Rocket, Yeah, Satellite of Love

I'm watching the Roger Clemens hearing and I am astonished that his pants haven't burst into flames yet.  Most people, in Boston at least, already know he is a self-serving d-bag of the highest order.  But his behavior and arrogance throughout this entire scandal have made that an undeniable truth.  His conflicting stories and contradictory statements (under oath, no less) are not lies, it's just that everyone else is "misremembering" everything he's ever said and done. He claims to be the victim here yet is throwing his "friends" under the bus left and right. And if "misrememberer" isn't the most flagrant euphemism for liar, I don't know what is. Let's hope Pettite, etal look the word up on Google like I did. 

Clemens has always said his angry persona is not Roid Rage, but "motivation." That said, he's truly motivated today.  There he is up there, turning magenta, looking like he's going to overturn the table and start hurling folding chairs at the committee.  This hearing could end like "Primal Fear."  A headlock is imminent.  All this rage and denial from a butt-full of B-12? 

Three Good Reads on Clemens:

1) BG's Email Musings: "Clemens keeps commenting on "what he's done for the game." What did he do? Go to the highest paid organization from year to year? Wait out the beginning of the season for multiple years in an attempt to get the most money out of the highest bidder? That's a GREAT way to help build a farm system for consistent successful seasons and create a 25 man roster with equivalent talent.  He's just digging himself into a bigger hole by dragging this out. What a waste of a great career. Well, a career that theoretically might have ended in 1996 in his "twilight." Dan Duquette must be LOVING this moment right now." 

2) Sean Cunningham's piece in Esquire on  Why Clemens has always been a Lying D-Bag, Steroids Notwithstanding:  "While the only one who will ever truly know whether Roger Clemens injected illegal drugs is his own ass, anyone who's followed his career will concur that the Rocket is a lying bastard even if he didn't use steroids.  The injections allegedly began in the 1998, but the irrational rage, ever-changing stories, and general douchery were there from the start and continue to the present day."  

3) Bill Simmons' piece in ESPN the Magazine on How Steroids Destroyed Memories of a night at Sully's:   "Before the Mitchell Report, when I thought back to that night at Sully's, it was always a happy blur of strikeouts and phone calls and cigarettes and drinks and high fives. Now there's a shadow of a syringe, and it won't really go away.  We think the damage from the Steroids Era is about numbers, but it's really about memories -- the way we used to remember things and the way we remember them now."  

Right on.  An asterisk, a shadow, another sullied memory.  Sully's -- *Sigh* Does anyone else think we hallucinated those turkey sandwiches? 

Pretty Scary

This year, my New Year’s resolution was simple: Don't get rattled by the petty annoyances of daily life. Focus on the positive. Even when people keep moving your boots around the house at random and you can't find them when you need them. Even when you miss an important work call because you were outside (after spending 15 minutes searching for boots) trying to dislodge Vito from a frozen snowbank.

This afternoon, I walked out of the house and I had what back in the day was called “a yard sale.” I was walking to the car to take the kids to school, carrying backpacks, lunchboxes and snowpants. I slipped on black ice, caught some sick air, and then landed with a thud. Backpacks, lunch boxes and snowpants scattered about the driveway; the contents of my purse dumped into a snowbank that Vito had recently yellowed. And it's always great to shout “motherfucker” in front of the children and the lovely retired couple across the street.

We were running late. My pants were caked with melting snow. Inside my head, I was cursing the snow and the cold and the black ice. Then, as I started driving, I focused on the positive. I noticed the trees and the snowy canopy they created over our street. It was an Ansel Adams photo. The Unforgettable Fire video. At least it's pretty, I thought. My positive moment was shattered immediately as the "pretty" trees began raining massive chunks of frozen snow and ice down onto the car, pelting the roof and windshield with such force that the kids started screaming. It was Alfred Hitchcock. I am Legend. I give up.

Welcome to the Shit Show

I’ve never done well with parental sanctimony but there are degrees of it that are barely tolerable: Strangers with Vera Bradley backpacks who question your children’s music choices are annoying but family members who preach -- under the guise of “only trying to help” -- are the worst offenders. For instance, my parents and other relatives over 60 scoffed at my parenting and baby books yet felt compelled to send me news clippings of every freak accident involving children, however obscure, be it the dangers of above ground pools or playing tug-of-war with Golden Retrievers.

For several years, I walked around -- anxiety-ridden -- in the land of unintended consequence. My radar fine-tuned to pick up any slight, I saw danger and choking hazards everywhere. Each day was a mine field of processed foods and potential skull fractures and make sure he doesn’t stick that thing in his ear. I'm just starting to come out of this phase.

The new mamas have entered it as of late; it seems people are stepping in it left and right. Even Jess was looking a little emo so a few of us headed out to Mount Blue for some vino and snacks.

Aside: The only helpful unsolicited advice I’ve ever received as a mother was at Piers Park three years ago. I’d gotten dressed in the dark and was taking the kids, then 18 months and 4 months, to the park. I shuffled over to the playground, dazed and barely coherent at 7 a.m. with a turbo Dunkin coffee in the cupholder of the double stroller.

An elderly man walking by me, stopped short and looked at me: “Dear, your blouse is on backwards.” My “blouse” was actually an olive green wife beater but he saved me from appearing a few shades crazier than I already was that year.

Over the holidays, Jess’s relatives from Germany were visiting and questioned her use of a bouncy seat. “What’s wrong with a human lap?“

Before inadequacy could settle in, she found one of her young nephews, the son of the “human lap” enthusiast, holding some kind of explosive device in one hand and a lighter in the other.

“The Germans brought fireworks,” Jess said. That's right. Her bouncy seat was a risk to her child’s development, but potentially blowing off a few fingers with a cherry bomb? No biggie.

