The Profit Crunch

As one of the nation's newest--and foremost--economic experts, I would like to inform you all of the main problem with the corporate structure as it exists:

Profits from boom years are not retained to cover losses during bust years. They are instead distributed to investors and spent on ridiculous executive salaries, increased advertising budgets, corporate retreats, useless conferences, and dubious R & D, which mostly just concerns a redesign of packaging and a cheaper, more-dangerous ingredient list.


Therefore, unless the boom continues without end, there will always be a decline in profits, which decreases the stock price--since the stock price was already based on certain unmet sales expectations--and leaves the company scrambling for cash.

What are the first things that a company does in such a situation?

1. Raises the price of their product slightly, yet again, so that only penny-pinchers and super-observant people notice.

2. Cuts the salaries of all non-management employees.

3. Cuts benefits of all non-management employees--especially pricey things like health care and retirement payments--despite previous promises of lifelong care.

4. Replace all real-world ingredients with cheaper, similarly-flavored chemicals.

5. If this doesn't work, appeal to the government for help, since your industry is 'crucial' to the existence of the world as we know it.


Now, let's think of a few real-world examples:

1. Hostess. How long have the good people at Hostess been making, as David Foster Wallace once called them, "shadow snacks*?" Forever. Have the ingredients stayed the same over the years? No way! You know how expensive real sugar is? Real butter? Shit--if they can save $0.001 per cupcake by using some sort of experimental cancer-causing 'butter-like agent,' they will. They have. Had a cupcake recently? They taste like SHIT. So, as the price of their ingredients plummets, as the real wages of their employees likewise plummet, as benefits for said employees disappear...the price has gone steadily UP--outpacing inflation, outpacing increasing fuel costs. Why has it gone up? Because they need to feed the monkey, man! God forbid they were content with selling 50 billion cupcakes a year and making a mint. They had to get greedy--"what if we can find a way to sell 100 billion cupcakes a year! Yes! Let's do it! Let's sell ourself off to Interstate Baking Corporation (share price $0.04, btw) and turn our bakery into a money machine! Oink! Oink!"

2. General Motors. Formerly the World's Largest Automaker (title now belongs to Toyota, as of 2007, fyi), they have famously been hit by 'hard times' every single year of my life. Or so it seems. Laying off employees, eliminating health benefits, spending the pension fund...all to strip down, become leaner and meaner, to more-agilely continue the pursuit of their long-term goal--total self-destruction by an INCREASED reliance on gas-guzzling trucks and SUVs. So let's see...a dinosaur has no idea what it takes to compete in the marketplace, can't even see into the past, much less one year into the future...we can't let this company go under! We must bail it out with taxpayer money! What would we do without its lack of foresight and gross inefficiency? It is America! If we all have to start driving around in Toyotas and Hondas and BMWs it would just be so...nice...


3. AIG. The biggest insurance company in the world--by far. Imagine if AIG had in its bank accounts the $5000 trillion dollars it has probably collected in insurance payments over the last...15 years. Now, being an insurance company that, like them all, thrives on the small print, they probably only paid out...$5 trillion dollars over the same period. Where, then, is the other $4995 trillion? Is it in the bank? Can they use it to bail themselves out of this 'disastrous predicament' that they brought on themselves by being greedy, short-sighted, and stupid? No. It has already been paid out to wealthy stockholders and executives. It has been spent on lavish executive washrooms with marble toilets and single-use silk toilet paper. It has been spent on pointless annual conferences in Las Vegas, Thailand, the Cayman Islands, Dubai--anywhere there's gambling, booze, and a bottomless supply of hookers. It has been spent to hire friends of friends to redundant positions, just to keep management fun, to spread around the bottomless money, to have enough guys onboard to play polo against Morgan Stanley over the weekend. It has been spent on mailing every house and apartment in America an unwanted pile of steaming junk mail every week. It has been spent on hiring expensive consultants to do the jobs of people on-staff who would rather not actually do their jobs. It has been spent buying up enormous amounts of questionable, risky, derivative securities that they didn't even fully understand. The list could go on indefinitely...

Don't even get me started on the banks--if they have proven to be incapable of managing money...why are we giving them more of it?

Which brings me to my main point:

Whatever happened to the beautiful, self-refining, social-Darwinistic side of market capitalism? Why are we not just letting the firms that did not make mistakes fill the void left by those that did? Isn't deregulation what they all wanted in the first place? Careful what you wish for, assholes!



*A 'shadow snack' is a food product that is desirable not because it is healthy, but because it is delightfully bad for you, an indulgence, which runs counter to the recent, general trend toward healthy foods.

_

Notes on a Scandal

Does anybody else find it disturbing that we are now seeking advice as to how to solve our current financial crisis from the very same people who are so clueless they didn't even see it coming? Smart moves, Warshington--smart moves.

Notes from Tanzania: Kilimanjaro

9/23/08 - Uhuru Hostel, Moshi, Tanzania

My legs still ache from the climb. Or was it the descent? Probably both. Max and I are sitting at a table in the courtyard here, watching a 4.5'-tall maribou stork strut his stuff for the other birds as we write; when he landed, it sounded like a small airplane. A crazy man rants nearby.

Kakasii (our guide) dropped us off here yesterday afternoon, after picking us up from the Marangu Gate at Mt. Kilimanjaro--with three ice-cold Kilimanjaro beers standing by, as promised. It was our first drink in over a week. Not quite as impressive as Adolpho's streak (2 years, broken when we offered him one in Uswaa village), but probably a personal record for the three of us.

As usual, we all had to cram into a small vehicle--me, Max, and Clemence, six days overdue for a shower, wedged into the backseat--but at least all the windows were down and some charming Tanzanian music was blasting. Talk delightfully impossible, we all just enjoyed the scenery and tunes as Kakasii attempted to break his own land speed record.

It was hard not to think back on our recent trek. Day 5--Summit Day--which occurred on Sep.21, was one hell of a test, a true emotional yo-yo of a day, during which we experienced both the high and low points of our six-day trek.


Kibo Hut. 4750 meters. Our day began at midnight. After a few hours of sleep and a few hours of watching time pass in the moonlit darkness, without a clock, thinking about the day to come, breakfast arrived.

The porter with a red bandana--whose name we never got, since we were not allowed to mingle with the porters--brought in a plate of cookies. That was it. That was our sustenance for the longest, most intense leg of our climb. Cookies.

We suited up for the bitter cold (-15 Celsius?), filled Ralph's daypack with our self-purified bottles of water and some trail mix I had on hand, and waited outside for our guide.

Clemence was nowhere to be found--other groups were already departing for the summit, a string of headlamps in the distance, and our guide was AWOL.

