I Guess That's Why These Crazy Kids Watch the Daily Show

When I worked my old job, a mere .3 miles away from my house, my wife and I got to spend lots of morning time together. We had a leisurely breakfast together, walked the dogs, and ensconsed ourselves on the couch to be lulled into a state of idiocy by Meredith, Matt, Al, and Ann.

The Today Show was a mindless routine for the two of us, and by far the most enjoyable part of the show occurs at around 7:14am, when Ann Curry is finished doing the 1.4 minute round-up of international and national newslettes, ending with a story ripe for bawdy, either just shy of the line or just over it commentary by Al Roker.

But that's about as good as the Today Show gets. And it's definitely all downhill from there.

Yesterday morning heralded Tuesday, my coveted and oft-squandered day off. Getting the car's oil changed was on the agenda, and it's my firm tradition to show up at Soly's garage at 7:28am, in preparation for his military-like arrival at 7:30am. This 67-year-old mechanic with a bad shoulder and a bristle-thick gray goatee changes the oil while we talk and joke in the garage, thumbing our noses at litigious and logical rules designed to keep motorists out of potentially dangerous garages. In order to facilitate my punctual arrival at Soly's, I woke up with Mrs. Apron at 6:10am, and we enjoyed a little bit of our old Today Show routine.

I had heard, on the local news that comes on before the Today Show, a blip about a startling initiation of aggression by North Korea, firing 100 unpleasant projectiles into a South Korean island, killing two South Korean marines and wounding dozens of others. That this unpredictable, unstable, and volatile nation was showing its most unsettling arm-flexing since the Korean War was indeed troubling to me, and I expected the event to be covered with proportional depth by the Today Show.

Well, clearly, I'm an idiot.

What was the top story yesterday, covered for a full nine minutes?

The location of Prince Fucking William and Kate Nice Legs Middleton was just announced.

Westminster Abbey. Wow, right? Never saw that one coming, did you? I had heard it was a toss-up between there, BBC Television Centre, the apartment where Terry Jones lived in 1968, and a public lavatory two miles south of Piccadilly Circus.

I guess common sense won out that time. Good show, old chaps.

I don't know why I was so incensed and so surprised by the inordinate attention being given to an announcement that was such frippery, such fluff, such ridiculum, and not only that, but one that was a foregone conclusion anyway. I guess they chose Westminster Abbey because all of the Southern Black Baptist churches in England were booked on their desired date.

I joke, because that's what I was trained to do by scads of unwittingly reinforcing public school teachers, but it's really not funny. My father loves to refer, in his semibroken English, to America as "the dumbest fuckin' retard country ever" and he may very well be right, but, if we are, the news media deserves its fair share of the blame by sliding retard sauce down our throats and calling it medicine.

It's easy for me to get worked up over this generation's obsession with Jon Stewart's reinvention of "The Daily Show," turning it from the simple, funny, relatively innocuous show it was during Craig Kilborn's reign (remember that?) into a ferocious, self-important political whirlwind where comedy often takes a backseat to grandstanding, but there is a reason for its dominance over traditional news, and I acknowledge and accept that.

Our local ABC affiliate newstation, Action News, does a regular feature on Tuesday mornings on "Dancing With the Stars." And I always stare at the screen, dumbfounded, as people who call themselves "news anchors" sit behind desks wearing suits have the utter temerity and lack of dignity to expound on a moronic television show, and pretend that it's news.

Pass the remote. I want to shove it up somebody's ass. If North Korea doesn't blow us all to hell before I get the chance to do it, that is.

Won't You Be My Enemy?

I've been thinking a lot about enemies lately.

Although I don't know for sure, I think I've gone through most of my life without having made many enemies, which some of you who read this blog might find astounding or unbelievable given the apparent size and profanatory proclivities of my mouth. Sure, I've offended people here in there-- like that fuckstick over there-- but enemies? People actively plotting against me and conspiring to have a hefty hand in my doom or demise? I don't think I have many of those.

