monkey off of my back, then a little light blogging will be well worth it.

Wish me luck.

Going Postal

It's the day after the day after Thanksgiving and time to take stock of the situation. Since Wednesday evening, the rdr residence has been just this side of Animal House. In addition to my own off-spring, we took in four strays, male and female, from college and law school and a variety of local under-aged visitors. One hundred ten pound Henry the dog returned from law school as well to make sure that we were all safe every time the door bell rang.

The noise level in the rdr household was somewhere between a herd of seals and a jet engine, and went on that way until the not- so-wee hours. Horrible music emanated from all points as a full range of colorful I-Pods were plugged into every available amplifier. Politics, law and football were argued vociferously by those positioned at odd angles and spread across every available seating surface. Wine flowed freely for those of age (and perhaps others, too, after I had gone to bed) and foods of all sorts were consumed with a vigor that comes from those who haven't made a meal since leaving Mom's house. Henry gained several pounds between 7 p.m. Thursday and 5. a.m. Friday. The driveway was a maze of poorly parked cars with university decals on the windows and there always seemed to be somebody's behind sticking out from the refrigerator door.

Things were quiet Friday morning from 6 until 8 a.m. That's when Henry found where mrs. rdr's cats had been hiding since his arrival and all hell broke loose. I finally made myself some breakfast around 9 after cleaning up the mess the "children" had so kindly left for me and had taken exactly one bite when the doorbell rang, whereupon Henry roused himself and charged for the front door barking and wagging ferociously as all hell broke loose again. It was the littlest rdr's 8 and 9 year old friends looking to play football. The three of them charged upstairs to find him and I returned to the table, whereupon one bite later the doorbell rang and all hell broke loose again. It was three teenage girls coming to wake up daughter #4 (16 y.o.) to go shopping. Needless to say, before I was seated again the doorbell rang and, yes, all hell broke loose. In trudged my wife's friend, and her sister, and their three year-olds, bearing gifts. Much high-pitched hilarity ensued in the kitchen as I tried to eat my now-cold eggs.

Soon I had taken refuge on the front porch to watch the pee-wee footballers tear up the newly seeded lawn. But this peace, such as it was, was not long to be enjoyed. Daughter #4 suddenly rocketed back out of the driveway, and missing the lower half of pavement by a good five feet, plowed backwards into the mailbox post, snapping it off below ground level. The rag-tag football teams cheered, hooting and hollering and thinking it was the funniest thing they had every seen. I went back inside and informed mrs. rdr of the event, and then calmly return to the scene of the accident, whereupon I discover that daughter #4 had spun the wheels into the mulch and soft earth that surrounded the plants that once thrived there, and had buried the small SUV to the axle.

An impromptu neighborhood event was suddenly upon us. People streamed out of their homes to marvel at the sight of a car buried to the axle on my front lawn. "How could she have possibly done that?" they asked incredulously, while introducing several generations of family members come to share the holiday - all of whom mrs. rdr promptly invited in for coffee and pie. All the while I could see their concern behind their smiles. "Jesus," keep the kids inside when this one is driving." Of course, I knew more than I was willing to share. This was daughter # 4's second mailbox victim, and her third interception off a non-moving object when in reverse. The newest dent is going to be there for a while.

After much confabbing, "the men" located sufficient chains, hooks, shovels, implements and four-wheeled drive trucks to pull the stranded vehicle from the deep holes and crushed bushes, whereupon said fourth daughter climbed in and immediately disappeared for the remainder of the day. I trudged off to Home Depot to join the throngs of bargain hunters and secured a new mailbox and post. Meanwhile, the bottomless pits had roused themselves and were making their way through the pantry. Henry threw up on the dining room carpet, prompting mrs. rdr to clean the entire house with the worlds loudest vacuum cleaner. I skipped lunch.

I replaced the mailbox and post, tore out the slaughtered bushes, and rebuilt the stone border surrounding the area, while the homeless students enjoyed hot turkey sandwiches, my beer, and college football on the big screen. Later, more people arrived, including neighbors that I actually like, and we drank wine and port and played word games until midnight, repeatedly interrupted by children of all ages. At last, the clock struck a new day, and in sauntered daughter #4, pretty as you please and an hour past curfew. Grounded for a week.

