Bloggy McBloggerson

Golden Smog: Los Angeles at a glance

Mon, 07 Mar 2011 00:50:00 GMT

I preface this with the wise words of Sam Elliott’s character in “The Big Lebowski”:

“They call Los Angeles the city of angels. I didn’t find it to be that exactly. Although I’ll allow there are some nice folks there.”

That is, I’m enjoying my new city, and I’m just poking fun here. It’s not like I haven’t rhapsodized on the same kinds of idiosyncrasies you’ll find in the South.

With that said:

1) Everything you’ve heard about L.A. traffic is true. But the parking situation is far worse.

I avoid the interstate at all costs, so I don’t fear rush hour. Traffic is merely a nuisance that bubbles up only occasionally -- kinda like it does on home-football weekends in Columbia, S.C.

It’s the lack of parking that gets you. Unlike pretty much anywhere in the South, you can rarely hope to simply drive up to an L.A. restaurant that actually has its own parking lot. Even if you’re lucky enough to find one, it’s going to be valet-only. There might be 20 open parking spaces, 10 feet from you, but you still have to surrender your keys. And your cash.

Fortunately, at least in downtown Culver City, garage parking is free for the first two hours. But you still have to walk five blocks to your destination.

I'm spoiled and lazy.

2) The “other USC” isn’t as obscure here as you might think.

I get the occasional shoutout when I wear my Gamecocks gear, which is always a thrill.

More often, however, I get awkward glances. And then I realize that, to most people, “Cocks” is not shorthand for a school mascot.

3) For most Los Angeleans, seeing a 70-pound snow dog is akin to witnessing an alien landing.

L.A. might be the most pet-friendly place on the planet, which is good for our husky-and-two-cat household. But “pet ownership” out here really means one thing: “I have a Chihuahua.” Likely a yippy one that fits easily into a back pocket.

So whenever I take Malia out and about, it’s like I’m a freaking rock star. Megan Fox could be walking by, but all the attention will be squarely on my dog -- who, it must be said, is strikingly pretty.

“Oh my God, what a beauty!” “Simply stunning.” “May I please pet your dog?” “Can I have an autograph?” “What zoo is she from?”

Malia is far more likely to get discovered out here than I am.

4) Manners are out.

“Please,” “Thank you” and “I’m sorry” are rarely heard here. Either there isn’t enough time in people’s day, or perhaps they don’t speak very good English. If it’s the latter, then I cut folks some slack.

It’s likely more of a big-city thing than an L.A.-centric problem, but even when I lived in New York, I’d get an occasional “Pardon me.” It would be gruff, almost unintelligible, and might be preceded by spittle in your face … yet they’d at least utter the sentiment.

But if you were hoping for an apology from the woman who cut in front of you at the Ralphs in downtown Culver, you can forget it. She has more important things to get to, like an audition, or the milk aisle.

5) Finding central heating and air out here is as difficult as finding a fully functioning hair follicle on my head.

“Sunny California” my white Irish ass. The day after I got here in mid-December, it rained for two weeks straight, and we’ve continued to have intermittent clouds ever since.

And, like anywhere else in the country, it’s cold in winter. We ain’t on the equator.

People have told me one of two things:

-- This is so unusual! We’ve met our “bad weather” quota for the year.

Or …

-- Thanks a lot for bringing your shitty East Coast weather with you, pal.

If places of business here have central heating-A/C, then they don’t know how to use it. All you’ll find are heat lamps because, ironically, the weather is so “nice” that most people eat outside.

None of the apartments I investigated had ever even heard of central air. I might just as well have asked them if they allowed pet tigers, witchcraft and visitor parking.

Living quarters simply come equipped with shutter units and fireplaces, and every landlord says the same thing: “Just use your windows.”

Obviously they’re not familiar with Antoine Dodson and family.

6) L.A. radio stations love Social Distortion.

Like, a lot. Guess it’s not all that surprising, since they’re from Orange County. Still, the quintessential L.A. band to me is Guns N’ Roses.

I like Social D, but I’m guessing I’m going to hate them pretty soon.

But it could be worse. No station appears to be constantly piping L.A.’s second-biggest musical export.

To paraphrase the Dude: “It’s been a long night, and I hate the f****** Red Hot Chili Peppers!”

7) Despite the craziness, Los Angeles is a gorgeous place.

Idyllic and relaxing, yet simultaneously hip and cosmopolitan, the town has it all. You can tour without feeling like a tourist, and as a foodie destination it’s among the top of the heap. Most neighborhoods are approachable and walkable, and you’ll never lack for something to do.

Plus, I’d be lying if I said the celebrity factor wasn’t a draw. It’s fun to get star-struck. Already I’ve sighted a handful of TV actors, plus William effing Shatner.

And if I should happen to bump into Kristen Bell or Natalie Portman, then you can forget I ever said a mean word about the place.

Looking California, Feeling Soda City

Wed, 24 Nov 2010 22:24:40 GMT

Big news from the Young household, friends!

No, I'm not pregnant. But Shelley and I are taking a big step nonetheless.

Last week, I accepted a job in Los Angeles, as a copy chief at FOXSports.com. Very soon, the Left Coast will be our new home! And yes ... we'll be near the In-N-Out Burger.

My first day on the job is less than a month away. I'll be flying out of Columbia on Dec. 16.

We are by turns excited, overwhelmed and a little scared, just like after a viewing of "The Deathly Hallows." We can't wait to start this new adventure together.

But it will be an incredibly emotional uprooting for us. We've basically called South Carolina home our entire lives, and Columbia has grown on me like the prettiest rash you ever saw. Shelley--who cried at the Super Bowl, the Academy Awards and the finale of "Battlestar Galactica"--will add several feet to the Congaree River with her tears.

Still, Columbia (and Georgetown, Charleston, Irmo, Myrtle Beach and Pawleys Island) will always be in our hearts, and we will be claiming our new digs in the name of the Tigers and the Gamecocks (my flag will be much bigger, of course).

I'm excited about the job, and I'm also excited about sharing the same area code again with Ronnie Cleland, my erstwhile drummer and longtime friend. In fact, I'll be crashing at his place the first week or so--just like old times. Except rent in Los Angeles is a little higher than it was in Olympia.

We'll also be sharing a time zone with James Touzel, Pete Johnson and many other S.C. friends who have headed west to find their fortunes. I can't wait to take a ride up the California coast to see them all.

In the meantime, Shelley and I will be renting our two homes, so if you know of anyone in need of a nice house in Rosewood or a spacious basement for band practice, do let us know. Also, anyone in need of a well-preserved pool table or a gently used Ford Ranger pickup?

This week also marks my final two rock shows in Columbia. I'm playing tonight (Wednesday, Nov. 24) at Delaney's, a bar so good to me over the years that I wish I could pack it up and take it with me.

And then I'm playing with The Open Fires for the last time (I won't say "ever") on Saturday, Nov. 27, at Art Bar, another venue of which I have many fond, if hazy, Jager-drenched memories. We'll open up for the mighty Magnetic Flowers. And friends, I can't think of a better way to go out than that.

