I AM Peaceman, Billionaire Philanthrophist/Musician Sir Ivan

What do you know that’s larger than life?

And Mitzvah to All!

No, not an elephant. And don’t you even talk to me about sperm whales.

I am thinking of a person — one, with a story as fascinating as the kind of music he makes. And now, allow me to introduce Sir Ivan Wilzig, aka Sci-Fi Channel’s Mr. Mitzvah, aka Peaceman of the Peaceman Foundation, a private nonprofit supporting an array of charities dedicated to fighting hate crimes and treating the victims of post-traumatic stress disorder.

Sir Ivan, the stage name of this ebullient and remarkable man, is an eldest son of multi-billionaire Siggi B. Wilzig, the very first Auschwitz survivor to come to the US after WWII who ended up taking over two publicly traded firms, an oil company, and a bank, while never forswearing his wide-ranging philanthropic interests. And in Sir Ivan’s case, nature certainly hadn’t rested on its laurels in the offspring.

Having earned a prestigious law degree and for 20 years having sat on the board of his father’s bank, Sir Ivan turned his back on his illustrious career and took up something that had to have been on his mind since he’d sung in chorus as a child, apprenticed with a well-known cantor, and participated in drama productions during his college years. Guessed what it is yet?

If you are one of a million unique visitors to the YouTube home of Sir Ivan’s first music video, the Big Brother-inspired single “For What It’s Worth” remade in Sir Ivan’s own inimitable rocktronica style, you’ve undoubtedly said “music” — and you were right.

But did you guess that 100% of the proceeds from Sir Ivan’s album are going into the Peaceman foundation? And did you guess that the caped crusader of “For What It’s Worth” spent the lion’s share of our chat discussing his family’s efforts regarding saving the rainforest and quoting me the little-known statistics on PTSD and its sometimes lethal effect on American soldiers?

Apparently, Sir Ivan said, more of our men and women in uniform commit suicide on American soil upon returning from Afghanistan and Iraq than had died in both combined during combat. There is no known cure for the disorder, but there are treatments, truly life-saving ones - and not everyone who needs them has access. With Peaceman’s tireless efforts, quite a lot more will have received treatment – and will continue to do so.

That said, I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the other side of Sir Ivan – the one responsible for the 15,000 square foot Castle, a piece of architectural and designer art, having sprung up in the Hamptons, New York to rival Hugh Hefner’s famed Playboy mansion. Or, for that matter, the grand – and oversold to the point of attendees sneaking in inside the trunks of Rolls Royces – charity parties being thrown on the gorgeous estate that hosted celebrities, fire breathers turning the water of the pool into a lake of fire, and musicians belting out techno-flavored “Hava Nagila” (in honor of Sir Ivan’s character, Mr. Mitzvah, having been chosen out of 10,000 hopefuls by Stan Lee himself to join the cast of Sci-fi Channel’s Who Wants to be a Superhero?).

Or Sir Ivan’s chihuahua, Chiquita, going around in a cape matching the Peaceman’s own. You see, having lost 59 of his relatives to the Nazi regime and now, tirelessly working to reduce violence in the world and prevent something similar from ever happening again, Sir Ivan IS Peaceman. And Chiquita, “like a banana”, Sir Ivan joked, is right there to help him along.

I can’t, also, forget his having climbed up the fire escape ladder into the Kentucky Derby Billionaire’s Club for a tête-à-tête with the then Vice President of United States. Or Sir Ivan’s new reality show, Peaceman, being shopped around by a team of superproducers.

What can I say? I had been awed. There are so many facets to Sir Ivan. But I had one last question to ask. A man who has everything, has done everything, is there anything left to do for this extraordinary person?

Peaceman Cometh!

Turns out, Sir Ivan hadn’t yet seen all the seven wonders of the world. And though having already performed to a crowd of 15,000, he wants to touch a whole stadium-full with his catchy remakes of ’60s legacy songs in his debut album I Am Peaceman coming out in time to commemorate the cultural phenomenon that was the first Woodstock.

“I’m here,” he said. And though some of the original songwriters who had breathed life into such masterpieces as “Imagine” and “Turn, Turn, Turn” aren’t with us anymore, this makes Peaceman all the more determined to keep changing the world with his phenomenal philanthropic drive and his unique sounds.

Yes, We Can!

January 20th.  It was a quiet afternoon, as most afternoons in Louisville, KY are.  Of course, this one was special.

Because a few hundred miles away in a city that is never quiet — where the wheeling and the dealing are known to go long LONG into the night, and the paperwork keeps churning like butter — the noise pollution was such that day, it resonated in Louisville, and L.A., and Berlin, and even Kenya — whose native grandson has just put down his fork after his triumphant and very public first official luncheon.

Damn straight, sparky!

Before which came the equally triumphant Inaugural speech.

Now, I am sure there have been better speeches.  There might be better ones on all those January 20ths to come.

But for me, it was this speech that struck…something.  Something that gave me the nudge I needed to decide to reach for the stars.  Which we all needed to do, caught in the double helix of global recession and unrest.

I am a writer, but before that day…no, not that I was content to hold on to my day job.  It is more, I knew what I was doing, and, depending on whom you ask, the comfort of utter surety as to what tomorrow will bring is the prize all its own.

So, I kept polishing my book, and amassing suggestions, and reviews, and cautiously treading the water — and waiting.  In retrospect, I had been waiting for our new President’s Inauguration Day.

Apparently, I needed him to tell me to get off my ass and do something.  And if that something involved getting myself out there, well, hello world, The Annointed Fig: Metamorphoses is born!

But that wasn’t enough, not after that speech.  So, I decided to really take the bull by the horns — which, among other things, meant going and actually vying for a screenwriter-ship at one promising new venture, to which I had previously signed up, but had been too busy — and too chicken — to participate in.  And, so I used to tell myself, too realistic.

With zero screenwriting experience to my name, which I have since come to understand is an entirely different kettle of fish from prose, what in the world possessed me to think I was going to win a show-writer’s gig?  Why, President Obama, of course!

So, Mr. Antony van Zyl, the fearless leader and the mastermind behind Lombardi Street, that promising new venture that now has me haunting its site, has only his own former neighbor to blame for practically siccing me on him.

Because Lombardi Street, just like President Obama’s message, is addictive.  In our jaded day and age, the true promise of change, of revolution, is something as rare as the glimpse of an albino elephant.  And Lombardi Street, in a nutshell a full-length serialized college-based drama intended to run on both regular TV and the net (including video sites, blogs, and virtual worlds like Second Life), serves up said revolution in spades with its unique approach to scripted reality — a merging between fictional lives of those hailing from the all too real Happy Camp, CA; Lowell, MA; Midland, TX, San Francisco; Bemidji, MN and those of us actually living in, coming to, escaping these places.

Recently taken to welcoming the unwary with an offered selection of…you guessed it, the Beatles “Revolution” blaring off its front page — no, you don’t HAVE to listen — the L-Street actively practices what it has began to preach in early January.

It throws open the hallowed Hollywood doors to anyone smart and talented and determined enough to enter, and it does so through a series of contests or tasks the entrants are invited to participate in.  After all, shouldn’t there be tangible proof that you are not just wanting to reap the benefits, you YOURSELF are ready to be a part of the revolution?

In my particular case, it had been writing, as it has been for many.  Making a living AND showing off before the adoring public, we writers are not much different from artists, actors, graphic designers.  Of whom there are also hundreds on the site; we’re a multinational, multitalented, multidimensional Hydra.

Farm girls from Iowa set on becoming the next Meryl Streep; skit writers from Sweden inspired to create their answer to the SNL; dedicated community organizers staying up into the wee hours of the morning to help everyone from across the globe settle in, answer questions; talented grad students from India wanting a break; fantastic indie directors bringing their prize-winning expertise to bear teaching and writing; guerrilla advertising professionals promoting something they actually believe in instead of whoring themselves out to their highest bidder; hairstylists giving songwriting a chance; animal trainers giving assistant directorship a stab; even a billionaire tempted to try out for our ambitious marketing campaign.

"Never Follow the Straight and Narrow"

We’re all here, and we are building something great, something we see taking shape before our very eyes, something we can take pride in not for just an eventual payoff (which, let’s face it, who would say no to?), but because it is heck of a lot more ours than anything we join that is already so entrenched, that it has forgotten its roots.

As a friend I met through Lombardi Street has said, the entire concept is practically everyone’s unrealized dream.  Yes, it may sound too good to be true, but didn’t President Obama’s message do so when he started running?

He felt he needed to revolutionize the election, the country, the whole shebang.  Lombardi is fighting tooth and nail to accomplish the very same for the insular world of entertainment.

No need for studio heads, managers, underhanded distribution deals, that fabled Hollywood meritocracy that has been a pipe dream of many — who ended up settling into becoming teachers, scientists, programmers, housewives, bankers, firefighters, doctors.  Great things all to have done with a life, but for those of us wanting our chance at a place, in whatever capacity, in the light of the tungsten lamps?  Ultimately unfulfilling.

And it is powered by those of us who have chosen to take the reins into our own hands, those that Lombardi Street is rushing towards filming its pilot.  Slated to start airing September 23, 2009, the show is finally taking shape, and based on the cautious response, we are doing quite a few things right.

Lombardi will entertain, it will hopefully engross, it will employ dozens of people, it will introduce new directions in pull- and cause-based advertising to replace the invasive traditional means — and it will unequivocally demonstrate the validity of Mr. Obama’s message.

In a truly democratic society such as the one Mr. Van Zyl envisioned, spurred, no doubt, by example of the former Senator from his home state of Illinois, if you get off your ass, you CAN make something of yourself.  Even if that something happens to be in politics — or filmmaking, the mediums so often associated with the very worst excesses of cronyism and the dreaded casting couch.  Who knows, you might even change the world in the process!

Learning Pains

Yesterday, was the first time I actually got to BE a producer. Funny. I considered myself one for a couple of months, never stopping to marvel at a stroke of luck.

And I think I had done surprisingly well, considering my abysmal lack of experience. No, not abysmal. Not sure the linguists among us would agree, but to me, abysmal implies there is something in my past that’s bad — yet existent. Not so. As relevant experiences went, I was a writer. But I swam right along. Sometimes, you just get in the groove — and do good. Call it…erm, a calling?

Yep, here's hopping!

But talking up celebs and prospective business partners was easy. Nothing but money and contacts in the game, and unless you are the late acting head of Freddie Mac (he’d recently committed suicide, if anyone had missed that cheerful tidbit), you don’t take these kinds of things but with a grain (or even a bucket) of salt.

But, boy…creation?

What can I say, in the past couple of days, it truly came home to roost how everyone does not — and should not — go automatically along with your vision, and pushing what YOU think is the Jesus fish of it all means stepping on the toes you not only respect, but are, quite frankly, intimidated by to a certain extent.

Let me just say, it wasn’t easy. And getting a final product I believe IS heck of a lot better than the sum of everyone’s contributed parts, a project anyone can live with and hopefully send along to their online buddies… Somehow, it didn’t make me happy. Rather, it did. It, also, made me sad. And relieved. And humbled. And mildly scalded, as though through a baptismal by fire. And a gamut of things in between. Well, why not?

I am not sure if I am an assertive person. Whenever I say something, I constantly look back and ask myself, did I hurt this person? Could I have conveyed my point across in other ways?

But what can you do if the point IS going to justifiably piss off your collaborators? Bringing to fruition an artistic vision, which I can attest to myself, is an intensely personal and very heartfelt process. And here, I come in, demanding my version of perfection. There are many truths. What gives me the right to think mine is the one with an inherent right to see the light of day?

And then, it all comes back to the title. To the one man trusting me enough to get me to a point where my words have now the weight to be the rock to another’s scissors (or however that analogy goes, I was never entirely clear on the game). And with that comes the responsibility to be judicious with my feelings. These are mine, and boy, do I have to be careful inflicting them on anyone. No more an impartial observer or a cog in someone’s wheel, I am one of those winding the clockwork, and I very, very much value every part making our great, exciting, revolutionary nose-thumb at Big Ben.

I think a great take-home lesson to me was: careful, CAREFUL preparation. A lot of talking, ironing out every little tidbit beforehand — and then, through the editing process. Put that way, every project is not unlike getting married, though with - HOPEFULLY - less lawyers and governmental intrusion involved.

We each have our unique thoughts, and temperaments, and experiences, and visions, and I would be a fool to trust that people would easily, smoothly see eye to eye when something so important, yet ephemeral is being carved out of ether and an HD tape. Perhaps, it might have been easier had we all been telepathic and foregone the imperfect medium that is speech to convey where each one of us is coming from.

But we are not, and to tell you the truth, it is probably good for our peace of mind — and, certainly, for that incomparable sensation of getting on our own high horse.

Which brings me back to talking things out. And knowing that once I’m granted power to veto or add to or subtract something, the very first thing I should do is step away from myself and view it with an impartial eye. The final product is a child raised by a village, but those that are ultimately going to judge it don’t even know that little hamlet’s zip code. At least, not yet — but, perhaps, soon enough, once Libretto Dreams succeeds at its intended purpose.

Hardly following the straight and narrow -- as promised. :-)

I will now approach everything armed with this understanding and hope that the next project sure to follow the success of this first (even at my most introspective, turns out I am an optimist) will be a sail if not smooth, then marred far less with the learning pains of this first.

And I want to thank everyone who has come together and who had donated so generously of their time, and energy, and talent to create Lombardi Street’s very first video piece. It is now being polished and will soon be made public.

I anticipate there will be those that might not find it to their liking, but on the whole, I want to think we have done the best we can. And, frankly, that it is damn GOLDEN stuff!

A Hanging Offense

There are drug overdoses, medical mistakes, murders.

Then, there are suicides, and in comparison they seem…  no, not worse, but rather more…senseless, somehow.

Do we have something in common?

We are wired to protect our lives.  Our fight or flight response is definitely a part and parcel of our genetic makeup.  If we didn’t have that, our species would long have gone the way of the dodo.  So, to me, every single suicide is a slap in the face of evolution.

But when a child commits suicide, a 7-year old, to wit, how do you calculate that into the equation?

Certainly, Broward County officials have dropped the ball on Gabriel Myers’s case — failing the victim, the victim’s family, and even the school system, into which the boy had been integrated by ChildNet, the county’s private foster care organization, without the school system’s knowledge of the boy’s escalating patterns of deviant sexual behavior.

Having been sexually molested himself, upon having been removed from the custody of his drug-abusing mother, the boy had proven himself too intractable for his uncle and aunt to handle.  But, at least, they did recognize when they were outgunned.

The ChildNet, having ostensibly offered the best the modern psychiatric sciences can boast of, including psychotropic meds to a boy as young as Gabriel, has finally hit upon the bright idea to introduce the budding sexual predator into a regular school, where he was to learn to control his urges.

Considering the boy’s mental state went downhill fast (now including violence on top of continuing sexual acting-out), it stands to reason why earlier this week, Broward County’s Department of Children and Families head, Jack Moss, has used the blanket federal medical privacy laws to excuse his refusal to shed light on any and all sex abuse allegations.

There really isn’t much to say.  No explanations would cut this.  The boy had, obviously, been severly abused.  Unfortunately, we will never know if he stood a chance of leading a normal life with proper psychiatric and social supervision.

Unfortunately, too, it is one less human to add diversity to our communal gene pool.  But most unfortunately of all, it is one less little boy who will be watching kiddie yogurt ads and gulping up the latest offerings from the prolific Disney animation arm.

Should a child with such severe and deep-running mental issues have been allowed the independence that he was? Probably not. Are we taking our basic freedoms too far, in not protecting those with pronounced mental illnesses from themselves? I don’t know. But I can say that it is clear we need a sweeping review of modern socio-psychological welfare standards.

Please, NO get out of jail free card!

What exactly makes a “mother”?  It this someone who ovulates?  Gives birth?  Trails an “it’s a boy” balloon while wheeled out onto the hospital loading dock with her bundle of joy across her knees?

Can I just say, "Hear, hear!"

Or is it someone who doesn’t let her baby scald himself in the middle of giving a bath?  Oh, I know, it’s gotta be one who, immediately upon realizing it happened despite her very best efforts, snaps to action and doesn’t spare neither expense nor strength taking her little one in for treatment!

Well, if that is the definition, what does this make Erica Davis?  What does it make her partner, Jake Fisher III?

How can someone calling themselves a parent, indeed, a human do that?  How can you just let a baby, any baby, let alone your own, suffer?

Apparently, one fine Thursday, March 26th, the father of the year was giving his 5-months old son a bath in a sink, turned away to attend his 1-year old who pooped next to him on the floor, didn’t notice his 2-year old playing with the faucet, and voila, the baby is toast — or, rather, a boiled lobster.

The hospital photos taken weeks later showed the baby had burns to the stomach, thighs and butt area, and do you think Mr. Fisher III called 911?  Or rushed his kid to the hospital, ASAP?  If the answer’s “yes”, ha, you’re coddling your baby.

Mr. Fisher did think to call his son’s mom, who agreed with his assessment that since the boy wasn’t bleeding, it was fine.  “Didn’t want to pay the $700″ for the ambulance to take their infant to the hospital, said Davis, when later questioned by the police.  Makes sense, right?  Life’s steep, gotta economize!

So much so, the parents hadn’t taken the boy for any medical help until the wounds didn’t start “looking moist”.  Which they apparently did not until April 22nd.

They had been detained by police on charges of child endangerment, tried to lie their way out of the charges — and, I can only hope, will be castrated within the inch of their miserable lives.

Unfortunately, however, that is not in the books.  But, at least, I want to be able to expect their children would remain the wards of the state — or, better yet, adopted out when the birth monsters are let out on parole.  A few years in jail might discharge their debt to the society as a whole.  But will they really to that little boy?

Hitler, Adolph Elizabeth Hitler

I am sorry, but some things just make you sick.  Baby seals being clubbed.  Nursing home inmates indulging in orgies.  And Hitler paintings being sold at an auction house at Ludlow, England for the combined value of over $140K.

Yes, we can - put on the world's most tasteless auction!

One of them, for instance, a $15,000 1910 self-portrait of a boy sitting on the bridge is going to hang in the home or office of one Mr. Ratledge.

Why, I ask you?  Would you want a dictator’s watercolor in your home?  How about a nice framed postcard of Dachau?  There might be a discount for purchasing in bulk.

Oh, and another question if I may?  What’s with pictures of farmhouses and cats and roses?  The man liked his realists, sure enough, so much so that abstract paintings were burned, but rose bouquets?  Please!  Writing his Producers, was Mel Brooks right?  Was the Fuhrer REALLY called Adolph Elizabeth Hitler?!

Fiery rage

When I was a teen, I used to — LITERALLY — beat the stuffing out of my debonair pink flamingo in a black top hat whenever I was feeling pissy.  Those hormones raging like Cali wildfires stoked by Santa Ana winds, let me tell you, that flamingo suffered.

Rageholics Beware. Cometh stiff competition!

But not as much as the tires on 54-yeard old Serena Sutton-Smith’s Vauxhall Nova.  What the quiet country road in the Cotswolds between Weston sub Edge and Mickleton in Gloucestershire, UK had done to the woman to provoke that fatal incident of road rage is completely beyond me.  I, also, don’t know if the woman had kids, but if she did not, I cannot fathom the better candidate for a Darwin award.  Even if she has procreated, I would still nominate her, as an honorary recipient, if need be.  An end such as hers deserves a fiery tribute.

Long and short of it, the woman rammed Paula Small’s stationary Fiat Punto, ground to a halt, and sat there, flooring the gas pedal.  The onlookers apparently begged her to step out of the car, but Serena, known to suffer from violent mood swings associated with her bipolar disorder, told them to “F..k off!” and continued spinning her wheels — no pun intended.  Spinning them until the tires burst apart, and the sparks from the naked metal rims started flying around, and when they ignited the engine, and when the fire mixed with the fuel.