Clemence finally showed up, we took a few photos, and headed out. Spirits were high for the first couple hours. As we plodded zig-zag up the endless gravel slope, passing all the players in this comedy, one by one, each briefly illuminated in the moonlit semi-darkness, I could not shake the feeling that we were in some sort of Fellini dream sequence.

First, there was the Spanish couple. She wasn't feeling ‘well in the head’ when we woke up, and the expression on her face now implied matters had only gotten worse. I said "Hola" and we chugged past. I hoped they would make it to the top, since I actually like them--which I couldn't say for most of the other climbers--but I didn't think it likely. [He made it; she didn't - Ed]

We passed the three annoying Polish people I thought were Russian, who kept us awake our first night on the mountain until I pounded on the wall of our hut and shouted “Shut the fuck up!” with conviction, the large group of Austrians...and others I can't remember. Our methodical, 'pole, pole,' style, with only a few short breaks, was proving successful. I was getting excited about being the first ones on top, owning the fabulous view for at least a few exhilarating minutes.

Then the sickness started. Nausea, accompanied by the nearly-overwhelming need to shit, followed by alternating cold/hot sweats, dogged me the rest of the way up. When it got unbearable, I would stop for a quick rest, then press on despite my desire to shoot myself in the face.

I took off my hood and the handkerchief covering my nose/mouth, and tried to breathe in the fresh cold air in giant gusts. I worried about frostbite, especially when my toes went numb and my hands seemed irretrievably frozen in my gloves, but wasn't sure what I could really do about it. I had to press on and I just hoped everything would turn out okay. I hoped I wouldn’t become the next Beck Weathers.

The endless gravel zig-zag finally ended and we were met by a similarly-endless, nearly-vertical pile of boulders. I couldn't believe it--this, too? Clemence started up, choosing his path as he went, and we followed. Slowly.

Our breaks became more frequent, our bodies completely exhausted, barren of energy. I staggered around like a drunk, only my desire to not fail keeping me upright. How do all these old people do this? How do all these overweight people do this? How the hell did Jimmy Carter do this in 2000, at age 76? Why are we struggling so much? When will this end? Should we give up? How can we give up? How can we not do this? We can do this!


By the time we got to Gilman’s Point--5685 meters, atop the crater rim--I was ready to fall over and die. Luckily, the view saved me. An eternity of red, ethereal clouds spread in every direction. As cheesy as it sounds, it really did seem as though all of Africa lay before us, that we were gods looking down on the human comedy. We watched the sun break the horizon. A vast bowl of volcanic dust and snow, topped by the striking profile of a glacier wrapping around the other side of the mountain, awaited us in the other direction. Stunning.


All the hard work, the misery, was redeemed. We sat down for a few minutes to soak it all in, then Clemence said we had to press on--it was still an hour and a half to the actual summit, along the crater rim. Ralph asked me if I thought we should stay there to watch the sun rise, and I said we’d probably be able to see it periodically along the way. I regret not staying there.

The slog from Gilman’s Point to Uhuru (the summit) was murder. Slow, painful, roasted-on-a-spit MURDER. Barely able to breathe in the thin air at 19,000 feet, our muscles in surrender mode, our heads swimming in oxygen-deprivation, our stomachs dangerously empty, teetering precipitously over the edge of the crater rim, the 1.5 hours felt like forever.

In the distance, we saw (and heard) countless people in matching orange jackets prancing around jubilantly. They must have come up a different route, since we were the first people up ours, and, from the looks of it, their route was a lot easier. Some of them were even running up and down the outside slope, burning off excess energy. Everybody was smiling, laughing, exuberant; we were miserable and, therefore, immediately hated them. There was no way I could have smiled; no way I could have run.

In fact, ever since we hit Gilman’s Point, I had become unable to stop sobbing uncontrollably. Happy, sad, exhausted, proud, whatever--I couldn’t stop crying. I couldn’t speak, since my voice would immediately crack into a sob, so I remained silent as much as possible. I thought about shooting a video when I got to the top, a simple one where I would tell Melissa I loved her, and the thought made me cry again. I didn’t think I would even be able to say “I love you” without crying. 'What is wrong with me?' I wondered...and cried...

The last stretch dragged on. I could occasionally see groups of climbers in the distance and their location destroyed me all over again each time. How could it still be that much farther? When will this end? I finally saw the top from a distance; an agonizing distance. I turned to Ralph:

“Don’t fucking tell me we have to go all the way over there. What the fuck?!”

We did have to go all the way over there. Extremely slowly. The incline was minimal, but unrelenting. Ralph seemed to be dealing with it okay, but Max and I could only go 20 meters or so before we would need to rest. We didn’t understand what the hell the rush was, but Clemence kept pushing us along.

People on their way down--full of life, energy, smiles, springs in their feet--made me sick, unfairly filled me with hatred for them. How could they have done this and not be on their deathbeds, as I felt. How?!

By the time we made it to the official summit (5,895 meters)-- a circus of activity dominated by middle-aged American assholes whining about lack of cell reception--I was so pissed off that I didn’t even care. Five days of hiking, five days of eager anticipation, months of planning, much money spent...and I didn’t even care that I was standing atop the roof of Africa.


We three sat on some rocks and rested, totally spaced out. It was 7:30am. Clemence pushed us to hurry over and take our pictures by the summit sign before more people arrived. I didn’t see the point of hurrying--there were already like a hundred people on top, a steady flow on the way up, so what did it matter? There would always be a line, so why couldn’t we just chill the fuck out for twenty minutes?

But we gave into our guide-cum-slave-driver, once again, and posed for two or three photos. Max held out the Terry Plumbing flag in all of them, which annoyed me when I realized it later. In all the commotion--picture bitchy suburban parents fighting about how long somebody’s kid has been sitting on Santa’s lap at a shopping mall, actually saying lines like this: “Oh, so now we’re taking two shots? Hmmph!”--Max and I both totally forgot to pose with the leopard he had been toting around since Zanzibar, expressly for this purpose, so we could give our niece and nephew a toy leopard that had climbed Kilimanjaro with us, along with photos taken along the way to prove it.


I also would have liked a solo photo, but didn’t feel like fighting to make it happen. All I wanted to do was leave this madness behind and sit down somewhere for a while, eat some trail mix, catch my breath, rest, improve my emotional state a bit before the inevitable, grueling descent to Kibo Hut.

But Clemence would have none of it. “We need to go now--the sun is too strong here.” All I could think was: 'What the fuck does it matter? It’s so damn cold I don’t even have any skin exposed!!! Does it burn through down jackets, you asshole?!'

But, once again, we pressed on as instructed. I think we were just too beaten down to argue. The trek back to Gilman’s Point was like a Trail of Tears. We demanded to stop there for a while to rest and eat something. By this point, Ralph, who earlier complained that he was falling asleep while walking, was so devoid of energy that he fell down TWICE while trying to sit on a large boulder.