It was a full day.

Monday is mrs. rdr's birthday, and I've been given permission to buy jewelry.

Yay.

We'll Keep

General Thanksgiving

By the PRESIDENT of the United States Of America

A PROCLAMATION

---

WHEREAS it is the duty of all nations to acknowledge the providence of Almighty God, to obey His will, to be grateful for His benefits, and humbly to implore His protection and favour; and Whereas both Houses of Congress have, by their joint committee, requested me "to recommend to the people of the United States a DAY OF PUBLICK THANSGIVING and PRAYER, to be observed by acknowledging with grateful hearts the many and signal favors of Almighty God, especially by affording them an opportunity peaceably to establish a form of government for their safety and happiness:"

NOW THEREFORE, I do recommend and assign THURSDAY, the TWENTY-SIXTH DAY of NOVEMBER next, to be devoted by the people of these States to the service of that great and glorious Being who is the beneficent author of all the good that was, that is, or that will be; that we may then all unite in rendering unto Him our sincere and humble thanks for His kind care and protection of the people of this country previous to their becoming a nation; for the signal and manifold mercies and the favorable interpositions of His providence in the course and conclusion of the late war; for the great degree of tranquility, union, and plenty which we have since enjoyed;-- for the peaceable and rational manner in which we have been enable to establish Constitutions of government for our safety and happiness, and particularly the national one now lately instituted;-- for the civil and religious liberty with which we are blessed, and the means we have of acquiring and diffusing useful knowledge;-- and, in general, for all the great and various favours which He has been pleased to confer upon us.

And also, that we may then unite in most humbly offering our prayers and supplications to the great Lord and Ruler of Nations and beseech Him to pardon our national and other transgressions;-- to enable us all, whether in publick or private stations, to perform our several and relative duties properly and punctually; to render our National Government a blessing to all the people by constantly being a Government of wise, just, and constitutional laws, discreetly and faithfully executed and obeyed; to protect and guide all sovereigns and nations (especially such as have shewn kindness unto us); and to bless them with good governments, peace, and concord; to promote the knowledge and practice of true religion and virtue, and the increase of science among them and us; and, generally to grant unto all mankind such a degree of temporal prosperity as he alone knows to be best.

GIVEN under my hand, at the city of New-York, the third day of October, in the year of our Lord, one thousand seven hundred and eighty-nine.

(signed) G. Washington

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To my son and his dedicated Navy shipmates, to the Army, to the Air Force, and to everyone that spends this day far from home to keep me any my family safe from harm; God bless you, every one of you.
And to the Marines, Semper Fidelis.

Always.
Thank you.

Everybody Loves Somebody

Sam, the world's ugliest dog, passed away today at the ripe old age of fourteen.
If I subscribed to the belief that we are reincarnated into penitant forms that helped pay for our prior sins, then in my estimation Sam should get the eternal "bye week" on reincarnation. Maybe he'll come back next as a "spokesperson" for some politico or another, but I hope not. He's suffered enough.

Goodnight, Sam.
And thanks for wagging your tail...through all of it.
Good dog!










Cue the Dino.

Everybody loves somebody sometime. Everybody falls in love somehow.
Something in your kiss just told me, that sometime is now.

Everybody finds somebody someplace. There's no telling where love may appear.
Something in my heart keeps saying, my someplace is here.

If I had it in my power, I'd arrange for every girl to have your charms.
Then every minute, every hour, everybody would find what I found in your arms.

Everybody loves somebody sometime, and though my dreams were overdue,
Your love made it all worth waiting, for someone like you.

If I had it in my power, I'd arrange for every girl to have you charms.
Then every minute, every hour, everybody would find what I found in your arms.

Everybody loves somebody sometime, and though my dreams were overdue,
Your love made it all worth waiting for someone like you.

The Attack of the Giant Nostalgia

I was saddened to hear of the death of Pamela Duncan.

"Who" you ask, "is Pamela Duncan?" Ms. Ducan was the hot sweater-clad star of the 1957 Roger Corman classic movie "The Attack Of the Crab Monsters." You remember that one, don't you? How could you forget?