Then again, I could be wrong. I was recently elected board president of an amateur theatre group. If you've seen "Waiting for Guffman" you know this can only portend very bad things.

As president, I'm bound to do things that will piss people off-- this is an inevitability that folks like Barack Obama and Warren G. Harding can attest to. In fact, I suppose it's rather fitting to write about enemies on President's Day (you're reading it the day after President's Day, because I've finally figured out how to delay posting and ensure regularity without the use of "Fiber One") as presidents have had to contend with a whole slew of enemies at different times in this country's life.

Can you believe there was a time when we were scared of the Russians?

I mean, seriously. Don't those people eat raw potatoes and old stockings for dinner? Don't all of their women over the age of thirty-six look like Andy Rooney? They build cars out of antique washing machine components-- and we all went and hid under our school desks over them.

Amazing.

We were pretty afraid of the Germans back in the day, too, but that at least made sense. Under Hitler, they were an enemy worth gnawing your fingernails and shitting your pants over. Same with the Japanese. Fortunately, neither are very scary these days. I mean, say "Germany" to the average American and ask for an immediate response and you'll get "Oktoberfest" or "Heidi Klum" and the descendents of kamikaze pilots are now stone-faced businessmen, jostling for position on the train in their jet-black suits, black ties, and Nokia cellphones from which colorful "Hello, Kitty" charms dangle and jangle.

We've never been particularly scared of the Irish or the Icelandic people. America never seems very scared of Israelis. I am, but then, I was raised by one. I thought we might not be afraid of any country that begins with the letter "I" but then I remembered "Iran" and "Iraq" and we need to sleep with the light on as long as those two exist, churning away at nuclear weapons and generally killing everybody.

We're more afraid of the Tata Nano than we are of India. I suppose we were bothered by Mussolini, but not really Italians in general, since we all think that they're just a bunch of fat, jovial chefs with curly black moustaches who run around going, "Aye! Dat's a spicy meat-a-ball-ah!" all day. Nobody in America knows where Indonesia is, so I guess they're not scared of Indonesians. I wasn't particularly scared of Indonesians on our honeymoon in Bali. At least, I wasn't until I witnessed the flight crew of our plane getting frisked by the police on the runway in Jakarta before take-off.

As the Olympics roll along their merry way with only one fatality thusfar, and accidental at that, everybody's talking about how we're so friendly with Canada, and how Canada isn't our enemy. All this talk reminds me of how my old high school classmate, Ted, who used to bike three miles to school in the winter wearing shorts, a wife-beater and a down vest, once remarked,

"Yeah, we love Canada-- until we decide that we need a big parking lot. Then we'll go over there and bulldoze the whole fucking place. AND THEN NUKE THE MOON!"

Sometimes I wonder who our next national enemy will be. Sure, it could be predictable like North Korea or maybe that lingering fear... China. But I like to fantasize about an enemy that comes at you like a surprise birthday party, jumping out from behind the curtains screaming, "SURPRISE!" in that shrill, unexpected way that makes you jump and pee yourself, just a little bit. Like, what if we got invaded by Corsica? Or maybe Wales gets a serious bug up its ass and decides to obliterate East St. Louis or Natchez. I would like to see Tonga try to fuck our day right up-- wouldn't that make for an amazing headline? I think the time has come for an exciting enemy-- an unexpected enemy. An enemy we can enjoy having, for Christ's sake. How about the Moldovans? I wonder what are those quiet little fuckers up to these days.

God. Russia. What the hell were we smoking?

Oh, Give Me a Cause

As a member of 20Something Bloggers, I sometimes feel myself duty-bound to write blog posts directed at that particular sector of the population-- not necessarily 20something bloggers, but 20somethings in general. As a 29-year-old, I feel that I have attained sufficient wisdom to make a direct address to some of the 22-year-olds or *gasp* nubile, malleable-minded 20-year-olds who might chance to read this blog.

Hi.

