Dry Rags at the Bottom of the Ocean

Yes, I’m back. Maybe one day we can catch up. But right now I’m really busy. Once again, I’m leaving my weekly subject to you. Now give me something to write about dammit!

Here are my favorite search engine terms that brought you here:

bon jovi naked
why facebook is pleasure and fun
ohio armpit of america
death chicken
pleasure on bottom of ocean
power smoking
smoke cat shit
little girls fuck

Wait? Little girls fuck? What sort of depraved whackos are out there?

Hey, here’s an idea! Whoever searched for “little girls fuck” should turn themselves into the cops immediately and let the lonely boys over in cell block D take care of him.

In the interest of full disclosure and transparency (a big deal these days) let me preface this post by saying I’m a first generation immigrant from Croatia. I’ve been there almost every summer since my birth. It’s the first language I ever spoke and also the first and only culture I abide by. It’s also the only place I truly consider home, and I despise the day my father decided to leave there.

Here’s a glib article from the NY Times equating Croatia with Naziism because of a concert. As in past articles, the Times gives a heavy-handed report that essentially paints Croatian youth as a gang of Arian drones insensitive to the past wrongs of their ancestry.

Some of the fans were wearing the black caps of Croatia’s infamous Nazi puppet Ustashe government, which was responsible for sending tens of thousands of Serbs, Gypsies and Jews to their deaths in concentration camps.

The exchange with the audience is a routine part of Mr. Perkovic’s act, and the gesture seemed to lack any conscious political overtones. The audience — most of whom appeared to be in their teens and early 20s — just seemed to be having a good time. But Mr. Perkovic’s recent success among a new generation — many of them apparently oblivious to the history of the Holocaust — has prompted concern and condemnation from Jewish groups abroad and minority groups in Croatia.

Seeing as how most of my friends/cousins in Croatia are members of this age group, let me clarify. Not all Croats were members of the Ustasha movement. This is much more detail than I’m willing to supply right now, but it gets to the point.

While the majority of the Croatian people favored an independent Croatian state, many did not support the Ustase regime. ‘When the war broke out there were fewer than twelve thousand members of the movement representing less than one per cent of the Croatian population. At its height in 1942, there were only sixty thousand Ustase.

My grandfather, along with others, was part of the Partisan movement often credited to the Serbs.

None of this of course forgives anything, but to use a nationalist rock star as the poster boy for Croatia’s skin heads is a bit much. But there will always be the dunces out there.

Mr. Perkovic’s patriotic — and sometimes violently nationalistic — songs first became popular here during the Balkan wars, when he fought in the Croatian Army. Most Croats know him better by his stage name, Thompson, given to him during the war, when he carried the British-made submachine gun of the same name. He, too, has recently sought to distance himself from the Ustashe association. In an interview, the soft-spoken singer said he had never raised his own arm to make a fascist salute. Nor, he said, did he encourage people to wear Ustashe uniforms. As for the Ustashe slogan he uses, he claims it is a traditional Croatian salute that predates World War II.

To put it simply, he’s the Croatian version of Toby Keith. (He’s just as bad too). Uber-patriotic to the point of stupidity. Most of my friends detest his nationalistic attitude.

Here’s a concert video give you an idea of what exactly this salute looks like, as well as how shitty the song is, as well has how bad a performer Thompson really is. Count the peace signs too (damn hippies). [Upon sitting through the video, I now suggest you mute your computer.]

Yes, there are a few bad apples in the busshel. But you’d imagine a nation of baby-Jew eating, Nazi-soluting creatures after reading this article.

On the flip side, I enjoy any bad publicity for the country. It will hopefully put a dent in the already overcrowded tourist season. I miss the days when people didn’t know Croatia existed. Now every yuppie, hipster and baby boomer wants to go there. So yes, if it keeps foreigners out, then all Croats are Nazis. Don’t go. They’ll kill you.

The New York Post has an absolutely hilarious account of a suit filed by a former ESPN make up person/lady/whatever for sexual harassment. Even if you’ve never heard of Jay Crawford or Woody Paige, the details are a bit startling. They’re also oddly funny once you actually imagine Woody Paige pulling some of these stunts:

“Paige grabbed her butt so forcefully, Ragone, quite startled, was propelled forward and into the air,” says the suit [...]

Ragone claims she endured a daily barrage of vulgarity from the pair, who asked, “Wanna see what’s in my pants?” “Wanna f- - -?” and “Can you give me a h- - -job today?”

In October 2005, Paige loudly said, “Rita looks like she’s really good at giving b- - -jobs. Imagine that face between your legs,” according to the suit.