I'm hoping to hang with each of you before I leave on Dec. 16. Shelley will remain in Columbia for a few weeks after that to take care of last-minute details before she leaves for good sometime in January. I know she'd love to see your friendly faces while I'm gone.

Just remember: You can take the boy out of the country, but you can't make him drink unsweetened iced tea.

Marriage (and OCD?) for all Americans

Tue, 24 Aug 2010 18:06:55 GMT

As a newly minted husband, I accept that I’ve got a lot to learn. In fact, my wife keeps a list.

She keeps several, actually, but I don’t mind. And I’ll even let you in on a little secret--I love being married.

As you’d expect, this has a lot to do with the fact that Shelley and I love each other very much.

But for me, it's not just about love. It's not just about partnership, either, though I’m positively thrilled to have found such an exceptional one.

It’s also about structure.

I suffer from a mild but at times unnerving case of OCD, and like any obsessive-compulsive who’s worth his neatly categorized salt packages, I need structure. Scratch that, I crave it. I lust after it. I can’t really operate without it.

Of course I’m human and I need to be loved, as the man says. But part of what loving someone with my condition entails is the desire to provide balance and, above all, order.

It’s not just a one-way street, obviously. So given, I must give back.

But I also need to know that I’m with a person who will make sure I turned the oven off--someone who will reassure me that I locked the deadbolt, set my alarm clock properly, washed my hands the right amount of times and with the right brand of soap.

Basically I need someone who isn’t afraid to double-check my work. The only way I can achieve any kind of balance is through structure.

And save for the prison system, there is no institution more structured than matrimony, which is why the two are so often mentioned in the same breath.

OCD isn’t a huge impediment in my life, but it easily could be, and I’m lucky to have found someone who can put up with my quirks. Moreover, I’d venture that tolerance--a kind of shorthand for “putting up with quirks”--is an integral part of the formula for a successful marriage.

But however elusive marital bliss might be for an obsessive-compulsive, there is a group of Americans for whom it remains essentially unattainable at present, thanks to what some governments deem as disqualifying “quirks.”

Little wonder that if intolerance keeps many heterosexual couples from a happy marriage, so, too, does it deny gay and lesbian couples the same.

It’s important to keep this in perspective (oddly a side effect of OCD). Whether you’re Democrat or Republican, Tea Partier or Maddow fan, dog lover or cat person, the discrimination and persecution homosexual couples face--in 2010--ought to trouble you, because you are also an American.

To me, gay marriage--along with the overturning of “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell”--is the great civil rights struggle of my generation, as segregation was for my forebears. This is not to say, by any stretch, that we’ve stamped out all discrimination based on skin color, or that race relations have been healed (though if you believe Dr. Laura, the election of President Obama should have solved everything).

But there’s no denying that progress--slow, painful and incremental--has been made in those arenas, enough for me to remain optimistic that by the time my children have children, racial bigotry will be relegated to the outermost fringes of the social and political galaxy.

After all, the Dr. Lauras of this world are only getting older, grayer and crustier.

Gays and lesbians, however, have yet to realize many of the legal and social gains that other minorities have achieved over the past decades.

Indeed, the stigma of even being attracted to someone of the same sex doesn’t seem to have weakened very much during my 30 years, which partly accounts for the ridiculous holdup in tearing down the ban on openly gay troops in the military.

Even dimmer seems the prospect of gay couples actually gaining the full and unencumbered right to marry anytime soon.

Opponents of gay marriage wring their hands over the implosion of the “traditional” institution of wedlock, a position that has never been fully explained to me.

If the past half-century has taught us nothing else, it’s that the “traditional” institution of wedlock is already dead, or at least on life support.

There are healthy marriages, sure. I hope mine is. I hope yours is.

But broken homes and third wives are so common now that we might just as well worry what gay marriage will do to our “new tradition” of visiting multiple stepfathers on Christmas Day.

And the great irony is that heterosexuals, not gays, are pretty much solely responsible for this (being that they are the only ones with the right to wed and, therefore, the extrapolated right to eff it up).

Whatever statistics you choose to cite, the “traditional” concept of marriage is taking on water. The only truth for me is that, gay or straight, people are people and we all lie, cheat and steal from time to time.

This will sometimes lead to divorce, no matter whom you prefer to sleep with.

Marriage between a man and a woman is a good thing. But it’s not the only thing. The ceremony itself holds different meaning for different people, but at its heart, the tradition is little more than a legal and protective arrangement.

Denying that ceremonial experience to a segment of Americans is presumptuous and unconscionable; denying the legal framework is unconstitutional.

But let’s assume, for a moment, that marriage between a man and a woman is a sacrosanct, exclusive and immutable privilege--and that rumors of its demise have been greatly exaggerated. By extending to homosexuals this privilege, what exactly is it that opponents worry will happen?

Will gays start protesting “traditional” marriages? Will lesbian couples start infiltrating soccer carpools and book clubs to evangelize their lifestyle?

Will homosexuals rappel down the sides of churches and other houses of worship, smash through the stained-glass windows, take the children hostages and water-board them until they renounce heterosexuality?

Of course not.

It is not the aim of gay men and women to prosthelytize their sexual preferences. All of us derive carnal pleasure from one part of the human body or another. That gays happen to prefer the anatomy and, maybe more importantly, the company of one gender over the other is the thinnest of excuses for discrimination and does not constitute a reason for denial of basic rights.

Gay men and women seek only the ability to marry the people they love. To pretend otherwise is nonsense. If homosexual weddings are legalized, the only institution that will see meaningful change is the stock market, as the business of getting married opens up to all.

The only inconvenience for us heterosexuals? More wedding registries to sign up for.

And if the “it’s-always-been-done-this-way” stance is unconvincing, those who would use religion as an excuse to thwart the gay-rights movement are on even flimsier ground.

Homosexuality is an abomination, for the Bible tells me so? Those who’ve been taught to believe this ought to at least skim the Book of Leviticus. Got a tattoo? That’s forbidden. Eat shellfish? Also an “abomination.” Like bacon? Makes you unclean. Have an adulterous wife? Sorry, you’ll have to put her to death. And let’s not even get into passages about chattel and slavery.

Even if you do believe “being gay” is a sin, there’s no reason to think it’s any worse of an offense in God’s eyes than judging someone before He does.

The Bible is a teaching tool, and we are meant to derive lessons from it. There are some pretty good ones in there. But those who take the book literally do so at their peril. It’s been used to justify any number of wrongheaded ideas over the centuries, and I submit that impeding gay marriage is just one in a very, very long list.

But I hope my gay brothers and sisters will take heart. Why?

Because, as with all previous and difficult civil rights struggles, there eventually come to be enough like-minded people voting among the majority to ensure that the rights of the minority are codified and protected.

Those who are uncomfortable with the notion of gay rights need to understand that they are on the wrong side of history. And those who exhibit open hostility toward gays should know that, in the coming years, their antagonism will be looked upon by future generations in the same way that most of us now look upon supporters of segregation and Jim Crow.