If there's one thing that's endemic to 20somethings, it's causes. 20somethings LOVE their causes. If you don't believe me, just look at any one of their Facebook pages. Ensconsed somewhere therein, in between the pictures of them wearing pink tank-tops and downing bottles of Mike's Hard Lemonade and the ceaseless "Which Gangasta Rapper Are You?" or "Which STD Are You?" quizzes, you'll find the "Causes" that any particular 20something supports. Maybe it's "Save the Koala Bears" or "Save the Chinstrap Penguin" or "Save the Arts in Education" or "Save Private Ryan."

20somethings are always trying to save something. If they're not trying to save something, they're more likely than not trying to free it.

"Free Tibet" is always a popular one. "Free the Exploited Children." "Free the FDLS Children."

Lots of children need freeing, apparently. Which, I suppose, is better than freezing the children.

20somethings also love trying to free things or groups with numbers attached.

"Free the Move 9." "Free the Chicago 7." "Free the Cuban 5." "Free the New York 3."

20somethings also, for some reason, are oftentimes pretty hopped up on freeing cop-killers.

"Free Leonard Peltier." "Free Assata Shakur." And, the grand-whammee of them all: "Free Mumia."

Although I know it doesn't sound like it from my tone so far, I like and respect 20somethings for looking for causes to support. 20somethings, by and large, have their hearts in the right place. Not only that but, exiting college into an uncertain occupational and economic world, they have the potential to have their heads shoved so far up their own asses in the search for a way out of their parents' basements that they might just as well not fight for causes they believe in.

As my great-grandmother was fond of saying, "Look-- it's a selfish world." But, Bubbe, not for most 20somethings. They want to share their ire and frustrations at an unjust world. And I'm glad they do. Sometimes, however, I wish they would do it in a more constructive way than by trying in vain to free a man who shot a young policeman in the back, and then blew his brains out all over a Philadelphia sidewalk.

So, this is an urgent message to all you 20somethings out there looking for a bone to pick, a cause to support, a banner to wave, a sandwich board to paint, a drum to beat, a song to sing, a bandwagon to climb on:

North Korea has just sentenced two young, female journalists to 12 years of hard labor for slipping into North Korea illegally and reporting on humanitarian conditions.

Now, if that's not a cause worthy of getting your panties in a twist, then I don't know what is.

After 28 years of trying to convince the world that he's a "political prisoner," Mumia Abu-Jamal could learn a thing or two about the real definition of that term from Laura Ling and Euna Lee.

20somethings: your time to chant has come. Here is a cause worthy of your attention, your devotion, your petitions and, yes, your coveted Facebook statuses. Let's get crackin' all's y'alls.

The cause you have been waiting for has arrived.

Kim Jong Ill'in

Is anybody else scared that North Korea is successfully testing nuclear weapons?

What the hell is Kim Jong Ill playing at? I haven't been this scared of a little guy in a jumpsuit since Richard Simmons.

I'm sorry, K.J.I., but I kind of don't really have room in my psychosis for being scared of being nuked. I'm scared of too many other things. I think, if I were alive during the time of the Cold War, when America lived in constant fear of getting zapped by those Vodka-swilling fur-heads, I would have had to be institutionalized. And being institutionalized in the 1950s, I have no doubt, was not fun. Just ask Chief Bromden.

I will endeavor, though, to eek out a little bit of room in my cluttered, crammed, trembling little brain for the fear of nuclear holocaust, but I'm telling you, North Korea, it isn't going to be easy.

See, I'm already afraid of:

* Getting electrocuted

As a new homeowner of what probably constitutes to most people as "a fixer-upper" this is a very inconvenient fear. Currently, our house has virtually no lightswitch covers. This is the result of a combination of laziness on our part because, after the first floor got painted we just never replaced the switch covers and theft on the part of whoever stripped the first floor of wallpaper-- some of our switch covers just, um, disappeared. Conveniently. There must be a huge black market desire for lightswitch covers-- especially the ones with two slots. Those bastards are just so freaking cool. Because all of our switchplates are uncovered, I know that, one day, I'm going to try to flip on a lightswitch after taking a shower and my boney index finger, instead of hitting the switch, will entrench itself deep within the open caverns of tubes and wires inside the wall and I will be turned Extra Tasty Crispy in about four seconds flat.