Paige routinely told Ragone “sit right here” while “tapping his hand on his lap near his genital area,” court papers state - and asked, “Do you think I have a big one because I’m a big guy?”

Clothing was not required at “Cold Pizza,” where Ragone once saw Paige without his pants standing in front of the open door to his office.

All that coming from a guy who choked on confetti.

“Sure sports writers are going to have fun. That’s what we do.” Oh dear.

AKA The Dramatic Chipmunk:

just got better:

I’m caught on that tipping point between dream job and living hell. I’m over at Downtown Express, a respectable weekly where reporters get a start (or die).

The ride has been fun - a bit droning - but fun nonetheless. I check in every morning, admittedly at my own leisure. My clock counts common sense, not seconds. So I’m in when I need to be, not supposed to be. And I do what I need to do - file my stories on time. Not want I’m supposed to do - look busy.

I’ve gotten some stories published that I’m proud of, and some I filed in my sleep. But I’ve realized the damn grind this job can be. I’ve always said manual labor is easier than the brain-frying hum of a laptop. It’s beyond numbing.

The standard classical music you hear when you’re “on hold.” Acting dumb with elected officials. “Will this show up in the newspaper?” Yes. “Don’t put that bit in.” Ok. “How’s the [blank] story coming along?” No idea, but it’ll miraculously happen somehow. “What’s your reaction to [blank]’s comment…” That doesn’t answer my question. “Well, that’s the best you’ll get out of me.” Swine.

If I’m lucky, I’ll mangle an assignment until it forces me to leave the office and interact with human beings. This is fun. Getting people to let their guard down and say something irrational and stupid is harder over the phone.

At 3pm, I’m a zombie. By then the Powerbars have tapered off and the 4th cup of coffee sounds right and awful. Cocaine and/or speed sound like reasonable options. It’s a warped, sick, and disgusting profession. I recommend it to everyone who has ever asked one question too many.

There are priceless moments. The tech guy tells you the wifi you’re stealing belongs to Russell Crowe. “I hope he doesn’t throw a telephone at you.” You get a thank you letter from a blind man you profiled, telling you how much he loved the picture of him and his seeing eye dog.

But it’s hard. Damn hard. But I’m lucky.

I’ve realized there isn’t one character in the office I wouldn’t spend a day with. They can be unsavory and a bit irrational. Sometimes strange, often whiny. But upstanding nonetheless. If these are the people that inhabit the journalism world, then I’m proud to be I’m among them. I’ve yet to meet someone here I wouldn’t have a beer with.

I have no idea where this will all lead to, other than having my name in ink several times. But I came here to get a start - not to die.

I’ve pounded my head on a desk the past month, trying to figure out what exactly the new shape and texture of this blog would be.

I’m done with politics. The clusterfuck over in Washington DC cannot be quantified or explained by my silly words, though believe when I say I’m watching it closely.

But I scrolled down the site and noticed I did a lot of traveling. This lead to the conclusion that I see a lot of shit, and need to tell you about it. So “the shit I’ve seen, the places I’ve been.” Pretty broad topic, eh? Here goes nothing. Attempt one, coming soon.

You usually can’t tell if you had a good vacation until the night before your flight back home. Your enthusiasm for the flight is inversely proportional to your stay at Place X. Last Saturday night, I was contemplating ways to stay in Puerto Rico another three months/years.

There’s always the “I was late for my flight” excuse, but that would only buy me 24 hours - if I was lucky. A personal injury requiring extensive medical treatment was another option. But it’s hard enjoying your stay in paradise from a hospital. And I’m not able to really hurt myself. There was only one legit option.

Love. Who would argue with me for staying if I went to a chapel instead of the airport on Sunday morning, my new bride in tow? Tan skin, flip flops and a suit made out of a Hawaiian shirt and board shorts. Sure, I’d be a madman. But divorce papers can be filed shortly after. First, I’d make a legit attempt at actually getting to know the woman and seeing if she’s my type. That would buy me at least a month or two. But shit, once the pictures are sent out, no one would have to know we split up three months after the wedding. By then, I’ll be ingrained into the social fabric of San Juan and Fajardo, with my finger in every glass. I’d be insane to leave.

The thought did dash through my mind, and I laughed half-heartedly at the idea. Then I took it seriously. I looked out over the wall of our villa’s yard, periscoping for some sign of single female life. I debated leaving, finding a bar and charming my way into a quick marriage. Then I realized my charm equals a grizzly bear’s.

I was at a disadvantage. The good Catholic girls of Puerto Rico demand significant wooing and romancing. This is not a job that can be done overnight. Of course there’s got to be a middle-aged widow drinking through the rest of her life who’d love to have a 22-year-old dweeb husband on hand for her journey to A.A. But my father always said, “If you’re going to do something, don’t fuck around.” Which is to say, do it right.