What’s worse is these people brought the fireworks in their suitcase, on a transatlantic flight from Europe, in the belly of a 747. This was not only a danger to their young kids but everyone on the plane. Scarier than MF snakes, more baffling than a suitcase of fresh produce arriving from San Diego. Code Red was understandably horrified.

Auntie had a similar story to share about one of her relatives whose own house is a “veritable shit show,” yet when this person shows up at her's, she points out uncovered outlets and pointy edges. When Auntie told her relative a cute story about how Jack sticks his chubby little legs through the spokes of his crib, she got a lecture about the femoral artery.

Using binkies is the equivalent of playing with blasting caps.

You can't smell carbon monoxide, you know. YES. We know.

Let's raise a toast to ourselves, the morons!

We’re not morons, of course. We're all just doing the best we can do, but there are good and bad days. And we’re thankful when the well-intentioned busybodies aren’t around to witness the bad days -- like yesterday afternoon when Caroline yelled “move your ass” to the minivan in front of us on Route 53.

Or last week when I was signing the kids up for swimming lessons at the health club. Paulie became unglued upon learning he wasn’t actually going swimming right then. He decided the best way to express his displeasure was to lie face down on the floor and flail and scream about it. Then he went all limp so I couldn’t pick him up properly.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a gaggle of pregnant women heading to a yoga class. They were watching me with a mixture of horror and pity as I struggled to haul Paulie out of there. Then I looked up and saw it in a few of their eyes. “My child will never behave that way.” I know this look because I had it myself once. Pre-kids, whenever I saw brats melting down at Target, I got all puffed up with smuggery. No way will my kids ever do that. Who’s in charge, anyway? Call it karma, call it the circle of shite, but now I know. When kids are in a state like that -- they are actually in charge. All you can do is remove them from the premises as quickly as possible.

So, I got a hold of one of Paulie’s legs and one of his arms; his hip hop parka was all bunched up over his head like he’d been in a hockey fight. Caroline held the door open for me. And as I passed by the pregnant women, I gave them my best glazed- over Britney-in-crisis smile and whispered: “Welcome to the shit show, ladies”

The Madness of Hannaford

It’s not even noon yet and Hannaford is already running low on milk and bread. It’s crazy up there. People are in a full-on collective panic buy, stocking up, it would seem, for a nuclear holocaust. I spotted a woman with three cases of grapefruit in her cart, hellbent on heading off the hardship of going without fresh fruit for a few hours. It's just snow. The roads will be passable. The stores will be open for business. After all, there's a huge Nor’easter barreling up the coast -- twice as big as tonight's predicted storm --that's due to hit this weekend. It’s going to get even crazier. For a moment, I thought, "Wow. I'd better pick up some milk and bread before it's gone." But then I said screw it and bought some NY strip steaks and a mini-Carvel ice cream cake instead. Besides, who doesn’t have a 12-hour supply of food in their homes? And even if you don't, it is no cause for panic buying. Get some take out from Pacinis. Order a West End pizza pie. Asian C will be delivering as well.

A Dependable Stalker

"Hello? Good afternoon, miss." The voice sounded pleasant enough. I looked up from the kitchen island from where I was working on the computer and saw a man who looked like Ken Berry peeking through the front screen door. Typically, I don't even open the door to anyone over 12 unless I absolutely have to, and in those cases, I usually talk out the first floor window, over the shrubbery. But I was working a cross breeze this afternoon and the front door was open. I talked to him through the locked screen door. His name was Cliff, he worked for Dependable Cleaners (I saw the van in the driveway) and he was here to tell me about a new drop-off/delivery promotion they were running. I tried to head him off, saying I work at home and my wardrobe, consisting of yoga pants and fleece, was entirely machine washable. He was not dissuaded. This guy was old school, robotic and overly rehearsed, part Willy Loman, part Orlando Jones selling magazine subscriptions in "Office Space." He never strayed from the script, although he did appear genuinely offended when I told him I used Dryel.

Long story short, he held up a Dependable Cleaners nylon laundry bag and told me to hold onto it. I could leave it at my side door on Tuesdays and Fridays if I had any drycleaning and the van would pick it up and drop it off. He then held up two coupons for $10 off the first two orders. There was neither a credit card number nor commitment required on our part. I still told him I really had no need for it either way. Undeterred, he asked if my husband would use the service. Doubtful, I said. He's been going to the same drycleaner in West Roxbury for years and is unlikely to switch as it's near the Middle Eastern bakery. "Well, why don't I just leave the bag and you can ask him," Cliff says. If neither of us want the service, we can just leave the bag with a note saying so. Fine fine fine. Give me the damn bag. I just wanted to get back to work.


Well, I should've never accepted the damn bag. I hung it up in the laundry room then immediately forgot about it. Then the calls started. The following Tuesday afternoon. Private name/Private number. It's Cliff. "Did you forget?" Forget what? "The driver said there was no bag at the side door." Oh, right. I had no drycleaning. "OK. Friday, then." I told him not to bother as I'd have nothing Friday either. This didn't matter. Like clockwork, every Tuesday and Friday, he calls and/or leaves messages. "You know, those coupons are going to expire if you don't use them" etc. Last week, he called at 9 p.m. and seemed angry when James answered the phone. "Can I speak to Kate?" "Who's calling?" "Is she there? "Who is this?" "Oh, never mind." Then he unceremoniously hung up. "You've got to go down there. Do you want me to go down there," James said. This was getting ridiculous. By now, this had been going on for weeks, yet each Tuesday or Friday, I was nevertheless forgetting to leave the bag with the Dear John letter to Dependable Cleaners by the side door. Mostly because in between these harrassing incidents, Dependable Cleaners was the furthest thing from my mind. Or maybe I was subconsiously gaslighting Cliff. For whatever reason, I seemed to forget about Cliff's calls almost immediately after, much like the initial screen door sales call.