And yes, you can see where this little story is going.

Life is precious.  And losing it, senselessly, with no greater reason than to feed your range — when I just heard from a friend of mine who is mourning another friend killed in the line of duty with two kids and a young wife left behind — this seems like such an utter, fundamental waste!  Life should be worth more than that.  But, maybe, it’s just the anger in me talking.

Just State-ing My Case!

I am an agnostic and…well, not proud of it.  I just am.  I think that’s the whole point of being an agnostic.

I don’t know for certain if there is something indescribable out there, but an idea of there existing a being greater than myself, whom I can thank / blame for the glories — and horrors of Creation appeals.  At the same time, I cannot dispute the findings of archaeologists, paleontologists, physicists.  And that’s OK, I don’t think faith necessarily excludes the accepted scientific model.

Sometimes separation is a GOOD thing!

But what doesn’t in any way dovetails with my belief system is forcing one or the other down my throat.  I want to hear from both sides of the divide, and I once I know enough, I want to enjoy the freedom to make my own decision.

And that is exactly what the graduating students at Elmbrook, Wisconsin schools were being subjected to for the past 9 years.  Certainly, it might not have been skin off most backs, but the basic premise of it makes my fur bristle.

Kids shouldn’t have been forced to graduate at a local megachurch.  Not that I have anything against Christianity.  I would have said the same of any venue whose primary function is a religious gathering site of any organized religion.  Because our country has been built on the principle of the Separation of the Church and State, in fact, it could be argued that it came to be because in the olden days, Britain hadn’t quite gotten the memo on that, subjecting kids to participate in what is a purely social function at a place geared to a specific purpose by a religion they might not even subscribe to seems a surefire way to draw some much deserved backlash.

I recognize an argument by the school board may be made that this venue is probably the best equipped to take in the number of folks sure to attend the events, but there are stadiums, and failing that, there are always public parks and football fields.  Graduation here in US is by and large a summertime activity.  If there was no comparable indoor location to be had, outdoor ones could have easily served as well.

As for a lawsuit.  Yes, it is frivolous, and economic conditions for the municipalities being such as it is, it can only place an unneccesary burder on the system.  At the same time, there is an abiding need for checks and balances even outside the hallowed halls of Capitol Hill and the White House.  And so far for an average Joe, court action seems an only feasible recourse.

Does That Lady Come With Crabs?

No, seriously? Can I get a side of crab sticks, small Coke, and this here blond, that one, with a mole over her upper lip?

Oh, all right, I am sort of kidding - but only because I am nowhere near the Berlin’s “Pussy Club”, a venerable German establishment employing 3o permanent sex workers.

Don't be a boob! Those deep discounts are going, going...gone!

Germany is one of the few counties in the world where prostitution, advertising thereof, AND pimping are totally legal.  Its compatriots in regulated sex are Netherlands, Austria, Switzerland, Hungary, Greece, Turkey, parts of Australia, and the U.S. state of Nevada.  To wit, in Luxembourg, Latvia, Denmark, Belgium and Finland, prostitution itself is legal, but brothels and pimping are not.

Considering German ladies and gentlemen of the night (or day, whatever strikes your fancy) are, as of 2002, eligible for health insurance AND bennies, you’d would think the sex workers there have it golden.  Alas, we’re in the middle of a global depression.

Cars are not getting sold, Borders is in its death throes, Circuit City is the thing of the past — and without a cent of governmental stimulus packages heading its ways, the oldest profession in the world is one of those carrying the brunt of the economic slowdown.

But whatever the job description, people in need are nothing if not inventive.  Hence, the 70 euro all you can eat, drink, and…erm, you KNOW on the table at the Pussy Club between 10 AM and 4 PM.  Which, the manager Stefan says, is helping to keep all the ladies employed full time.

And Stefan isn’t the industry’s only innovator.  There are group sex specials, discounts for seniors — and golfers.  No, I really have no idea how golf comes into play, but nonetheless, apparently, these folks come off as a plump collective cash cow.  Same, incidentally, goes for taxi drivers.

What can I say?  Better everyone takes advantage of the governments looking the other way while the girls are forced into the unconsiousnably deep discounts.  If the plans floated by the G20 prove the answer to the world’s prayers, I can see the rates once again heading the way of a septugenarian’s business end once he scores a hit of Viagra.

Who You Gonna Call? Guinness World Records!

Who hasn’t heard of Guinness World Book of Records?

A conversation-starter if nothing else, since its humble beginning at a May 4, 1951 shooting party attended among others by an opinionated Sir Hugh Beaver, then the managing director of Guinness Beers, it has prompted a slew of daredevils to try their hand at spending hours in isolation with scorpions, rubbing their eyes with ghost chilies, dangling a heavy weight off a swallowed sword, lifting 71 kilos with an ear, balancing a car on their head.  You name it, people probably tried it.  Or if not, dollars to donuts, someone somewhere is thinking about giving it a stab.

Dive headlong into anything you do, is what I always say!

And though I personally think these are all a waste of perfectly good bodies — considering how many diseases, accidents, acts of nature are already lying in wait to make mincemeat of the mass of cells, electrolytes, and water somehow hanging together and pretending to be a coherent whole — at least, those daredevils are doing their worst to themselves.

What Berks Technical Institute alumni Nick Andes, 29, and Doug Klinger, 30, attempted is…interesting, perfectly useless — and is going to cost, however little, to everyone currently enjoying their cell phone service through T-Mobile.  In a nutshell, the duo exchanged over 217,000 text messages in the period of one month.

Not to say they were all THAT prolific.  Mostly, the messages consisted of hello’s, LOLs, and, as the gentlemen themselves admitted, a whole lot of repeats.  Exhibiting commendable technical prowess, the pair managed to rig their phones to spit out multiple messages.  During a February test run they learned they could send 6K-7K of those awesomely articulate missives daily, and the quest for world domination…sorry, the latest Guinness Book record was on.

Previously, it has been set at 182,000 sent in 2005 by one Deepak Sharma in India, and our wise guys couldn’t leave the well enough alone.

As we can see, they have succeeded — and one of them got settled with a $26K bill that cost over $25 to mail out.  Considering both were on an unlimited service plan, the charges were quickly rescinded and the internal T-Mobile investigation was launched.

But if the T-Mobile execs asked me, I would have said the best recourse would have been to send a similar folio to the man’s partner in crime.  I would have even picked up the tab for the mailing.  Because, you know what immediately occurred to me reading about this amazing feat?

The text messaging rates are calculated according to usage, and obviously, a duo of doofuses can’t significantly affect the multi-million bell curve.  At the same time, “can’t significantly” doesn’t stand for “wouldn’t”, so, however infinitesimal the resulting increase in the rates for every regular user after the accounting team gets through adding these charges to T-Mobile’s own monthly bill, it would still be a fraction of a cent too much.

Thank you, guys! Looking forward to future feats of daring.  But, please, could you limit them to your own bank accounts from now on?

On the side of the angels!

What wouldn’t you to do to protect someone you love?  And doesn’t this, whatever it is, sometimes carry a ringing name of “justifiable homicide“?

Good old Abraham! Always on the side of the angels.

An abused woman can kill in self-defense.  A dog won’t be put down for tearing out an intruder’s throat and thereby saving her owner.  A pregnant mother has a right to any means necessary if she perceives a threat to her fetus.  A soldier is expected to kill in the name of his country.

And yet, as soon as there is a disagreement on the defendant of choice, the rescuers misusing the same whatever-goes format triumphantly make it onto the FBI’s Most Wanted Terrorists List.  Rather hypocritical, really.

No, you won’t find me defending bin Laden — or the celebrity criminal du jour, Daniel Andreas San Diego.  They should be caught, tried, and put behind bars.  Having lived through 9/11  (albeit nowhere near the epicenter) and personally done animal research, I can tell you an announcement about either of these men having been detained would definitely make me feel better.

At the same time, I have to ask myself.  Why does their violent actions in the name of something as dear to them as anything we may hold close to our hearts put them on the wrong side of the law?  Of course, we may discuss the legalities of overstepping the rigidly defined bounds, but it would by no means be a debate.  Society places these bounds upon itself to guard against pure Lord of the Flies chaos, and I most definitely appreciate having a barricade to huddle behind.

There are those, though, who emphatically do not.

An imposing elder straight off the pages of the Old Testament, Bin Laden is supposedly fighting for the liberation of the Muslim world.  And if it’s to be achieved by the destruction of Israel and its allies, well, so be it.  I do not agree, I do not sympathize, I abhor everything he stands for, but I do hear what he’s saying — providing he’s telling the truth, and not just spouting convenient rhetoric.  He does need a pulpit and a cause, otherwise, what sort of leader is he?  One mocked for certain deficiency by his ex-Western girlfriends?  Or was it for purported sexual relations with goats?

And the handsome clean-cut master sailor / computer scientist proficient in Linux and setting up e-mail accounts, Daniel San Diego, 31, is blowing up research facilities in California to punish the demon-faced scientists at Huntingdon Life Sciences for wantonly abusing the defenseless critters.  Is he right in his radical stance?  Certainly not.  He would not have been even if he and those of his ilk proposed a better way to conduct medical research.  Because even then, PETA’s statement at the US Senate hearing aside, parroting President John F. Kennedy in stating “those that make peaceful change impossible make the violent revolution inevitable”, the violence is never an answer.

Or…considering the implacable speech by Michael J. Heimbach, Assistant Director of our Counterterrorism Division at FBI Headquarters in Washington, DC, “We have added San Diego to the Most Wanted Terrorists list to increase public awareness about this domestic terrorist fugitive and to aid in his arrest.  We will not relent until San Diego is apprehended and his potential for future acts of violence and destruction is eliminated.”…is it?

Any violence done against Daniel San Diego, the first domestic offender on the FBI’s Most Wanted Terrorists List, would, after all, be in defense of something WE love — our own peace of mind, that of our nearest and dearest.

What then puts us, as a society, that far from what Daniel, and Osama, and Abu Gharib’s now-infamous torturers were doing?  Just the fact that we are on the right side of the fence?

Tell you what, for the safety of myself and mine, I sure am glad I’m on the side of the angels!

How To Get a Louse Outta Your Hair?

See, I have this friend…

Boy, after “it was a dark and stormy night”, this has got to be the most overused line on the planet.  And nonetheless, there ARE stormy nights — and there actually ARE genuine friends with genuine problems.

FBI'S Most Wanted: Considered Stinky and Dangerous. Feed Slops On Sight!

Like my friend, for instance, that I will call Jane Doe — to protect the guilty, in this instance.

Now, by all accounts, Jane is tops at what she does.  She is funny, loyal, happily married.  And she needs money.  Well, who does not?  Unfortunately, neo-con claims regarding the new administration notwithstanding, this ain’t socialism yet.

To finish setting up the stage, Jane is a hairdresser.  And apparently, not many stylists get paid a guaranteed salary these days.  Like Jane tells me, “50% commission off of northing’s still nothing”.

Not too long ago (certainly, less than the trial 90 days), Jane has found a new job.  Not a Paul Mitchell salon (those of its ilk incidentally requiring an unpaid internship BEFORE initiating the same generous 50% commission agreement), but a nice enough place with a steady non-commission paycheck.  “Not many of them,” says Jane.  “Most stylists are staying put.”

Which Jane would have loved to do — and is still doing (minus the loving) - if not for the crude, rude, slovenly, thankless, talentless piece of cow dung that had a good fortune to come from the same country as the salon’s owners.  Now, apparently, the gentleman (and I do apologize for so abusing the term) had been marginally more tolerable before his divorce (scuttlebutt says he was altogether responsible for) has become finalized last year.  Upon which, the man has really fell off that “civilized behavior” bandwagon.

A man, whose customers rarely come back, who doesn’t even take pride in his work has an unmitigated gall to yell at the lady stylists trying to help him.  He steals their food.  Berates them.  Skirts the edges of sexual harassment.  Demands the women scrub the john — and clean up after him once he’s done abusing his customers’ hairdos.

From what my friend tells me, it’s gotten to the point where she’s considering calling in sick the day she needs to spend more than a few minutes in the company of this singular representative of the male species (working with others, and being a daughter and wife to two more, I can with all surety say he’s altogether NOT a representative of the entire gender).  But what he lacks in company, he certainly makes up in virulence of his behavior.  Supposedly unable to even fathom what he’s doing wrong — yet consistently ignoring all attempts to correct his NUMEROUS faux pas, he has singlehandedly managed to make even a manager’s life a fun slice of hell.  Need I clarify she’s also a woman?

The problem, Jane explains, is that the owners, confronted by their female employees wanting recourse from the incessant abuse, blithely suggest they shake his hand.  Really, they shrug, he isn’t doing anything wrong.

To my suggestion the lady stylists get the regulars to complain about his shoddy work and unpleasant environment in the salon, courtesy of theirs truly, Jane gathered some people had.  Considering, the donkey’s uncle is still around, the customer is king — just not at that particular venue.

That said, guys, I’m open to advice.  I really wish I had something to pass along to Jane.  All of mine thus far fell through: the women are afraid to lose their jobs.  Economy being as it is, I can see why.  They don’t know if they should go to the police.  Deliberately sabotaging him doesn’t seem like a safe — or kosher thing to do.  And befriending him, after many years that he has been spiffying up the joint seems both transparent — and stomach-churning.

Anything else?  Anyone?  Jane and I could use some creative thinking!

Pigging Out!

When it oinks like a pig, looks like a pig, wields a gun like a pig, is it a pig?

PC John Ablett seems to think so.  Though a fan of self-criticism, I do think asking fellow policemen to arrest a neighbor in a nighttime raid for — ready for it? — a 12″ porcelain pig domiciled in Robin Demczak’s backyard for the past 8 years is taking a commendable character quality (and familiarity with slurs) in somewhat of a wrong direction.

If he's baying for blood, does that make it a Bay of Pigs?

Considering the young traffic cop, John Ablett, lived next to an ex-pig farmer Mr. Demczak for only 4 of those years — and their feud over a footpath (who cares about Gaza Strip, these guys have their own no-man’s land!) lasted for just 18 months, it seems Mr. Demczak had a remarkable foresight to first start breeding pigs solely to be able to stop and put up a sign proclaiming to ex-customers, “No Pigs”.  And here we go Uri Geller for evidence of psychic gifts.  Fat load we know!

Mr. Demczak’s new “no pigs” house rule was grossly violated when PC Ablett’s herd-mates entered the premises and took him from his bed into police custody lasting over 6 hours. And the best part: he was let go without any charges filed in conjunction with what is being treated as a “harassment incident”, but nonetheless ordered to rid himself of the swine offender AND stop calling his now empty shed a sty (for all it still retains all the characteristics thereof).

If the Thames Valley police force is so concerned with a common dictionary word, I am surprised it feels comfortable en masse entering its own precinct after perverting justice to quite this extent.  After all, how would you call a dwelling housing a herd of swine (all the decent cops excluded)?

Yeah, kinda thought so!

I am usually against what seems like a lot of extraneous civil court law suits creating excessive bloat in the system.  But in this particular case, man, I would give my eye tooth to be on the jury, if Mr. Demczak decides to sue.  Not that I know why anyone would want an eye tooth.  Unless they are the Tooth Fairy.

Soylent Green is Pets (for now)

Unlike Agur, son of Yakeh, whom King Solomon supposedly credited with not understanding only 4 basic truths (dealing with the vectors of a bird’s flight, snake’s slither, ship’s glide, and a man’s path to the heart of a woman), I know if there were a WQ (Wisdom Quotient) test, I would draw a blank at a hell of a lot more than 4.

Betcha he would have made a yummy Sunday brunch! And his dove, too.

While I could do with some wisdom in my ripe old age, some truths — if that’s what they are — I really don’t want to get.  I am just stubborn that way.

I will be in a minority, I bet, but hey, even the Supreme Court puts out a dissenting opinion.  And though I am not nearly so lofty an authority as that, I have my soapbox, and I’m not afraid to use it.

And so, to bring this matter full circle, you know one of those things I don’t get?  It’s putting your pets down.  I already wrote about my contempt for PETA’s sweeping euthanasia practices.  And though I have received an initial response from one of PETA’s functionaries, espousing its humane methods of dealing with its rescuees, to my offer to interview its head and founder Ingrid Newkirk, to get PETA’s side of the story, so far, there has been radio silence.

But really, this isn’t even the point of this post.  PETA has its own problems, and though it’s overweening intentions are probably good, touching on all of those accompanying issues — not the least its increasingly radical reputation that, even in my limited experience, makes other parties leery of doing business with this powerful non-profit — would take more than a single blog post to address.  And to be honest here, more than a single blogger.

Here, all I want to talk about is our own pets — and our own individual choices.  That, and the stand of every, even the most progressive constituency, on human euthanasia.  Certain countries, and in the last couple of years, even a couple of states here in the US, have permitted the limited use of euthanasia.  But the main and thus far uncontested caveat is that the euthanasia can only be performed if the victim has asked for it — and has retained a sufficient use of mental faculties to, if need be, prove to the courts that said procedure is being requested out of her / his free will.

I do not see our blind handicapped senile members of society being volunteered for the mortician’s services on a regular basis.  Well, I don’t — with the exception of such sterling authority figures as Baroness Warnock, 84, of Britain.  Duly concerned with the drain on UK’s nationalized health care put on it by its neediest recipients, the first government-connected expert to speak in favor of euthanasia, she really puts a foot in her mouth — and calls for something very similar to the Soylent Green premise — minus consuming the forcibly euthanized folks.

The senile, says the baroness, “have a duty to die”, but does not specify just how they are to acquiesce to the the procedure, limited as they are by the very condition that’s making them “eligible” for the “final solution” in Lady Warnock’s argument.

And the media, just as we journalists and bloggers like to do, is all over that — I would like to hope — slip of the tongue like white on rice.  Yet that same media is keeping nicely quiet — where it is not outright supportive — on the subject of putting to sleep elderly, handicapped, or sick animals that still have a chance of leading some kind of life.  And perhaps even overcoming their condition with enough dedicated medical treatment — or even simple TLC.

There is no medical insurance for pets to speak of.  No good clinics.  There are no high-tech machines in most cities to perform the necessary medical tests and human hospitals would never allow an animal in as a patient, the ending of one of my favorite movies, K-9, notwithstanding.  There aren’t many procedures in use for pets with chronic disorders — which is ironic, because most of these life-saving techniques have been extensively tested out on our furry or snouted friends before ever crossing into the primate genus, let alone being introduced for human use.

So, what is it about the most innocent members of our society that makes them not just easy to abuse, but, also, easy to let go of under the guise of doing them a favor?

Would we really be doing a favor to our affectionate, scared, loyal, mostly healthy 17-year old furbaby Rhett by putting her to sleep because we cannot stand to see her puttering around the house walking into everything because she’s had… some kind of intercranial event, impossible to tell which without an inaccessible MRI test?  Such indignity she’s been subject to!  Such emotional hardship for us — and physical, too.  After all, while she can sniff out the food just fine, she DOES need help finding water so that she can be kept hydrated.

How about another furbaby tearfully terminated because he lost control of his bladder and bowels, and it was ever so demeaning for him.  Why, can’t have him feeling less than a man, can we?

I imagine the proprietors of nursing homes across the country going bankrupt if we spared our human relations the same indignity of disease or old age not yet correctable by science.

Yet, we do not.  And the press, unless something drastically changes in our collective psyche, is, and would continue baying for blood if anyone truly pushed such an agenda forth.

Soylent Milk is... people?

Why then it is all right to “let go” of not yet comatose pets without THEIR express permission?  Because, you would say, they are incapable of giving it?  Since the senile of Lady Warnock’s unfortunate speech lack the same quality, are they to, also, be relegated to the same social rung?  How about little babies?