So what I needed was a quick marriage to a 20-something drop dead gorgeous Puerto Rican girl. I say gorgeous not to sound shallow, but because it legitimizes my reason to stay much more. If I sent a wedding photo of me and a human reptile, people would question my sanity. “He skipped his flight and married that?”

I realized my dreams were just that. So I resigned myself to the couch, drank rum and watched Sportscenter all night. I had a beautiful time with some amazing people that week. Take what your given and don’t carelessly demand more. Sometimes you’ll miss how lucky you are.

Puerto Rico is beautiful. Don’t ever go. It’s mine.

You got what you wanted.

My late father ran into Don Imus at work, appropriately in the restaurant’s bathroom. He used the urinal next to the “shock jock,” and managed to piss him off while washing his hands.

“Do you know who I am?”
My father stared at him, probably wondering if Imus was his customer. This sort of thing adversely effects your tip.
“I’m Imus from Imus in the morning!” he hissed, still sporting his cowboy hat and radio-friendly face.
“Well I’m Jimi the waiter,” my father said and walked out.

That Imus is a prick of the highest order and says reprehensible things should surprise no one. “Nappy headed hoes” may be one of his lesser offenses, which makes this controversy all the more bizarre.

But as I sit here writing, I’m filling with blinding rage and hate over what has happened in the last few hours. The gutless weasels at CBS fired a cornerstone of their radio programming (to the tune of $20 million last year) for doing his job: saying outrageous things.

The big question is why.

“In our meetings with concerned groups, there has been much discussion of the effect language like this has on our young people, particularly young women of color trying to make their way in this society. That consideration has weighed most heavily on our minds as we made our decision, as have the many emails, phone calls and personal discussions we have had with our colleagues across the CBS Corporation and our many other constituencies.”

You’re full of it Les Moonves. When you look at the timing of this decision, you realize it wasn’t for big-picture moralistic reasons or even political correctness. If CBS found Imus’s remarks reprehensible, they would have pulled the plug on his show within three days of “nappy headed ho” gate. Even three days is generous; that afternoon would have been more appropriate. It wasn’t until major sponsors pulled ads did the axe drop.

I’m of no authority to second guess corporate decision making, but I can demand some level of transparency from corporate bullshit artists. Here are the three reasons Imus got fired:

1. Bad press. The man became a human drum of nuclear waste to CBS & MSNBC.
2. Fleeing advertisers. They’d come back eventually, but how can a corporation like CBS wait out a few months of low revenue?
3. Decaying listeners. The Imus in the Morning program pulls in people who found him outrageous 30 years ago. This is essentially become the depends wearing, foot shuffling class of retiring baby-boomers who think fart jokes are outrageous. This controversy gave CBS a damn good reason to inject fresh blood into their morning radio program that no one will listen to anyway.

Now of course, Imus did apologize in the conniving way only he can. It was meaningless and we all know it.

Rest assured, I’m never listening to WFAN here in New York again. Which means I’ll consume absolutely none of CBS’s programming (CSI has been repeating the same three episodes for the last four years and none of you realize it).

As usual, Pat Robertson seems to have an opinion on it. And as we all know, his opinion is right.

Black men are to blame?  Here’s what Snoop Dogg has to say about that:

It’s a completely different scenario. [Rappers] are not talking about no collegiate basketball girls who have made it to the next level in education and sports. We’re talking about ho’s that’s in the ‘hood that ain’t doing shit, that’s trying to get a nigga for his money. These are two separate things. First of all, we ain’t no old-ass white men that sit up on MSNBC going hard on black girls. We are rappers that have these songs coming from our minds and our souls that are relevant to what we feel. I will not let them muthafuckas say we in the same league as him.

Al Sharpton, Jesse Jackson, and every company that has ever bought an on-air advertisements must be orgasmic right now. This has set a dangerous precedent showing broadcast companies as spineless money vacuums willing to bend with a momentary change in currents. And it’s a meaningless symbolic gesture.

Imus is still a prick. Racism still exists. Shock jocks are still on the air. What have we gained?

Nonsense, tom foolery and debauchery loom over next week like menacing black clouds. I’m going to Puerto Rico, kids! All pretense of self control, class and dignity will die on the flight out of this throbbing city, and I’ll land in San Juan with a new sense of the irresponsibility.

Jet skis, beaches and nice beats. That’s all I’m expecting. Anything more and I’ll be delighted. What do I plan on doing? A little bit of this.

And a little bit of that.

Someone save us all from me. I’ll try to blog while I’m there, but if not: Enjoy your spring breaks.