That is until Cliff showed up at the house this week!!! Passive aggressive, palms up, shrugging. "Not one blouse? No Pantsuits?" (Pantsuits?) "Surely you must have some things that need drycleaning. You DO have Dryel in the house. Why do you buy Dryel if you don't have things that need drycleaning?" I almost chucked a hoodie at him to make him go away. I closed the door without a word. I'm heading down there this morning -- bag in hand, possibly swinging -- and telling Dependable Cleaners - and Cliff - in no uncertain terms, to frig off. If I go missing, you know who to look for.

Not Thankful for Thanksgiving Buzzkill

This article made me irrationally angry this morning. Today show nutritionist and diet editor Joy Bauer wants us to know that we fat slobs could consume up to 5,000 calories this Thanksgiving. If that's not bad enough, she provides a detailed gastrointestinal analysis of what consuming this many calories in one day does to your body. Wait, it gets worse, there’s a sidebar: Advice and recipes on how to cook an entire turkey dinner under 1,000 calories and a comprehensive calorie listing of typical Thanksgiving dishes. Did you know that there are 500 calories in two tiny mini quiches? I didn’t. Needless to say, I want all of this information about as much as I want to know what they put in hot dogs. It’s beyond buzzkill, it’s straight up mean. So, screw you, Joy. I’ve been good all year with the damn leafy greens and whole grain everything and multi-vitamin supplements. I plan to live a little.

That said, the following is the PU’s official response to Joy’s list of "helpful" suggestions:

1. Eat sensibly and lightly throughout the earlier part of the day.
Mini-quiches, proscuitto, shrimp cocktail, calzone. These are just the appetizers. According to your malevolent calorie counter, Joy, I might as well stuff a canned ham down the back of my pants right now and get it over with.

2. Hit the gym in the morning.
Right on, Joy. Then we’ll fly off to my parents’ house for dinner on the back of Pegasus.

3. Wear something fitted and fabulous. You’ll be less apt to overeat when there’s no room to expand.
This is just bad advice. You’re assuming snug clothing gives you willpower. In the face of chorizo stuffing and butternut squash and apple pie and turkey gravy, a ruched blouse will not save the day any more than good intentions. When the wine is flowing, you’re not thinking about the hangover. In turn, people will not be thinking about splitting their ill-fitting pants as they gorge themselves on pie. I’m busting out my old maternity jeans with the expandable waist band.

4. Splurge selectively.
That’s borderline oxymoronic. Sort of like your byline on this article, Joy. You seem hellbent on sucking the joy out of the entire holiday.

5. Send leftovers home with your guests (and if you’re a guest, resist taking leftovers from gracious hosts!)
We will not only be taking some leftovers home, we’re actually cooking our own turkey dinner with all the fixings here purely for the sandwiches! What do you think of that, you hag?

BTW, all in the Pointy Universe are invited to stop by Sat or Sun for a 2,500 calorie post-Thanksgiving sandwich!

The Writers' Strike: The Bad (for me), The Ugly (Eva Longoria), and The Good (for Nic)

BAD: LOST could be lost. The season premiere is scheduled for Feb 2008 but Michael Ausiello of TV Guide said today if the strike extends into the new year and beyond, there is a chance ABC may delay the new season until the fall. Or worse yet, Feb 2009. NO! It’s bad enough we insomniacs are watching "Awesome Pawsome" on Animal Planet instead of Letterman, but LOST! I can’t even go there in my head right now. Let's hope it doesn't come to that.

UGLY: Mucho-overrated Eva Longoria crying on the picket line. There she was, carrying a pizza, crying for the fate of her hair and make up artists and how they could possibly lose their homes in the wake of the strike. I don't believe for a nanosecond that this woman cares about her underlings. This is a woman who was “livid" and "outraged" when she found one of her contractors squatting in her multimillion dollar Hollywood mansion during another super-extravagant renovation. We know what this is really about. She doesn't care if they lose their homes, she just doesn't want them showing up at hers with pup tents.

GOOD: Horrid reality shows arriving en masse. Normally, I would file this under "BAD" but in this case, it could mean that Nicola’s reality show creation of a few years ago could finally see the light of day.

Temptation Ireland. Instead of tanorexics cavorting in hot tubs in the tropics, the show would feature pasty drunkards stumbling out of pubs and tending to live stock. Nic, screw nutrition and science, this is your moment in the sun (don’t forget the SPF 50 lest you freckle and buuurn)

Jackass of the Day

(Let's isolate this chick in a room with Code Red and see what transpires)

Behold MIT student Star Simpson, another overprivileged, blissfully clueless idiot. According to Boston.com, Star walked into Logan Airport today and "affixed to the front of her black sweatshirt was a pale beige circuit board with green LED lights and wires running to a 9-volt battery. Written on the back of the sweatshirt in what appeared to be gold magic marker was the phrase 'socket to me' and below that was written 'Course VI,' which refers to the electrical engineering and computer science program at MIT."

This incident is even worse than the one involving those Cartoon Network buffoons last year. Still, they have something in common: None of them care that they've diverted resources away from reality, yet all were indignant and baffled about their arrests. All were somehow unaware that two of the 9/11 planes originated from Logan or that their behavior affects others -- especially Code Red who will likely have to skip the Renegades game tonight because of this boob. Which is a giant bummer.

That said, look for the Judge on the news later, undoubtedly wearing his "You're balmy" facial expression, as Star Simpson is arraigned in EB District Court today.

What...is the fascination with...

Actually, I think the fascination is feigned.