Gilman’s Point was super crowded at this point, and everybody was in high spirits. They must have had more than a handful of cookies before/during the 20,000-calorie climb/descent. After a brief rest, we continued down, hoping to simply put all this behind us.

Down-climbing the boulder wall was difficult and time-consuming. Our legs were still weak from the climb up, our stamina waning due to continued lack of sustenance. Descending the eternity of gravel beyond the boulders was agonizing.

I literally skied down on my boots, using the walking poles like ski poles, slaloming around large boulders. It easily took over an hour or two--a hell of a ski run, and hell for the knees. After a slow start, Ralph took off and flew down the mountain, passing me at some point and not stopping until he got to Kibo Hut, where we were to rest and eat lunch before continuing another 12km down to Horombo Hut for the night.

What was it that filled his sails so suddenly, so vigorously? The overwhelming need to take a shit.

By the time I got down, Ralph was in bed. I borrowed his packet of diaper wipes and raced off to the pit toilets myself, having had to shit since we started the climb 13 hours ago...

Now, I have to tell you these pit toilets were disgusting. As I dirt-skied my way around the final bend, the scent riding the robust wind could have wilted a rainforest. It's no wonder there’s an alpine desert up here...


The unthinkable--using these pit toilets, which were literally just a hole in the ground, surrounded by piss, shit, dirt, and altitude-induced vomit--became reality out of pure, unadulterated necessity.

Nothing lowers standards quite like the need to go to the bathroom. When your choice is between filling your pants or using a disgusting bathroom, it is no longer even a choice. How many days does it take before a new prisoner shits on a filthy, seat-less toilet in the middle of his cell, in full view of his creepy, violent cellmate(s)? Well...how many days can the human body hold it in? It is but a matter of time--eventually, everyone gives in and performs.

In case you were wondering, it’s not easy to squat over a hole in the ground, trying to keep your pants clean, after a grueling 12-hour ascent/descent. My legs were quivering, ready to acquiesce to gravity at any second. My lungs frantically huffed and puffed, searching the polluted air for precious oxygen.

All went well, luckily, and I crashed out in my bed after changing into some dry clothes.

A couple hours later, I think--we never had any real concept of time--the porter with the red bandana woke us up for lunch. What do you give three starved mountain climbers after a soul-destroying, energy-sapping, 12-hour climb on a nearly-empty stomach?


Easy one--a plate of cold toast, old fruit, cold fried-eggplant patties, and horrible onion soup. That’s it. That’s the lunch our crew slaved over as we climbed. That was the fuel they thought we needed. I took a few bites and walked away; Max didn’t even touch it.

Clemence walked in shortly after lunch arrived, alarmed that we weren’t ready to leave for Horombo Hut yet. I wanted to punch him in the face so badly. Not only because of the slave-driving climb and the shitty food, but because he never even told us to be ready at a specific time, yet here he was yelling at us for being late.

We took our sweet time packing up and resumed our descent. Surprisingly, I was in a pretty good mood--partly because I had slept a bit, partly because Clemence decided to carry my pack, partly because the hike was relatively flat. I had some good conversation with my brother, as well as with Ralph. It was hard to believe we had stood atop Kilimanjaro not long ago--much like the machete mugging in Arusha, I felt a surreal detachment from the reality of the moment. Was I up there? Really? What did it feel like? I don’t really know...

But what I did know was that we were heading down, down, down--and that was a good thing. Off the mountain. Finish camping, ditch Clemence, move on.


After a shitty dinner of banana stew at Horombo Hut, crammed onto the end of a table full of Japanese climbers bitching in broken English about not having any boiling water, we hit the sack hard.

The next morning, we hiked 12km to Mandara Hut, most of which I did by myself, at a breakneck pace, rocking out to 24 LCD Soundsystem tracks, dodging porters going up and down, staring out into the crazy extraterrestrial landscapes.

At Mandara, we waited easily 45 minutes for our lunch--french-fry omelettes and steamed vegetables. Huh? I wolfed it down. We pumped some water from a nearby faucet and hit the trail again.

Clemence told us he would catch up. We couldn’t tell what he was doing when he said this--it looked like he was either shitting in a ditch or washing his ass or something. As it turned out, we think he was changing his clothes, awkwardly, in semi-public, since he was wearing different clothes when we saw him later on down the trail.

We flew down the last stretch--partly to stay ahead of/away from Clemence, partly to just finish this thing already.

Clemence tried to stop us occasionally to point out things, to make us think he deserved a better tip, due to his bottomless knowledge, and it reminded me of how he had seemed super intense during our first meeting, surprised that we had not prepared any questions about the local plants, as if he was some kind of insane nature expert. I don’t think he pointed out one fucking thing on the way up. We might as well have been led up the mountain by an auto mechanic. Yet, here he was:

“See that thing on that tree?”

Where? What tree? What thing? We’re in a fucking rainforest, Clemence! You can’t be that vague! Can you give me a color? A shape? An adjective? There is a veritable smorgasbord of vegetation here, for Christ’s sake... Oh? The bee’s nest made out of a log? Yeah, already know all about it, Clemence. They’re all over the place. Thanks for filling us in on some insider-secret. There’s an extra five cents in your tip jar, now leave me alone!

Even if his intentions were more innocent, we just didn’t care. We kept going, sweating our way toward those three ice-cold Kilimanjaro beers and a one-way ticket off the mountain.

Do I regret the adventure? No. It was an irreplaceable experience and the highs, if not more abundant than the lows, made it all worthwhile. Would I have done it differently? Hell yeah. Will I ever do it again? Hell no.

An Open Letter to the Writers of 'The Office (U.S.)'

Your show is a comedy.
Those are the ones with jokes.

Please adjust future scripts accordingly.

--Goodtime Charlie

It certainly seems that way...

But maybe there'll be a devastating failure of the annual carb crop, followed by a government-mandated, one-year-long 'Run for Your Life...for Cancer' and we'll all be saved?

_

Weirdo At Play in the Fields of the Lord

Earlier today, in Los Angeles, my friend and I went to Griffith Park to lay in the sun/shade and read through a script we've been writing.


Despite the fact that we were two guys reading aloud to each other in a park, things were going well. Then we got swarmed by ten-year-olds on their lunch-break, riding out the back-end of a sugar-filled field trip to the nearby Griffith Observatory.

(photo courtesy LA Times)

Whoa! Don't worry--we survived. It didn't get that hairy.
It's amazing how far a box of Nerds can take you, when scattered 'at random' by a professional...