The full legalization of gay marriage is inevitable. The long, twisted, potholed path to justice will eventually see to that.

It is only a matter of time.

Alvin and the Chumpmunks

Fri, 11 Jun 2010 20:35:00 GMT

Yes, Alvin Greene's victory in the S.C. Democratic primary for U.S. Senate is embarrassing. But if you ask me, it's much ado about nothing. It doesn't really matter in the end.

Does anyone think Vic Rawl, his opponent in the primary, could have beaten Republican incumbent Jim DeMint in November anyway? Not in this state.

From that standpoint, the media's lapse in coverage (of both Greene and Rawl) was understandable and maybe even forgivable.

As for how a candidate with no fundraising apparatus, name recognition or even a website garnered a major-party nomination, I think "conspiracy" is a little far-fetched. I suppose it's possible the GOP planted Greene on the ballot, but that seems like an awfully risky move for Republicans in a contest that DeMint will handily win anyway.

The truth is likely far more mundane and sobering: Greene probably won because his name came first on the ballot.

Yes, his victory is an indictment of S.C. voters: Other than Greene and his mother, who in good conscience would vote for this guy? Apparently, a lot of people in this insane state would.

But the win is also an indictment of a spectacularly terrible campaign run by Greene's opponent. I was no more surprised to see Greene's name on my ballot than Rawl's, and because I knew nothing about either man, I left that box unchecked.

Who the hell is Alvin Greene? I don't know. But I also had no idea who Vic Rawl was, either.

Greene's victory also reflects horribly on pretty much every media outlet that failed to vet him properly. It was almost as if the contest didn't even exist. To be fair, the governor's race was far sexier, and any newspaper or TV station with a stretched staff and budget likely figured (rightly) that if it erred, it should err on the side of the most interesting race.

Too bad there was more than one.

But the most damning indictment here is that of the laughable and disgraced S.C. Democratic Party. How did it even allow a man facing a felony charge onto the ballot? Even if the charges against him prove true, I feel badly for Greene, who himself seems stunned and overwhelmed. And yet the question remains: Greene is the best the Democratic Party can do? Hell, Rawl is the best it can do?

The sad fact is that the Democratic Party in the Palmetto State is in such disarray that its existence here is nearly pointless right now. And if Vincent Sheheen wins the gubernatorial race in November, it will be in spite of--not because of--his party's organization.

As a liberal, it pains me to say it, but if the S.C. Democratic Party is the organization dedicated to turning the state blue, we have about the same odds as Alvin Greene does in November.

The Island Isn't Through With Us Yet

Fri, 21 May 2010 16:50:00 GMT

Even in death, "Lost" may still manage to confound fans, frustrate critics, obfuscate truths, and just generally flip us all the bird.

The Associated Press reports that a satellite known as Galaxy 15, recently damaged in a solar storm, is careening toward another satellite called AMC 11, which delivers programs for U.S. cable channels. If they get too close to each other, television signals could become scrambled.

If they hit each other, the fallout could be much more dramatic. Wreckage will rain down on a tiny uncharted island in the middle of nowhere with magical properties and polar bears. And back in civilization, there will be much rending of clothing and gnashing of teeth for the millions of members of Team Jack and Team Sawyer alike.

Expected satellite collision date? Sunday, May 23. The date of the "Lost" series finale.

You can't make this stuff up. Well, you can, but you certainly can't buy this kind of publicity. The biggest television event of the year may not actually happen. Fans are up in arms, and critics of the show are, as usual, nonplussed.

Because when it comes to "Lost," middle ground is as mythical as the island.

You either get it, love it, devour it--or you find it ridiculous, histrionic and overhyped.

There's not any question about where I fall. In my mind, "Lost" ranks among the greatest television dramas of all time. Top 20 or higher.

The series draws to its inexorable conclusion this weekend after six years, and if you're anything like me you're surprised to be experiencing a rather profound sense of melancholy, disorientation, even fear.

We die-hards may not exactly be in mourning. But the thought of the gaping hole this finale will create in our DVR queue definitely has us a little lost ourselves.

What adventure narrative will take its place? Do we really expect "FlashForward" to offer the same kind of epic fulfillment? Can we honestly look to "Human Target" to sustain us? "Battlestar" is over, and Joss Whedon is off the airwaves for the foreseeable future.

Who's going to ride Jacob's wild horses ... er, boars?

Haters will tell us to get over ourselves, and they're not without justification. As soon as a show as outsize and outlandish as "Lost" reaches critical mass, there's no escaping a backlash.

And top-20 TV rankings aren't to be doled out lightly.

Truth is, "Lost" is too pulpy to measure up to "The Wire," or even "The Sopranos." It has great characters, but "Mad Men" has great character studies. And even if you classify "Lost" as science fiction, there are at least 10 contenders ahead of it: "The X Files," "Twin Peaks," "Buffy the Vampire Slayer," "Battlestar Galactica," to name a handful.

But those shows, while popular and important, never generated the kind of mass appeal, the conspiracy theories or the viewership numbers over time that "Lost" commands--partly because some of those shows aired on premium channels, partly because "Lost" came of age in the era of tweets and social networking, and partly because some were about aliens and vampires (pre-"Twilight" days).

But these were--and they remain--truly amazing shows.

What makes "Lost" amazing? That a dense, complex and multilayered TV show about time travel, alternate universes, electromagnetic fields, ghosts, smoke monsters, and the esoteric struggle between good and "the man in black" ever became a phenomenon at all.

And yet there have been phenomenal moments. Too many to number.

If you didn't shed a tear when Charlie drowned, sacrificing himself to protect his comrades, then you're a harder man than I am (Hurley's speech about Charlie was just as moving).

If you didn't get chills when Sayid walked into the hatch where he was holding Ben Linus and declared, "My name is Sayid Jarrah, and I am a torturer," then you must not be the type who scares easily.

And if, after Jack declared "We have to go back," your jaw wasn't hanging from its hinges as if you'd been punched in the face, then you're definitely smarter than I am.

This is what inventive, well-crafted, serialized drama looks like.

A pity, then, that the serialized drama as an art form has become so passe. Today, asking folks to patiently follow a narrative thread, week after week, over the course of several years is like asking them to switch back to dial-up Web access.

For those who rent entire seasons of television shows and consume them in three days, watching "Lost" in real time is a frustrating and vexing enterprise. The show's format is never going to work for them.

But even if some seasons of "Lost" were worse than others, those who complain about the show's sometimes plodding pacing are missing the point of great storytelling.

The era of instant digital gratification is awesome, and we praise Hulu, Netflix and YouTube for revolutionizing the way we consume media. But are we sure it's been a change that's entirely for the better?

To the critics, I readily admit that for all of "Lost's" high points, there have been equally colossal lows. The Nikki and Paulo debacle springs to mind, and this season's awful "Across the Sea" episode was not only a waste of Allison Janney's talents, but a waste of an entire weekly installment--an even greater sin for a show of its ilk.