Just because someone lacks the capacity of having a say, it doesn’t mean they wouldn’t want to have it if the circumstances permitted.  As such, from my very own soapbox, I call for assuming a default “no” unless there is a signed living will — or a scientifically translatable meow begging the caring owner to hurry the non-human member 0f the family to his or her grave.

United Airlines. Flying the Unfriendly Skies.

I remember 9/11.

Fly United!

I was ready to step out to go to school / work — I was in grad school, and it was my first semester as a TA.  Insert me all being puffed up and leave it at that.

But my inner glow dimmed that day.  The statistic I kept hearing looping over and over on CNN and the briny smell of tears can do that to a person.

I hadn’t known tears had a briny smell, though it stands to reason, considering the chemical makeup.

And I hadn’t known that though I was never much of a jet-setter, flying the friendly skies until then had been a given, like sweets.  Still is, despite the belief both having been shaken and stirred.  I might not want to have a cake (or rather I won’t, because in watching my figure, I’m going to get others to follow suit — and yet stave off the attentions of any, even the cutest one, doctor in his / her professional capacity).  But the thing is, I COULD eat it.

Same with my reliance on aviation.  It’s there, and a child of the late 2oth century that I am, I expect it to get me where I want to go.  Or desperately need to.

Unfortunately, just as I had been in for a rude personal awakening 8 years ago, a young woman in San Francisco had her own (or had it reinforced) by United Airlines employees.

This girl’s mother had lived in Portland, Oregon, and just prior to an enviable display of humanity on the part of the ticketing agent, Mike, the girl’s boyfriend, received a call from her father asking the couple to fly in.  The girl’s mother had been close to death.

Now, in the situation like that, who wouldn’t actually do everything they could to help?  Certainly, the fellow passengers had — letting them get in to the front of the queue, no questions asked.

Not so the agent.  Though Mike and his girlfriend had their reservation numbers and explained their situation, the agent looked them in the eye and said that regardless of them trying to make the flight, she was going on break, sorry.  She had no choice, she said, and hadn’t even bent whatever rules she might have been in violation of to call the gate agent and ask him to wait for the couple.

Long and short of it, they didn’t make that flight, though when they ran up to the gate, the plane was still there and the gate agent was busy turning away the stragglers, including those that just stepped off a connecting flight that had arrived late.  The gate agent even excused the fellow ticketing agent.  “The management makes us work some unreasonable schedules.”  Ah, OK, AND?

By the time they got to Portland on the next flight, departed two and a half hours later, it hadn’t been too late, but the young woman’s mother did pass away a very short time after.  And certainly, those hours probably wouldn’t have done anything.  But they would have been there.  And sometimes, it is the most important thing in the world.

I don’t wish anyone at the United Airlines to experience for themselves what that young woman had been going through just so that they can be a tad more empathetic next time, but I would very much hope its upper management sees fit to give its employees some much needed customer service training.

What the 9/11 had done was make the very act of taking to the skies a roll of the dice.  What this incident has added to it, is that you don’t need terrorists to make you feel alone.  And yes, betrayed.  Kudos to the corporate culture!

Doesn't It Just Make Your Heart Go Pitter-PETAr?

Khloe Kardashian.  Roselyn Sanchez.  Pamela Anderson.  Eva Mendez.  Holly Madison.  What do they all have in common?

Which is the animal here again?

If you answered, outta this world hotness, you’d be right.  But since I am not doing a Scoville scale on the female half of Hollywood and outlying regions (though, hmm, this isn’t a bad idea), it’d only be a part of the answer.

But if you said, they sizzled in PETA’s adventurous, “I’d Rather Go Naked Than Wear Fur” campaign, Bing-B0ng-Bang, got it in one.  They did, and it is, and whether it works for its publicly stated purpose, it does wonders for the ladies’ careers — and the libidos of men taking advantage of the photographers’ skills and the generosity of People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals.  Win-win.

Or it would be, had PETA, described as “by far the most successful radical organization in America”, proved as considerate to its 4-legged, winged, and otherwise non-human friends — and hadn’t slaughtered 95% of adoptable pets in their care in 2008.  Notwithstanding years of public outrage, PETA euthanized 2,124 pets in its Norfolk, VA headquarters — and adopted out…wait for it…7.  Not thousands, not hundreds — just 7.  Throughout the year.

Per the nonprofit Center for Consumer Freedom’s (CCF) press release based on PETA’s own disclosures to the VA Department of Agriculture and Consumer Services, since 1998, the group’s dog and cat death toll reached 21,339, not counting 2009’s.  Another thing to become public at this time is that despite a $32 million annual budget, PETA has made no plans to start operating as an adoption shelter or had its workers make even a nominal effort to find homes for their “charges”.  Not surprising then, considering its stand, that last year, CCF petitioned Virginia’s State Veterinarian to reclassify PETA as a slaughterhouse.

Said CCF Research Director David Martosko: “PETA hasn’t slowed down its hypocritical killing machine one bit, but it keeps browbeating the rest of society with a phony ‘animal rights’ message. What about the rights of the thousands of dogs, cats, puppies, and kittens that die in PETA’s headquarters building?”

Adds Martosko: “Since killing pets is A-OK with PETA, why should anyone listen to their demands about eating meat, using lab rats for medical research, or taking children to the circus?”

This isn’t just bitterness talking.  Self-described “complete press sluts” [according to its president and co-founder, Ingrid Newkirk], PETA seeks “total animal liberation” — meaning no meat or dairy; no aquariums; no circuses; no hunting or fishing; no fur or leather; and no medical research using animals.  PETA is even opposed to the use of seeing-eye dogs.

Commendable purity of thought — for an organization that is nonetheless perfectly all right with distributing $70K in grants to Rodney Coronado, a convicted animal-rights arsonist, or making cash donations to the terrorist Earth Liberation Front (ELF), responsible along with Animal Liberation Front (ALF), for more than 600 crimes since 1996, causing (by a very conservative FBI estimate) more than $43 million in damages.  ALF’s “press office” brags that in 2002, the two groups, sometimes referred to as “black eyes”, committed “100 illegal direct actions” — like blowing up SUVs, destroying the brakes on seafood delivery trucks, and planting firebombs in restaurants.

The FBI calls ALF and ELF the nation’s “most serious domestic terrorism threat.”  Bruce Friedrich, PETA’s “vegan campaign director” and third-in-command, didn’t seem to care when addressing the 1,000-strong crowd of Animal Rights activists at 2001 convention in Virginia, he said, “blowing stuff up and smashing windows” is “a great way to bring about animal liberation.”

“It would be great,” he added, “if all the fast-food outlets, slaughterhouses, these laboratories and the banks who fund them exploded tomorrow.”

Since then, some of them did.  Nicely enough, during promotional interviews, the gorgeous girls serving as the public faces of the campaign steered very much clear of these issues.

And, perhaps, so they should have.  It is said beauty will save the world.  If it serves to save, at least, one cat or a dog — or a laboratory employee, as far as I am concerned, it will have served its purpose.

Gunning for Answers

A woman fatally shoots her 20-year old son before turning the gun on herself.  Classic murder-suicide, right?

Mostly.  Of course, there are two little twists.  First, the woman’s motivation.  The long and short of it — I pity Marie Moore.  Really.

What she had done was horrendous, unforgivable, and if there’s a good thing in all of this it’s that she did turn the gun on herself.  I am not even talking from the society’s standpoint.  It’s not about us, taxpayers, having to shoulder the brunt of trial and subsequent treatment.  It’s about this mentally disturbed mother — but mother nonetheless, Mother with a capital “M”, albeit in an altogether distorted font, possibly Wingdings, in anyone’s mind but hers — being able to live with herself had the hospital, in which she’d died following the incident, managed to save her life.

And based on her suicide notes to her boyfriend, no, I really don’t think she could have.  Whatever delusions drove her to this, I imagine, unlike in the case of Susan Smith, the decision hadn’t been easy — nor geared toward her own benefit.  She had been trying to save her son, however misguided the means. “I’m so sorry,” Marie Moore, 44, wrote several times. “I had to send my son to Heaven and myself to Hell.”

I don’t know where either of them will end up.  According to human laws, mental illness is invariably a mitigating circumstance.  Whether it holds true in the afterlife, there are authorities far better equipped than I to, if not answer this, then, at least, venture a more educated guess.

Not that educated guesses seem to be paying off that well, at least, in this tragic story.  Because the second twist is that Mary Moore didn’t just wake up one morning after a lifetime of rational decisions and decided to take her mommy duties to a whole different level.  A self-described “anti-Christian”, she had previously attempted suicide, had been involuntarily committed in 2002, and banned from the same gun range, at which the shooting took place, at around the same time.

Among her effects, there had been found audio tapes, in which she had described hearing voices, one of them, supposedly, God’s, urging to commit these horrific acts.

“I have to die and go to hell so there can be a thousand years peace on earth,” she explains in the two tapes.  “God’s turned me into the Anti-Christ… I’m a good person, but the Devil and God turned me into the worst person in the world. I’m so ashamed. And I’m so afraid. And I’ll pay forever and ever.”

Amidst ramblings of having spent long stints in psychiatric hospitals and hallucinations that had her convinced at times that she was being buried alive, eaten by ants, burned at the stake and gassed, she adds: “I’m sorry to leave you like this. It’s a horrifying thing to do.”

And yet, Larry Anderson, a manager at Shoot Straight, from which Mary had been banned 7 years previously, initially claimed it’s unclear whether the Moores had been to the range before.  More, before renting out their guns, the range requires that customers fill out a questionnaire that includes a section on whether they have ever been convicted of a felony or been declared mentally unstable — but it has no way of verifying the information.

Defending the range’s policies, says Anderson: “If someone acts right, we have to assume they are right.”

“Sometimes, like what happens Sunday, you have no control,” Anderson states.  “There’s nothing you can do to prevent it.”

But is it the case?  Starting from simply limiting the renters from having interaction with anyone, personnel and family members included, until their weapon is returned, there could have been, very much so.

That said, who should be held ultimately accountable for the shooting?

The range, for failing to conduct a thorough background check?  Or is is we, as voters, for not demanding our government institute policies that would make it illegal for operators like Anderson to “assume” before indiscriminately handing out weapons?

Either way, two people are dead.  And for the life of me, pardon the pun, I cannot blame Mrs. Moore for what is clearly the failure of authorities to prevent her from having access to items too dangerous to be handled by folks in her mental state.  That — and, of course, the the authorities and the medical community for failing to properly follow up on her progress after her involuntary psychiatric treatments.

Is There a Lifetime Warranty on this Sperm?

When purchasing a used car, a Ginsu knife, a set of restaurant-grade cookware (well, what, that warehouse club demonstration was impressive!), the very first thing we check for is a warranty.  And if we don’t (like oh, I don’t know…yours truly), we get it but good from their loved ones upon bringing it home.  The reception would be more welcoming for the pampered family cat, who suddenly remembered her roots and dropped an uninsured field mouse in our slippers.

Chairman Meow has approved this message

In fact, acquiring said family cat, we ought to be on a lookout for a breeder’s warranty.  No, really.  First few months to a year, the kitten’s general health and well-being (baring unforeseen illnesses and / or accidents clearly the fault of the buyer) is pretty much fully insured, guaranteeing a problem-free growth — and a free similar-caliber kitten should the first not quite develop to our satisfaction (nevermind getting attached to your little guy, at least, we know we can always trade him / her in for a better model).  Then, for those of us in the market for a breeding cat, be it a tom or a queen, the contract is appended with a fertility clause.  If our investment comes of age and it’s bred (breeding documented by impartial observers) — and the creature refuses to cough up MiniMe’s, there’s still that option to exchange.  Obviously, the contract ingeniously states, the unsatisfied customers get the pick of the first closest-matched litter.

So, shelling out for a beaker of sperm, ha, who wouldn’t want USDA Grade A, Certified Organic?

And if we, ourselves, are, in fact, the goal, the… end product of this beaker of sperm, well, it stands to reason we’d be offended at springing up from a less than 100% imperfection-free batch.

Brittany Donovan of Pennsylvania, now 13 years old, is suing her de facto “grandparent”, Idant Laboratories out of New York, one of — if not the largest semen repository in US, currently at the forefront of semen banking and technological advancements in shipping frozen semen all over the world, for providing her mother with faulty sperm, one determined to be responsible for her Fragile X syndrome.

Funny that a likely retarded young teen actually possesses enough faculties to initiate the proceedings.  Seriously, wouldn’t it have been more upfront for her birth mother or relations, who will probably be named by the courts as the trustees of whatever settlement their charge stands to receive in case of a favorable ruling, to kickstart the suit instead of playing on the finer sensibilities of those responsible for keeping it alive within our court systems?  But that isn’t even really the point.

What IS the point is that Brittany — or rather her lawyer — doesn’t even need to prove negligence on the part of Idant.  It was caught selling faulty parts (notwithstanding whether or not they could have tested the donated sperm for this particular carrier gene at the time of the transaction or if they even offered the full possible battery of tests on their product and didn’t deliver), it should answer for its involvement in what in the normal run of things would simply have been chalked up to the word of God, karma, or what have you.

I might be in the minority, but unless each particular condition is otherwise specified, I believe it falls to the parents (in this case, one parent) to take care of whatever genetic testing they want and can feasibly afford if they, like me, are counting on science to shore up their bet for a healthiest possible offspring.

Unfortunately, now that the floodgates to proceed with the litigation — and do so in NY, the state that does not have a “blood shield law” protecting sellers of human bodily material from product liability suits — have been opened by one kindhearted judge who clearly does not share my opinion, it isn’t hard to imagine the sheer numbers and sorts of new lawsuits gearing up as we speak to further clog our choked up court system.

At the same time, I can, also, imagine the pain she and her family is going through, their desperate search for answers.

Hun, you sure it was MY sperm?

So, I will just end this with an open message to the young girl.

I am sorry for what your genetic disorder has you going through, Brittany.  Whether or not you win, if in fact it’s been really you who’d chosen to get this ball rolling, I hope, taking charge of your life and talking this out with your council (or anyone) has made you feel more confident in facing anything else to come your way with just a little more contentment and wisdom.

Confessions of an Unrepentant Cannibal

When a doctor makes a mistake and cuts off the wrong testicle — that’s social injustice.

When a bank employee recommends postponing payments on the mortgage in an enviably good standing so that you could take advantage of the government bailout and refinance — and then, repossessing your home — that, too, is social injustice.

Pork - the other OTHER white meat.

But when your mother repeatedly bashes her buddy on the head with an axe, gouges out choice bits, cooks and eats her in front of your seven-year old eyes before throwing the remains out into a heap of garbage, what would you call that?  And what would you call having your government keeping her confined and away from you for a period of no more than 15 years (should she be convicted of the crime) while men like Khodorkovsky, ostensibly jailed for creative accounting practices (and in reality, attempting to peacefully overthrow the regime), slated to see the light of day on the far side of never?

Recalls 27-year old Olesya Mostovschikova, the third female cannibal arrested in Russia in the last 6 month, this one in the Siberian city of Irkutsk: “I took the axe and hit her a number of times on her head.  Then I cut off her ears, gouged out one eye, cut off an arm, and a hand. I took the hand, arm and eye and cooked these body parts in the oven.  Some time later, I went down to the cellar again because Julia [an otherwise unidentified friend claiming to have gone along out of fear for her own life] said that she was hungry and wanted to eat some more.  We sliced off some more meat and took it upstairs to the kitchen. We fried it on the cooker and ate it.”

Doesn’t sound like someone in the throes of remorse.  Nor, for that matter, a fit of violent rage.  This woman — using the term loosely — seems wholly in the possession of her wits.  Why then, isn’t she going up for 700 to life, no parole forever and ever, amen (Russia squarely on the humane side of the capital punishment Mason-Dixon line, and boy, does it beg to be delivered with it’s Premiere’s gloriously deadpan expression)?

Why is she going to be back roaming the streets within…what, a few years — given a standard caveat for a good behavior?  And what exactly is to happen to her little boy when he sees Mommy Hungriest stopping by for the first time for his middle school play?  High school graduation ball?  Best case scenario, his college soccer match?

I am not advocating capital punishment, it’s too sweeping a topic to address in one blog post.  But I am calling for predators the likes of Ms. Olesya, once caught, never to be permitted freedom — other than of a prison yard once a day under the business end of a rifle.  After all, we do have to be be humane, don’t we?

"They called me an imbecile". They were right!

Who doesn’t know a tale of a boy crying wolf?

When you feel like an ass...

It’s scary, pithy, seemingly transcends cultures — and at our mother’s knee, teaches us honesty, forethought, and bewaring of society’s patience with even the youngest of us being so spectacularly short, a child is forced to spend the night in the tree hiding from the hungry pack because either he’d been mistaken before, or, yes, even lied.  Luckily for the edificational value of the piece, youth is given no weight as an extenuating circumstance.

Not that even if it was, it would have helped Gioacchino Giuliani make himself heard.  A seismologist at a physics institute at Gran Sasso, near the badly-hit Italian city of L’Aquilae, Gioacchino is an adult — a justifiably incensed one.

A 6.3-magnitude quake hit L’Aquilae before dawn on April 6th and claimed over 275 victims.  Said Giuiliani in a rather tasteless too-soon-post-quake interview, “There are people who must apologize to me, and they must have the weight of what occurred on their conscience.”

Considering there ought to be quite a bit of documented evidence of authorities having ignored your warning, Senor Giuliani, they will be sure to eat a flock of crows.  But calling them on it when all those very countrymen you had been trying to protect are in need of reassurance and help, with dead being pulled out from under the rubble and thousands homeless throughout Central Italy, now, at this moment, is that an altogether good time?

Sure, there is a cause for being upset.  Who wouldn’t be after their loudspeaker-equipped vans — seen driving around the area broadcasting Giuliani’s warning regarding an imminent quake he claimed to have predicted through his analysis of radon gas emissions — were reported to police for spreading false alarms and.  He’d even been made to remove his findings from the Internet. “They called me an imbecile,” he said.

So, who is having the last laugh now?

Unfortunately, no one!  Should the media have remembered to bring up his warning later, when the worst of the aftermath had already passed, it might have been entirely within his right to mention having been upset for having his predictions ignored.  As it is now, both he and the authorities are looking like asses out of any sort of disguise, and it is the innocent victims who are bearing the cost.

When You're Feeling Boxed In

“Man’s body cut to fit coffin.”  Funny, in a gruesome sort of way.  Straight out of Adams Family gruesome.

Can I say, "Big Love"?

But, no.  Welcome to Allendale, NC — where it did, in fact, happen.

Not to beat…erm, a dead horse, the late Mr. James Hines, a preacher and funk musician, was not only a giant personality, he was a giant of a man - 6′7″, 300 lbs.  So, when he went up to keep making his music in the sky, the undertaker was left in a bit of a tizzy.  The coffins are mostly standard size, so, what is a funeral director to do when he gets called in for a really BIG job?

But the owner of Cave Funeral Home wasn’t one to let even these sorts of issues mow him down.  Why, saw off the deceased’s feet between the knees and the ankles; stuff them into the coffin along with the business end of your customer; pay off the grieving widow, who tried to honor her husband’s memory by threatening to sue once the rumors of your genius start making the rounds of the small town, in return for her silence — and you’re scot-free.

At least, you should have been — if those you paid off had the common decency to follow through on your out-of-court agreement.

Which, after 5 years of keeping his peace, Ann Hines decided not to do.  Once the prosecution, fed up with the gruesome accusations, chose to exhume Mr. Hines to take the pictures ascertaining the body’s state before reburying the remains, Ann gave her permission.

As it turns out, the rumors had been justified.  And thus, were the criminal proceedings against the Cave Funeral Home initiated.  Now, under the North Carolina law, desecrating human remains is punishable by 1 to 10 years in prison.