Anyway, after all that hullaballoo ran its course and the bambinos were herded back onto their school buses, emaciated teenagers of both sexes began trotting around in strange matching uniforms, oddly tolerating the unreasonable barks of some overweight, Napoleanic coach sitting in a low-rent camping chair. I overheard him telling those kids the following, as they diligently set up an obscurely-branded 10' x 20' pop-up tent under a tree:

"Alright, alright--let's move this into the shade. Come on! Okay...let's get those waters out there, and the Gatorade. Make sure you put the Gatorade next to the water--no--ON TOP OF the water--but make sure you drink BOTH today, guys. Seriously..."

It was quite distracting--and not in the good way you might be thinking (none of them were hot). By the time we were back in the zone, my buddy had to head off to an inconvenient job assignment. I say that like it was court-mandated or something, but it wasn't. Well...no--it wasn't. That's all I can say. Legally.

Our semi-productive day cut short, we trudged through several feet of sunshine, back to my glistening Lamborghini Countach.

On the way, I couldn't help but notice this:


A totally creepy guy hanging outside his serial-killer-issue van, dancing drunkenly to deafening, shitty country music, in broad daylight, at a high-school cross-country meet, just after a four-bus-load junior-high field trip finished eating their lunch.

ROCK ON, MAN!!!!!!!!

Right?

Wait--or is pedophilia not cool anymore?

__

Who Knew Richard Marx Was So Revered?

I was singing a Richard Marx song in the shower yesterday--Now and Forever, the #1 wedding song of the early '90s--and found myself almost immediately at a loss for lyrics.

Oddly, there was a time when I knew every word to every track on his album Paid Vacation. As hard as that is to admit to people right now, I take solace in the fact that I was merely the victim of a sadly-limited musical exposure.

Despite the fact that my parents came of age in the 1960s-70s, the only CDs in our house were the following:

1. Aretha Franklin's Greatest Hits
2. Cristopher Cross -- self-titled
3. Huey Lewis and the News - Sports
4. Huey Lewis and the News - Fore!
5. Huey Lewis and the News - Small World
6. The Back to the Future soundtrack (with 2 tracks by Huey Lewis)
7. The Beverly Hills Cop II soundtrack
8. Bonnie Raitt - Luck of the Draw
9. A dozen or so classical piano and Christmas CDs my dad would listen to

Notice the lack of even the Beatles and Rolling Stones, much less funk and soul records...

Anyway, I digress. As I searched my memory bank for more lyrics to Now and Forever, I was instead reminded of a story that one of my bosses told me once, at a sushi restaurant in St. Charles, IL (don't worry--I had the beef teriyaki). To protect my boss' identity, let's call him Reinhold.

Reinhold and I, along with maybe a dozen other crew members, were crammed into monastic dorm rooms on the grounds of a former convent, working on some awful Accenture conference for a week and a half, so it was nice to get out on the town, even if that town was St. Charles. After a few tall bottles of Kirin, Reinhold told me that before he got into producing boring conferences, he was a touring lighting designer for various musicians throughout the late '80s and '90s.

I asked him if he had any good stories and he told me one of his favorites.

Reinhold was the head lighting designer on a Richard Marx World Tour when his popularity was at its peak (early '90s?), and their last stop before returning to the United States was in Taipei, at some sort of large arena.

Richard Marx had been a prima donna the whole time, so nobody on the crew was surprised when he didn't turn up on time for the show. As more time passed, however, the packed house started to get riled up, shouting, chanting, screaming, stomping.

"We want Richard! We want Richard!"

The crew all gathered backstage, fearing things might soon turn ugly, to discuss their options if it did. Then Richard Marx's tour manager turned up to inform the crew and the local promoter that Richard was not going to perform because he had a cold.

"But what are we gonna do with this crowd? They're gonna tear this place apart if you go out there right now and say that?!"

The local promoter took to the stage, grabbed the microphone and said to the throng of rabid Richard Marx fans, "Richard Marx will not be performing tonight because he hates the people of Taiwan."

You can imagine their reaction. Ape-shit NUTS.

Reinhold followed some other crew members through a hole in the fence behind the stage, left the madness behind, and headed back to their hotel as the mob no-doubt tore the stadium apart.

The crew members all went to their rooms, hurriedly packed their things, and headed down to the lobby in the elevator. When the doors opened, an angry mob filled the lobby and they found themselves staring down the barrels of a half-dozen AK-47s.

They were all taken hostage and led into a room to be interrogated.

According to Reinhold:
"Luckily, I was able to talk my way out of it and we all headed to the airport. As soon as the plane landed at LAX, we said goodbye and headed our separate ways, since we all lived somewhere in California anyway. Richard had to find a whole new crew to staff his last few tour dates stateside."

Who would have thought a Richard Marx tour could involve such adventure, eh?

I wish I knew what Reinhold said to the guys with the machine guns, but he wouldn't tell me. Said it was a long story--a long story I never got to hear. Hopefully he didn't give away any state secrets...

Jimmy Kimmel is a Talent-Less Hack

As if I didn't already despise Jimmy Kimmel enough--for being a comedian who is not funny, yet broadcast over the airwaves five times a week to millions of zombies across our once-great nation--this just arrived in my email inbox:



Why exactly is he interviewing the cartoon mascot of an insurance company? Has product placement really become so blatant? Have we fallen this far?

Or is it all a dream? Punch me in the face and maybe it'll wake me up.
Or knock me out and I can forget about all this...


_

Reason #146 That I Love Italy

Love Berlusconi or hate him, you gotta love a country with a President that would say this:

“If I sleep for three hours, I still have enough energy to make love for another three,” the newspaper La Repubblica quoted him as telling the younger crowd. “I hope that when you hit 70, you’re in as good shape as I am.”

(source: NYTimes)
_

Amazing What You Can Find Out There...

All I was looking for was a photogenic picture of shit!
(Never found one, by the way...)

120 Days of Sodom

Okay. So I finally watched Pier Paolo Pasolini's Salo, or 120 Days of Sodom, an uber-controversial 1975 film adapted from the Marquis de Sade's equally controversial 18th-century book, The 120 Days of Sodom, or the School of Licentiousness.

How controversial was Salo when it came out? Well, 20 days before the movie was to premiere at the Paris Film Festival, Pasolini was repeatedly run over--with his own automobile--on a beach outside Rome. A 17-year-old hustler confessed to the crime, then recanted 30 years later, saying the safety of his family had been threatened unless he did as he was told.

Although most countries eventually allowed the film to screen--after rating it X and/or cutting footage--Salo is still banned in Australia.

Gotta love the Criterion Collection for putting this out there; it was the 17th film they chose to release (this is the second issue--much improved from the first, I hear, and full of extras).

As in the book--which remained unpublished for 150 years--most of the action in the movie involved homosexuality and shit eating, which is pretty unfortunate when you consider there were nine beautiful young girls (virgins, of course) they could have been having their way with instead. But hey, when it's my 120-day orgy, I guess I can start making the rules...