But I'm an apologist, so let me be clear:

The fact is that no show on basic cable is even attempting to do the kinds of things "Lost" has done, week after week, season after season. The scope of the story is staggering, its thematic elements Shakespearean and timeless.

And this says nothing of its mere entertainment value. At least two of the show's season finales are already classics in their genre.

But perhaps the best measure of a story is how well it develops its characters. This is how we know that "Lost" is special, and it really is this simple--when a major character perishes, you stay up all night thinking about it.

On its best days, "Lost" showcases the heights that its oft-derided medium is capable of achieving when all the right elements are in place. Whether it can pull off a satisfying conclusion is to be determined.

But either way, the episode will represent a cultural touchstone for the small screen. Water coolers will be rippling the way they did after J.R. got shot, or once Big told Carrie she was the one, or when "Don't Stop Believin'" ushered out Tony Soprano and family.

It will be a don't-miss event. So make sure you catch it on Hulu.

I Miss My Cat

Sat, 20 Mar 2010 02:47:11 GMT

Beatles or Stones? Ford or Chevy? Hulk Hogan or Ric Flair?

They say you have to pick a side, and when it comes to the dog-vs.-cat debate, I've always found myself squarely in the canine corner.

Dogs have more personality, you can attach a leash to them without getting mauled, and unlike felines, they aren't picky about when they'll accept affection. A pooch will never turn down a good belly rub (neither will I).

But when I moved in with my wife--who has always had at least two cats living in her home--I also moved into a new camp: dog lovers who have grown awfully fond of felines.

Shelley and I, along with my Siberian husky, have shared living quarters for the past year with three cats: Buster, the wizened and wide-assed leader of the pride; Machete, the fearless yet strangely clingy rescue cat; and Bootsie, the timid and sensitive runt.

For the past 12 months, I've paid the price of being a multiple pet owner. These animals walk all over me--literally.

As we sleep, or rather as I try to, they jockey for position on top of my head, swat at the window blinds with their paws, and stare deeply and longingly into Shelley's open mouth, wishing they could step inside and investigate.

These cats will, without warning, attack my toes when I'm at the kitchen table, apparently mistaking my socks for varmints. They will physically insert themselves between me and my computer screen, amazed at my audacity in hogging all the warmth that emanates from this magical device.

Machete drools on me if I pet him for too long.

And then there's the scratching. Both at the door and at my skin.

I've endured a lot as a newly minted husband. But somehow, these odd creatures have insinuated themselves into my life and my heart. They keep me company as I work from home. They nuzzle my hand until I agree to pet them. They sit on my chest and purr me to sleep.

I couldn't imagine not having them around.

Sadly, I'm going to have to get used to missing one of them. We lost poor Bootsie this week, and it's affected me more than I thought possible.

The death of a dog is different. I mean, I've seen "Old Yeller" and "Marley and Me." On the horrible day that Malia the Husky passes away, I already know I'm gonna be a wreck. I will call in sick to work, and I will be useless for weeks.

That's my best friend we're talking about there.

But I found out this week that I loved Bootsie a lot, too.

When a neighbor knocked on our door Thursday to ask whether all of our cats were accounted for, my heart sank. She said she'd passed by a cat that had been hit by a car, and she feared it might be one of ours.

I knew it was.

Still, as I walked up the street to make sure, I tried to keep it together. I hoped so badly that I was wrong. There are a lot of tabby cats in the neighborhood, I told myself. Could be anyone's.

But as I got closer to the body, with the distinct fur on the stomach and the little white paws (hence her name), I knew.

Poor little Bootsie. She was a terribly ugly duckling when we she and Machete first arrived at our home a few years ago. She looked as if she had been dug up from a compost heap, and I'm sure she was harboring worms, mange and all other manner of health issues.

Everyone--including me--gravitated to Machete, with his bright, wide eyes, his bushy tail and his inquisitive nature. He was the immediately attractive kitten; Bootsie was almost an afterthought.

I confess I didn't hold out much hope for her.

But Bootsie blossomed under our roof into a really beautiful girl. Not many people knew that because she was skittish around crowds and liked to hide in our hamper. But I like to think we had maybe just a small hand in her development.

She hadn't wandered all that far--really just a few feet outside our backyard--but it was just far enough. And she hadn't been struck very hard. But it was hard enough.

I called in sick to work Thursday--just as I will for all of my animals when the time comes--and through our tears, Shelley and I at least were able to collect Bootsie's body and offer a proper goodbye.

With apologies to Buster and Machete, Bootsie was my favorite cat.

She didn't like to be held for very long, but she let me get away with it as long as I scooped her up the right way, turned her on her back to rub her belly, and then gingerly placed her back where I'd found her.

Gentle, sweet and unassuming, she didn't always get the attention that the flashy Machete or the boisterous Buster gets.

But she was my favorite.

Worse, she was my dog's favorite. Actually it was probably the other way around. Malia--after her first few encounters with claws--has learned to keep her distance from most felines, but Bootsie was the one cat she allowed to come close and nuzzle her nose.

Are you picturing the cutest thing you've ever seen? Good. That's about the size of it.

I take comfort in remembering that the night before the accident, I playfully scratched Bootsie under her chin--which was her favorite spot--and she repaid me by licking my hand and purring. This was right before I went to sleep, whereupon I'm sure she walked all over me.

Any time, Boots. Any time.

We miss you.

Hope Floats ... Like Our Turd of a Season

Fri, 12 Mar 2010 09:40:00 GMT

Words do no justice in describing what it's like being a Gamecocks sports fan.

There's just no succinct term that encompasses our full gamut of experience--heart-wrenching dejection; colossal and congenital disappointment; intractable futility; fortunes that are so ridiculously star-crossed as to be comedic.

When it comes to college football, I struggle with deciding whether it's better to own a lifetime .500 mark--pretty much Webster's definition of “mediocrity”--or whether I'd rather lose every game in a blowout.

Set the bar so low that we can practically step over it. Avoid the heartbreak.

Why did I think this year’s SEC basketball tournament would be any different? I don’t know. Force of habit, likely.

Doesn’t matter. There I sat like a prize fool, watching USC amass a double-digit lead in the opening round of a tournament they’re only invited to because the league says they have to be there as a member.

As the lead grew, so did my hopes.

Maybe, just maybe, we could win a game or two, putting us into the NIT discussion at least. And hey, if we were really lucky, we could make a run at winning this damn thing and getting into the Big Dance--again because of tournament rules, not because of our .500 record.

I would’ve accepted the former scenario. Hell, an NIT berth would be something of a small miracle for a team that lost two of its best players early in the season--one to an injury, and the other for "violating team rules" shortly after he sustained a black eye from roughhousing at home.

Yes, a horseplay injury (we’re told). That’s the kind of spectacularly abysmal luck Gamecock fans endure.

It’s a low-down dirty crying shame that Devan Downey’s senior year ended this way. Indeed, it’s because of Downey--who in most games this season has been the best player on the court from either team--that the Gamecocks even won 15 contests.