The latest OJ circus is not deja vu all over again, it's disingenous. Everyone's desperate to recreate the magic of those halycon cable news days of 1994-1995. The aerial shots of OJ's caravan leaving Las Vegas had a "fingers crossed" feel to them, like maybe a Bronco chase will break out. Breaking news banners wail the most mundane headlines: "OJ expected to arrive at courthouse any second" "OJ expected to exit courthouse at any moment" "OJ stops to tie his ugly-ass shoe...wait a second, are those Bruno Maglis?" That nut with the "I Love Famous People" hat at the press conference yesterday was the perfect (and hilarious) personification of the whole charade. In 1994-1995, those freaks and leprechuans outside the courthouse were for real. Today, they're just there to capitalize on their YouTube opportunity. OJ stepped in it again, let's make like 1995 and dress up like Barney Rubble. Let's put a giant Jell-o mold in a sling shot and launch it at the courthouse and not wear pants.

Then there are others who want to see this incident as the finale in some tragic epic. A woman on the radio this morning took it so far as to say she believes OJ wanted to get caught because even he can't live with himself, the guilt over what he did, and unconsciously wants to go to jail. That's insane. That would mean he has some semblance of a soul, some wee shred of humanity. But he doesn't. He's a sociopath and a narcissist. He can’t help himself, he craves the spotlight -- even in infamy (Think: "If I did it" quasi-confession) So, there will be another trial, and like 1995, he will get off and not spend a day in jail. However, this time around -- much to OJ's dismay, I'm sure -- the surrounding circus has very little to do with him.

Booooo

(The Way they Were and Still Are Regardless: The boys, pre-scandal, Park City 2007)

You haven't been able to turn on the radio or TV this week without hearing a heated discussion of this Patriots scandal which is being compared to everything from a Greek tragedy to Watergate. It's something that's been going on for all the ages, even dramatized on the Brady Bunch when Jerry Rogers, like a thief in the night, started dating Marcia just to get his hands on the Westdale High playbook.

Still, I'm surprised at how willingly people are buying into the "Everybody does it" defense. Is this the standard? Somehow the Pats are the victims here: People are jealous of their success. They're being singled out because they're winners. YES. Everybody knows that this is a fact. It's a crappy side effect of human nature. The question is if all of your enemies and frenemies are watching you, waiting for you to falter, WHY WHY WHY -- in New York no less, playing against an ex-protege who hates you, and in the wake of a widely-reported crack down on this kind of behavior ---why would you basically hand your jealous enemies all the reasons in the world to tear you down.

Instead of blind devotion, we should be mad at them for being so stupid and arrogant and tarnishing their good name, New England's good name. I don't care if everybody does it. Everybody supposedly did steroids too and those players are worth little more than an asterisk now.

One colorful "lady" on the telly this morning, with her bleeped out commentary and blurred middle finger, was inviting anyone who dares to call the Patriots cheaters to "hop up and rotate. "

Except they are cheaters. They've been fined. They're losing a draft pick, which I'm told is kind of a big deal.

Bellichick's carefully-worded, likely legally counseled "apology" basically said "Sorry you're upset." I'm not gay. I've never been gay.

While their shame is not on par with that of Barry Bonds or the perpetually incarcerated thugs of the NFL and NBA, they’re still tarnished. Every regular season, playoff game or Superbowl they’ve ever one will be second guessed. And that is a shame.

I Live my Life Like a John Hughes Movie

You know what really gets my goat (I'm bringin' it back): When Labor Day is called the unofficial end of the summer and treated as such. While there are at least two weeks left in the season, everyone starts shutting it down, shuttering their beach houses and lugging their plastic tubs of corduroy and wool down from the attic. We're equally as guilty: Jay Jay's Pool Guys were here closing up the pool as a voice on the radio forecasted 90 degree temperatures for later this week. September is the best month of the year. No doubt. It's still summer like and by the end of the month it'll be cool enough for Vito to make it all the way through a walk without conking out on the sidewalk. For the record, Snackplate Sundays will still be going down every weekend -- except when not -- well after Sept. 21.

Another goat getter: Most of the summer, these beautiful waterfront homes at the beach sat completely vacant. Labor Day weekend was no exception. At one house in particular -- my favorite on the strip -- I didn't see a single soul -- not one -- the entire season -- and we were at the beach a lot this year. The house was completely locked down, its front porch deserted, its Adirondack chairs bumless, its blue hydrangeas perfect.


(View from an empty Adirondack chair)

The house is probably one of the owners' many vacation homes so seaside luxury is likely no biggie to them. Still, the smaller cottages at the end of the road were packed every weekend. You could barely find a beach chair or porch rocker and there was always a line for the outdoor shower. Every time I'd walk by this beautiful empty home, I had an urge to bust open the french doors and start inviting strangers in off the street. At least rent it out so someone could enjoy it! There were plenty of caretakers, landscapers and gardeners tending to the place but it still looked neglected somehow. As I stood there taking digital photos of the place, I suddenly realized I was Molly Ringwald gawking at James Spader's house in "Pretty in Pink" musing, "I bet the people who live there don't think it's half as pretty as I do." I shuffled into a slow jog back down the street, feeling like a gigantic idiot. My life, once again, imitating a John Hughes' movie.

The good news is the annual Labor Day extravanza -- including a costume parade, running races and street dancing -- was a well-populated, joyous tribute to the "unofficial end" and I have a crappy LRSS to prove it. I will post it shortly.

Example #5287 of How the Fates Conspire to Make Me Look Like a White Trash Mama Despite All Efforts to the Contrary

Yesterday afternoon, Caroline and I were off to Target to pick up the odd collection of essentials usually involved in trips to Target. About twice a year, like 80 percent of the population, I am stricken with mad allergies. I've been on every OTC pill on the market. I've tried every prescription drug hocked in TV commercials with people frolicking carefree among flowering trees and pet dander. None of them worked. The only thing that has ever worked for me is Sudafed, and not that fake Sudafed that’s out now but the old one, with the ingnoble, much poo-poo-ed pseudoephedrine. A few years back pseudephedrine was exiled from the shelves like some rabid societal menace thanks to idiot methheads who were baking it up in suburban labs. Now, trying to purchase old Sudafed is a huge process: You have to sign a release and present a photo ID so they can run your name through a computer to make sure you haven't been buying the stuff in bulk. I have no problem with the red tape. The product really works -- and if you happen to get a little bonus buzz from it, what's the harm?