Here's the deal: Take one team of Nuclear Scientists, an adventuresome hard guy, a couple of sailors and demolitions experts, add one inevitably hot science-babe in a push-up bra, and dispatch the whole lot to a remote pacific island to study what effect nuclear fallout caused by recent test has had on lifeforms there. Shake well, bake at 350 for 67 minutes.

What do you get? What else? Monster crabs!
I mean, Crab Monsters!!! (Monster crabs is what you get from a weekend at the MTV beach house.) Giant mutant Crab Monsters with human eyes and a bad habit turning scientists and sailors into crab kibble.

The Attack of the Crab Monsters was along the lines of other giant mutant crawly things that are created by mankind as a result of his bumbling around with nuclear energy. 1954's "Them" had giant nuclear ants eating Los Angeles. "Tarantula" came out in 1955, starring Leo G. Caroll as a mad scientist and Clint Eastwood as a napalm-dropping pilot in his first movie role. And, yeah, it was a giant spider that terrorized the earth. Later came "Mantis," "The Attack of the Giant Leeches," and "Squirm" with the electrfied worms.

But for sheer camp, its tough to beat "Crab Monsters." First of all, suppose you were marooned on a Pacific island with nothing but a bunc h of dynamite and some very large man-eating crabs. Who would you want to be marooned with you? Sorry, Ginger and Mary Ann aren't available.
Of course! The Professor! And there he is! Russell Johnson starred as "Hank," the stud-muffin demolitions expert that saves the world by fying the crustaceans with high-voltage, and buys it in the process, thus allowing Pam Duncan (Martha) to live happily ever after with her dorky scientist financee Richard Garland (Dale).

But wait, it gets better! Yes, for these are not just ordinary giant mutant man-eating crab monsters, these are intelligent giant mutant man-eating crab monsters who can talk!

Giant Mutant Crab Monster:"So you have wounded me! I must grow
a new claw, well and good, for I can do it in a day, but will you grow new lives
when I have taken yours from you?"

Me: "Dude! The crab's talking to me! What's in this stuff?"

I know you're wondering just how giant mutant man-eating crab monsters can speak. Easy. Brains. I'll let Nuclear Physicist Karl Wiegand and fellow scientist Dale explain.

Dale: "That means that the crab can eat his victim's brain,
absorbing his mind intact and working."

Karl: "It's as good theory as any other to explain what's
happened."

Well, hell yeah it is! You got a better theory, Cowboy?

Anyway, this movie scrared the hell out of me when I was a little kid - and I mean "little." Giant Crab Monsters biting the heads off of people was not my everyday Catholic school fare. Pretty soon, though, I was hooked. Monster movies reigned supreme! I saw them all, countless times over. I can still which guy buys it, monster fare, and when and how for about 50 or 60 of them. But I'll always remember "The Attack of the Crab Monsters" with particular fondness. It turned me on.

Goodbye, Ms. Duncan. And thanks for the memories.

Down for the Count

I came across the latest results from the quadrennial survey conducted by the Pew Research Center and, not surprisingly, the Democrat elite don't like George Bush.

Other poll results were interesting, even disturbing, such as the one at left which shows a 10% gain in the number of people who think that if we close our eyes and pull the covers over our head the terrorists will leave us alone. Keep in mind that the "2002" results shown were actually taken in the summer of 2001, prior to the 9/11 terrorist attacks. Scary, isn't it?

The good news is that the number of Americans who think that the U.S. should follow the lead of the U.N. is tanking: 54 %, down from 67 % three years ago. Perhaps we are not as brain dead as the numbers would appear. As always, how different socio-economic groups react to the same question is facinating to read.












Which brings me to the chart to the right.
What do you make of this? Nearly half of the 2,006 "general" people polled -- 46% -- believe that torture is justified to extract important information from terrorist suspects, and another 17% say it should be used only rarely. The "elite groups," on the other hand, are by and large against using torture. The fact that a higher percentage of Military respondents answered "never" than did the "News Media" provides an interesting irony, doesn't it? I also admit to be somewhat surprised that only 56% of the "Religious Leaders" showed up in the "never" column, although I did attend Catholic grade school.