“If we could play our way into the NIT,” I deluded myself, “maybe Downey would play in front of some big audiences and scouts, maybe get the ‘Renaldo Balkman’ bump.”

But as per usual during a Gamecocks sporting event of nearly any kind, reality hurtled me screaming back toward Earth, and I watched USC fritter away that lead, which had been in the high teens somewhere.

“What could have been, had Dominique Archie and Mike Holmes stayed healthy and, you know, on the team?” I don’t know, but I do know that it’s that kind of thinking that will forever keep our sporting clubs from moving forward.

Ballgames aren’t the favorite pastime for USC. Dwelling on “what ifs” is.

To be fair, the road to sporting success isn’t exactly easy for South Carolina. Geographically, it’s a nightmare in fact. In football, our talented players can go south to Georgia or Florida. In basketball, attractive options abound in our neighbors to the north: UNC, Duke, even Wake Forest.

Kinda hard for a talented South Carolina athlete not to choose those kinds of programs over the Gamecocks, whose only national championships are in equestrian sports and women’s track and field (sorry, but NIT trophies don’t count).

And that's not even mentioning the competition from in-state rival Clemson. Even the Tigers have a national football championship to their credit (mercifully I was too young at the time to have any memory of it). That accolade is thankfully more of an aberration than a norm for Clemson, who at least in football have struggled in recent years about as equally as the Gamecocks have.

The difference is that Clemson beats us in head-to-head contests with regularity. When it comes to football and basketball, you just can't deny that they are--for whatever reason--routinely better coached and play in more high-profile games than we do. So even if you persuade an S.C. athlete to stay in the Palmetto State, he or she has better options.

Baseball is a slightly different story, sure. USC generally fields a competitive and well-coached team, and Ray Tanner had better be raking in millions. But still no championship there.

Downey aside, the list of talent that has slipped through our fingers is staggering. And even he picked Cincinnati first.

Plus, have you been paying attention to the news lately? South Carolina’s national profile is bigger than ever, and for all the wrong reasons: a philandering governor; a homeless-hating lieutenant governor; a coked-up treasurer; a congressman who interrupts the president’s State of the Union address; a college town that ensnares beloved Olympian Michael Phelps in a pot-smoking scandal; and a capital city that still has a Confederate battle flag flying on State House grounds--in the year 2010.

Frankly, I’m surprised the Gamecocks are able to field a team at all. By now, I’d think their recruiting pool would be down to maybe me, my brother, Chubby Checker and Walter Edgar.

I hope Devan Downey goes on to play professionally, preferably in the NBA. He posted a lot of league-leading stats and is the kind of player who comes along but once in many moons. He has skill, determination, more heart than a deck of cards, and I hear he’s pretty good with a Bo staff.

We were lucky to have him grace our court for any length of time.

But his team blows, and he’s 5-foot-9. About my height.

So I wouldn’t hold out much hope … for the tape deck, or the Creedence.

As for USC fans? Oh, we few. We happy few. We band of buggered.

We soldier on, like homeless cuckolds, like those hangdog troops in "Return of the King" who, having told their commander they don't have the manpower to win, receive the retort: "No ... but we will meet them in battle nonetheless."

Stirring and endearing ... and ever middling.

I think I just penned our new alma mater.

South Carolina: The Jacko of the Union

Fri, 23 Oct 2009 09:25:00 GMT

Three months ago I was vacationing on the coast of my home state, enjoying one of the simple yet too-often-overlooked pleasures of living in South Carolina--its bucolic, bountiful, accessible beaches.

My first stop was in Charleston, which--let’s face it--is my state’s crown jewel. Its residents certainly breathe rarified air, but they come by it honestly. There’s a kind of buoyant magic in that city, and when you’re there you can’t decide whether you’re moving backward or forward in time.

I’ve walked the streets of London, Paris, Los Angeles, New York and New Orleans, and Charleston is at least as wondrous a city as any of those.

My second stop was in Pawleys Island, close to my hometown. It is no Charleston. It’s not even a Beaufort. But it is quaint, quiet and disarming, and whenever I go there, I’m reminded that I took it for granted as a child.

The food there alone is reason enough for monuments and jubilation--golden fried chicken; seafood so fresh you can taste your flounder’s last meal; and true pulled-pork barbecue that renders any other regional definition of the dish irrelevant. Other than eat myself into a stupor, I didn’t do much else during my visit other than sit on the sand and dream.

I came back at the end of a long weekend to my home in South Carolina’s drab and sweltering capital city, Columbia, which for all of its faults has a way of growing on you, like a homely little bunion.

The capital is charming in its way, and full of character. The cost of living is low, absurdly so. The folks are well-meaning and friendly, and the city is familiar and comforting--one great big greasy tub of french fries. And Columbia’s much-maligned nightlife actually rivals any other city of its size, simply because it’s a college town. The clubs stay open as long as they like, meaning the party never really stops.

People who don’t live here don’t understand that. Ask Michael Phelps.

I’ve never put down in writing all these tiny riches that my home state has to offer. Frankly, they seem insignificant and shallow when you consider the Palmetto State’s pathetic lot in life: mired in poverty, morbidly obese, constantly looking backward, and ever confined to the bottom tier of even the Southern states.

Not that we could ever blame outsiders for thinking ill of us.

Take this week’s story that, yet again, landed hapless South Carolina in the national news for all the wrong reasons, this time after two county Republican Party chairmen were accused of promoting anti-Semitism in an op-ed piece.

This story, of course, comes only a few months after another county GOP activist noted on Facebook that a gorilla that escaped from the Columbia zoo was probably an ancestor of first lady Michelle Obama.

These stories reinforce a stereotype, but ironically it’s not one that relates to Jews or blacks. Rather, it’s a stereotype that portrays the GOP as racist, out of touch, desperate and terrifying.

But more to the point, these stories also make me wonder: Why, at the close of 2009, does South Carolina seem destined to remain stuck in 1809?

Barbecue and beaches aside, things haven’t been so great for our state the past century and a half, and not just when it comes to college football. It’s high time for all good South Carolinians to own up to that. The last thing the state needs is a gaggle of idiot politicians who claim to represent her interests but, in reality, end up thwarting her progress at every turn.

Worse, ours is an arrogant state in spite of its troubles, bent on immutability with a vehemence that would border on admirable, if it weren’t so misguided. I’m far less concerned about whose tan lines Gov. Mark Sanford is ogling, and far more upset that he tried to prevent one of the poorest states in the nation from receiving desperately needed federal stimulus money.

I couldn’t care less whose Appalachian Trail he’s exploring, but I’m immensely angry at his nerve for abandoning his post and leaving Andre "Fast and Furious" Bauer in charge.

It’s no secret that Sanford is South Carolina’s least effective leader. Amazingly, though, he’s also one of the least offensive, relatively speaking.

I live in a state whose junior U.S. senator wants to “break” the president of the United States by defeating a plan to insure the poor. It is Jim DeMint’s raison d’etre, and killing universal health care would actually be the great honor of his life. People cheer him on for this.