How much the accused will plead down to or if this thing will be dragged through the courts, let me just say that I am frankly appalled.  But not at the proprietor, believe it or not.  I suppose he really shouldn’t have done what he did, but that will be up to the jury to take a vote on — and whatever higher authority he believes in, Jesus, Osiris, Buddha.

What I am actually disgusted at is the sheer avariciousness of Mrs. Hines.  First, she takes money for something that, if it is as painful to her as she espouses, should not have been salved by the judicious application of a however-many greenbacks.  And then, she goes BACK on her word to allow the police to move forward with its investigation.

Where was she with her open wounds for the the last 5 years?  Did they not bleed then?  And why has the stigmata opened now?

Tell you what, if you want to see an example of social injustice, it is people like that going on air with their patently false tales of woe and getting sympathy from all and sundry!

I do sound bitter, I concur, but just as convicted felons are not allowed to profit from their crimes, so, do I think Ann Hines and her ilk should not be allowed any kind of public-opinion driven windfall.

I wanna be a producer - the reality of staging a TV show

I am Lisa Gus, and I am a writer.  And medical researcher.  And a TV viewer — at least, I had been, back before adding a little mommy hat to my haberdashery shelf.  What I am NOT is a producer.  Had anyone asked me less than 2 months ago, I would have said I am the furthest thing from.  Well, I might have had a good laugh.  But no one asked.  Because the very idea would have been crazy.

Producer? Nah, I'm just acting the part!

What changed?

I’m blaming Lombardi!  Or Craigslist. I am flexible that way.  Let me clarify.

Lombardi Street is a social network (built on Ning.com, and boy, don’t get me started - the preceding in an exceptionally uncomplimentary way, though one not altogether deserved), a social experiment on making your own television future — and a full-length scripted serialized drama intended to reach its fans via network television, internet broadcasting, and virtual worlds the likes of Second Life.

Now, in January, cruising the Craigslist writer’s jobs section, I came across a tantalizing invite to become a screenwriter for this democratic new show, and though my screenwriting experience hovered at the time…oh, between zero and none, I didn’t let a minor thing like that stop me.

Since I don’t want to turn this into even a first tome of War and Peace, I won’t bore you with the details of writing trials I had to pass, of struggling with an unfamiliar format, of sleepless nights thinking up story arcs — take out “screen”, and it wasn’t all that dissimilar to a normal writing class, though with certain additional pitfalls.  Let’s just say, it’s been fun.

And let’s just say I did not make the cut — though the show creator recognized my ideas, my lack of screenwriting experience proclaimed itself from every benighted rooftop.

What followed was a bad couple of days.  I have become invested in my characters, my story arcs — and even more, the very concept.  You sign up, you show yourself — and the job is yours, complete with a cushy WGA-standards check and a writer’s credit.

Having practically held both in my hand — I made it through to the very last round — yeah, who likes losing?

Only I didn’t — lose, that is.  Funny how it happens.  The Lombardi Power That Be offered me a PR post.  And soon after — I still had had to prove myself — I clawed my way through to producer.

Some of it was determination.  Some of it  - sheer unwillingness to write copy espousing the wonders of someone else’s work.  And some…well, I guess our founder recognizes talent when he sees one.  Hey, kidding, kidding…

So, behold, yours truly, a producer — one with creative powers I don’t quite have time to exercise.  And I am loving every hectic minute of it.

Because hectic is what this is turning out to be — especially once I found out just what our founder has been going through and what sort of decision he was being forced into.

The very idea behind Lombardi is straight up “You Play, and If It’s Good, We Pay”, and considering the Internet is the very definition of a communal playground in the best of its Web 2.0-going-on-3.0 format, any sort of an under the table deal with a big time entertainment industry-entrenched sponsor is an anathema.  And yet, though this has always been both explicitly and implicitly understood, such a deal was offered — and once rejected, the financing was yanked right from under us, leaving people who won the paid positions having to reevaluate their commitment to LS and our founder, who had already sank personal funds into the production with the expectation of recouping his losses once the show went on the air, scrambling for a less incestuous form of financing.

Considering I am there to help him along, I am sure he will succeed.  Oh, come on, I am STILL kidding.

But, seriously, it is that kind of attitude that prevents the new DNA from sullying the muddy gene pool of Hollywood backrooms.

These days, for a beginning show creator, only the BBC (and that, on a limited basis) is not to say a guaranteed venue, but at least, not a guaranteed dead end)  is keeping its doors cautiously ajar.  For Hollywood, this has been a practice long dead and gone, so commonplace it is now an unwritten rule: years and years of entrenching yourself in the industry — that or turning up on the scene with impressively deep pockets.  Because like someone smart to whom I recently spoke remarked, “music touches the heads, but money changes the minds”.

Quite an exalted company, you know!

Well, I won’t pretend we have deep pockets — and Hollywood insiders?  Ha!  To paraphrase Mark Twain, “we don’t want to be members of a club that WOULDN’T have us as members”.  But we are working on rectifying the first.  I can even say, we’re succeeding.  If anyone’s interested, I will be back with updates.  We’ll be meeting some unprincipled S.O.B.’s along the way, but guess what, besides becoming a producer, I am learning I may be more of an optimist than I thought.  I firmly think we’ll also be meeting folks with a social credit score a LOT higher than 18.

Sharon the Limelight -- Sharon Osbourne & Osbournes Reloaded

Sharon Osborne.  Love.  And the legalities of featuring child actors on what is one of the more promising — and raunchy concepts — to shore up Fox’s evening programming slate in recent days (not to say I am a variety show fan, but in Sharon’s words, “We are not going to Sonny and Cher’ it.”)

Sharon, an Os-Bourne Star!

But don’t let me get ahead of myself.  I’m tackling all three, in this exact order.  What can I say, I am feeling ambitious!

So, let me start out saying I have for a long, long time been a fan of the Osbourne clan.  Rather, not to put too fine a point on it, its heart and soul, the matriarch Mrs. Sharon Osbourne.  A mother of three, a dog lover, a best-selling writer, a reality TV star, a cancer survivor — and a manager and tireless helpmeet to her husband, Black Sabbath frontman Ozzy Osbourne. Sharon wears many shoes — and makes every single pair look glamorous and comfy.

During our recent talk, Sharon explained that the concept for the new television venture for the clan, a rather offbeat variety undertaking, Osbournes Reloaded, was, and continues being, a labor of love — and much heated back and forth between the parents and their two opinionated “young adult” children.  Considering what a far-ranging, no holds barred, show this is turning out to be, I can believe it.

During the negotiations with FOX, the family, Sharon says, was ready to tackle TV again — but not at the expense of inviting cameras into their homes again.  Hence, this little concept: featuring audience interaction, rowdy comedy and hilarious stunts, it seeks to shock as well as entertain.  Take the series opener, for one, in which the family challenged an audience member to kiss a beautiful female stranger blindfolded, which turned from “hot and heavy” to “old and wrinkled” when Sharon switched out the participants at the last minute.

Meanwhile, an unsuspecting boyfriend is prodded into a life-altering decision when his girlfriend demands he marry her that evening in front of the audience; Kelly and Ozzy find themselves “Osbourne in the USA,” when they go to work at a fast-food drive-thru; and Sharon and Ozzy reminisce about their first date in the “Littlest Osbournes,” where pint-size, potty-mouthed versions of Sharon and Ozzy visit the movie theater…in all their four-letter glory.

Speaking of which, that was a subject I had been most interested in bringing up to Mrs. Osbourne.

I’m a mom myself and I know that your intention is to use child actors who are going to be emulating yourself and your husband.

Yes?

So, would they really be allowed to use the language that you guys are famous for, and was there a problem getting the network to agree?

No, because the children used are professional actors.  They were there with their parents.  We had to get special permission to use them anyway.  We have to have a license to use children, and everything that they were saying, it hadn’t been swearing.  They were using the word “frigging,” okay?

Fair enough. So, the network actually didn’t have a problem when you suggested it, or did you have to make any changes to the original format to fit it into a more family-friendly mold?

No.  You’ve got to remember this is a light-hearted comedy show, and so, we use children and then, in their scripts, it was no swearing at all.  It was “sticky” and “frigging,” so they’re not using the words.  And you’ve got to remember that they’re child actors.  It’s like what do you do when you use children in horror movies, right?  You can watch any horror movie today and there will most likely be little children used in it.

____________________

Reasoned and cool, exactly as I always imagine the mind, responsible for nurturing the wild Osbourne clan into one of the wealthiest entertainment royals in the UK, to handle a question.

They Ain't Nobody's Bitches!

Watching Reloaded, given a plum spot with a lead-in from American Idol, I could tell, for all its shenenigans, it is being ran by the same iron fist in a designer kid glove.  The unruly premiere — just as unlike a Sonny and Cher fare as has been promised — came at me with a bang, and yet, brimming with that sense of connection and warmth I’ve come to expect from Sharon and Ozzy.  And something tells me, as the show settles into its stride, it will consistently fail to disappoint.

1+1=?

Don’t know why I am all about the recollections today.  Not even my own recollections…

They Just Put the Aww in Awesome!

This is a story related to me by mom, but I think it is just as relevant today, as it had been then. And the outcome — well, you tell me?

Marina was a star student. Funny, smart. Not a cheerleader material, she was a little too studious to fit right in — but if she wanted to, she could have.

Bit of a late bloomer, but towards the end of 9th grade, all the prerequisites were there: blond tresses, statuesque, toned, the laugh that could charm a tail off a donkey.

She was slated to graduate with top honors and go…well, who knew? Her best subject was math, but the rest weren’t far behind.

Now, interestingly enough, a lot of kids did well in math in mom’s school. No, nothing in the water the government put in to artificially raise IQs. Simply, there was a teacher in the upper classes that was… You know, how they say, when you can’t do, teach? Well, he could — he just CHOSE to teach, because that’s where his heart lay.

He had been married once, quietly divorced, no kids, and he was slowly rolling towards the late side of of 40’s. Bachelorhood didn’t sit badly on him. It was what it was, and he was a stoic. He was, basically, a teacher you never feared, though, mom said, when he did make cutting remarks — entirely for not APPLYING oneself, not for messing up where he could tell one was genuinely trying — he put Simon Cowell to shame. His wit stung, but his easygoing nature immediately soothed.

Towards the December of her last year of school, Marina developed what was initially thought of as senioritis. Well, why not? She had been long overdue. She mercilessly cut classes. Came in looking like she JUST dragged herself out of a wild part-ay. And though her grades remained stellar as could be, her volleyball skills and actual participation took a decided nose dive.

The thunder struck after the winter break. She never came back from her vacation. The principal was canned. If parents weren’t gunning for his ass, it’s only because they concentrated their attention on the equally dismissed (with EXTREME prejudice) bachelor math teacher.

That is to say, not so bachelor any more. Or, at least, not a very lonely one.

Did you guess where this was going? In the mid 60’s in a rather repressed society, it must be said?

Yep. Sexual harassment. Inequity. Sin. Teen pregnancy. Everything from rape to child molestation to…well, you name it.

The school board instituted draconian laws. Every teacher who even looked at a student with anything less than a scowl would have been put before an Inquisitor had it managed to raise one from the dead. The principal, a hero of WWII, well, he did find a job. If my mom knew right, supervising something vaguely zoo-related. Nope, not kidding.

The teacher? Well, he was never to work again, not in anything remotely profession-related. His victim just turned 18, so, no criminal charges were brought to bear. However, if a society like the one mom described, being blacklisted was a lot worse than not being invited to the better parties.

But did he end up regretting this? I don’t know. Something tells me, if he did, it wasn’t at all for the reasons his detractors suggested.

Because Marina put her foot down and married the man. And though abortion was legal until the end of 5th month at the time, she had decided to bear her baby. By all accounts, she had been happy as a lark. She, at least, never did have cause to regret her decision.

Neither the cause nor the time. Something turned horribly wrong during labor. Among students, the rumors had been rampant whatever the problem was, it had been man-made.

Mom didn’t think so. Her father had been a doctor acquainted with Marina’s ObGyn. He told mom the man, an upstanding man and a competent physician to the best of my grandfather’s knowledge, never said anything of even being pressured into anything illegal.

Things happen. Occasionally, horrible things. Marina’s death happened to be one of those.

The child lived, a healthy little girl. Her father named her Marina.

Her grandparents tried to take the baby away on the pretext of her father’s amoral behavior, and the disgraced teacher bundled his little girl up and one day, left the city. He hadn’t really crossed the law, so, there had been no APB, no road cross points.

What became of the family, my mom hadn’t known. At least, not for a good long time.

But decades later, she’d met this beautiful young woman many-many plane miles away, that was the mirror image of her high school classmate. The girl had been accepting a prestigious applied mathematics award and she had thanked her father, passed away a few years since, for working his butt off, taking the multiple low-paying jobs to get them by — and yet, always finding the time to spend with her and pass on everything he knew himself.

Married already, she had her handsome young husband’s — a colleague of hers — last name, and mom never came to her and asked what had been her maiden. But she had chosen to believe this had been the same Marina.

So, that’s it. Like I said, I haven’t a clue to to how to categorize the ending.

When Dollhouse's Joss Whedon Doles Out, I am there!

Joss Whedon. Eliza Dushku. Together. That would lift anyone out of their doldrums!

Friday’s premiere of Dollhouse’s pivotal episode “Man on the Street” has come and gone, and here I am, posting. But as far as I am concerned, no, I am not late to the game. I am early.

Having been ridiculously fortunate to have been invited to pick the prolific, rather bizarre brain of Joss Whedon, the mastermind behind the Buffy, Angel, Firefly, and Dollhouse franchises (not to mention a screenwriter responsible for much of the stellar dialog of the blockbuster flick Speed), I decided to focus on what the man’s plans are, rather than the awesomeness currently airing on FOX at 9 PM every Friday night.

But I am a worrywart.  When rumors materialize, I like to go to the source, don’t you? And after all, it is often enough I have been accused of being a spoiler whore. I shouldn’t tempt anyone else into sin, should I?

Oh, okay, I will. What’s being a diehard fan if it doesn’t include sifting through crumpets? So, yep, there are a few choice Dollhouse tidbits — and a glimpse into what some sources claim has been increasingly on Mr. Whedon’s mind.

Your show is catching on, just as those of us spending hours on end speculating about the next episode of your other televised brainchildren predicted. And yet, I understand you’re still intending to leave TV for online media exclusively. Considering how beloved you are among those of us married to our boob tubes, isn’t it just a tad drastic?

I never actually said that. Definitely, the new media is very attractive to me. It’s an open field. There’s a lot of freedom and I’m very afraid that that freedom will be taken away before the artistic community has a foothold in it. So for reasons both artistic and political, I wish very much to pursue new media.

But that doesn’t mean that I’m never going to do television. Everybody knows I had a rough time getting Dollhouse up to speed, but that doesn’t mean I’m never going to do television again. I love television, and I love it in a different way than I love the Internet, in a different way that I love movies. [With this] kind of storytelling, the scope, and the breadth, and the depth that you can get from a TV show is unlike anything else and I love it.

I have to admit I’m shooting a movie right now, producing, it, actually, a movie that really went from script to pre-production in a matter of weeks. I did Dr. Horrible in a matter of days. And the way the television process is a grind for me that I’m not as used to [it] as I was, but that doesn’t mean that I’m turning my back on it as a medium. I adore it. And the people I’ve dealt with have been honorable and honest. It’s just getting a TV show off the ground is rough waters, no matter what. And sometimes you feel up for a swim and sometimes you don’t.

So, how about Zillion TV, Netflix top-boxes, Hulu? Aren’t all those crossover TV and Internet broadcasting solution going to be able to provide you with that kind of long, deep scope of the project and yet, afford more freedom in the artistic sense that seems to me you consider lacking in traditional television series model?

The problem is that we have two completely opposing models, regular television, which is made for a lot of money, has a lot of crews, employs a lot of people. You can make a good deal of money in that business, so can the networks and whatnot. And then there’s the Internet, which is not that at all. It’s basically, although with Dr. Horrible we made money, we didn’t make the kind of money that would make a studio stand up and prick its little ears up. Nor were we paying people the kind of dollars where they can just do that for a living.

With things like Hulu, all that means is that shows are going to be shown on the Internet probably instead of reaping reruns on television, which means no residuals for the artists, which means that there’s almost no money model on the Internet and a lot of money, but also a lot of waste model on TV. We’re trying to bring them together, but nobody knows how they’re going to mix, how they’re going to meld, where they’re going to meet.

At some point it would be great if they met, if we could have fast, well made, but not slow moving productions on the Internet that employed enough people to keep the community in a good place, but at the same time, cut some of the fat out, so that everybody was able to do more work and still feel secure in their making a living. But right now that model doesn’t exist, and none of us have figured out, believe me, we’ve been talking about it, how to mix the two.

There you have it, straight from the horse’s mouth, the answers to the questions that were on my mind the most. Sure, we have Dollhouse, and it rocks, but what are we to look forward in the future? Apparently – yes, I am being a hopeful bunny – to both. If life gives you lemonade, be nice enough to thank it.

And now, for a few Dollhouse treats. Didn’t think I had forgotten those, did you?

She's lying low. For now!

Amy Acker’s character, for example, is getting quite an arc toward the later episodes of the season. Sounds good to me. A pool of misery her character may be, but she’s fascinating – and Ms. Acker is a terrific actress.

We know there are dollhouses scattered all over the world. Unfortunately, for now, Mr. Whedon says, with the economy taking a toll on the budget, and the issue of the pilot having been scrapped in favor of a revised version, there won’t be a foreign dollhouse featured just yet. But once there will (once the show is franchised – if worse comes to worst), it won’t be in the vein of an Italian Wolfram and Hart, “where we just use the same set and fill it with Italians. No, it’s one of my favorite things we ever did, but that’s because Angel was a lot sillier.” When the set for another dollhouse is built, we can expect it to be different – though just as realistic as Echo and Sierra’s home.

Finally, for those of us Buffy aficionados, Felicia Day has an episode. Alas, that’s it – for now – for the Buffy alums. “Most of them [said Joss] are, I’m happy to say, working, and I do like to see the gang, but we have to establish the reality of this world before we can bring in somebody without it being too jarring. Although we have one episode with a guy who looks a lot like Nick Brendan and his character’s name is Nicholas and that was a terrible idea. We should have never named him Nicholas because every time I see his footage, I go, ‘Hey, wait a minute.’ Oh, I’m confused.”

Joss Whedon, confused? There must be quite a resemblance.

Intrigued? Well, for myself, let me just say, when asked about my Friday night plans, I have those in the bag – until, at least, the 13th episode of season one.

To Pee or Not to Pee, That is The Question

I am not originally from the US. I was 13 when I came here.

I went to high school on the third day since having arrived. It was a Tuesday, September 7th, as I remember.

Now why didn't we have it in my school?

I didn’t speak a word of English other than “hi”, and knew the Latin alphabet only as far as it pertained to German. I wore a braid, thick glasses (especially, left lens — from having gotten a sizable chunk of glue in my eye when I was 6), and had been ridiculously traumatized from nearly having had my beloved pet lost by Delta Airlines.

We got to Louisville from New York by way of Cincinnati, and it was there when we were changing planes that Delta in its infinite wisdom forgot the specialized cage it made us, immigrants with practically zilch to our names, buy in NYC to transport our beast, a petite Siamese cat who (also, per airline specs) hasn’t been fed for 3 days to prevent erm…accidents.

If only Delta was quite so conscientious with its live cargo once it was all properly packaged!

Do I sound bitter? If I do, I have reason to be – though just as much of one is for me to feel grateful. Or, at least, touched.

Because, you see, we flew in on the red eye. There would not have been another flight from Cinnci until around 11 AM the next day.

So, guess what Delta did? Of course, that was LOOOOONG before their current crisis.