Enjoy poking around the poll.
That it's all so meaningless makes it all the more fun.

Bridge to Nowhere Update

G.O.P. Strips Mandatory Funding for Two Alaskan Bridges
WASHINGTON (Reuters) - Mandatory funding for
two controversial bridge projects in Alaska -- including the ridiculed ``bridge to nowhere'' -- has been stripped from a federal spending bill, a congressional committee said on Wednesday.

In an unusual move to change ``pork'' spending, House-Senate negotiators removed the $432 million in required spending during final talks on a yearly bill to fund programs for the Transportation and Treasury departments, the House Appropriations Committee said.

As a compromise, Alaska will still receive the money that had been set aside for the bridges to spend as it likes on transportation needs.

Congressional negotiators were under pressure from lawmakers and fiscal watchdogs to address concerns about mandatory spending on pet projects. The bridges had become symbols of egregious spending during an era of record budget deficits.
The quarter-mile $223 million ``bridge to nowhere'' span got its nickname because it connects the port town of Ketchikan to neighboring Gravina Island, population 50. That and the other $209 million bridge - dubbed ``Don Young Way'' in Anchorage - could still be built but now must compete with other transportation funding priorities in the state.

That's right folks! We deserve a great big pat on the back!
We saved you folks a whole lotta money by not blowing it on a couple bridges in Alaska!
Whaddya mean that letting Alaska blow the same amount of money on whatever it likes isn't really a "savings?" Obviously, you don't know much about congressional budget making do you, boy. Whjy don't you just go sit down and let us take care of the country's business, okay?
Oh, and don't go talking to us about how the the country is going broke. As long as you have a job, we'll NEVER go broke!
Ingrate.

Spot The Jackass

See how long it takes you to find out the lawmaker's party affiliation:

Lawmaker's Kin Win $108M FEMA Contract
Associated Press WriterNovember 15, 2005, 1:13 PM EST

NEW ORLEANS -- The uncle and father of a Louisiana lawmaker won three no-bid contracts worth $108 million to provide temporary housing for Hurricane Katrina evacuees, stirring complaints of a sweetheart deal from rival businesses and prompting a state investigation. A state agency is investigating because the lawmaker's family did not have a Louisiana license to sell new trailer homes until well after the company provided the first ones to the Federal Emergency Management Agency.

FEMA wants 125,000 campers and mobile homes for those who lost their homes in the storm that struck Aug. 29. The New Orleans-area motorcycle shop owned by Rep. Gary Smith's family received FEMA contracts to provide 6,400 trailers. Smith's uncle, Glen Smith, said he was able to secure the contracts because he has worked with the federal government for nearly four decades during disasters, removing debris, dredging rivers, and providing mobile housing following Hurricane Andrew in 1992. "We know what it takes to get them satisfied," Glen Smith said. "They didn't just walk up and give us a jackpot. It's not like that."

Trailer dealers were upset that Smith's motorcycle business did not have a license from the state Recreational and Used Motor Vehicle Commission to sell new trailers until mid-October. Glen Smith said he already had a license to sell used trailers and was not aware he needed another one. The commission is close to finishing its investigation into the motorcycle shop's license, said John Torrance, executive director of the agency. The shop's owners are likely to face fines, he said. FEMA spokesman Larry Orluskie said he did know the specifics of Smith's contracts or the licensing requirements. "This is a contract that's going to be looked at along with all the other contracts that are being scrutinized," he said. "If there's something inappropriate, it will be revealed."

No-bid contracts awarded by FEMA for temporary housing in trailers and on cruise ships have been questioned by state and federal lawmakers and businesses that have complained of favoritism. Critics of the government's no-bid contracts have called them gifts to politically connected companies. FEMA said they were needed to speed recovery efforts. Federal auditors are looking into several deals. David Gaffney, owner of Innovative RV in Baton Rouge, said he made three dozen calls to FEMA officials over several weeks trying to see if he could get a contract to sell trailers to the agency. "I was screaming at them," he said. "I'm a mile from the staging area and watched all these trailers roll by me." He finally was told he only could sell FEMA the 37 trailers that were already on his lot, unlike the deal Smith received. Gaffney said he could have supplied the trailers to the government at a lower price than Smith is offering.