Overall, I enjoyed the experience--probably more than most people would, since my sensibilities have been continually worn down to nothing over the last...30 years...of action movies, horror movies, porn, Ultimate Fighting Championship, and my own perversely inventive imagination--but it is not without its problems.


From an ideological standpoint, I respect the movie. The transposition from pre-revolution France to the waning days of Fascist Italy definitely adds an interesting political dynamic to a story already rife with social commentary and philosophy generations ahead of Freud, Nietzsche, and the Surrealists. Through his depiction of the victims in the film, Pasolini seems to be saying that the public will always be forced to endure whatever they will tolerate--and that we should feel no sympathy for those people, as they chose their fate by allowing it to happen--is certainly heartless, but not exactly untrue, either. Methinks the scrolls of history seem to agree...

Additionally, the structure of the story is admirable--it ends in the middle of things, leaving the audience wondering how long the cruelties will continue, leaving the fate of the participants unknown, leaving us hanging, making us feel less like an audience watching a story unfold and more like voyeurs watching a sickening reality, and wondering if we should tell somebody about it or just keep watching and see how bad things get.

Will we do anything? Do we ever do anything? Oh, every few hundred years or so, when things get really bad...wait--are we at that point again? Shall we storm the Bastille like old times?

My main complaint about Salo is that I would have liked a little more set-up in the beginning. Who are these guys? Why are they doing this? Why exactly did others lend a hand in capturing beautiful young boys and girls for them? Even something as simple as showing some money change hands would have been enough for me... I think the movie's comment on Fascist Italy, the class system, and consumerism would be much more powerful if the audience were given a little more information at the outset, a little something to chew on while the perversions unfold.

All in all, I would say it is most important that this movie is watched as a work of art, as a philosophical treatise, as a political statement, and not as entertainment. It is not a popcorn movie; it is not a clever, cool art film that makes you want to move to Europe; nor is it pornography, for that matter, if you were so inclined, as the nudity is frequent, but decidedly un-erotic.

So if you've got a head on your shoulders and a stomach for filth, pop it in your VCR and see what you think...

Notes from the Rijksmuseum

"In fact, by the late seventeenth century, piss prophets were no longer considered reliable."

"As the old sing, so the young shall peep."

Best Pitcher Ever goes to Johannes Lencker, for a gilt-silver Merman blowing a conch while balancing on a dolphin's tail, a foxy female hanging around his neck.

During the Golden Age in Holland (1600s), rich people ATE peacocks.

* "For those who are on a diet but who really want to eat something meaty, peacocks are the answer. The fat content of peacock meat is very low, only 0.8 to 1 per cent, while the levels of protein, vitamins, calcium and other microelements are high. The nutritional value of a peacock is much higher than that of fish or snake." --China Star

_

I Wonder What Happened to that Little Ugly Duckling...

www.uglychic.blogspot.com

maybe she turned into a swan?
and has a new job doing red-carpet interviews for E!?

or maybe she died from an overdose of Chunky Monkey

dare to dream, America!

_

Cubs v Sox

I must say tis a shame both the Cubs and Sox had to exit the playoffs this year. A crosstown series would have been a splendid manner by which to end the Cubs' 100-year World Series drought!

I say this not as a baseball fan, but as a sportsman.

Sportsman

_

Back in Action

Goodtime Charlie is once again stateside, so please set aside any worries you might have about our nation's future--it is once again in good hands.

What has happened while I've been away from the controls? Mucho.

The financial system has gone to pot, thanks to all the people not smoking it.

Do I sound like my mom when I say that people who risked their savings in the stock market should not have been gambling what they could not afford to lose? Yes.

According to Forbes, there are 946 billionaires in the world, due to the unrelentingly-bullish (til recently) global markets. What goes up must come down, right? Right.
Why can't each billionaire the shady financial system created just give $1 billion back to it? Oh, wait, I know--they're greedy. That's why we're in this problem in the first place...

Is it all as easy as I make it sound here? Nope.


My favorite living writer, David Foster Wallace, forever tortured by his own overbearing genius and armor-piercing powers of observation, gave up his struggles and hanged himself in Claremont, California.


Admittedly, the news wasn't exactly shocking--anybody who has read his writings realized how profoundly he struggled with the dark side of life--but it was certainly saddening. For those of us who actually read books (sadly, we are few), the next several decades just got much bleaker for the novels, stories, and essays that he will not create for our enjoyment.

On the other hand, as his sister Amy said (I'm paraphrasing here), rather than think about how much time we did not get from him, it is better to think about how much time he did give us, how long he held on to life in the face of a catastrophically acute depression. Imagining a life without his work, since I have now been spoiled by it, simply makes me grateful for every bit of writing he did provide.

It is hard, especially now, not to imagine Wallace as somewhat of a real-life Hal Incandenza, the main character of his masterwork, Infinite Jest-- so unbelievably intelligent that he is eventually unable to communicate with others, who hear his eloquent oratory only as unintelligible screaming. How long can a man tolerate that? Life at the top of the intellectual heap is no doubt lonely, and knowing all that is wrong with the world, but being powerless to fix it, must be paralyzingly frustrating.

Wallace hadn't written anything in over a year, which is mind-boggling to imagine, considering his output in the past. I always used to hope he was spending most of his time locked in a basement somewhere, methodically perfecting another Infinite Jest-like, 1000-page epic, and I know I wasn't the only one.

He was a literary giant and he will be missed.


Paul Newman also died recently. Not as relevant to my life as Wallace--mostly just a face on one of my favorite salad dressings--but I did enjoy his performances in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof and Cool Hand Luke. I'm glad he got to live a long, relatively-healthy, satisfying life, and I feel sorry for his wife of 50 years, Joanne Woodward; that has to be tough. That is all.



In other news, pirates have taken over a ship full of weapons off the coast of Somalia, and are holding it for ransom, currently surrounded by US gunboats.

How could this have happened? I mean, this was not a freighter full of Pampers--it is crammed to the gills with 33 Russian-built tanks, grenade launchers, anti-aircraft guns, ammunition, etc. Could the men onboard not have perhaps used some of their ship's cargo against the surely-outmatched Somali pirates? That might have been a good idea.

According to this article, Kenya--the purchaser of the weapons--refuses to negotiate with pirates or terrorists, and is therefore on the sidelines, waiting for other countries to solve the problem for them. Whether or not Kenya intended to give the tanks to forces in South Sudan--which would violate an agreement they have with the Sudanese government--is up for debate. The curious thing is that nobody in the Kenyan military is even trained to operate a Russian tank, since they buy theirs from us...