Yep, they actually sent a separate flight just for my kitty, picked her up – and gave her to me 90 or so minutes after grudgingly admitting they made a boo-boo. Talk about customer service!

I am happy to report for the animal lovers among us, Masha is with me and adding a very assertive meow to the thought of pets having to travel cargo.

Very much one of my soapbox topics this may be, but it really isn’t the subject of this particular post. Mainly, it’s here to establish the mental state of the subject, as they say in legalese.

Which, lemme tell you, was about -15 on the scale of 1 to 10.

Add to that not having gone to the bathroom for 6 hours straight on that first day for the simple reason I didn’t know where I was to *go* (neither the schedule of classes nor my Vietnamese and/or English speaking full-time guide from the English Second Language program didn’t think to incorporate this little activity into the roster), and well, sufficing to say, I wasn’t a happy puppy.

Sixth period for that puppy happened to be, in fact, ESL – and that’s…no, it actually hasn’t been the time I finally got to answer the call of nature.

But it had been very much the time when I fell in love – my first. In the US, anyhow.

Because in my ESL class was, among the kids from the former USSR, a young man, 4 years my senior. He was placed as a junior and he spoke English (however, one may speak a language one didn’t care to really study in their homeland and only had a chance to polish up among the native speakers in the last…wait for it, two weeks).

Still, he spoke it, and he was tall, and he wore the name of my favorite character from my favorite Dickens’ book, and he had the most marvelous stock of Russian profanities – they are the best in the world, I’ll have you know. Linguists agree. AND he was the one who actually not only thought to inquire after the bathroom thing – but along with another boy, took it upon himself to walk me to the bathroom.

So, imagine if you will, bladder bursting, tears threatening, heart pitter-pattering somewhere in the region of your toes – and being marched to the loo under a convoy of not one, but two handsome older guys, one of whom, you immediately decide, is going to be the father of your future children.

Oh, and did you imagine you are a shy, perfectly traumatized bookworm?

You did?

What did the imaginary you do? Taken advantage of the young men’s generosity? Politely thanked them and told them she just went? Or did she hightail it out of there and got lost and had had to have someone bring her in, loitering like a lost goat near the double doors of the cafeteria being scrubbed clean after that day’s lunch?

If you voted the unequivocal three – welcome to the club, hmm? But to paraphrase the undying words of Mark Twain, “Do I want to be a member of a club that would have me as a member?”

P.S. Fast-forward 17 years.

I am married to a guy with the name of my favorite character from my favorite Dickens’ book. We have a spectacular 14-month old.

He just isn’t the same guy.

P.P.S. Oh, and I managed to make it that time, bathroom-wise. As I usually do.

The Pit Ball Goes to the Dogs as Vicktory Emerges Victorious

Brandon Bond is back with the tales of his glamorous Las Vegas premiere and his continued fight for those, ironically, altogether unable to fight for themselves!

Sweet Vicktory Indeed!

I wrote about The Great Pit Ball before — when it was just a glimmer in its host’s eye. A very defined kind of glimmer, true, but when we talked, everything for the grand event was only just coming together.

Today, I spoke to Mr. Bond again, with The Great Pit Ball — a star studded charity event held on March 14, 2009 in Las Vegas, NV to raise money for Villa Lobos Rescue Center, the world’s largest pit bull rescue — already behind him and a resounding success.

Over 1,000 attendees from all over the globe were seen at the event, including:

• Michael Berryman (The Devil’s Rejects, The Hills Have Eyes, Weird Science, One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest)
• Pixie Acia (LA Ink, Miami Ink, and Fear Factor game show winner)
• Tera Patrick, the number one porn star in the world, winner of the coveted “Best New Starlet” award, and star of over 100 adult films.
• Evan Seinfeld, well known lead vocalist of the multi-platinum album Biohazard; an adult film actor, director, photographer, writer, entrepreneur, and star of the HBO series Oz.
• James Madio (Hook, Basketball Diaries, Lost Boys, Band of Brothers)
• Alex Karalexis from the UFC reality series and three-time UFC veteran.
• “Razor” Rob McCullough, five-time world Muay Thai champion and former World Extreme Cage Fighting Weight Champion.
• Mario Barth, world renowned and celebrity tattoo artist, owner and chief tattoo artist at Starlight Tattoo.
• John Huntington, formally from the show INKED Hart & Huntington now known as Huntington Ink at the Palms Casino; also known as the country’s premiere nightclub promoter.
• Boo-yaa Tribe, a hip-hop group from California.
• Ice-T, rapper and actor, and many more!

Thousands of pictures are being uploaded directly to Brandon’s studio website.

I caught up with Brandon Bond just hours before his departure to L.A, to survey the spoils of victory at Villa Lobos, and to bask in the success of Vicktory to the Underdog: From Hell and Back, his latest DVD release, which premiered at the Pit Ball event.

Let’s jump right in.

Tell me, just what made you take up this elephantine project?  And how much of a financial impact did the event make for Villa Lobos Rescue Center?

Tia Torres came to me late last year [2008] and explained the financial situation. She asked me to help, so we did — as hard and intensely as we could. The first thing we did was hold an online auction on my websites and we raised about $20,000 for her within a month or so. We also started an online donation collection, which is still active, and we have already exceeded $5,000 that way. This all was wonderful, but her operating expenses exceeds these amounts, and dramatic action had to be taken.

I have effectively run all four of my companies into the ground finishing this film and working to create this huge Vegas fundraiser, all the way across the country dealing with casinos and flights and venues I had never even been inside of. It was an insane four months, but we did it. And according to Tia, we saved her operation, so we DID IT! Without all of this dramatic action, bankruptcy was imminent.

The fight is not over, but we are closer. Once her new TV show airs I believe that the donations will ROLL IN! Television can reach a much wider demographic than anything my companies can provide, so we are anxiously awaiting the show’s debut. It’s an incredible show, I’ve already seen a couple episodes, and I am, in fact, on my way to LA right now to film another episode with them.

Without our help, she would have been forced off her property and all the dogs would have again become homeless and hopeless. The first thing to dry up in dire economic circumstances is donations, and she is 100% dependent on donations to survive.  She still needs help, but what we did kept them going! So, the answer is, the financial impact was monumental.

The event was about more than just raising money - it was about awareness. Do you feel you have managed to reach the hearts and minds of people - not just the attendees (that’s just preaching to the choir!), but people to whom pit bulls are dangerous animals that we need to be protected from by legislature?

I believe that the film itself does that, yes. Anyone who watches it is affected, no matter who they are, how they feel about anything. The dogs in the film are simply a metaphor for so much more, and many widespread topics are explored - man vs nature, man vs man, prejudice, assumptions, media, and the ability for anyone to do some good in this world.

There is something for everyone in this film. It is 100% uncensored, and untainted by corporate influence. As far as we’re concerned, it’s the pure definition of “independent film.” This is nothing like what you would see on Animal Planet, it’s extremely in your face, and it’s a roller coaster.

Just to plug ourselves, I own 100% of the rights to all footage and we are currently seeking the best distribution deal. The money, of course, will go directly to Tia [of the Villa Lobos Rescue Center], less our hard costs. So, help us sell it!

The art auction featured some very striking pieces - can you tell me a little about the artists featured? How well did the pieces sell? Which was your favorite piece at the auction?

My favorite piece was a painting by Robert Pho, a well-known tattoo artist from Las Vegas. Unfortunately, while I was filming with Animal Planet someone outbid me on that piece, and I did not get to bring it home to my gallery. It was a bummer. I’m still upset about it.

Other artists included: Cam De Leon (famous for creating artwork for the band Tool), Damon Conklin, Durb Morrison, Dave Tedder, John Lloyd, Jace Masula, Short Parker, Ryan Downie, Matt Dunlap, myself, and many more. As you saw, the art show was an incredible and eclectic collection of paintings, photographs, sculpture, mixed media, and collage. The art was auctioned off by Heckles and Twitch. All proceeds from the art auction were also donated to Villa Lobos, and helped us cover the monumental costs of throwing this huge event.

Being an artist myself, and owning a gallery, it only made sense for me to use my connections in the art world to get a bunch of awesome pieces sent out for the event. Seeing as “art” is actually what funded the entire film project, it just made sense. My entire award-winning staff at All Or Nothing Tattoo also donated pieces to the show.  It was a family effort for sure. I did purchase the Dave Tedder painting of a pit bull - it is amazing! His artwork can be viewed at All Or Nothing Tattoo’s website.

What about the bands? The Great Pit Ball featured acts like Sick of it All, Madball, The Spyderz, and ToeTag - favorites of yours? Were there any other bands you wish could have attended in addition?

Yes, I personally contacted each band, and personally bought their flights and rooms and all that. I called in a lot of favors to pull this off, but the bands were awesome about helping. Evan Seinfeld is the pure definition of a rockstar/pornstar, but is extremely cool about charity stuff.  I have been a longtime fan of his music, however, I, also, consider him a friend.

Sick of it All has been one of my favorite bands since I was in middle school! As was Madball, and I have been very close friends with John Wiley (CEO of Eulogy Recordings and guitar player for ToeTag and Until The End).  He has helped us out on many projects to date.

Our first film, See You In Hell, exclusively features Eulogy music, and my instructional tattoo seminar DVD series, The Whole Enchilada Vol 1 and Vol 2, both feature all Eulogy music. He and I have worked on many projects together, and the original motion picture soundtrack to Vicktory to the Underdog is predominately Eulogy donated music.

As to adding any other bands, the show didn’t even start until midnight west coast time. The poor guys had to play until like 6 am east coast time. There is no way I would have added any more bands! These bands are my favorites and my friends, both old and new, and I couldn’t have been more pleased with the way they played their damn hearts out.

Sick of it All, for example, played one of the best shows I have ever seen them play - it was unbelievable! And the Spyderz unleashed some NEW songs at the event, which was awesome for everyone. The fact that Sick of It All dedicated the performance to the film they had just watched, Vicktory was also amazing. It was very touching.

You told me the Pit Ball would take a great deal of preparation. Have your expectations been realized, or was it even more difficult? Or, perhaps you swam right through?  Did you encounter any surprises? Can you consider this the biggest party you’ve ever thrown?

To be perfectly honest, it was a long, terrible road. I was not able to sit back and enjoy my own premiere! I was constantly having to walk out of the theater to talk on my cell phone and prepare everything for the concert! My assistant and I (Nicole Webster, who is also in the film) have never worked so many grueling hours seven days a week. It was unbearable. We were pulling 20 hour shifts because of the different time zones, and the chaos, and the bands, and the flights. And she is eight months pregnant! Poor girl.

Companion discs?  What do you mean?  There is more than one DVD?
This two disc set is an entirely different version of Vicktory to the Underdog in addition to HOURS of deleted scenes and extended interviews. It is very “homemade” — yet high quality. In some ways, I much prefer this version of the film, even though a few key scenes are included in both, just from an entirely different perspective.

I directed both projects, however the companion discs were created by a producer here in Atlanta who was much easier to work with, so it has an extremely warm and comfortable vibe. It was way more fun making the companion discs.

Did the local laws and/or logistics allow for pit bull adoption during the show, via Villa Lobos? Has the event prompted many new adoptions in general? Are you yourself planning to add to your six anytime soon?

I am maxed out on dogs, taking in any more than the six I have would not be fair to those six or to my wife. She has to take care of all of them! And yes, the film has inspired a lot of adoptions already. We have been getting flooded with mail about how people are opening their eyes, and looking to adopt in their local area. Villa Lobos will inevitably see a LOT of adoptions once the show airs and the movie sees more distribution as well.

You mentioned Animal Planet expressing interest in your cause - I take it they on hand to film the event? Can viewers around the country expect to see the Great Pit Ball aired on their TVs?

Yes, actually Animal Planet was in Vegas filming for several days, and, yes, it will the be in the new season of Tia’s show for sure. This June is the latest projected air time. The fact that they were there barking orders at all of us made the event 10 times more stressful for me and a few of the people involved, but it is for a great cause, and will inevitably create the best record of the event.

Animal Planet also had private interviews with some of the celebrities and bands in the BCS [Brenden Celebrity Suites] above the movie theater. It was incredible! I was involved in a lot of that, also.  Did I tell you I am going to LA to take part in Tia’s show?

The premise is that the parolees are helping the pit bulls, and the pit bulls are helping the parolees, it’s amazing. I’m really proud to be taking part in it!  Lots of tattooed folks, dogs, and chaos for sure.  A news story about Villa Lobos kind of gives a window into whats going on out there, and you might want to check out the homemade pilot we used to get Tia the show.

You are a world-renowned tattoo artist - and many of the visitors at the Pit Ball were inked. It is clearly an artistic medium in its own right, but can you tell me, are they all customers of yours?

I would say 90% of all patrons were heavily tattooed, yes. It is my demographic for sure. I have the ability to reach these people in a way “Disney style, animal planet fluff” cannot. These are the people who actually own pit bulls, these are the people over-breeding them into oblivion, and these are the people who are joining together to speak for those without a voice. It is amazing.

There was an incredible collection of tattoos everywhere! It was awesome, like a tattoo convention, without the tattooing.

In our last interview you mentioned you were still waiting for a response from Michael Vick’s attorneys, which they promised to give you after viewing the DVD. Did they “bite”?

I have not gotten a response yet, no, and honestly don’t expect one. They are so focused on him going back to play football that unless this facilitates that, they probably will not want to respond. However, in the film we suggest that second chances are vital, and that even Vick deserves the voice to represent how cruelty to animals is sick and depraved. So, we may get something from his people.

Whether he actually means it or if his PR people are just telling him what to say is completely irrelevant to me, the message needs to get to the young kids that idolize him. I don’t care if he means it or not, I just want him to scream it from the rooftops regardless. People are listening. in fact I will gladly meet with him and hook him up with a tattoo! We have a lot to talk about! Like the fact that I have one if his dogs sitting here licking my foot right now.

And finally, you mentioned earlier that L.A. is your next stop. What are your plans there, as far as promoting Vicktory to the Underdog and general pit bull awareness? What’s next for you, as well?  Personally, I mean, not just for the cause?

I am taking the trip out to Villa Lobos, to figure out all the money from the Pit Ball, and to visit Tia, and to film for another episode of her show. I am, also, going to see Evan Seinfeld’s band Biohazard in their 20-year reunion tour and do a lot of drinking. I am very excited to go on this adventure. However, I am exhausted absolutely, so, I am slightly apprehensive. I need about a month’s worth of sleep.

After that, I am returning to tattooing! And I am very excited, I book appointments about a year in advance normally, however, with all this charity chaos and movie crap we have not even booked a single ‘09 appointment! So Nicole is now compiling a massive list of eager clients flying in to get tattooed throughout the summer and fall, and we will be giving out dates starting as soon as April!

I beat my face against the corporate wall long enough with all this charity and movie crap, and I’m super excited to just go back to what made all of this possible. My artwork. I am making a “no talking about dogs or movies” rule in my new studio that is being built for me now. I may even hang a sign. Unfortunately, now everyone and their brother seems to want me to do portraits of pit bulls all over them!

I’m joking, kinda, I don’t mind tattooing images of dogs, actually. I’m just tired of people talking to me about it! But I am thrilled to go back to my normal life and turn off my phone. This is me, disappearing!

What Would You Ask The Hot Chick?

As you might — or, likely, might not (Salmon Rushdie, I’m not) — know that I am a woman.  A heterosexual one, at that.  So, in the most basic sense, hot chicks hold no fascination.  But as for AskTheHotChick.com, an interactive, video-centric startup merging entertainment and information to help guys improve in everything pick-up, dating, relationships, sex-related? As a direct beneficiary of a new and improved male gender as a whole, why, that’s a whole different story!  Though as men in my life would say, is there really room for improvement?

Can I join?

Well, if you ask HotChick co-founders Jason Burinescu and Amit Krispin, two self-styled “regular guys in their 20’s and 30’s”, frustrated with not knowing how to handle every situation”, yes, there is.  Honey, Dad, taking notes?  I was.

How did this whole thing start? You don’t look like someone who’d need a lot of help picking up “hot chicks”.  Why would this concept even occur to you?

Hmm, thanks.  But we hardly know everything, and we really wanted to improve that area of our lives.  We talked to our friends, and turns out, everyone was sick of getting bad advice.  There’s a guy who might do well picking up girls, and another who does well in relationships.  Unfortunately, it’s very rarely you get someone who can bridge that gap between the two.

And, oftentimes, when we asked the women that we liked, they were not really getting everything they needed, which, obviously didn’t work out too well for us or any of our friends.  So, we wanted to find ourselves some girls would give us a real no-nonsense pragmatic advice that would generate results - and in turn, give the women results they were looking for.

Isn’t it a little shortsighted, having a random woman give input on how to get and keep any number of other girls?  What I am saying is, aren’t we, chicks, sufficiently different from one another that any off-the-cuff advice would really just be a shot in the dark?

Well, for one thing, we cast a very wide net.  We interviewed over 1,000 girls.  We were looking to cover different socioeconomic backgrounds, cultures, interests, ages, so, there would be something for everybody on the site, some sort of common ground.  Ideally, when you go onto the site, you’d find a girl who’d reflect the values, the personality type of the girl you’re currently pursuing or dating.  And then, you’d just follow this girl’s advice.

It’s exactly like you said, everybody is different.  But especially in longterm relationships, there are problems occurring over and over again: a lack of communication, inability to read signals or flirt, not knowing how to focus your entire attention on a girl, to whom you’re currently talking, bedroom questions.

You certainly practice what you preach.  I know your ladies range from students to professionals to Maxim models to dancers.  How did you get these girls?  Did you approach them?  Or have they come seeking you out?

We placed the ads in a few different publications.  And we scouted the country.  We were really proactive getting these girls.  But amazingly, how many of them actually wanted to get involved.

The requirements were pretty stringent.  We wanted girls who were pretty personable, charismatic, intelligent.  And, also, possessing of a lot, a lot of information, experience on how to approach dating, relationships, and so on.

The interviews are very, very candid, and a lot of times, people don’t want to air their dirty laundry.  But that’s what we were looking for — to give you a real hard truth.  Our girls will give you what you need to know, whether you like it or not.

Well, that’s obviously commendable.  But let’s talk numbers.  How fast are you growing?

We only went live a few days ago, and already, we have over 600 members.  Additionally, we have around a 1,000 subscribers on YouTube.

Which, I am sure, can only increase if you feature any celebrity ladies?  Or are you concentrating on more approachable everyday “hot chicks”?

We are in talks with some people, we’re very interested in that, but at this point no one is 100% confirmed, so we are not going to mention anyone by name.

[They don't kiss and tell, do they?  OK.  That nicely brought me to another question.]

Is there any stigma involved — in the overall look of the site?  Certain ladies, some would say, are rather scantily dressed.  I suppose it is to emphasize their hot-chick status, but has anyone commented on the setup being sleazy, uncomfortable to participate in?  Or is the opposite true?

None of the women had ever had a problem with that.  Or the users.  In fact, if there’s a little bit of stigma attached, it’s with the self-help and personal development aspect of it.  But because these are very attractive women, not someone setting you up with a doctor’s bill, and there always being folks out there needing help, we wanted to reach a very broad spectrum.  These women are first, appealing, and they are honest, and so, it will just hit people, OK, this information is amazing, it’s exactly what I am looking for.  It will help me improve my life.

Which all of us can use.  So, do you see yourself ever expanding into hot guys, other orientations, languages?

Absolutely.  We’re looking at this as just a beginning.  We’re going to be utilizing all the interactivity of the web, the attention of the media, that sort of thing, to really build this into an entity with global socioeconomic, religious, sexual orientation reach.  Actually [adds the less voluble partner of the two], we are currently in talks with producers from four different countries, so, absolutely, we are branching out!

