Manhattan Offender

Yelle? Hell yeah!

Jay Leno: Idiot or asshole?

Jay Leno has never appealed to me.  What demographic watches him to create enough of a sustainable audience is a mystery.  The guess is that he's of that baby-boom grouping wherein the sheer quantity of generational members made it so that talent was squeezed out by those with the right combination of tenacity and milquetostity. 

Not having watched The Tonight Show, I was unaware that Leno is often called out for being a bit of a homophobe as well.  What type of homophobe?  Well, there are the religious zealots that keep the homos down out of, well, I've never really figured out what their deal is.  Then there are the idiots that simply spout bullshit.  And there are also the assholes that give their gay gripes because they find it to be an easy joke to point out someone different from themselves.  Leno doesn't give a religious vibe, so he's either an idiot or an asshole.  Maybe both?

Regardless, his recent interview with Ryan Phillipe (see it post-jump) has the gays riled up.  Some, less lazy than myself, have started a website, My Gayest Look.  The premise is to have viewers give Leno something he requested of Phillipe, their gayest look which, invariably and often creatively, includes flipping Leno off.  Leno is a minor player in the homophobe pantheon, but the site is concise in its message:  Fuck off Leno, you idiot/asshole.

(Thanks to EP for the link (via Facebook).  Why did your blog end?  It was one of the best ever.)

Echoes of things that you said

"Hey, you."
"What?"
"I said, 'Hey, you'."
"Yeah, okay.  I got that, but who are you?"
"I'm that voice that talks to you when you're sort of bouncing around in your own head."
"The one that isn't the cat."
"Interesting that you named her Sybil, by the way, but yeah, not the cat."
"Okay, so, like, what?"
"It's time, scrabble-ass."
"Hammer Time?"
"Don't be an ass."
"I'm not being an ass.  I love Hammer Time."
"No.  You don't.  It's representative of the beginning of an era of overproduced schlock."
"Okay, busted."
"Look.  It's time to start writing again."
"Writing.  Hm."
"Yeah."
"About what?"
"Since when have you needed an about?"
"Fuck off!  There's always been an about.  A need to communicate my unique ..."
"Cut the shit.  You write because you enjoy it."
"Well, I sort of stopped enjoying it."
"You were distracted."
"And there was that stay in that 'facility'."
"Don't try."
"Try what?"
"Try to make it sound like you were in rehab."
"Okay, so I was in the hospital.  It was just four days."
"Exactly.  And it shook you a little."
"True."
"But you're okay now."
"Yeah, apparently."
"And you're back to the gym.  You're back to socializing.  You're back to working incredibly long hours.  It's time to get back to writing."
"It is, isn't it?"
"Yeah."
"But it needs to be different now.  More impulsive.  Mix it up a little."
"Agreed."
"And can it sometimes just be some links to stuff I found?"
"Why not?"
"But what if nobody reads it?"
"Fuck 'em."
"Literally!"
"Ha!"
"Exactly!"
"Exactly."
"Okay then.  What should I write about?"
"Don't ask me.  I'm just one of the voices inside your head."
"Thus the title of this post.  Do you think people will get it?"
"Those that do, will.  The rest?  Fuck 'em!"
"Literally!"
"Heh.  Yeah.  Literally."

Bill Clinton gives great advice

Barrack Obama's secret future is in the stars

Typically when Barrack Obama is on the television screen, he's explaining and motivating and presidenting.  So it was a surprise to see him checking the bypass valve of the matter/antimatter reaction thingie.  Upon further inspection though, the certain facial features were a little off, but it's close enough for me.

Barrack Obama will live until 2268 under the pseudonym John B. Watkins.  His death will be from a tragic cellular disruption.  (Which is redundant since all cellular disruptions are tragic, are they not?)  Hillary Clinton will claim that his inability to survive the attack is further proof that she should be president of the United Federation of Planets.

1001 posts?

The previous post was my 1000th.  It seems that I may have wasted it.  Or not.

The store is disinteresting until 2010?

The ad inserts in the Times never seem to pique my interest.  Following are the headlines from today's advertisements:

• Print for less!
• Chick it out:  Easter is March 23!
• Pak a pak:  Vitapaks - Another simply healthy idea from GNC!
• $99 Eyeglasses or RX sunglasses
• Celebrate Lobsterfest
• Everyone knows an Oreck traps 99.9% of microbes.  But then what?
• Turn your 1040 into Sony HD.
• Free Fisher-Price toy
• Score hot deals at your nearby RadioShack!
• 40% off entire stock baskets
• We'll get you ready to roll!
• Storewide:  No interest until 2010

Couples use placemarking ability to keep the singles down

Look, I'm in the line ahead of you at the Bakeway coffee shop.  The fact that it is taking a while for the counter lady some time to find a new half-and-half for my iced coffee is not my fault.  Sending your chubby girlfriend ahead to sieze the last remaining table is unjust.  That table is rightfully mine.  I could easily jump away from the line and plunk down my Times on the table.  If need be I'd tackle your porcine princess.

I won't though.  I'll accept my second-class status as a single.  You win, this time.

Ferraro was a very, very lucky broad

"If Ferraro was a white man, she would not be in this position. And if she was a man she would not be in this position. She happens to be very lucky to be who she is. And the country is caught up in the concept."

In 1984, the above could have been easily said of the Congresswoman from New York elevated to the Vice Presidential nomination. And Ferraro would have made sure the person saying woke up with a horse's head in their bed.

And you wait for the G train

And you wait for the G train
within a sea of black clothes
milling as they wait too.

Those scotches are piss now
convincing your bladder to break free
while that slice in the belly sinks lower.

You remember details of an evening:
Jen brought her rabbit and you sucked Vito's thumb and
my god but Michael knows everybody.

That copy of the New Yorker is exhausted
as you just don't care about Trillin's take
of this or that murder on Long Island.

The number of a car service burns through
from your phone to your hip, but
after thirty minutes you'll stay, out of spite.

And you wait for the G train
brain sober, feet tired, patience gone.
And then the fucking thing comes.