Glen Smith said the contracts had nothing to do with his nephew, a state lawmaker since 1999. He said his nephew only handles legal work for the business and gets none of the profits. Gary Smith, a Democrat, also denied that his position as lawmaker had anything to do with the contract. "FEMA doesn't even know I exist," he said. Louisiana lawmakers are debating a bill that could require state officials to inform the state ethics board when they or their family members profit from federal disaster-related contracts.

-------------------------------
Took you long enough.

Egads, I'm In Style Again

I have all the personal style of a stopped clock. My wardrobe is full of such ancient oddities as tawny buck saddle shoes, wing tips, penny loafers, two-button suits, button-down shirts, sweaters and tweed jackets, some of which are 15 years old. On the weekends I favor a polo shirt topped off with a college sweatshirt and sneakers. Sometimes I even wear pants.
As my younger sister told me recently after I hadn't seen her for 3 years: "You look exactly the same. And I mean exactly the same. You always look exactly the same." I don't know whether she meant this as a compliment, but I can't see getting worked up about it. Like that stopped clock, sooner or later I'll be back in style.

Well, it appears from this piece in the San Francisco Chronical that that day may be coming sooner rather than later.

Trend-surfers, beware!

The time has come, as it must for all labels, for the word metrosexual to fade into the dustbin of history. Now this media-driven group of men must step aside as sensitive-guy icons and make room for the latest in alleged masculine heroes: ubersexuals.

The use of metrosexuality as an identifier, like "Generation X" and, inevitably, "Generation Y," has spread impossibly fast since the term became popular two years ago as a way to categorize straight guys who apply moisturizer, tweeze their eyebrows and get facials.

The new ideal, according to veteran trend-spotting promoters Marian Salzman, Ira Matathia and Ann O'Reilly, as described in their new book, "The Future of Men," is ubersexuality. The word means a "return to the positive characteristics of the Real Man of yesteryear (strong, resolute, fair)," according to the writers, who helped spread the word on metrosexuality in the first place.

Unlike metrosexuals, who the authors now claim risk being seen as "sad sacks" who seem "incapable of retaining their sense of manhood," ubersexuals are confident, rugged and influential.

Heh. John Kerry. Heh.

Any how, I've always thought of myself a "Real Man of Yesteryear." Of course yesteryear was a long time ago, and now I'm just an "Old Man of Yes, Dear." Nevertheless, this trend towards male masculinity is a healthy sign for the nation. It also means that I don't have to throw away my favorite jeans with the holes in them for another couple of years. Rugged, indeed.

In Other News...

Marla Mankowietz shows off her winning form during yesterdays' women's freestyle competition.

ARLINGTON, VA. Nov.13,2005-
Cat tossers from all across the Commonwealth gathered at the Tuckrucker Road YWCA Saturday for the annual meeting of the Virginia Feline Flingers Association. In addition to the traditional "cat-a-pult" and "cat-a-ma-ram," demonstrations, this year's festivities included a slam-dunk contest and cat archery clinic. George Ringwort took the home the prize in the men's cat-a-pult catagory with a direct dumpster hit at an impressive 200 feet. In the women's freestyle event, Marla Mankowietz eeked out a victory over two-time champ Ernestine Blanke by launching "Snowball" a record six times into an open clothes dryer at better than 30 feet. "I practiced hard for this event," Ms. Mankowietz said, "but in the end it all comes down to aerodynamics."

I'm Reconsidering

The death threats have had their desired effect.
Heigh-ho will resume publishing shortly.
Thank you for your support.

This Is The End

Ya know, I've been checking out my stats lately, and the 25 or so hits Heigh-ho gets daily (half of which are mine) really don't amount to much of a noise. In a blogosphere already bursting with a plethora of truly intelligent musings and utter bullshit, my minor mental stirrings are, at best, flyswat.

That being the case, I am going to retire Heigh-ho, and spend my time seeking enlightenment and entertainment by making semi-clever comments on the blogs of others.
It's a good thing.


Thanks for visiting Heigh-ho.
I'll send postcards.
Cheers!