All of it relationship-oriented?  Which is all well and good, but do you see the self-help being related to other spheres of interest?  How about friendships, getting a job — which is especially pertinent in this economic climate?

Well, what’s interesting is that a lot of what we’re teaching crosses over.  Self-confidence, personal development, you always need that.  How you carry yourself, how you present yourself, it’s going to translate in how easily you can get a job, how you interact with people.

But we, also, have experts on that, on each specific area, which we’re looking to build on.

[Very, very ambitious.  Immediately, I could see a problem with that.  If they become as popular as they intend to be, they would be inundated with requests.]

OK, guys, so, how do you choose which questions get answered?  Or are you going to try and answer all of them?

Of the ones getting written-in?  Well, it’s unrealistic for our women to answer all of them.  We’re thankful that we’re getting such a strong response, but they would have to work night and day, even now.  What we’re doing is having the women answer those most broadly appealing, and then, down the line, we’ll roll out a premium service where you’re guaranteed to receive a response — for a fee.

And [added the more reticent partner] we would still choose the best questions to be answered anonymously on video, in front of the entire audience.

Well, that nicely took the wind out of my sails regarding the webcast question.  OK, do girls have input on what they want to answer?  Or do you assign questions to them?

Our thinking is our subscribers will address their questions to a specific girl.  They would check the introductory videos and choose whom it is they would rather answer their question.

On top of that, like we mentioned in passing, we have a couple of girls we’re calling our “hot chick experts”.  Now, they basically excel in certain categories: dating questions, issues in the bedroom, breaking down the approach on how to pick up girls.  Or she may be really good at issues like self-esteem and self-confidence.

Is it me, or is getting warm?

All right.  Last one, guys?  How do you keep the write-ins from turning into constant attempts at picking up chicks?  I am sure it can be uncomfortable for your ladies?  I am no hot chick, but I know it would be for me.

Fair enough.  We do get an occasional inappropriate question.  But, again, we pre-screen them, we know these girls are able to handle this.  And they know our first priority is to keep them safe and secure, so, none of their personal information, or where they live or anything like that is ever revealed.

____

At which point I went back to the drawing board — that is, trying to elucidate my men, they are not as infallible as they imagine.  If Jason and Amit are banking their financial futures on this very premise, which man — or woman, for that matter — is?

ReKindling the Love - Neflix-like Alternative to Kindle

I’ve never had an online avatar.  I am just not much of a Second Life person.  Best I can do is try not to mess up my First, but if I ever did go looking for another incarnation, chances are, I would be a book.  Collectively, they are had one of the most profound effects on this First one.

Yours truly -- minus a few random pounds.

Now, by “book”, I do mean the wealth of information on roughly the same topic or a collection of short works by the same author or united under a single theme.  But I, also, refer to the purely physical form, the familiar weight, the scent of paper, the minute smudges of ink, like imperfections in the human face, transforming something merely beautiful into truly divine.  Sure, the E-ink is coming close, really close, and yes, in it and its offshoots, does doubtless lie a future of the publishing business, but for those on a budget — yet wanting to retain the familiarity of devouring material books, allow me to introduce you to BookSwim.

The idea for what is essentially the Netflix of books (run along the similar operating model), its VP of Marketing, Eric Ginsberg, confided was born when its two forefathers, George Burke and Shamoon Siddiqui, were getting their caffeine and free reading material fix at their local behemoth bookstore cafe in New Jersey.  If they were freeloading, the duo asked themselves, along with quite a few regular patrons, then why not make it easier for anyone to just take a book, read it — and put it back, minus self-justifying the questionable morality of skimming an establishment that feeds you?

Easily said — and very promptly done.  Their first rental, The Richest Man in Babylon, was shipped to a subsciber exactly a year hence, 8 months after the business officially came to be, began out the vast contents of their families’ and acquiantances’ bookshelves donated to a good cause.

Eric himself, a math teacher and an avid music fan who combined the two running his own music education non-profit, joined the merry band around the same time, bringing along his experience as PR representative for the largest independent library system in the state.  Now “the voice of BookSwim”, Eric was more than eager to talk up his company’s stellar milestones and its ambitious plans for the future.

“How do you get your customers the books?”, I had to ask. “Isn’t it prohibitively expensive shipping them first class, considering book weight compared to Netflix’s stock-in-trade DVDs?”

“Thus far, we are using USPS Media Mail.  Quite a bit more affordable and fairly fast, too.  But, obviously, we’re, also, exploring other options.”

Of course, the books don’t have that far to go.  BookSwim’s main warehouse may be in New Jersey, but it isn’t the only one, and thus far, BookSwim mainly delivers within the US.  However, as with anything, there are exceptions.

“We have a client all the way out in Paraguay.  Believe it or not, we managed to get our books to him — through the US Ambassador’s office.”

That WOULD build client loyalty, wouldn’t it?

Which, Eric happily admitted, it does — but though hardly shy when boasting of surpassing their 1st-year membership goal in under 6 months and the sustained growth still beating their own expectations, he remained stubbornly mum on what exactly said membership is.  Netflix released their numbers after 3 years (even to this day, refusing to cough up their 1st-year data), and following in its benighted footsteps, BookSwim is keeping those close to their vest.

Anything else, however, was fair game.  Touching upon Amazon’s Kindle, for example, and whether it and similar devices will soon supplant the material books, Eric said, “It’s great technology, sure, still in its early days, but for some, books need to be held to enjoy.  Tangibles are going to retain a part of the market.  How big?  Couldn’t say, my crystal ball’s in the shop.  But they will.”

And then, he just went and laid out the cost of building a Kindle library compared to becoming a BookSwim customer.

“The Kindle currently costs $360 or so.  Heck of an investment to try to save money in the long run, especially in this economy.  Renting books (bestsellers, classics, textbooks) can start at $9.95 (for 3 or more books a month) and we let our members cancer anytime.  You can’t get out of owning a Kindle.  So, if regular book prices are around $25, added the initial Kindle price would mean youd’t have to buy 24 e-books at $10 a pop just to cover the initial cost.  Only then, will saving kick in.”

Hell of a salesman, is Eric.  Not to say I was immediately convinced, but added that one can outright purchase the book he or she particularly liked through the BookSwim website (or keep it for the length of the membership though at the expense of reducing their drawable pool), his pitch did leave me with the food for thought.

His pitch — and the fact that the company emphatically doesn’t intend to rest on its laurels.  For instance, Eric said, on top of soon unrolling a new, even more streamlined site, BookSwim is currently in talks to acquire stock directly from publishers rather than major distributors as it had had to do until now.  It would “create buzz for new authors“, he said, adding that it would benefit publishers in the long run to rent out the same book 20 times for, say, a dollar a rental, than hold out hoping it will have been bought outright for approximately the same amount.  I guess this incontrovertible logic is what you get if you retain a Math major for your PR person.

TGINY - Thank God It's Not Yesterday!

In another piece of tomorrow’s news, BookSwim is, indeed, intending to branch out into sending books through the Internet, but still an underdog, it is perfectly happy letting Goliaths the likes of Sony and Amazon develop and perfect the technology needed.

Our interview coming to a close, Eric left me with this,  “We’re 2nd most convinient way [to enjoy books] after Kindle, and 2nd cheapest after library.” Considering the success of BookSwim, I guess coming in 2nd does pay — in some select cases.

(Holy) See No Evil - Condoms. Ready to Have Them Outlawed?

Rubbers.  How many of us use them?  How many have at one time?  How many abhor the rubbery smell?  The icky medicinal sensation of having to stop...whatever it is and get ourselves all "gloved" and proper?

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Its time for change. Bud, can you break a dollar?

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Admittedly, I speak for myself.  Done skillfully, just as easily is it a turn-on.  What can I say?  Some are lucky.

The point is, I have a right to choose.  And I have a more or less surefire way of protecting myself against pregnancy, sexually transmitted diseases, the, putting it bluntly, consequences of having to deal with being a sexually active, self-sustaining adult.  Escapism?  So, what!  Television, Internet, laden supermarkets.  Is that any less of an existence in an artificial bubble of what these days enjoying an advanced Kardashev Scale Type I civilization means?  Better be, if I am facing a nuclear holocaust, jobs easier than ever lost to cheap overseas labor, such devastating, yet formerly localized, plagues as Ebola catching an opportune plane ride!

Personally, I am married and ours is a comfortable relationship blessed with an awesome toddler.  We are not really trying to conceive, but would be overjoyed seeing a stick cough up another "plus" sign.

But I remember my high school health class, the very first delving -- YES, it's a very intentional pun -- into human reproductive systems.  Every set of parents in my homeroom signed an affidavit permitting their sophomores to audit...horrors!...a subject matter that was not so much a popularization of sex (which, let's face it, most 15-year olds have, at least, an idea about -- if not yet one, put to practical use) as consequences of prematurely attempting to contribute to the global gene pool.  Every set of parents, that is, but one, and it is thanks to them  that a perfectly boring -- and rather disgusting -- class enjoyed a cachet of something sweet and illicit.

Because I, also, remember a petite all-American Honor Roll student who had had her desk moved all the way out into the hallway with the classroom door all but glued shut lest she be exposed to the intricacies of pulling an electric-blue condom onto a banana that towards the fifth period on a balmy April afternoon in a state sometimes called a "Gate to the American South", achieved a quality that in a human model might, rather subversively, have called for a little blue pill.

Furtively glancing through a glass one-way insert in a handsome blond wooden door, a never-been kissed virgin, I used to ask myself, was she even more of one for not learning about gonorrhea, fetal alcohol syndrome, an uneasy trail of a spunky spermatozoon hurrying toward its female counterpart.

I still can't tell you.  And no, this won't turn into a cautionary tale of a naive teenager catching AIDS through her very first exploration of sexual identity through bouts of unprotected sex.  As far as I know, after graduating in the upper 10% of her class, she's gone on to pharm school on a partial scholarship, and no, there was no telltale bulge under the watered silk of her prom gown.

What it WILL turn into is a rant against the reactionary stand of the Catholic Church.  Though not at all germane to the current topic, from my own pulpit, I am going to say that with the multiple abuses perpetuated under its don't-ask-don't-tell-no-really-keep-your-mouths-shut policies, the today's Holy See has rather lost its moral high ground -- and one that, even retained, STILL wouldn't have given it a leg to stand on while preaching (literally, in this case) on condoms not making a dent in skyrocketing infection rate in populaces as badly hit as those of most African nations.

With some members of its clergy involved in fine, commendable, often heroic work in the affected regions calling for the relaxation of Vatican's draconian anti-contraception laws, on what possible scientific -- or even, commonsensical -- basis does its head continue to form policies liable to affect not thousands, but ultimately, millions of lives?

"You can't resolve it with the distribution of condoms," the Pope Benedict XVI told reporters aboard the Alitalia plane headed to Yaounde, Cameroon, where he will begin a seven-day pilgrimage on the continent. "On the contrary, it increases the problem."

Does it, really?  Certainly, abstinence would do a far better job, but how realistic is it to expect no sexual intercourse outside of marriage, especially as we are evolutionary geared to quite the contrary behavior.  It has long been proven that extreme species-wide stress can lead to increased birth rates to make up for the high mortality rates of the offspring and the low median age.  In less scientific terms, the population is attempting to insure its own survival by having more kids to offset those, perishing due to unfavorable living conditions.

That being said, how does withholding the only means of preventing both conception AND the spread of disease in any way takes care of what is widely seen as an escalating problem?  In fact, how does granting free access to these means exacerbate the occurrence of AIDS?

Yes, my classmate has done quite well having been shielded from the dangers inherent in Sex Ed.  Whether she has done so through remaining "pure" until her "I do's" to an equally untouched male partner or via finding a way of circumventing her parents precepts is hardly an issue.  She is only one person.  Even should the former be proven the case, there is another, equally individualized, one to offset it, that of Governor of Alaska's teenage daughter, Bristol Palin.  In a recent interview, she paints a picture of abstinence as a failed method of solving the teen pregnancy epidemic.  Just as easily, her account may be applied to the spread of AIDS.

<dl>

And that's an order!

</dl>

Obviously, the fundamentalist stand of the church is based on what it sees as the violation of the basic rights of its unborn, in fact, not yet conceived flock.  But isn't it time to start thinking of the rights of those already here -- and denied the courtesy of making a guilt-free decision that might well save their lives?

Already the welfare of the Holy See as an entity in its own right has been placed over that of the kids violated and made to keep their peace to protect the offenders.  If any trust in the Catholic Church is to be renewed, it needs to look to its heretofore inviolate doctrines and adapt them to truly benefit those, looking to it for salvation.

Beam me Up, Lauren!

FUNNYORDIE'S LEAD WRITER AND PRODUCER, LAUREN PALMIGIANO, ON BOSS WILL FERRELL AND JIM BEAM.  BOTTOMS UP!

Yesterday, I had a chat with one of the funniest and well-known comedians in today’s diverse entertainment arena.  Her name is Lauren Palmigiano and she gets to work on a bus — one she’s a sole occupant of.  Don’t believe me?

Lauren Palmigiano, Live and Not in Color

What?  Of course, it’s a joke!  Tough crowd, people!  Betcha, Lauren wouldn’t have gotten the same response — and this, her very own joke, let me tell you.  My delivery’s off, isn’t?

At least, considering how easily it — and the rest  — slipped from her tongue (not to mention such viral hits as Lady Cops, Perry Hilton DUI, and The Spelling Bee), Lauren herself isn’t in any danger when browsing her highly rated site, FunnyOrDie — currently partnering with the venerable Jim Beam in its promotional contest, “The Remake”, aimed at helping a few lucky “Average Jims” laugh their way to a chance at $25K and an all-expenses paid trip for 4 to Las Vegas.  Feeling lucky?

If so, you’ve got time — until March 21st!  Once all entries spoofing one of 3 videos listed on Jim Beam’s website are in, the celebrity judge Lauren Palmigiano and cohort Max Silvestri, he of the NYC’s award-winning variety show Big Terrific, will make their decision.

Still on the fence?  Perhaps, Lauren herself will help get you convinced Jim Beam bourbon might pack a heck of a bite, but its corporate office or the funnymen — and woman — it got to judge the contest, are just looking for a few good jokes.

In answer to my very first question about the reason for her involvement with Beam, a perky, down-to-earth lead writer and producer for FunnyOrDie had this to say:

“Well, Jim’s a funny company.  Doesn’t take itself too seriously, which, I suppose, lends itself well to this contest.”

Considering it’s all about spoofing its own ads, “The Girlfriend”, “The Tragedy”, and “The Party”, with 30-90 second amateur video clips exclusive to its site, yes, I can see that take itself seriously it does not.

Not to say that contestants are treating “The Remake” as a joke.

“Oh, we have got a few hundred” [entries], she said, adding she wouldn’t initiate the judging process until after the deadline.  Fair’s fair.

At which point, because I couldn’t imagine a FunnyOrDie interview without Will Ferrell and Judd Apatow somehow worming their way into a conversation, well, I helped them along.

Turns out, as the site’s creators and sponsors, they are very hands-on.  One of them has offices right across the street from Funny’s 15-strong creative LA campus, and just last week, Lauren and Mr. Ferrell released a new “Bedside” video to what I am sure will be acclaim equal to “Landlord”’s, a keystone video of FunnyOrDie.  Makes sense, Lauren having been a part of his production team before taking reins of the site.

Which, apparently, proved a sound business decision of Mr. Ferrell’s.  There are now multiple campuses across the US and a few satellite offices without.  In the site’s irreverent tone, FunnyOrDie’s “About Us” page warns of its elite private security force consisting of four hundred soldiers and six attack helicopters, and Lauren herself alleges she would lose face if she took anything to work short of a private bus — while a coworker opts for a tank.

“We have an interesting parking lot.  You should stop by.”

I promised, the moment I hit LA, I mean to.

Being I am not even in the market for airline tickets just yet, I know, by then, the “Remake’”s winner will have been announced, his entry featured on the Jim Beam site, perhaps even gone viral — and if Lauren agrees to another, face-to-face interview, I will get to hear just what it was which made THAT particular video stand out.

SECOND CHANCES

Two days ago, I had a chance to speak to an amazing person. Brandon Bond, world-renowned tattoo artist, savvy businessman — and someone who has dedicated his not inconsiderable celebrity to rescuing those, whom our society has deemed unfit to so much as exist.

Dog's best friend, Mr. Brandon Bond!

I am talking about pit bulls. And to a lesser extent, Michael Vick.

You see, Brandon believes in second chances. Having given one to me after royally screwing our initial interview, you can see why I am inclined to believe that.

Explaining his philosophy, he spoke of his own less than savory youth, and of his wife’s, who is now a recovering addict, clean for the past 10 years. Brandon himself is CEO of 4 thriving businesses, an author of five books and 6 full-length DVDs. If anyone knows how to turn his life around and make the very best of himself, it is this man. And now he wants to give back to the world.

How is he realizing his humanitarian ambitions? By rescuing pit bulls. He has rehabilitated and adopted out over 300 of them. Not only that, but he, himself, has 6 of these loyal, unfairly branded dogs. One of them is formerly Michael Vick’s.

He remembers when the news came about Vick’s dogfighting camp having been raided by police - there had been 47 dogs there.

They were lucky that the criminal charges had been leveled against someone so high profile as this NFL great. If it wasn’t for that, chances are, these dogs, just as in many similar cases, would have been put to sleep once they ceased being useful as evidence. The counties, in which the arrests happen, usually lack the resources to rehabilitate the very victims the authorities claim to protect. And so, they are euthanized.

Not so, the “miracle dogs”, as Brandon calls them. He managed to use the outcry to get in and get these dogs out. Of the 47 rescued, only one had to be put to sleep, and that only due to a terminal cancer. Another died in car accident — the new movie, Vicktory to the Underdog, which Brandon is premiering in Vegas’s Palms casino on March 14th, actually devotes a segment to it. The remaining 45 are fine. They, unlike many such dogs, have gotten their second chance.

Brandon hopes that Vicktory to the Underdog, while appealing to a segment of our population that might not be moved by PETA and Animal Planet appeals, will, also, generate enough funds to offer the same precious chance to many more dogs - dogs that might not belong to a high profile celebrity - via the work of a pioneering organization, Villalobos Rescue Center, focused on rehabilitating both criminals and dogs by helping them to readjust into more nurturing roles.

Nurturing — and natural, at least, for the dogs. Case in point? Petey, the Little Rascals dog, was a pit bull — and there had been no reports of any violence on set. Brandon told me that pit bulls, who while strong, are not, in fact, born with violent temperaments or dangerous lockjaws, were actually referred to as nanny dogs. Moreover, the first Congressional Medal of Honor bestowed upon a dog during World War II went to a pit bull.

So, where does it leave the human element of the rehabilitating bunch? Getting back to second chances, Brandon believes in offering them to everyone — even those, such as Michael Vick, whom animal rights activists should be naturally wired to despise.

Michael Vick has lost everything. He is in jail, possibly contemplating what a slim chance he has to make it back into the NFL big leagues. Well, if you listen to Brandon, perhaps, he should be given that chance — if only he could spread a new message — one that would go out to the kids still idolizing him, still keeping his bobblehead dolls by their beds. Whether he truly believes it or just follows his attorney’s advice isn’t of great importance to Brandon. The need to raise awareness of the issues surrounding pit bull breeding, traits, and dogfighting is what prompted him to get in touch with Vick’s attorneys regarding the football player becoming a part of Brandon’s campaign.

According to Brandon, though, the lawyers are playing it safe. They want to first preview the movie — and then, they will let him know to what extent their client might want to become involved. So, one of a thousand tax-deductible limited edition DVDs will begin making its way to Mr. Vick’s legal representation — and who knows, perhaps, their client will pick Villalobos as his community service site. At least, Brandon knows he has extended the invitation. What Mr. Vick plans to do with his second chance is up to him.