I live in a state whose congressional representative yells at the leader of the free world during a televised address to the nation. Joe Wilson thinks President Obama is lying to him, so he doesn’t particularly feel like listening respectfully to the president’s address. Boy, can I empathize. I should have been so lucky for the past eight years.

I also live in a state in which--as Los Angeles Times reporter Mark Barabak reminded me in his latest piece--the treasurer was indicted on cocaine charges, the agriculture commissioner had ties to a cockfighting ring and the state Board of Education chief stepped down amid allegations that she wrote erotic fiction and posted it online.

WTF?

And these are merely our politicians of the modern era; we haven’t even scratched the surface of South Carolina’s long and checkered policymaking past. Our most prominent figure on the national stage, the late and much-beloved Sen. Strom Thurmond, once held the record as the longest-serving U.S. senator.

He also holds the record for the longest filibuster in U.S. Senate history--for his attempt to block civil rights legislation.

Of course, that didn’t stop Thurmond from secretly fathering a child with a black maid.

With predecessors like those, it seems unlikely my dear birthplace ever had a real chance at a normal life. South Carolina, it seems, is the Michael Jackson of the Union.

There’s charm, talent and quirkiness, but also no escaping the fact that her nose is about to fall off.

And for all of South Carolina's hidden inner beauty, there’s also no escaping one glaring and ugly truth.

The truth is, I live in a former slave state that was the first to secede from the Union and is one of the last to have a Confederate battle flag flying next to its State House.

In that context, what kind of politicians could I honestly be expecting this state to produce?

It saddens me deeply.

I don’t have the balm that will cure South Carolina’s ills. I don’t know how to remove her from late-night comics’ monologues--although Stephen Colbert, indisputably our finest export, should have carte blanche.

I don’t pretend to have the blueprint for raising our state up out of the muck and restoring her to glory, and even if I did, state Senate President Pro Tempore Glenn McConnell would surely sue me for Hunley copyright infringement.

But I do have an idea for a practical first step. Call it a good-faith investment in helping South Carolina begin the long and arduous climb out of the primordial slop to join the rest of the vertebrate states (even Mississippi) on terra firma. It goes like this:

Take down that goddamn rebel flag at long, long last, and stow it away in a museum.

It does not belong anywhere near a lawmaking body. It doesn’t even belong near my body. It is a symbol of hate, and the only thing "heritage" proponents have succeeded in promoting here is a stunted and recalcitrant state--economically, socially and morally.

If ever South Carolina wants to start healing; if ever we want commerce to truly flourish here; if ever we wish to start building up our future leaders instead of placating the same ancient, crusty and possibly insane white males who now hold sway, then it’s long past time for the Palmetto State to start walking upright.

May the crawling commence.

Drawing Health Care Straws: Would You Rather be Lucky or Good?

Thu, 03 Sep 2009 07:22:03 GMT

My name is Kenley Young, and I just might kill health care reform.

Please don’t get me wrong. I’m a liberal, I support a public option, and I’m in love with Rachel Maddow, even though she won’t return my calls. If wanting universal health care for Americans is “socialist,” then Marx me down for it in red ink, comrade.

I’m not TRYING to kill the plan to fix health care.

Nevertheless, I’m part of the reason it might get drowned in the tub. Why?

Sadly, it’s because I’m a white, reasonably affluent male with a decent job, a strong support network, and parents who will never let me face serious illness (or even a cold) without financial support.

In other words, it’s because I’m feeling lucky, punk.

I don’t mean to sound glib. I wholeheartedly believe that our health care system is a sham. I find it repugnant, shameful and appalling that the greatest nation on the planet can’t (or won’t) provide all of its citizens--regardless of age, gender, race, religious affiliation, sexual orientation or pre-existing conditions--with the same quality, affordable care that I am lucky enough to enjoy. Even Canada covers all of its citizens, for Christ’s sakes, and they don’t even have the Internet up there. Oh, wait … yes they do. But still, no running water!

And yet, when it gets down to the nasty, difficult, nitty-gritty debate over reform, I find that my will to fight is flagging.

If it were a battle governed by normal rules of debate (like, you know, facts and stuff), I might fare better. I’m good at facts. And I’m not bad at honesty, diplomacy and conciliatory negotiation, either.

But I suck at scorched-earth politics. I don’t have the stomach for the venomous town-hall diatribes or for the morons who tote their guns along for the ride. I find it difficult to mount an effective defense against the emotionally retarded and intellectually bankrupt Glenn Becks of the world (he’s also sponsorship-bankrupt).

And I don’t know, folks. When I find myself in the position of actually wasting my breath on refuting the idea that members of my own Congress are planning to institute “death panels,” and that an idea like that would even make it out of committee, let alone into a bill …

I just don’t have the will to fight the good fight on this one. I’m feeling too lucky, punk.

Simply put, I’m a fat, happy, stupid lump, and I don’t have enough invested in the outcome. I’m part of the problem because I don’t have a dog in the fight.

Not yet.

But ask me again when I’m married and have three children. Or when I lose my job. Or when I’m diagnosed with cancer.

Will we have health care reform in this country in my lifetime? At the moment, the prognosis (that its co-pay didn’t cover) is grim.

But whether you support the latest push for reform or you oppose it, it’s helpful to approach the debate not by barking the loudest, but by trying to find common ground.

We can do so by getting those involved in the process--lawmakers, insurance companies, that crazy old dude who wants the government to keep its government hands off the government-run programs from which he’s benefiting--to answer the same set of questions:

First, is the health care system in the United States broken?

Secondly, does every American have the right to good, effective health care?

Third, do you accept Hawaii as a U.S. state?

These are fundamental, yes-or-no questions. If we can’t all arrive at the same answer to them, then there’s no point in carrying the exercise any further.

There’s only one correct answer for each question, of course. If you answered “no” to any of them, then you have failed the entrance exam, and no amount of name calling, backbiting, fear mongering or self-righteousness will earn you a seat at the table.

For those who answered “yes” to all of the above, the second step requires, at a minimum, that you ask yourself what kind of a country you want your children to live in. That question requires more thought, and you don’t have to answer right away. There are many possible answers to it, and there’s more than one way to arrive at a solution.

But for now, it’s also worth considering whether you’re feeling lucky--and whether you’d rather your health care to be good.

Original Facebook post: 8/18/2009

King of Pop, King of Obits

Thu, 03 Sep 2009 07:18:34 GMT

I turn 30 this year. When Michael Jackson's "Thriller" was released, I was 4.

So in the hours after his passing, I found myself wondering, "How big of a deal could this sad freak show really be to people?" I mean, when Jackson was Moonwalking, I was learning to tie my shoes.

But then I started to scan my memory banks. And, a few hours later, I moved on to Google, where suddenly it hit me like a high-pitched "Scham-on!"

If, like me, you ever need proof of how important Jackson's musical legacy is--or if you're struggling to understand the sickening, excruciating, turn-of-the-screw media coverage his corpse is getting--and if you can't come to grips with why no one (from Anderson Cooper on down to every Tom, Dick and Harry with a Twitter account) can seem to leave this poor man alone, even in death, then I want you to try this simple little exercise with me:

If you're anywhere within five years of my age range, take a moment and try to imagine a bigger single obituary in your lifetime.