THEN:

"Can I help you," the pharmaceutical assistant says, stepping down from his perch. He is a thirtysomething dude with a pervy little rat tail circa 1985 -- and not an ironically retro one -- he is just a hick. He looks at the Sudafed card, sighs loudly and grabs the box from the shelf. Then, he pauses, turns slowly toward me and starts tapping the Sudafed against his chest. “So, did you hear they found a meth lab in Framingham," he says. “No, I hadn’t heard that." “Yeah. Well. They did," he says. Long silence. Still tapping against his chest. “Do you know what they use to make meth?” “Um...could it be Sudafed? Yeah I’m well aware." I'm starting to feel like I am in the deep South trying to purchase birth control pills from some Jesus freak at Walmart. "Can I just sign and go, please," I say. He continues his loud, loathesome sighing; a martyr bleeding inside for a drug-free America. I print my name and scribble my signature beside it, trying to get out of this bad episode of Law & Order as quickly as possible. Suddenly: “Mama, what’s a meth lab?" I glare at pharmaceutical hick “That's awesome. Thank you very much. ” I snatch the Sudafed off the counter, throw into the carriage and storm off in my yoga pants and wifebeater. "What's wrong," Caroline asks as we swerve around the corner into the paper products aisle. "Nothing, sweetie, he's just a very bad man." "You're a very bad man!" she exclaims so loudly that I'm certain he's heard it. "That's right, baby" I yell just as loudly, drawing the stares of other customers. [By now, you know I’ve already emailed a rant to that Target and its corporate headquarters.]

On the ride home, Caroline sings along to the radio: "They tried to make me go to Rehab and I said NO, NO, NO."

The Victoria Beckham Effect

“People think I’m a miserable cow who doesn’t smile. Actually I’m quite the opposite.”

Right. Does anyone else have a burning desire to flog Victoria Beckham with a bag of deli meat? The reason people think she’s a miserable, non-smiling cow is because she always looks like a miserable non-smiling cow. Always. A common media whore, she acts exasperated by the cameras knowing full well she’d disintegrate without them. I've had enough of her this week. Why is her stupid reality-show-downgraded-to-a-TV-special a lead news story -- everywhere? The headline -- "Victoria Beckham is Coming to America!"-- pisses me off because that insect-faced bitch is here, like every week, shopping. And pouting of course. The news outlets are playing it like it's her first time in the country and she's arriving from somewhere extraterrestrial. I don’t get her appeal: A humorless ice queen who doesn’t smile, laugh or eat. All she does is shop and pose, shop and pose. Why is this hot?

I don’t get David Beckham’s appeal either. I don’t care if he’s a professional athlete, he’s not very manly and he's prettier than his wife. But then again, the Beckhams are special, they share a soulful, kismet connection: Recent quote: "I've always had a liking toward clothes, but when I met Victoria, she directed me in the right way," says David Beckham. "When she tells me something doesn't look good, I believe her. We have a connection that way." Wicked deep connection. I'm sure they're a scream to hang out with too.

Let's call it the Victoria Beckham Effect: The more talentless and useless you are is directly proportionate to how cocky and arrogant you behave. Because that’s all you’ve got to offer -- smoke and mirrors. Nothing but your shitty ‘tude (and a few grapes) to sustain you. A washed up Spice Girl who looks the other way when her husband cheats on her because $250 million buys a boatload of Birkin Bags.

Whew. I feel better.

More Airtime for Anorexic Slut

I hate myself a little for even writing about this. (And FYI, it'll be chock full of "personal attacks.")

We all know this useless whore will die an anonymous Eleanor-Rigby-like death one day when everyone stops paying attention. Still, the only thing I could think of while witnessing the exchange between Elizabeth Edwards and Slutbag was, “Why oh why can’t she be the one with cancer?” She’s already rotting on the inside as it is. Bring on the slow painful death – sooner rather than later.

In case you haven't heard, the hateful skank -- wearing that same semen-stained cocktail dress --- was shooting her mouth off on Hardball again last night. Halfway through the show, Elizabeth Edwards sneak-attacked with a call-in to confront the bitch about comments she made about her husband, comments that I won't deign to elaborate on here. Edwards, giving the horse-faced wench much more courtesy than she deserved, requested that she refrain from using personal attacks and stick to the issues. Slutbag, from her crazy-infested altered reality, responded: "You're telling me to stop writing books.” Which is not what Edwards said at all.

More logical conclusions would have been:

Edwards: “Please refrain from using personal attacks.”
Tired whore: “I like Curious George.”
Edwards: “Debate on the issues”
Tired whore: “Tomato plants!”

But the disease-ridden loudmouth was only doing what she does best when she is on the ropes: She obfuscates the issue instead of addressing it -- which is the pinnacle of lame. Unfortunately, the people who follow her are too slow-witted and depraved in their own right to see this. These people, her "fans," scare me. Seriously, what kind of horrors were they exposed to in childhood that allow them to support this odious bottomfeeder? Did you see the dude in the crowd with the “marry me” sign? WTF. I guess the logical conclusion here would be that men who support her can only get it up for hideous-looking trannies.

Alas, ratings whores are now on par with the media whores. Much like Paris Hilton, Skankypants would melt away like a wet wicked witch without coverage. It's partly our fault. As viewers, we're taking the bait. We're paying attention, tuning in, talking about it, blogging about it. Oh, God, I freaking hate myself right now.