[Question: Should the Kenyan government be allowed to keep the cargo if it is salvaged? Or should the tanks be given to coalition forces and used to shell the pirate town of Eyl until all the pirates' SUVs and lawn ornaments are reduced to rubble? Discuss.]

That debate aside, the incident certainly begs the question that if a boatload of armaments is not safe in the water these days, what chance does anybody else have? Answer: Slim.

"Today there are thought to be ten gangs operating around Somalia with as many as 1,000 members. Two years ago there were only about a hundred pirates. Most are based in Puntland, a semi-autonomous region that angles around the Horn. Recent visitors say that the tiny fishing village of Eyl has enjoyed a huge economic boom as the pirates buy luxury 4x4s and build smart new homes. Men with laptops describing themselves as “pirate accountants” come and go and restaurants have opened to cater for more than 200 hostages. In all, 13 ships are under the control of pirates. Two more vessels – a Greek cargo ship and a Hong Kong-flagged vessel – were snatched this week and attacks are reported almost daily."
(from The Times online)

Why has the US Government not carpet-bombed this pirate village yet? They don't seem to have any problem with killing innocent people while 'valiantly' fighting to rid the world of terrorism in every other corner of the world. Maybe the pirates are more valuable as defense-contractor customers? Otherwise, you'd think they could at least stop the flow of luxury SUVs and granite counter tops, just to piss them off...


Enjoy your Tuesday, and stay tuned for tales from Tanzania...

_

Bulletin!

Goodtime Charlie is on assignment in Tanzania until September 28th.
Please act accordingly.


- His Assistant

_

The Not-So-Elusive Serial Killer Demo

Not a day goes by that the unlimited, unforeseen change wrought upon our society by the miraculous World Wide Web is not thrust in our faces while reading...well, anything, be it an online newspaper or a tactile one. Magazines, books, news broadcasts-- everybody's talking about it.

The unavoidable Big Brother potential of this recent, sweeping technological advancement has resulted in the near-realization of the Madmen's wet dream-- targeted advertising. Targeted like never before, tailored to the individual user. No ad space wasted on the wrong audience. Efficiency. Soon. Once we get those pesky privacy laws out of the way!

Well, in the meantime, I hope those sad, overpaid men (and a handful of women, let's be honest) who make all the decisions at the handful of 'cutting-edge' agencies have their hairy ears well-perked. Lean in...closer...

"Serial Killers!!!"


Your ears ringing? I thought so. You know what that sound is? Money. Cascading into your Vietnamese pot-bellied piggy bank, asshole! Until it bursts!

Forget waiting for the imminent information harvesting to begin and jump right in, ahead of everybody, because when you talk about the Internet there are very few certainties.

One of them is that serial killers spend more time on it than anybody else. And as hard as they might be to catch with blood on their hands, it is nowhere near as difficult to guess which websites they visit.

Think of it as the virtual equivalent of Eliot Ness knowing every bar and restaurant Al Capone goes to, where he lives, who he's fucking, what he says on the phone...but Al being too smart to get caught doing anything but evading taxes.

Now, if Mr. Ness had been in advertising, he would have simply hung billboards for cigarettes, booze, prostitutes, cigars, fine clothing, guns, roomy luxury sedans, etc. in all the stalls and booths and bars in all the joints he went to-- and retired on the proceeds.

So, bringing this all back home...if you know half the hits on Hannah Montana's website come from serial killers (which we will never know for sure, but is as good as fact), why not post an ad on the site that says something like this:

"To a good son, every day is Mother's Day...when was the last time you bought her flowers? Call 1-800-FLOWERS now--it's that easy!"

Boom. 500,000 bouquets of long-stem roses are sold. Every day.
(Yes, there are that many. At least.)

Similarly, every radio 'DJ' who creates and posts videos on youtube needs to admit who their audience is. Those pages should be PLASTERED with ads for overalls, workboots, the Jaclyn Smith Collection, poison, Shirley MacLaine biographies, trampy transvestite makeup, Tyler Perry movies, and used conversion vans.

Throw in the elementary ones like Crate & Barrel cookware ads on every page about boiling human brains...hacksaws/garbage bags/duct tape whenever somebody searches for 'human anatomy'...etc...and you see how easy and, more importantly, how lucrative this approach would be!

It just goes to show you, even though most people wouldn't like to admit it, when it comes to the Internet, the only sure things are porn and serial killers.

Write it down.
_


btw--everyone with an avatar on this site is a serial killer. see how many there are? and there are a lot more sites just as scary. like this one, for example (if you read the comments at the bottom).

WOW...

I was trolling the web today, looking up fax numbers for various entertainment industry, for an obscure, boring, work-related reason, and stumbled upon this amazing picture/article:


Trust me--you NEED to follow this link:

http://freerepublic.com/focus/f-news/892257/posts


Boy...they really showed her, huh?!

It's funny to think that anyone could have been so confident the second Iraq 'War' was ever going well, much less many people--many irate, smug assholes. Hmm...maybe it makes more sense than I thought...

I mean, I remember the infamously expensive Mission Accomplished PR-stunt, but even then I don't think anybody could have said the war 'went well.' People died--lots of people (mostly brown ones, though). People lied--lots of people (but they had good reasons for it...top secret ones...). And there was no plan for reconstruction.

The funny thing is that the administration, especially Karl Rove, regrets their awesome banner more than anything. They don't regret the sentiment behind it, the misplaced bravado, the text of his speech,, the $1,000,000+ spent to stage an unnecessary jet landing photo-op, or the war itself.

Why not? Because dumb people don't listen to what the President actually says, or follow stories long enough to realize the administration is full of shit and constantly catches itself in its own web of lies--but they CAN read a simple sign and then scratch their heads when bodies keep piling up.

And that's the kind of shit that can lose an election...

I don't give a candied fig where the frig your apple's been...

Something has been bothering me for a long time now.
Only one thing.
The fact that a certain kind of person (the Ned Flanders of the world, be they religious or otherwise) believes replacing a 'bad' word/phrase with a similar word/phrase renders is harmless.

Example:

"Where the frig is my friggin' G.I.Joe guy?"

I ask you, how is this any different than:

"Where the fuck is my fuckin' G.I. Joe guy?"

Is it not the intent that counts? Don't impressionable children react more to vocal tone and body language than to brass-tack semantics?

My own mother, whom I don't think has ever said a 'bad' word in her entire life, uses this word (frig/friggin) on occasion. More importantly, though, she and my father (who has uttered the occasional 'bad' word in my presence, though rarely in my mother's) allow my siblings to use this word, and many others like it, in their presence.

Whereas 'bad' words were never allowed. And yes, I did have my mouth washed out with soap once. And for those of you keeping track, when my younger brother said the exact same thing a few years later, the same punishment was unfairly not visited upon him. But I digress...