Here's a hint: There isn't one. Not in your lifetime.

Sure, there have been larger news events involving loss of life in the past 30 years--usually massive loss of life. For anyone alive today, 9/11 springs immediately to mind. So does Iraq, as well as the Indonesian tsunami and the Pakistani earthquake that killed nearly 80,000 (no, that's not a misprint).

And yes, there have been big-name deaths, many of them in music: James Brown, Johnny Cash, Kurt Cobain and even John Lennon (his death in 1980 just barely squeaks onto our timeline in this exercise).

Over the years, many world leaders, some revered and others reviled, have fallen: former presidents Nixon and Reagan, the pope, Yasser Arafat, Princess Di and countless others.

There have been assassinations (Benazir Bhutto), executions (Saddam Hussein) and horrible foul-ups (David Koresh). So many movie stars (from Charlton Heston to Heath Ledger) and sports figures (from Pat Tillman to Dale Earnhardt) are no longer with us.

But with the possible exception of Lennon, who died when I was 1 year old, there has been not one singular death that's been bigger news to our generation than the passing of Michael Jackson. And that's because, quite simply, in my nearly 30 years on this planet, there has never been anyone quite THAT famous.

Calling Jackson larger than life is hackneyed, but it's not hyperbole. He's been a part of the cultural zeitgeist since before his age hit double digits. For more than four decades, he has cast a massive shadow over the collective consciousness of millions--first as the biggest superstar since Elvis, and later as one of the world's longest-running punch lines.

And yet--judging by Jackson's millions of fans worldwide and the throngs of ardent supporters who even now are gathered outside his rental home in Los Angeles to pay their respects--even the lingering innuendo and questions about the man's sexual appetites haven't really diminished his standing in certain circles.

If anything, it's quite clear that, for many, Jackson's star remains as pristine and undimmed as it was the day his "Thriller" video first aired on MTV, the channel he essentially birthed.

The jokes about Jackson's personal life will live on for years, but like all whispers, they will fade in time, particularly when weighed against his achievements. There's Jackson the Head Case, and there's Jackson the King of Pop. In the ensuing decades, as those two facets of his legacy sit side by side for history to evaluate, there is no question which version will prevail.

After all, if he had never recorded another note, "Billie Jean" still would make a strong case for the best pop song ever written.

Jackson rose to a level of fame in this world that very, very, very few people have reached. In his heyday, he actually was (to be trite) bigger than the Beatles. His star power circa 1982 dwarfs even the dizzying heights that Brad Pitt or Britney Spears have known, and there are precious few others whose deaths would bump Jackson from any front page (or from any "top tweets" category).

Madonna? That'd be huge news, but she wasn't a superstar at 9 years old.

Michael Jordan? Basketball is becoming a global sport, but even Jordan is no Pele.

Mariah Carey? She's beaten Jackson's sales records, but she really doesn't even belong in the same sentence.

President Obama? Yes, his death would be bigger news. Still, just to put things in perspective, according to The Associated Press, Jackson's death generated the most tweets per second since when Obama was elected president.

The point is, you can count on one hand the public figures whose deaths would deserve the kind of media attention that Jackson is getting. Make no mistake--it is a huge deal.

And whether you're inside or outside my age bracket, you should save your newspapers' front pages tomorrow.

Original Facebook post: 6/26/2009

It's the Same With Newspapers as With Horses and Dogs ...

Thu, 03 Sep 2009 07:14:39 GMT

... Nothing wants to die.

OK, so I stole most of that from Tom Waits.

Still, the recent TIME magazine cover story on ways to save your newspaper got me thinking. Below is a post I submitted on Facebook as part of an ongoing thread among some fellow newspaper colleagues:

The Internet is the only place in existence where the price for everything is exactly nothing. And for anyone who has grown up online, the specter of paying for content--whether it be news, pictures, music, videos or porn--is anathema.

Apple, with iTunes, has shown that it is possible to break that psychological barrier, and in the process save an entire industry. But the problem is that a news article isn't as valuable a commodity to most young people as an MP3 is--you don't "reuse" old news hundreds of times in an iPod.

Besides, if you want a song badly enough, there are plenty of places to find it for $0.00.

I don't have the answer; the Internet's guiding principle is that information wants to be free. Good journalism cannot, however, continue to be free. It won't make money that way, but more importantly, it won't make an impression on those who at present can consume--or produce--their own news through any political or social prism they choose, through as many poorly sourced blogs as they like, precisely because it costs nothing to do so.

Legitimate, professional news outlets can either start charging for premium content and subscriptions, or do what Facebook essentially does--remain free for all users because you're subsidized by a wealthy few investors. The former option will be a difficult pill to swallow--at first. But people want, and need, news they can trust, and there's a chance they're willing to pay nominally for it. As for the latter option, well, just ask Facebook. At 150 million-plus members, this site is still trying to figure out how to turn a profit.

Of course, you have to make something to sell something, as all-too-many Web companies are finding out. So newspapers will need to make sure they are producing news worthy enough for purchase. You can expect pirates to steal it, and you can expect ideologues to balk at it. But you can't expect professionals to do work for free.

Original Facebook post: 2/10/2009

Gotham or Bust

Thu, 03 Sep 2009 07:13:22 GMT

How long have I loved--and wanted to be--Batman?

It's difficult to judge. I'm no fanboy, certainly. I can't tell you the Batmobile's horsepower or the number of notches in the guy's utility belt.

But for as long as I can remember, I've loved him. Or, more accurately, the idea of him. The Batman myth.

The earliest evidence of my adoration lies in a scrapbook at my parents' home. One of the photos is from Halloween circa 1984, which would put me at no more than five years old. In it, my cousin and I are dressed as Superman and The Caped Crusader, respectively.

In a sad commentary on my life, I have never looked more awesome.

As I got older, I began tuning in to the Adam West TV series in syndication. The fanboys will tell you that show almost killed The Bat-Man. It certainly nearly killed his raison d'etre, his mystique and his pathos.

But that campy show also was revolutionary in its way. It took The Dark Knight out of the comic-book pages and into the zeitgeist. As one scholar posited: We search in this age for the wonders of Troy, both real and imagined. In thousands of years, it's not hard to imagine us searching for the Batcave.

And while I can't tell you when my love affair with The Bat-Man began, I know exactly when it was consumated--nearly 20 years ago.

It was the year Tim Burton's "Batman" burst onto the silver screen, in 1989. I couldn't have been more blown away if I'd put my head inside that Batmobile engine.

The flick was dark. It was brooding. It was quirky. It was serious, yet sleek and slick and sexy. Shit, what more could a kid want:

Burton at the helm at his fantasmagorical best, Kim Basinger as the sultry damsel in distress, and a still greatly underrated and underappreciated turn under the cowl by Michael Keaton. He's still my favorite Bruce Wayne--understated, sad and hangdog. He wore the mask better than anyone before or since. It just seemed to fit his head perfectly.