The Rookie Cops of Suburbia

Caroline and I pulled into the parking lot for swimming lessons yesterday afternoon blaring and singing Loudon Wainwright: “That’s my daughter in the water…” which was the designated riding-to-swimming-lessons theme song this week.

Another woman who was arriving at the same time with her kids smiled at us and asked me what song we were singing and whether it was a children's song.

The instant I told her the song was from the movie “Knocked Up,”I knew I'd made a mistake.

(Tiny frown of disapproval) “See, that’s why I never put the radio on in the car. Every song is about sex,” she said. "It's all Wiggles all the time for us."

I was going to tell her that we were actually listening to my iPod and the song we were singing was not about sex but I opted out of the conversation saying we were running late.

I also didn’t want Caroline to suddenly bust into one of her favorite songs on the radio these days: “You and Your Hand” by Pink. I was in no mood to be judged by someone wearing a Vera Bradley backpack.

Most parents have no problems admitting they’re completely clueless. Then there are the rookie cops of suburbia like Vera here. They’re probably just as paralyzed by parental insecurity as everyone else but can’t bear to admit it. They pounce on any opportunity to share their rules with you. In 10 years, I guarantee this lady will be burning Leaves of Grass in a barrel bonfire outside her kids’ high school.

Still, these run-ins, which thankfully are few and far between, usually make me second guess myself (which is the rookie cop’s intent). But this time, I didn't feel conflicted, I felt smug. This woman clearly has zero recollection of her own childhood.

Little kids don’t process song lyrics the way we do. They have absolutely no interest in what the song means. They just enjoy the music.

For instance, Caroline actually thinks the name of the Pink song is “You and Your Hair,” but even if she knew the right lyrics, she still would have absolutely no idea what they mean and I’m under no obligation to explain such things to a four year old. That’s all ahead of us. In my experience, making taboo of something she isn’t capable of understanding yet only raises more questions.

Also, when in our lifetime have there not been songs about sex on the radio?

Growing up, we’d go to the Cape every year with a bunch of my parents’ friends and their kids. When we were about 6 or 7 years old, we played “Solid Gold,” and put on lip-syncing shows for the adults. My favorite song to perform was Alicia Bridge’s “I Love the Nightlife.”

Here’s a sampling of lyrics:

I want to go where the people dance
I want some action,
I want to live
Action, I got so much to give
I want to give it
I want to get some too

(Only now can I appreciate how hilarious this must have been for all the parents parked in lawn chairs drinking Schlitz.)

I don’t recall, at seven years old, analyzing what the song meant but I probably thought it was about dancing or staying up late to watch the Love Boat -- not trolling the clubs for anonymous sex.

My friend Heather’s song was Donna Summer’s “Bad Girls.” In her six-year-old mind, she was singing about mean girls in Fayva shoes, not about prostitutes.

My brother’s song was “I was Made for Loving you” by Kiss which starts: "Tonight I wanna give it all to you. In the darkness, theres so much I wanna do." Knowing six-year-old P, he probably thought it was about camping.

So, I'm not concerned that my kids are being tainted by pop music. My only concern is them belting out certain songs in public places ala the "He doesn’t look a thing like Jesus" epidemic of 2006. Lucky for us, the "clean" versions on the radio and iTunes automatically omit words like“dickhead" and "motherfucker."

A Stinky Dilemma

I've received a lot of unsolicited advice on the PU lately but tonight I am compelled to solicit some. The reason couldn't be more insignificant but I'm at a loss here.

I love our cleaning person Leticia; she cleans the undercarriage of our toaster oven and thinks it's funny when Vito tries to hump her vacuum cleaner. Not to mention, her Monday morning visits have kept us from living in utter squalor. She and her Brazilian cohorts have been cleaning our house since one of Caroline's chocolate Munchkins rolled into a tumbleweed of dog hair two years ago.

While she doesn’t speak a shred of English, we've developed an unspoken rapport; she waves, I wave, it's cordial. A few weeks ago, she started bringing her husband along to help her out. This way, she can work faster and perhaps squeeze in a few more cleaning jobs while she’s at it. (I guess. Again, we don't speak.)

Since I work mornings, I usually flee the premises on cleaning days while my sitter/magician brings the kids to the park. Also, Paulie is frightened of the vacuum. Last week, I ran back into the house because I’d forgotten my sunglasses -- and for some reason, it was steamier than a power yoga studio in there. Leticia's husband, who’d just started vacuuming Caroline’s room, was already drenched in sweat. He waved, I waved. Then I headed off to Panera for a few hours.

When I returned home, the house didn’t smell like lemons and vinegar. There was something offensive, almost menacing wafting about and it only got stronger as I walked upstairs. Ground Zero was definitely Caroline’s room, the scene of the sweaty vacuuming. Also, it was still burning hot. I checked the thermostat and found that the heat had been turned up to 90 degrees ( I later learned that cleaning folk often do this to help the floors dry faster).

Here, we were dealing with straight-up, unadulterated BO and man, it was pungent. An entire bottle of Febreze and some PetFresh carpet cleaner were no match. I opened the windows a crack to get some fresh air flowing – the usual repertoire. We’re no strangers to larger-than-life stench here. Caroline used to hide her soiled Pull-Ups in desk drawers and elsewhere around the house. But in those situations, you just follow your nose, remove the offending diaper and thus the stink. This was an entirely different animal, it was neither contained nor concrete; it was suffusive.

Hours later, it finally dissipated.

This week, I played charades with Leticia upstairs, turning the thermostat down while fanning myself with a tissue letting her know it was too hot. She got it. I waved, she waved and I thought: problem solved. Nope. This week, it was actually worse. How do you communicate this? Six years of French and Latin are completely useless. I only know how to swear in Portugese: “Caralho!” the Brazilian’s equivalent of “Balls!” (literally translated: cock. Two different things, whole nutha blog).