I wish I wasn't afraid of getting electrocuted. There are two hideous sconces that need to be replaced in our bedroom. There are lighting issues in the basement. There should be motion-sensing lights outside in the driveway. If I wasn't so afraid of getting shocked, I'd fix all this shit. As it is, I'm happy to get our electrician to do it for me, but he's almost 90 years old and doesn't show up when we schedule appointments. Maybe he's dead.

* Getting baptized

According to published reports and crime statistics, drive-by baptisms are on the rise. Just last week, a 76-year-old woman in Mozambique was accosted by three unidentified men who shoved her head inside a public toilet bowl as they shouted, "You are now one with Christ!" The other day, an undercover Christian posing as a rabbi wearing a fake beard and polystyrene nose tried to baptize a Yeshiva student in a mikvah, but was unsuccessful. Baptisms are beautiful things, but only when perpetrated against the willing. I'm just not ready to accept Christ. Not until he pays me back the $23.76 he owes me from that dinner we were supposed to split at Applebee's.

And those kooky Mormons complicate matters in this arena by insisting on conducting postmortem baptisms on Jews. They say that they've stopped, but, come on.

* Getting tortured

I have dark hair and a beard, so I know that, sooner or later, some jarhead is going to be attaching car battery cables to my nipples in some dark basement. Isn't this fear a nice complement to my fear of electrocution?

* Getting cast in a Japanese instructional video

For any down-on-his-luck actor, this is worse than doing porn, even Japanese porn where the women all make that annoying, high-pitched squeal even though they're getting penetrated by guys whose shafts are as big as a thumbnail. I just don't want to be the businessman sitting at a park bench in some recording studio and have to endure take after take of a young, Japanese schoolgirl coming up to me, clutching her stomach and yelling, "I haba bad kase ob die-ya-ree-yah!"

* Getting old

I don't mind the increasing amounts of fuzz on/in my ears or the prospect of growing bitchtits, but I do fear everything that comes along with getting old like becoming out-of-touch with pop culture, style, trends, technology, comedy, culture, table conversation, logic, and the latest advances in airport security. I also don't want to start smelling like that. Is there something you can wear when you're old to not make you smell like... that?

* Getting taunted

I'm so afraid of being made fun of that I will not, under any circumstances, attend a stand-up comedy event for fear that the individual at the microphone will peer out into the audience, quickly identify me as the most painfully awkward person there, and mercilessly and accurately attack me about everything from my shoes to my haircut to my outwardly obvious array of abberant behaviors. Even when my best friend, Dave, scored a stand-up gig at our college, I refused to attend. And, nearly a decade later, he's still pissed at me.

Unfortunately, I was unable to avoid attending middle school.

* Dying second

Statistically, I'm almost positive that this won't happen. Mrs. Apron's a year younger than me, she's a vegetarian, I'm not, and I routinely send myself over the edge in terms of stress, anxiety, paranoia and obsessive worry. This all bodes for a heart attack or stroke somewhere within the next eight minutes. Death really doesn't frighten me that much, as long as I'm first.

* Getting attacked by the dog

Sure we play rough and he's as gentle as a sedated lamb, sure he lets me stick goopy medication down his ear canal without so much as a flinch. Sure he lets me shove Benadryl down his throat without growling at me. One day, though-- one day I know that, as I'm softly petting him or rubbing his belly he's going to whip around and sink his teeth right into my neck so deeply that he'll probably decapitate me in one fell swoop. Dogs are like that, you know.

* Richard Simmons

I know I kind of addressed this at the very beginning of this post, but it bears repetition. Get the fuck away from me, please. I'd rather get my mung ass baptized a thousand times than be alive and in the same time zone with you.