And Brandon, he will continue his work. There are already plans for a subsequent movie that would expand on the happenings in the city of Denver and its recently passed breed-specific legislation touched upon in Vicktory to the Underdog. There, Brandon intends to showcase the true — and admittedly unconstitutional — scope of what such legislation mean to us, as responsible pet owners paying the price for the mistakes of the few.

Dogs torn away from crying kids, parents possibly thrown in jail for daring to stand up for a pet deemed to appear at least 51% pit bull, euthanized animals not being allowed to be buried within the city limits — these are just some of the topics Mr.Bond is intending to cover, not to mention the lack of tangible proof of such measures in any way reducing the incidence of dogfighting-related activity in such an over-legislated hell.

With breed-specific legislation on the rise in Kentucky, Georgia, and Florida, I, for one, am intending to make the time to watch Vicktory to the Underdog, and its sequel, too.

Them's the Pits!

I am certain, I won’t be the only one. Considering the big names making it to Las Vegas for the Vicktory premiere / charity event — Tera Patrick, Micheal Berryman, perhaps, even Ice T, to name a few — I imagine the reception for his next release should be equally spectacular.

As for me, I can only wish him — and all the rescued dogs — the very heartfelt best!

EVERYONE'S GOTTA PLAY THEIR OWN TOMATO

Are there rules to a successful engagement?  How about marriage?  What about a freewheeling bachelor life?

Every man's man -- and definitely, this woman's!

Conceivably.  Self-help gurus may know; not exactly a fan of theirs, I won’t speculate.  I am, however — of CBS’s eponymous “Rules of Engagement”, in part, perhaps, because it doesn’t take it upon itself to preach to me about anything.  A half-hour primetime sitcom, starting its third season March 2nd, it does just what a beast of its nature ought to, according to Patrick Warburton, one of its stars.  It entertains, and does a damn fine job!

A couple of days ago, I was lucky enough to score a one-on-one interview with Patrick, and tell you what, if I wasn’t his fan from his Seinfeld and Civilization of Maxwell Bright days, I am now.

The man dished about the perseverance of his show, his views on his character, Jeff, and the limitations of his creative control.  And, I think, he himself is totally enjoying the final product — which comes out loud and clear in both his performance and his promoting the dickens out of it.

Let’s just start from what we’re doing here.  Do you enjoy this sort of promotion?  Or would you rather meet your fans and the press face to face? Unless you would rather not do any promotion at all?

Oh, face to face.  I like meeting fans, and I am forever using hand gestures.  But, you know, I guess on the phone, that works, too.

Did you have to think for a while before you accepted the role?  Can you empathize, having been married yourself for the past 18 years?

Well, I did, yes.  When I first read it.  Because, you know, it would be like, why would I want to be playing myself?  I was lucky to play The Tick, and that’s…completely different.  A lot of acting, getting in character.  But here, you know, I am playing someone married for the last 14years.  But I sat down with the producers, and I see they have a great team in place.  So, we gave it a try.  And it’s good, there’re definitely things working.  It’s gotten funnier, now, too, so, it’s moving in the right direction creatively, I think.

Speaking of creative direction, can you tell me if there are any plans to keep the show past Season 3?

Sure, we already sat down with CBS folks.  Wasn’t an easy run, you know.  1st season, we only put in 7 episodes.  Came in as the mid-season replacement.  In the 2nd season, the writer’s strike.  Messed things up, but what can you do?  Now, this year, we’re also coming in mid-season.  But we think, Season 4 is going to be the first full one.  So, yes, we’re going along.  Definitely very positive here.

Are things going to be happening with the show?  What can we expect?

Our engaged couple’s set a wedding date.  So, there would be things, you know, stemming from that.  It’s definitely sharp, funny.  And you know, we aren’t a drama show, not a soap.  It’s a half-hour sitcom, things don’t really have to change.  You don’t much change characters that are working, you just use them creatively, put them in engaging dialogs.  People like to get to know whom they are watching, relate to them.  And, of course, you know, with the married couple, and the young couple, and David’s [Spade] character, who is a bachelor, everyone can find somebody they can empathize with.  It’s like with Seinfeld.  It’s entertainment.  People liked coming week to week to characters they got to know.  They might not be all that nice, but they were familiar, and likable, and that’s what made it work.

Do you get to have creative input?

Sure, there’s some ad-libbing, everyone does that.  And I always say, if I think something’s not working.  Something doesn’t ring true, we can scrape it.  But once it’s finalized, the writers finished their work, that’s it, everyone’s in sync.  Too many cooks stirring the pot, we don’t have that, there’s creative unity, so we can put the best episode out we can.

Is there a direction you think the show could go in with your character, but it choosing not to?

Not really.  We’re all trying things, thinking about things.  No need in stretching the boundaries.  We have ways to go with every character yet.

What is your dream role?  What about a favorite one?  Do you like the familiarity of working for a long-running project?

Well, favorite, so far - Maxwell Bright.  That was ranging out the furthest from, basically, the comfort zone.  That’s a challenge.  It’s good to have a challenge.  I don’t have that [often] in TV, I haven’t had a single lead in an hour-drama, not one.  I haven’t even been asked.  Come on, Lisa, I am sure you have a script you would like [produced]… that wasn’t understood?  Once you get put in a box.  But that’s OK.  Did you know, Hoffman played a tomato?  Everyone’s gotta play their own tomato.  And you know, my movies, Woman Chaser, Dish, Maxwell, I don’t know if you’ve seen them, they were all critically acclaimed in different ways.  That was good.  Good scripts, interesting takes.  I like challenging myself.  I am always looking for something new.

Something new?  You should check out Lombardi Street, the new show I am working on.  Their working policy is to give everyone a chance, and the start of your talents would be a shoo-in.  Yes, yes, I’m pimping.

[Laughs] Maybe, I will.

And I guess it wouldn’t be a Patrick Warburton interview if I didn’t ask about Puddy.  I wasn’t going to bring him up, but we did talk Seinfeld.  Do you still enjoy the Puddy fame?  I understand during an advertisement for Rules of Engagement in 2007 during an NFL football broadcast, people started yelling out your Seinfeld character’s name.

Yes, funny how it happened.  I only did nine episodes as Elaine’s boyfriend.  But the character, he’s iconic.  And, definitely, the show.  My grandkids are gonna watch reruns when they are home sick from school.  I used to watch shows like that sick from school.

Andy Griffith and the like?

Yeah, like those.  Like I said, some shows endure.  Seinfeld’s like that.

——-

Tickled Blue!

And that brings us to the end of my all-to0-short tete-a-tete.  There were more questions to ask, but I did learn the gist of the matter.  Patrick’s character might be an occasionally gruff overbearing guy, but the real Patrick, even happily married, shouldn’t complain, he still has to act.  He’s way more gracious than his on-screen persona.

It's My Party...

I am Lisa, AnnointedFig.com writer, and I am a foodie.

There, I said it, and no, I am not feeling relieved.  I love food. I cook, I like dining out, I like giving everything a fair chance (which, however, emphatically does not extend to vanilla or whatever-flavored oatmeal variants.  So, I’m a hypocrite.  At least, I’m not a closet one, that’s gotta count for something).

These are my skinny jeans.

To make the intro complete, I eat healthy, exercise (eh, do my best, let’s put it that way) — and I’m a female, 5′9″, 190lbs, wear anything between medium and extra large, and know what, I’m no Angelina Jolie (my brood, for instance, is limited to one 13-months old bandit), but damn, I think I’m fine.

Which I suppose may be exactly the problem.

On one hand, psychiatry preaches mental health lies in sticking to how one sees oneself, and damn the rest of the populace, what do they know?  On another hand, it is, by now, a truism that only the mad have the sheer audacity to espouse their own unassailable sanity.

That said, let’s segue back to the food. Rather, to the dread eating disorders, or EDs, the bane of parents everywhere. They are a dime a dozen these days, and if there’s ever a time when languishing in the supermarket checkout lane, I don’t see a photo spread of a celebrity suffering from, recovering from, vehemently denying – or, in fact, outright accused of not indulging in, ha, it’s a shopping trip wasted.

How are we to see ourselves when it really comes down to…er, seeing ourselves? Really looking at ourselves in the mirror – and in the eye, and honestly assessing if we are who we need to be, where we need to be, and not just weight wise.  That is, after all, what ED treatments are all about.

Eating disorders are likened to abusive relationships. They play havoc with your mind and health – but they, also, make life easier, in the short term. There’s no need to go out and find friends, you’re either feeling too bad, or you’re preoccupied (feeding an eating disorder, pardon the pun, does take a lot of of you), or, from experience, you just know they wouldn’t understand when you could do with some exercise, or purging, or binge eating. There’s no need to ask yourself what you’re going to have when waiters are assaulting you with leather-bound menus. The answer’s obvious, if you had your way - nothing, nada (possibly, ice water, though it does make you swell up, so, on the second hand, just ice cubes, thank you, such a hot day out). There’s no need to wonder what to do with a bonus paycheck. Why, upgrade your membership at a local gym, buy another box of laxatives, maybe, another tape measure (for the glove compartment – emergencies happen). Depending on income, you may even afford a new elliptical machine for that cozy little nook right underneath a basement window – behind the treadmill, bike, trampoline, a gymnastic ball, and a souped-up hula-hoop with metal bumps on the inner edge to bruise your abdomen into contracting.

Simple, isn’t it – letting go of everything, shedding, at least, some responsibility for your mistakes, for your less than ideal self-image – yet enforcing your own will, too, putting your enslaved foot down. “ It’s my party, I’ll DIE if I want, DIE if I want to…”, there’s a little something there, you gotta admit.

Taking a bite out of your health.

And speaking of which – partying, I mean – let me introduce you to the relative block newcomers. A more prominent of the three - drinkorexia - a folklore kind of term that is taking a Webster-dictionary wielding crowd by storm, riding the coattails of such questionable icons as Lindsey Lohan, Paris Hilton, and Amy Winehouse. Particularly prominent among women aged between 18 and 25, with whom partying hard and staying skinny at all cost are often raisons d’etre, thus far, it hasn’t been designated an official medical term and like with any ED, those practicing it never admit to a shred of wrongdoing.

Mind, some of the metabolisms in question might be really THAT good (which, from early Lohan roles just ain’t altogether likely), but every single one is wearing size 0. They had better. Should anyone THINK of graduating to an unwieldy size 2, oh, that’s it, the hunt’s on, the press’s a-baying.

So, how does the rest keep themselves to where if photographed from the side, they run the risk of fading out completely – considering, they do publicly drink, and booze does come with calories, though not of a very beneficial kind? Well, I’ll just leave that to your all’s puerile imaginations. They won’t disappoint. Promise?

Oh, OK, I’ll slip a mickey…er, I meant, a little tidbit. Alcohol -> empty stomach -> severe stomach ulceration -> evacuation from either end -> liver on the fast train up the shitcreek. Enough inspiration?

Another new kid on the pro-Ana websites (it’s a lifestyle, not a disorder, MY AUNT FANNY) is the beast recently christened orthorexia by an actual MD and referring to an out of control fixation on healthy eating. In this one instance of ED, it strikes boys almost as often as girls and in the stronger sex, is commonly associated with BDD, body dysmorphic disorder, where a victim focuses on the entire body or even a part as something they, delusionally or not, consider detrimental to his or her appearance. In an interview with Dr. Phil McGraw, one mother described how her son would altogether refuse food if at breakfast, she accidentally allowed a droplet of yolk to so much as color her son’s egg whites.

Finally, it wouldn’t be the Century of the Fruitbat…er, 21st, sorry, if there wasn’t some weight manipulation (read: enforced loss) done entirely via self-medication.  Specifically, on not using enough medication.  More specifically, yet, insulin.  Enter diabulimia, a tool of choice for teen girls in treatment for type 1 diabetes.  Mostly, it is the same self-administered cycle of abuse in play, but now it masquerades as flipping the bird to their diabetes.  The isolating, inconvenient, often debilitating disease ceases being their cross.  For the diabulemic, it is seen to be overpowered, remade into a weapon, the one he or she wields, and if the stakes are even greater than with a less easily concealable ED, well, the payoff is, also, much higher.

Plus, of course, bigorexia, pica, Prader-Willi Syndrome. Those, and the perpetual crowd pleasers, the flagships of the ED fleet, bulimia and anorexia nervosa.

These days, they are everywhere, as commonplace as compressed lungs and broken ribs enlivening the stately crinoline era. Then, there was that pressure to conform; perforated stomachs, miscarriages, internal bleeds notwithstanding, corsets ruled – and people died. But, at least, they did so looking perfect.

May we too be victorious. Godspeed.

Today, young people are dying, too, and the media is right there helping them on their merry way. After all, first it gets to criticize their weight, then act all properly horrified – and finally, for a good long time (on those slow news days), sympathize with the bereaved kin. Triple whammy!

So, me, I call on the bloggers, and news editors, and fashion mavens, and Hollywood directors du jour – and most of all, on you, you healthy 5’-something 150+ lbs fatsos (or 6′ slender magnificent reeds, but naturally so, and more power to ya!), let’s just see what we can do to completely eradicate the very need for the pro-Ana sites on our world wide web!

EASY AS PEE!

A roommate had a knee replacement.  In constant pain, like he was forever on the verge of passing a kidney stone, the man had been on the fence for yeah-many months.  For just as many of those, he’d been bitching, so, I took the damn thing in my own hands, i.e., found a doctor, squared it away with his insurance, and voila, easy as pee, the man had a partial knee.

A light at the end of the tunnel

He bounced back faster than the veteran nurse on his floor expected, and they told him he’d be discharged in two, instead of three days.

In the evening of his first day, they pulled his catheter out.  And that’s when the fun part began.

The piss wouldn’t come.  Apparently, in newly catheterized men, it can happen.  He shouldn’t worry, all sorts out naturally, wouldn’t you know?  How would you feel, all blase?

He would stand over the pot, straining, and I would be listening through the heavy hospital door.  No cigar!  We tried the old hand in the warm water trick.  Nothing.  Enter a more direct application of water to the spout itself.  Not even close!  The poor guy drank like a Bedouin camel fresh from a Safari jaunt.  Not even a flicker of an idea anywhere below the belt.  He even took a shower, thought expressly forbidden, his cut-up knee sticking out over the rim.  Not a chance!

Fresh from his surgery, he spent the better part of the next 24 hours trying.  Who woulda thunk how much I would miss that little tinkling sound?  And in light of it sorta being my fault…

Discharged now, cue continued trying.  Then, straight cath to drain the bladder distended to what the home care nurse said was a good 72-hour output.  Straight cath meaning a quick in and out, the wham-bam-thank you, ma’am, if you’re into gory details.

More frigging trying.  More cath.  An emergency room.  A urologist visit.  Another ER trip.  A few uncertain drops making it out.  For volume measurement, piss being collected in the toilet brush bowl, one without a lid.  Did I mention the situation stank?

A permanent catheter put in to get the bladder down from where it got distended and now exhibiting the tendencies of a lazy relation mooching off a softhearted retiree.

Knee exercises a requirement at that point, they put a damn new meaning into jumping through hoops — or, at least, over a catheter leash.

Another trip to a urologist on the far side of town.  Catheter out (about time, it being 3 days).  Da nada!  Zilch, for my non-Spanish speaking groupies.  A urologist visit.  Catheter in again, and hello, Thanksgiving weekend!  As you can imagine, a gravy boat-full to celebrate.  Or, rather, there was — a more portable, even more permanent catheter.  Stop by after the holidays, and enjoy your Flomax and turkey!  Your prostate is losing its youthful figure, but you don’t need a surgery, not yet, just check out this photograph obtained…yep, through more straight catherizations.  The one immediately proceeding the permanent cath.

The man’s Thanksgiving came later.  6 days later, to be exact.  That very permanent catheter was out.

New batch of free-flowing piss started making it into a toilet brush bowl.  And the output left some to be desired.  But it was there, which yet another urologist visit proved via their benighted ultrasound.

And then, that sound resumed, the audible kind, the one I was actually missing (no, not a golden shower fan, thanks very much).  The melody of piss tinkling into a toilet bowl, hitting the water with a crystalline tone of a self-assured stream, the droplets drying on the black lacquer toilet seat into lemony polka dots.

I used to rage.  Used to demand the guy, at least, get the toilet seat UP, like a normal male persuasion pig, don’t splatter the thing.

I am doing it, again, on the eve of the man’s well-check urologist visit.  In fact, I will be doing it just as soon as I wash the seat clean and use it myself.  Well, I will as soon as he wakes up, because it is 2 in the AM, and I like my victim lively when I go all nuclear on their chauvinist ass.

Really? It's true?! Ooof, color me relieved!

But just then, for a few weeks following Thanksgiving, the man had a carte blanche.

And now, let me post-face.  This ain’t a Flomax commercial.  I’m not even sure that is what specifically helped.  But it was there, as were the urologist, the nurses, the concerned surgeon, the toilet brush bowl, the re-baptized seat, the catheters, the turkey, the…  Everyone, please, take a bow!

VEG RECOLLECTIONS

The very first vegan I ran into was my high school English teacher, and back then, I have to admit I just didn’t understand the lifestyle.  Nor did I ever go to the trouble of trying.  A lot of it, certainly, had to do with my unwavering belief in supremacy of everything not in the roasted chicken, macaroni cheese, and fruit salad food groups enjoying no basic right to culinary existence.  But it is, unfortunately, true that a great deal of my early antagonism stemmed from the personality of the vegan in question.

Hey, kids! How 'bout another Big Mac?

Only a decade later — and I now realize measuring an entire lifestyle choice by a single practitioner is…well, abominably stupid.  Better later than never, some would say, and yes, they would be right.  But that was high school.

In college, studying health sciences, I learned the intricacies of bad cholesterol and good, of triglycerides derived from different food sources, of atherosclerosis contributing to the skyrocketing rates of heart disease here in the US — and of inherent dangers and surprising benefits of raw, vegan, vegetarian, no-carb — and fully integrated omnivorous diets.  There’s latter in every one — just as there is a former (these, mostly from uninformed food choices and bad decisions made by every slice of our foodie spectrum).  I suppose the only type of diet I would these days condemn off the bet would be a supersized Big Mac one.

Which brings me to Supersize Me, a single most illustrative (if somewhat preachy and pseudo-scientific) demonstration of what it is to live on clean, self-sustained cuisine vs. the self-indulgent God-knows-what-they-put-in-it dietary school of thought of a rather prominent chunk of American population.

Certainly, it bears to be said the sacrifices Morgan Spurlock went to are obvious to an even unconverted carnivore, but the movie’s relevance to the vegan lifestyle lies actually in what was practically a movie’s afterword.  Once Mr. Spurlock’s self-appointed month was through and his vitals ascertained to be all over the place (which is a tad surprising, considering his binging hadn’t lasted that long, though I am not at all disputing the validity of the findings), what did he turn to to detox?  And what actually helped?

You guessed it, the tasty and cleansing fare as prepared by his girlfriend, Alexandra Jamieson, the longsuffering vegan chief.

She didn’t nag him (at least, not on camera), didn’t quote him statistics to the tune of 40% decrease in heart-related deaths for those, practicing vegetarianism.  That glaring difference being further enhanced by purely vegan choices, not to mention the decreased incidence of colon and lung cancer, kidney and gallstones, diabetes, and even later-life sexual dysfunction, she would have had plenty of ammunition.  She didn’t use it.

What she did was prepare him a going-away-to-fight-the-devils-of-consumerism feast — and a purifying post-experiment regimen to gently get him back down from his perpetual sugar high and unclog the arteries unused to the onslaught of saturated fats.

Of course, that a man used to vegan cuisine responded so beautifully to reentering his comfort zone isn’t much of a shocker, but that his is only one example of vegan detox and that it works just as well for those heretofore completely unexposed to this lifestyle, is.