There is no diplomatic way to inform someone you like that their husband is stinking up your house. At least for me. I’d rather die. The guilt would chip away at me (the nuns got to me early). I know Jimmy would have no problem dismissing them without explanation but I’d feel like a giant bag of dirt for far longer than I’d care to admit. Damn you, Sister Jeremiah.

What do Alec Baldwin and Penny's Mother from Good Times Have in Common?

By now, you've heard that Alec Baldwin got his Schweaty balls all in a knot and unleashed a psychotic voicemail rant on his 11-year-old daughter, calling her "a rude, thoughtless little pig" and threatening to fly across the country to "straighten her ass out." Yikes.

Alec Baldwin, welcome to the Society of Loose Cannons. Other celebrated members of the SLC include Michael Richards, Mel Gibson and others driven to rage by the limitations imposed upon them by black people, Jews and elementary school children. Baldwin issued a weak, somewhat arrogant statement acknowledging that he should've used "different language while parenting his child." So this was just a "parenting issue?" He must've attended the Leona Gordon School of Parenting then because calling your own child a pig is not a flawed parenting style, it's psychological abuse. Alec, frustration comes standard with being a parent. You've got to control yourself, man. Being a frustrated parent means walking out to the back porch, closing the door behind you and screaming "OH MY FUCKING GOD PLEASE SHUT THE FUCK UP" into a balled-up hand towel. So I've heard. You are a total ass.

Not that Kim Basinger is any better. She's an angry old mess who's only instigated the situation further. Poor Ireland is going to need a team of therapists before she's 20. Run away, child! Join the circus or find some Willona Woods-type savior to adopt you.

UPDATE: Baldwin's belligerent rant has been mashed up with the Ramones --you can download it as a ringtone at Cellytown. It's wrong, but kind of funny.

Hail to the "Nappy Headed Hos"

(photo: Embattled Curmudgeon Don Imus in the days before the bitches and hos got up in his grill)

I don’t listen to talk radio because it makes me carsick. It doesn’t matter if I’m in my car or in my kitchen, if talk radio is on, I am instantly stricken with feelings of motion sickness. This is likely brought on by a Proustian memory from childhood when my parents would smoke in the car with the windows rolled up while WBZ crackled on the AM radio.

Still, I’ve been closely following the Don Imus story -- mostly because he is this week’s diapered astronaut and I can’t look away. I listened to the transcript of his “nappy-headed hos” comments and their context. His egghead producer Bernard McGuirk egged him on, calling the women on the Rutgers team “hos” first, before Imus added the offensive frizzy adjective.

To me, they sounded like two old, out-of-touch white guys who just discovered Urban Dictionary. It was a lame exchange and it backfired like parents calling their kids “dawgs” in an effort to communicate with them via street talk. They should not only be penalized for sounding like racists but also for sounding like complete idiots.

But he apologized several times, spent three hours on Al Sharpton’s radio show --which is punishment in and of itself -- and is meeting with the Rutgers basketball team. As he should. His radio show has been suspended for two weeks, MSNBC has dropped its simulcast of his show and numerous advertisers have pulled their sponsorships.

And, of course, wherever there is indignation, there is Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton.

Last night, Keith Olbermann held their feet to the fire a little bit, something I’m surprised more media outlets or activists aren’t doing:

If they're protesting Imus for racial comments, why aren’t they going after Rush Limbaugh, Glenn Beck, Neal Boortz and their ilk who have built entire careers – quite unapologetically – on hatemongering, pandering to half wits who find racial stereotypes, misogyny, and gay bashing absolutely hilarious.

Is it because our expectations of these knuckle-dragging talk show hosts are so low that we simply accept this vitriol from them, sort of the same way you expect gorillas to hurl their own feces when they get excited?

Imus used the term “nappy headed hos” – that's pretty offensive, but is it any more offensive than these incidents:

- Last year, conservative talk show host Neal Boortz said Congresswoman Cynthia McKinney looked like a “ghetto slut,” and that her hair “looks like an explosion in a Brillo pad factory. It’s just hideous. No it’s not an Afro...it just shows contempt for the position that she holds. She looks like Tina Turner peeing on an electric fence.”

- Rush Limbaugh, drug-addicted conservative gasbag, has repeatedly referred to Halle Berry and Barack Obama as “Halfrican-Americans.”

- Barely-educated conservative blowhard Glenn Beck (also a former drug addict) called the victims of Hurricane Katrina “scumbags," implying poor + black = scumbag.

- Not even going to go there with skanky Ann Coulter as we've dealt with her before.

Where is the outrage here? The advertising exodus? If someone cannot control themselves or maintain the slightest level of decorum, they shouldn’t be on the public airwaves. I’ve always subscribed to the “don’t like it, don’t listen” philosophy but if they’re trying to set a new standard with Imus, then it should be applied to these hateful morons too.

Nice Road Rage, Jackass

(New Road Rage flashcards help incite ignorant drivers, spread bad energy and ill will on the roads)

Yesterday, I kicked my morning off by witnessing a driver flipping off another, calling him a “fucking dildo” for trying to take a left turn in front of him in Queen Anne’s Corner. Letting the driver (the FD) make the turn probably would have set this guy back about five seconds but he wasn’t having it. Instead, the driver (the FD) had to try to back up onto Route 53, causing a chain reaction of angry horns and obscene gestures. Ah, there’s nothing like a road rage clusterfuck before 8 a.m.