Keep in mind this is the same mother who taught me that "it's the thought that counts."

The same mother who taught me that results were not half as important as your intent.

Example:

Me: "Why am I being punished when I didn't kill him? He didn't even eat the poisoned Cheerios!"
Her: "But you wanted him to--you intended for him to die, and that is why you are sitting in the corner and will be grounded until college."

But the blame is not to rest solely on her shoulders. This odd, hypocritical situation exists because of the Western World's strange and continued adhesion to woefully-uncool Puritanical values. Certain words are deemed 'bad' and those are not to be uttered. Every other word, no matter how similar, is okay. Right and wrong. Black and white. Nonsensical.

As nonsensical as a religion that desires its flock to be fruitful and multiply, yet grossly restricts sexual activity. As nonsensical as a religion that celebrates the beauty of God's labors, yet forbids the appreciation of (non-religious) nude imagery.


"Go fly a kite!" = "Go fuck yourself!"
"Go suck an egg!" = "Go fuck yourself!"
"Go jump in a lake!" = "Go fuck yourself!"
"I don't give a hoot!" = "I don't give a shit!"
"I don't give a flying fig..." = "I don't give a flying fuck..."
"What the 'H' is going on?" = "What the hell is going on?"
"Goshdarnit!" = "Goddamnit!"
"Flippin" = "Fuckin"

I could go on forever. But I won't.
(at least not out loud)

These translations are widely known--in fact, that is the only reason these odd new phrases EXIST--to replace phrases people feel they cannot say.

So...at what point do these replacement phrases attain the same accursed value as the forbidden ones?

One would think immediately, but the correct answer is: never!

It's just easier that way. We are a nation ruled by hypocrites--why should this be surprising?

the fragile flower of youth

a beautiful young woman
is a precarious treasure
each passing day
her own worst enemy

_

Thought of the Day

It's always great, until it's bad.

Flyer's Chocolate

If you are a meth addict living in the Los Angeles area, you can make $900 by participating in a study of the drug's effects on the human brain.

Who would be crazy enough to participate in this study?

A meth head, that's who.

It would take a lot of powder-courage to waltz into a hospital--now more than ever a territory ruled by 'the man'--and admit to serial illegal drug abuse. It would not be hard for an enterprising police officer to simply follow all these subjects out of the hospital and bust them five minutes later, after they smoke rock in their car, the bathroom at Burger King, on their back porch, etc.

Risky. But $900 buys a hell of a lot of meth...

What is more interesting about this offer, as usual, is the moral question.

Meth is legendarily-addictive--shouldn't we be protecting these hopeless addicts from themselves, helping them to kick the habit, however difficult that may be? Instead, they are oddly rewarded for their gross misstep with a $900 payment.

Where do you think that $900 is going to be spent, in most cases?

I'll give you a hint--it won't be used to purchase baby formula or make the car payment. The baby lies motionless and stiff in its crib, forgotten, and the car was repossessed months ago.

Not only that, but I wager somebody out there in radioland heard the same commercial I did and had one of those once-in-a-lifetime, lightning-bolt ideas-- to start smoking/injecting meth, in order to participate in the study, thereby paying the rent. You know somebody did. Lord knows there are more than enough half-wits out there...

And so the study is now doubly questionable--rewarding and creating meth addicts, supplying them all with a cash infusion to purchase more meth.

I bet if I asked one of the doctors running the study, he/she would argue that if there were no lucrative payment, there would be no subjects. And without meth-brains to study, he/she would not be able to help...cure meth brain.

I bet if I asked the smartest doctor working on the study, he/she would turn from the cat scan machine, shrug his or her shoulders, and coolly say to me:

"Hey, it's better than having them running around stealing."

And he/she would be right. Nothing like a dose of realism.


Meth fact of the day, courtesy wikipedia.org:

"One of the earliest uses of methamphetamine was during World War II when the German military dispensed it under the trade name Pervitin. It was widely distributed across rank and division, from elite forces to tank crews and aircraft personnel. Chocolates dosed with methamphetamine were known as Fliegerschokolade ("flyer's chocolate") when given to pilots, or Panzerschokolade ("tanker's chocolate") when given to tank crews. From 1942 until his death in 1945, Adolf Hitler was given frequent intravenous injections of methamphetamine by his personal physician, Theodor Morell as a treatment for depression and fatigue. It is possible that it was used to treat Hitler's speculated Parkinson's disease, or that his Parkinson-like symptoms which developed from 1940 onwards were related to use of methamphetamine."

The Degradation of Language, the Decline of an Empire

With the appalling lack of interpersonal communication between people younger than age 22 or so, the explosion of text-based cellular and internet communication--each complete with its own dialect--along with the growing prevalence of Spanish and other 'invasive' languages, and the long-gestating plague of literature-aversion, it should come as no surprise to you that English is firmly on the downslope of prominence; we are now slowly sliding down the backside of a bell-curve, much like the once almighty Dollar. Not that language is tied to the dollar, but, in this instance, the debilitating cracks in each institution can be traced back to the same source: Greed.

America during its heyday was little more than a giant, relentless steam engine, fueled by the combustion of millions of impoverished dreamseekers. Cheap labor, plentiful resources, no rules except the ones we make and the ones we break. Heroes abounded. Possibilities were limitless. A ripe chance for utopia, but man cannot protect himself from himself. It is his fatal weakness.


We Americans started out with plenty of space to flex the old muscles, plenty of opportunity to start things over, and plenty of grand ideas. We exploded onto the world stage as the most feared and loved nation on Earth. As Machiavelli predicted, we have had it well for quite some time now as a result.

But it is easy to become gluttonous.

That sentence is acceptable now, in published material, whereas I was marked down for opening a sentence with 'but' in school. Colloquialisms are now in the dictionary. Symbols are acceptable substitutes for letters. Abbreviations are the norm. Few read books. People meet their spouses via computers.

Why? Because we are too busy. Too busy to call somebody, so we'll just text them, or check their Facebook status to see whether they had any stated plans that evening. Too busy to write complete words when we do.

Why are we so busy? Because Americans now are working longer hours than their fathers, for less money and less benefits. The '50s dream of a computer-aided 10-hour work week have been vaporized by the computer-aided 70-hour work week. There's more money in that, it turns out.

When is there ever enough, when there's always more? More money to be made, more beauties to ravish, more enemies to destroy, more newcomers swiping at that luscious pie on the windowsill, or at least wanting to, waiting to. A smart giant chooses his battles carefully, however, and does not try to destroy everything and everybody else--he fools them into thinking they are in a great position, in control.