As things currently stand, I am neither a vegetarian nor a red-meat-gobbling carnivore, but will I ever scoff at vegan food choices again?  I can safely say, never.

The Rivers of Milk and Honey (And Jam)

I am a mom.

Unlike a gaggle of my acquaintances, can’t say as I had wanted to become one since getting my very first doll, because by and large, I really didn’t like the critters.  They never laughed at my jokes, never participated in keeping the play area clean, and for sure, they didn’t make good storytellers.  They were a waste of puzzle-board-embroidery-gear-Lego-sets-fillable shelf space.  And they INEVITABLY got between my cohorts and I.

Taking care of business!

Not that I held anything against fellow braided, ponytailed, combed-to-within-an-inch-of-our-lives, uniform-sporting twits going googoo over the latest trend in Amish chic or streetwalker anonymous, courtesy of Mattel (read, the whole flock of girls born within the same couple of years in our condo complex, and no, it wasn’t anything flowing through the brand new pipes, just the reality of life, a newly built condo —> newly minted, fairly comfortable family moving in —> and the baby makes three, or four, or…well, you get the idea).

But man, why did the ENTIRE flock consistently opt out of bowling, and books, and hula hoops when there was a new doll to be mock-fed, and mock-changed, and mock-disciplined, and mock-put-to-bed under a canopy of flowering jasmine?!  I used to ask myself,  the concept of X chromosome and genetic memory and societal conditioning largely lost on even a most dedicated 7-year old bookworm, were girls born instinctively knowing for every Barbie, and Martha, and little Cab-bitch Patch creep, there’s supposed to be a little mommy out there begging for the privilege to get a leg on those chores grownups eked out a living out of — if little Molochs they were doing them for weren’t a result of their own failed contraception methods.  Masochism, a 7-year old bookworm would have said, but kudos for my parents’ criminal records, I wasn’t yet familiar with that term.

In the hot bone-dry months before my eighth birthday, I still hadn’t learned the meaning of the word, but I did find out there was something to be said for motherhood.  Hey, hey, minds out of the gutter, kids, I didn’t set any Guinness Book records.  No, I’m referring to the Summer of Baby, it a lifesize, heavy, realistically wrinkled, bald-headed infant-doll that swept my mind along with those of every self-disrespecting female in the city under the age of 12 and every carat of loose change out of Baby’s “grandparents”‘ wallets.  Those lucky “grandparents”: within days, Baby became the area’s most glaring shortfall, and if the makers only demanded an arm, the speculators charged an additional leg and swore they just beggared themselves extending the discount.

Baby — not specifically MY Baby, I am not sorry to say, my parents having been singularly unable to find an altruistic speculator willing to ship his own brood to the poorhouse — needed to breastfeed (don’t ask, I THINK it came from one of us girls with a freshly popped-out brother), have his nappies changed, painstakingly burped, and at all hours of the day, have one of our cabal happily babysitting the little monster.

That’s when I learned to bite my nails counting minutes till one of my co-parents brought him in (as opposed to biting them for other various and sundry reasons), and prepare him a timely snack, and cater to the incessant demands that would have had a Tamagotchi pet shake its pixelated head region.

And that’s when I, also, learned not to take anything related to anyone’s care for Gospel.  “Constant vigilance,” catechizes Harry Potter’s Alastor Moody, and he’s right.  Boy, is he ever!  You see, Baby could pee — and if you don’t think that’s important, you haven’t lived as a tween girl in the throes of her first toy obsession.

Baby, as stated previously, was as close to lifelike as 6 pounds of rubber with a pair of…well, baby-doll blues was likely to get 20-odd years ago (yes, I am that old).  It could drink, close and open its eyes, all its body parts moved — and for all it was gender-neutral, it could pee, authentically soaking everything through, JUST LIKE A REAL BABY.  In Baby’s particular case, it really wasn’t a bug, it was a feature.

Which my grandmother didn’t appreciate.  What she did appreciate was the sanctity of our new coverlet, the furry one, with plump stoned-looking deer frolicking in the foreground.   It was a souvenir my dad brought my mom from one of his trips to the hinterlands, and at my grandmother’s insistence, it was ever only trotted out to impress the guests.

It so happened, that one day, it was.  It was, also, the day one of my co-parents, Yulya, grudgingly dashed down eight flights of stairs to hand Baby to me.

“Did he eat?”, inquired the reformed bookworm.

“Tea with milk and honey, plus raspberry jam.  He had a sore throat.”

Yes, Yulya took his temperature.  Ditto his pulse.  And no, he hadn’t yet gone number 2 (Baby had permanent constipation, but hope sprung eternal).  He did, however, go number 1.

“Gotta run, Mom’s been calling me to dinner so many times in the past 10 minutes, like you wouldn’t believe.  If I don’t see you tomorrow outside, that’s it, I’m like grounded till our next Grimm fairy tales recital.” (ours was an intense German-emphasis school, and the teachers wouldn’t leave us alone even in the dog days of Baby)

“But he did go OK?  There was no blood in the pee?” (my grandfather had been a doctor)

Now you're really in a jam!

Having assured me that pee had been clear as glasses lined on our dining table for the big event, and no, this description coupled with an earlier one of raspberry jam raised not a single red flag, Yulya ran off.  Her mom really didn’t like waiting — while Yulya couldn’t tolerate relinquishing Baby to me until the appointed second.  While I still can’t fathom our fascination with the dratted thing, I do understand that.  It was a point of honor.

One-on-one with my duties, I trickled a spoonful of warm water down Baby’s gullet, rocked it — and under pressure inherent in playing good host, succumbed to every harried parent’s escape clause.  Putting the little tyke to bed is beneficial, it isn’t abandoning it to properly attend to your callers.  And you had to say this for Baby, if ever there was a sound sleeper, it was this one.

Carefully, so as not to startle the temperamental beast, I carried him over, placed him on the furry coverlet — and this being summer, only lightly covered him with my mom’s gauzy scarf, a gorgeous one, with iridescent lilies.

To make a long story short…oops, too late now…let’s say in an effort to keep it from turning into War and Peace, my dad came in at some point, pulled out his dress shoes off an upper shelf, and…well, he ain’t no Shaq, but he did manage to land them on top of the scarf.

I had been building up to it, but no, this wasn’t the explosive finale.  The shoes found their lawful place on my dad’s feet, and while Baby started to copiously bleed, it was considerate enough to do so in silence.

The explosion came after, when I responsibly went to check on the thing — and gurgled just loudly enough to call the attention of the Nemesis…er, I meant to say, grandmother.

Yulya never did own up to not doing her best by our collective cross, and maybe, she had, but the reservoir got too distended from our incessant use and didn’t completely empty itself the first time around (that — or it was a “miracle” along the lines of indigenous Florida-countryside Madonna tours).  Most importantly for me, this was the day my Baby-slavery ended.

And most importantly yet, I hope I am a better mother myself, thanks to that coverlet and Yulya’s mom going all dictatorial on her daughter’s ass in defense of her chicken Kiev.

I hope, faced with someone telling me they fed my kid, I would be careful to check what, how much, and at what time (yes, there’s a story).  I hope to have the presence of mind to ask why my son is staying quite this late for his church choir rehearsals (unfair example, yes, but there’s way too much crap being flung about this particular topic for it not to stick to my psyche just this one little bit, just enough to have me asking — and repeating — questions).  I hope never to fail to demand my son’s hall monitor and teachers tell me exactly how many times he’s been on the receiving end of the stick-the-nerd-into-the-locker shtick and how many — the giving.  And I hope to God not to have a patronizing hospital employee refusing to admit that selfsame son (to make up for its own snafu, no less) — but if I did, to be hell of a lot more assertive about taking matters into my own hands than simply calling them up every few days pleading for help.

Other than Baby, I was a terrible, cuckoo-kind of mom to my dolls, but maybe, the idea behind having them is not to imitate their unattainable figures or dress, but simply to use up our worst sorts of mistakes on them — and then, come our own kids, do our best not to have too many repeats.

TEN QUESTIONS TO ASK A NEW MEDIA MOGUL

(...if you happen to meet one in the dark alleyway)

Me, I had it easy. Today, entirely via e-mail, I had the chance to pick the brain of a very curious cat –- an enigmatic new media pioneer, who, true to his (or her) milieu, thus far is remaining stubbornly anonymous behind their online avatar. Putting the “new” into New Media, this individual, known only as “Project Manager” or “AvZ,” plays a key role in bringing together the talent, funding, and direction behind an ambitious crossover Internet + Television show with the working title of Lombardi Street.

Kick your old habit for a new one.

Integrating publicity via virtual platforms, top of the line editing equipment, fan participation in the creation of a big-budget serialized show, and simultaneous release of the content through both the Web and regular TV makes Lombardi Street a rather different animal from the typical fare. The line between fans and the show’s creators is blurred, as is that between the real world and that of the fictional characters and their nearest, dearest, and most hated. The glue connecting all these previously distant concepts is this newfangled thing known as the Internet, which for many of us has become quite the second life.

“Never follow the straight and narrow,” is the chosen slogan, and indeed, “Project Manager” stays true to these words, as do members of the writing team, drafted from the very same community of fans that follow the show’s development. Constant vetting of creative talent keeps the cream of the crop behind the reigns and in front of the camera, and keeps the focus on the show’s complex characters, not on plot-driven writing.

And now, let’s get to the meat of this interview…

You mentioned countless cups of coffee as an inspiration. Where did you drink it? Whom with? Basically, do you have a big team in place or are you going it solo? How exactly did the concept come to be?

There has been a great deal of speculation as to who I am and/or we are. The reason that this is not revealed is rather simple. Most new shows flow from the top-down creating assumptions and expectations before even beginning the exploration of the project. If I were Stephen Bochco [writer and producer of NYPD Blue], there would be expectations entered before we begin.

If I were Robert Smith form Portland, Maine — the same thing — only with different expectations. The more important part of this question is how did this come to be. We have entered a whole new world of communication and personal reach, enabled by the Internet. This reach has opened every small corner of the globe and we wanted to insure that it reached into our industry — which is ripe for change.

What exactly is the main thrust of Lombardi Street, making it in the entirely transparent style or preparing it mainly for multimedia field. Are you planning to bypass television?

The primary point of Lombardi Street is to entertain. This is first and foremost a show that we anticipate will entertain its audience. The transparent style is in part based on the concept of entertaining and in part based on the need to bring the secrets of the industry to light. We do not operate in a vacuum; people want to know about the actors, the writers and more, so rather than having it appear in outside Web sites and magazines, we provide it here.

We do not intend to bypass television, but we also do not see it as the only presentational medium. We intend to have this show broadcast traditionally worldwide, but also intend to release it first on the Web. It is my firm belief that in the very near future, viewers will be watching Web-distributed shows on their regular televisions though the use of some new device that facilitates that, as well as watching on handheld (mobile) devices and PCs.

I know it has been answered to an extent in the writer’s group, but for the benefit of the public, what is the proposed rating for the program? Or are you going the NR route?

We have not set, and will not set a rating. Life is not rated, neither is the show. The general production will be kept to the norms and conforms of society; however, there will be threads that expand well beyond that. They will be clearly labeled but available for viewing. This show is intended for young adults and up and we will adhere to the standards of the global collective.

Do you have funding already to the tune of $35 mil/year, which you are bringing up on the site, or are you counting on getting it once the word of mouth spreads across the Web and, possibly, the print editions?

We do not have $35 million. We do have investors, advertisers and others that will allow us to start this show, but, again, like any venture this must appeal to the public and draw an audience which will allow the funding, both from investors and advertisers to grow. The $35mm is the anticipated budget for the production for its first year.

Never follow the straight and narrow.

Your writers are all from over the place, and talent and directors are ranging even further. How do you intend to get them in one place? Relocation packages? Trips on-location? Or are you going to be doing this solely on the Web? How about a chemistry test, for instance? What if the actors ultimately chosen do well on their own, but lack that spark together that makes them a “supercouple”?

Many production positions can be handled remotely and will be done that way; however, while the technology facilitates long distance communication, it will never replace face to face interaction. Actors will all undergo screen tests and will be required to read with other candidates exactly to determine on screen chemistry. Writers will collaborate online but will still have to attend regular in person meetings and workshops. We have opened all positions to anyone globally and will select them based on talent, individual capability and perseverance. When filming begins, we will work with individuals to insure that they are where they need to be, whatever those requirements are.

On the topic of actors, do you mean to use any established talent or draw solely from those registered to the site? What if, say, Jessica Alba registers, would she be in the running? Or are you focusing on undiscovered actors for the time being? Same for directors, etc.

This has been a very hard fought answer. We have developed a policy that ALL personnel for Lombardi Street will come from the Web site. Selections will be based on individual participation and collective response to the Web-based activity. That will include even Jessica Alba. We do believe that talent is everywhere and that only the smallest portion ever has the opportunity to get discovered. Hopefully, Lombardi Street will change part of that by opening opportunity to all, even those who are already famous.

How do you intend to advertise on the show? During commercial breaks? Or via product placement? Or do you mean to do the adverts on the Micro-net once you extend the universe out beyond the filmed segments?

Advertising is an integral part of Lombardi Street. There will be sponsor pre-rolls on the web video and extensive product placement. Broadcast shows will probably have standard ads. The Web site will include banner ads and a new form of non intrusive pull-based advertising. One of the primary differences is that we will not attempt to hide or sneak in advertising. There will be product placement on the show, but rather than a hidden ad, we will laud and fete the support of the advertiser on the Web site, as well as show exactly how well the advertiser supported the show. We believe that if you like the show and the advertiser helps keep the show alive, then you will in turn appreciate the advertiser for its support. Open, honest and upfront.

How happy are you so far with how this thing is going? I notice you’re beating your own estimates as far as signing up goes. How big do you envision your community growing before the show?

Lombardi Street in the Web is not quite a month old. It has surpassed expectations and we anticipate continued growth, but have not placed any specific milestones in place. Our advertisers and sponsors have key points which dictate the level of payment and we know the more members, the easier the continual quest for revenue will be. For me, a key indicator is not how many people we have when the first episode airs, but what the growth is once it is running.

Which brings me to, when do you think to start filming and then release it to the public?

Filming will begin in late August and the first show is to be released mid-September. It is a short turnaround, but this show is meant to be based on life, so we intend to bring real live events into the production in as real a time frame as possible. In addition, because of the unique nature of the integration with the audience through the Web site, we have designed the show to be responsive to the audience, not driven by it, but responsive. We anticipate extensive use of technology to shorten the time between filming and presentation.

Meet "Project Manager". Really.

And, finally, is there a chance to see the man or woman behind the mask? Who are you, a writer, producer, director, Web junkie? All of the above? Are you yourself planning to contribute to the show other than through overall direction?

Yes. I very much look forward to the day that I get to personally meet the fascinating people that have begun participating on this site. Who am I? All of the things you said. A writer, a producer, a director and a web junkie. And yes, I firmly intend to contribute to the show directly, but not as a dictator. I have found a remarkable volume of prodigious talent exists in this world and I am thrilled to be a part of what we get to uncover and present.

—-

I found our question and answer session with the mysterious “Project Manager” informative, and I hope you did, too. Lombardi Street truly brings television fans around the world together in not just enjoying a great show, but also participating in its creation; thus, anyone in its growing online community can be considered as a potential team member.

If you think I was just a tad biased, being a member of the writing team myself, well, I quite possibly am guilty as charged. It’s not every day I can connect with all my fellow fans and creative minds around the world, much less shape the way the show develops!

I look forward to hearing from you all what you think about this new way of doing television, and what other questions you might like answered before Lombardi Street goes live, both in your living room and a global, virtual world that many of us call our second home.

Nope, NOT goint belly up!

“Do you even know how much we dream about that?!”

I do.  I dreamed it, too.  And now, it’s here, devouring its chew toy.

They’re the nicest folks you’d ever meet.  A baronial guy, early thirties, curly Santa Claus beard, but still dark.  A vivacious wife; same benighted coloration, but otherwise a mirror opposite of the pervasive “dumb sexpot blond” stereotype.  For one, not for her is the junior size 0.  And therein lies the crux.

They are nurses.  Hawking top sellers at the church bake-offs, Chris boasts of a particularly vicious urinary tract infection bringing two solitudes together by a grumpy old codger’s bedside.  They even incorporated it into their wedding vows.  Too bad I didn’t get to hear those.  But the old codger did.  The removal of his catheter and the full restoration of bodily functions hasn’t done much as far as the grumpiness quotient.  Failed even the plentiful food.

Presumably plentiful, Chris and Vicky are the self-styled Iron Chiefs.  They don’t often patronize restaurants; all but cross themselves passing fast food joints; never buy manager’s specials; stack up on the celebrity cookbooks.  And their local specialty baker undoubtedly managed to get, at least, one child into private school on their dime.

Why not, the lovebirds heart kids.

Problem there, they seem to heart food more.

In PC terms, the couple is pleasantly plump.  At 6′5″, Chris is 325.  More importantly for this particular purpose, Vicky is 268lbs — at 5′1″.  No less impressive is their cholesterol.  At the last reading, Chris clocked out at 317.  Vicky’s is a bit more modest 299.  They are getting treatment.  They homecook.  They exercise — once a week.  And they crave kids.

But Vicky has PCOS, an insidious condition, amounting to her not releasing her eggs.  It can strike anyone — of the female persuasion.  Recent research points to diabetes as a possible culprit.  At the same time, it can creep up on its own.

Chris and Vicky are medically on-point pair.  They did the rounds, aced all the tests.  Dollars to doughnuts, her infertility is treatable, pronounced a star ObGyn group.  And refused to prescribe her the meds.  She’s too fat.

She needs to lose, at least, 70 pounds.  And the sticking point, her cholesterol ought to go down to 249.  Otherwise, a pregnancy is going to be too draining on both the mother and child.  Medical ethics, capice?

“But what if I get pregnant on my own?,” demanded Vicky.

“Then, we’ll monitor you.  But we aren’t going to be accessory before the fact.”

Medical malpractice insurance infamously hard-line, all the Ob’s of Vicky’s acquaintance announced they are playing it safe.  Vicky buckled down — and proceeded to eat.

“When we’re stressed, we strudel-up.  And, of course, Chris’s sausage.  Chorizo, you know?  Hey, you gotta stop by!”

Needless to say, both the cholesterol and weight didn’t budge.  Well, Chris’s went up a bit, but as far as they are concerned, it is not a big deal.  To reverse her persona non grata status, it’s Vicky’s being gauged like a ticking bomb.

And sure, she could easily snap up the good stuff online, sold off by successful mommies, mass produced in India, Mexico, Columbia — some, on the very same lines, off which the pharmacy-grade pills drop off — for the barely legal Internet outfits.  But having seen her fill of ruptured ovaries, internal bleeding, surgically-relieved abscesses, translucent supertwins (three babies or more) tethered to ventilators to make up for their premature births, so far, she is munching to relieve her worries — and staying away from the medical section of the freegaragesale.net.

So, my question is, should medicine have a say in our procreation? Should government regs? Who is the judge?  Is that to be solely the provenance of every physician, just the like the pharmacists these days fight for the right refuse to trade in Plan B unless they are the sole vendor for miles around?

What if we are pronounced too black?  Too ugly?  What if our IQs aren’t up to par?  What if we simply don’t have the wherewithal to temporarily reverse the state-mandated sterilization administered the moment we emerge from the womb?

Er…what?  The stuff that Gattaca’s made of?  Oh sure!   But interestingly, within the constraints of that particular universe, the principle largely worked.

Alternatively, Dr. James Grifo, professor of obstetrics and gynecology at the NYU School of Medicine, commented on the birth of California octuplets: “I am not a policeman for reproduction in the United States. My role is to educate patients.”

I guess we’ll see.

And now, I should probably go rescue the toy from my son.  And knock on wood.