I loathe road rage; I hate the whole concept of it. It’s just bad energy. It’s a form of aggression you’d never express if you were outside of your moving vehicle. For instance, if you’re walking down the street and someone weaves into your path, you usually do that awkward dance, smile and mutter “excuse me.” You’d never say, “Get out of my fucking way, asshole.” On the sidewalks, you never take it personally. You never believe that person is deliberately hindering you. Why is it so different on the roadways? I liken road rage to the vitriol spewed on message boards and online forums. If you go online to any forum – however innocuous -- there are always angry posters lurking on the boards. You can almost picture them at home, pounding on their keyboards, hurling crumbs and saliva at their computer screens. We get very brave online – and in our cars -- when we're anonymous and there is no imminent threat of bodily harm.

Of course, few people are immune to road rage. Everyone gets it in varying degrees; we're only human. It's impossible to be a Zen master on Route 93, for instance, when some self-important jackass on a cellphone starts weaving into your lane.

My latest RR incident happened a few months ago when I was dropping Caroline off at school. Sometimes the parking lot is full and a small traffic jam backs up onto the road. I was last in line, clearly waiting to get into the preschool lot when some pick up truck pulled up behind me and leaned on his horn. It was annoying the first time. Then he did it two more times and my Mama Bear switch went off. The pointy finger came out. I leaped out of the car, and stormed up to his window like a crazy person. “Would you prefer I just let my children out in the middle of the road so you can run them over!?? Asshole!!!” I got back into my car all shaky with adrenaline. Then Caroline said, “What’s wrong, Mama?” I was crushed. It was a stupid thing to do. Granted, the guy was being an asshole but I escalated the situation -- and worse, with my two kids in the car. I never should have gotten out of the car because some knuckle-dragging hothead couldn’t wait his turn.

Now, thanks to new Road Rage flashcards, you never have to get out of your car again to express your displeasure. With sentiments like: “I hope that cell phone gives you cancer,” “Get off my ass, motherfucker,” and “Why the fuck are you tapping your breaks,” road ragers can incite ignorant drivers and let them know once and for all that their driving skills are superior to everyone else’s. One card even shows a photo of a gun with the words “I wish this was real.” These cards are pretty funny in theory, but in practice – I’m not so sure. One day, you could flash your card at some loose cannon; a loose cannon who just happens to be transporting a carload of antique whale harpoons. Then who’s laughing? I’d prefer to hold up a card that simply says “sorry.” I’ve found it’s very disarming to hold up my hand and mouth “sorry” to an angry driver. Their “I’m-going- to-rip-your-arms-off-with-my-teeth” facial expression melts away instantly. They usually wave “it’s ok” and drive off. Situation defused. Unfortunately, when the shoe is on the other foot, I get more middle fingers than sorrys from offenders. But I like to think that’s what separates the good guys from the assholes.

Fronting with Coffee

I was bummed to miss Coffee-aoke with Vanilla Ice yesterday. As part of a springtime promotion, Dunkin' Donuts sponsored a creative karaoke competition in Copley Square inviting people to rewrite and perform “Ice, Ice, Baby” with Dunkin’ Donuts-themed lyrics.

I got as far as “If you got some Munchkins, yo I’ll eat some” and packed it in.

As part of the same promotion, Dunkin' is giving away free iced coffee all day today. For many, the first iced coffee of the season is one of the first rites of spring. Since I keep iced coffee in the rotation year round, my free cup this morning was purely ceremonial. Not to mention, it's 25 degrees outside right now.

Anyway, I enjoyed my freebie this morning only to have my caffeine buzz vaporized by some bloviating poseur at Target. I was there buying a baby gift and a new laundry basket before settling into work. The check out lines are right next to the resident Starbucks. As I was being rung up, I saw two Target employees standing together outside the cafe. The woman was sipping a Dunkin' iced coffee (freebie). The man, at least six inches shorter than she, was getting all shrill.

“I don’t know how you can drink that swill! It's motor oil! It's motor oil! I guess I’m just a Starbucks snob.”

Don't you just hate this guy.

I wanted to trap homeboy under my new laundry basket and put a heavy rock on top of it.

First, it’s an unwritten law of nature: You cannot refer to yourself as a snob any more than you can assign yourself a nickname. Doing so is the calling card of the phony baloney. You're showing the world that you're desperate to play a role that does not come naturally.

The pointy finger started itching. I felt compelled to stand up for my embattled Dunkin' drinker, whose only response -- "you don't know nothin'" -- seemed unsatisfactory.

“Tiny Little Man,” I wanted to shout. “You probably drink freeze-dried Folger’s crystals with CoffeeMate when nobody’s looking.”

Of course, I wimped out and drowned my regrets in a second iced coffee (freebie) on the way home.

I’ve been on the Dunkin' since I was 12 and I still love it. Hot: Black w/ raw sugar. Iced: Skim milk w/Splenda. Don’t get me wrong. I love Starbucks too. In fact, I’m in favor of all things caffeinated: Iced coffee, lattes, espresso, cappuccino. Sometimes I even “celebrate the moments” with General Foods International Coffee.

For me, coffee is pretty egalitarian. There are some people who love their Dunkin' Donuts "Regulars" with tons of cream and sugar, and there are others who prefer the heavily-roasted flavor of a Starbucks "Cafe Americano."

But there are some one-dimensional types out there -- like homeboy at Target -- who use coffee to enhance their image because they lack substance. They believe bashing the more pedestrian Dunkin' Donuts somehow ups their cool quotient. It’s an offensive charade, especially to those of us who revere coffee for its intended purpose -- as the recreational drug of choice for sleep-deprived addicts.

I know ordering a “large regular” is not nearly as exotic as ordering “a venti-half-caf-no foam-one shot-skinny-soy macchiato” but a cup of Dunkin' Donuts coffee has never given me an inferiority complex. I love my Dunkies Iced. It’s unpretentious; it doesn’t try too hard to be something it’s not. We Dunkies drinkers are cool enough our own. We don’t have to front with coffee.

I think I’ll head out for a third!