Today France is wealthy, powerful, and one of the most prideful countries in the world, despite the fact that their heyday is long-since buried. This is so only because we allowed it. We learned from our study of the Romans that it is far too difficult to unify and govern far-flung territories; it is much better to let them take care of themselves, provided they remain an ally, let us trade with them, and rubber stamp all of our decisions with regard to global policy.

Besides, if we destroyed France, where would we vacation? DisneyFrance comes complete with an Eiffel Tower, a French Quarter, crepes, baguettes, all the stockinged legs you could shake a stick at, and a nation of voluntary servants at every luxurious resort, restaurant, bar, and brothel. We had to bring our own Starbucks, though. And Burger King. And KFC. And Coca-Cola. And Wrigley's Gum. And MTV. And movies. And music. Nothing like a taste of home.

The Romans used swords and spears; we Americans wielded our culture as a weapon, and the world wept at our feet. Oh, sure, we had military might as well, but not so much that we could have coated the globe and, even if we had, it's difficult, costly, and time-consuming to take over your enemies/allies with guns--a sneak attack is far more subtle and strategic.

The world was ours because we allowed the other nations to operate under the impression they were autonomous, when in fact we pulled the strings. They appeased us, we gave them money. They gave us money, we gave them our goods. We acted, our enemies reacted as planned. The populace elected a ruler we didn't like, we funded guerrilla armies to place a more 'likable' candidate in office. That candidate got a little power hungry, we made him disappear.

This method of world domination was extremely successful in building the United States as the most powerful empire in history. Yet here we are today with few allies, more enemies, a trade deficit, declining real wages, pervasive ignorance, an artistic vacuum, a marketplace ruled by teenagers, a fractured language, a fragile and obese population, a dwindling army occupied on two fronts...our poisonous culture has proved too effective a weapon; it has even destroyed its creator.

The Roman Empire crumbled because it got too big for its britches, and to think America is any different is dishonest--we have over-stayed our welcome in the Imperial Lavatory, as had the Greeks before them, the Ottomans, Spanish, British, and French after them.

Although our method was unique, the result is the same--our reach has become too vast, our enemies too numerous, our greed too compromising, our citizens too wealthy, obese, clueless, and soft. We are the prized hog at the county fair, and every passerby drools in anticipation of our demise.

The question remains--did we stink it up a bit too much in here for the others?

Most intelligent Americans get their news from comedians. So do kids, if they get it at all. Children play video games instead of sports. Junk food is their food. They speak however they like, like. They don't shun the establishment--they ignore it completely, except when they listen to and watch the made-for-the-masses politico-corporate brainwashing drivel that fills our radio stations and our cinemas. They have no time or desire to work to find better material and so they unwittingly buy into the scatterbrained propaganda of the ruling class.

Parents let their kids read whatever they want to read and do whatever they want to do. Parents yell and scream a lot, but eventually surrender. Parents watch Two and a Half Men instead of the news. Parents eat and drink and smoke and drug their problems away. Parents have to pay their slaves these days, and pay their servants even more. Parents buy a lavishly-advertised image and receive a flimsy product produced by slave-wage drones half a world away. Parents abhor the behavior of their offspring. Parents are aware that things are changing and fight it, which only makes it worse.

Arnold Schwarzennegger is the governor of California. We market video games to grown men and music and books to teenage girls. There are more lawyers than farmers. We spend more than we earn. The most successful movies are based on comic books, teen fiction, and defunct television shows. To compare our Presidents to Emperors, especially these days, is hardly a stretch. The Romans used democracy as an ingenious smokescreen, while increasing the power of the oligarchy; so do we.


Like Latin and French, English has had a spell as lingua franca. What's next? Mandarin? Cantonese? Hindi? How long will it be before English is no longer the official language of our own country, replaced by the dialect of peasants, as Latin fell victim to Italian? Or will we speak Spanish? Hindi? Will English one day become a quaint ancestral language, maintained only in the homes of the poisonously-conservative bourgeoisie?

Like a rocket with an empty booster, our acceleration has ceased; we are now powerless as to our fate. We will exit gracefully, I hope, as Italy and France before us. We will concentrate our efforts on more important things than warfare and mass-production. We will learn to make the perfect cappuccino, bake the perfect loaf of bread, cook the perfect meal, tailor the perfect clothes, cultivate the perfect wine, develop an interest in philosophy, and talk ourselves to death in a cafe off the square, as our currency plummets and other countries fight each other.

It's the political equivalent of a retirement home.

Well, who is waiting in the wings, willing to duke it out for the top spot? Who will we Americans have the pleasure to serve in our boutiques, cafes, galleries, and brothels? Will China have a go of it? India? The E.U?

They still have time, mind you--plenty of time. Our demise will not be sudden. There are still people in the world who are able to speak Latin, and French clearly isn't going anywhere anytime soon. Just as the Roman Empire survived the sack of Rome by moving the capital to Istanbul, where it carried on for 900 more years, our fall will be cushioned by centuries of mediocrity and flattery. Our son, as it were, has granted us the privilege of dying in solitude, while preparing to take the reins.

But what sort of playground will this new power acquire? How long will their tenure last before mankind is plunged into darkness and barbarism once more? A fitting final act for the comedy that would make anyone smile.

The Earth is ill. Pollution of the air, land, and sea. Overextraction of resources. Eradication of flora and fauna. Destruction of the ozone. Unpredictable, severe weather. Catastrophic overpopulation.

We will milk this beast to death, by Jove! And why not--that's what it's there for! There's plenty more where that came from, and if there's not, then you should have gotten there first! It was delicious!


The Earth will recover, as it always has, but that will be long after man brings about its own demise. So who cares that when my nephew is my age he will watch a rapper or valley girl deliver the news, in their underwear, in ten-second bursts on his phone? Who cares that he might never read a book from start to finish? Who cares that he might have sex exclusively virtually? Who cares that he might have sex with a thousand women? Who cares that at some point he might have a microchip implanted in his body? Who cares that in his lifetime we will run out of oil? Who cares that he might see nations go to war over drinking water?

Nobody cares, because we have all given up, given in to the idea that we just want to lay around an eat and drink and fornicate while somebody else does all the work for a change. We let ourselves be ruled by power-hungry lunatics, who unwittingly cultivate our ruin. We have accepted our demise, even if we are not all yet aware of it. We work toward our demise each day, because it's easier than constantly striving for better. We eat another donut instead of the dangling carrot, because it tastes better. We nap, rather than fight.

Don't get me wrong--I am not some crazed Conservative aiming to right the ship and fight to keep America on top. Nor am I a wacky Liberal who is naive enough to think the crazy train can be turned around. On the contrary, I simply enjoy watching fate take its course, watching this comedy unfold. After all, I have a pretty good seat, and as long as the wine keeps flowing, I'll die with my eyes open and a smile on my face, wishing I could stay until the end.