All of this, of course, without even touching on Jack Nicholson's turn as The Joker: "Wait'll they get a load of me." It still gives me goosebumps. What else can be written of his archetypal performance? It is a piece of pop art, light years ahead of its time.

I committed every line of the script to memory.

And then, alas, came the sequels.

History was not kind to the Bat-franchise in the ensuing decades, and Joel Schumaker nearly pulled off what the TV series failed to do.

But you can't kill Batman, and thank God for Christopher Nolan. His "Batman Begins" was a steady, sure-footed origin tale, even if it lacked gravitas for some.

And his sophomore effort, "The Dark Knight," is spectacular. To call it simply the greatest superhero movie ever made diminishes the feat.

It is a brilliant film, period. With or without the costumes. Period. It's one of the best crime dramas I've ever seen. Period.

And there's no need to rehash or restate what has been said about Heath Ledger's portrayal of The Joker. Everything you've heard is true. He is remarkable and terrifying and hilarious and dripping with bile. The performance belongs among the top 10 screen villains of all time, behind maybe only Darth Vader, the T-500 machine in "The Terminator," and Dennis Hopper in "Blue Velvet."

If I had my way, we wouldn't see another Batman movie for many years. There's just no real way to top this one, and part of that is because of the inescapable melancholy lent to the film through Ledger's death. What a fucking swan song. His character dominates the movie, and the actor's death permeates it, adding to an already eerie and ominous plot. In The Joker's words, this is what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object. It is a dark, dark film. And it's nearly perfect.

But the fact is, many more Batman movies will be made before I die, for two reasons. First, Batman is timeless and eminently compelling. His story is a human story because he is one of us. His parents were murdered in front of him as a child, and it has turned him into someone who, in some ways, is as disturbed as his enemies. His anger and his nobility, his rage and his discipline, his vengeance and his justice ... these are balanced inside this man in a very complex--and a very American--way.

We will always want to see more of him.

The second reason is because "The Dark Knight" made a shitload of money. And the studio will always want to see more of him, too.

So I pose to you, dear readers, a simple and whimsical question, because neither of those traits is inherent in "The Dark Knight."

For the franchise's third installment that will most certainly begin filming soon, what C- or D-list actor should Christopher Nolan (or his replacement) incorporate into the plot, as has become the custom?

In "Batman Begins," it was Rutger Hauer, playing a slimeball CEO. Hauer hasn't done a marquee film since "Blade Runner," and it doesn't look like he'll be back in demand anytime soon.

In "The Dark Knight," it was Eric Roberts, playing a high-level mobster. Roberts, to my knowledge, hasn't really done ANY film that wasn't a straight-to-video release (although he was excellent in "Heaven's Prisoners").

So who's next? C. Thomas Howell? Craig T. Nelson? Dabney Coleman? D.B. Sweeney?

Let's hear some suggestions.

And if you haven't seen "The Dark Knight," run, do not walk, to it.

Original MySpace post: 7/27/2008

Might as Well Jump ... for Joy

Thu, 03 Sep 2009 07:12:04 GMT

I saw Van Halen last night, suckers.

Not Van Hagar.

Not Van ... Cherone.

But Van Halen, the only way they were ever meant to be seen.

With David Lee Roth leading the charge.

I'd been waiting a long time for this moment. More than a decade, actually. I quoted Diamond Dave in my high school valedictory speech in 1997: "You gotta roll with the punches and get to what's real, Bulldogs!"

Given the band's strife-laden, noxious history, I fully expected to be disappointed. I mean, if past VH reunions are any indication, the wheels are going to fall off this bus faster than you can reach down in between your legs and ease the seat back.

I caught the inaugural show, the first date of the tour, and I still didn't feel safe until the encore was over. I kept waiting for Roth to club Eddie with his microphone stand, or for Eddie to deck Roth and then barf all over the drum riser, or for Wolfgang to hit puberty and then butcher his backing vocals.

But I was shocked--shocked, I tell you--to see a band with very little ring rust that can still kick major ass. The sound at the Bobcats arena in Charlotte left a little something to be desired, but I still consider myself rocked.

And they all looked pretty good, too. The last time I'd seen Eddie Van Halen in a photograph, he looked like Keith Richards warmed over. And Roth? When last I'd glimpsed him, he reminded me of an anorexic, 80-year-old Hulk Hogan, and it looked like his hair had been applied with a spray can.

But this time around, the two looked fit, fresh and clean. Roth's abs, in particular, were impressive for a man his age, his voice was in fine form, and I'm happy to report that his hair looked better than John Edwards'.

It was Eddie Van Halen, though, who blew me away. He gets a lot of shit, much of it deserved, because he's known as a control freak, an alcoholic, a traitor, a money-grubbing bastard, a backstabber, a window dresser and basically an enormous dickhead.

But from a purely technical perspective, there is no better guitar player, past or present, in all of rock and roll ("Panama" contains the greatest bridge ever written in any song. Period.).

Are there more tasteful players? Yes. Are there players with more soul? Absolutely. Are there other guitarists I'd rather have in my band? You bet.

But as an innovator, groundbreaker and pure virtuoso (the guy played with his back to the audience for years, just so others couldn't copy his technique), Eddie Van Halen is without peer.

And I got to see him, sharing (yes, sharing) a stage with Diamond Dave, both of them having what appeared to be the time of their lives.

Will it last? Let's just say Eddie better keep Hagar on speed dial.

Original MySpace post: 9/29/2007

ENFP, R2D2 and UB40

Thu, 03 Sep 2009 07:10:49 GMT

The Myers Briggs "humanmetrics" test says it can predict your personality type on the basis of your answers to 70 yes-or-no questions.

I don't think the test could accomplish that if it asked you 70,000 yes-or-no questions, spent all day with you, bought you an Apple-tini and made sweet love to you all night.

I don't believe Myers Briggs can predict human behavior any more than I believe Dick Cheney has human parts. "Humanmetrics" sounds like something out of an L. Ron Hubbard novel. I don't like labels, I don't like generalizations, and I don't like L. Ron Hubbard.

But some people do believe it, and it's obviously backed by research and psychology. I took the test anyway, and it says I'm an ENFP. Essentially, that's supposed to mean I'm (E)xtroverted, I(N)tuitive, (F)eeling and (P)erceptive.

The alternatives are (I)ntroverted, (S)ensing, (T)hinking and (J)udging, and everyone is some combination of those eight.

"Everybody gettin' this so far?"

There was one thing I found pretty awesome. The test gives you your four letters, and then it ascribes a title to your personality.

Apparently, I am what is known in Myers Briggs circles as a ... wait for it ... Champion Idealist.

That's right, evildoers of the world, tremble in fear. Apparently, like Joan Baez and Phil Donahue before me, I possess amazing powers of extroversion, intuition, feeling and perception. And it's only a matter of time before I smite your ass.

Phil Donahue? Really? He's their example of a famous ENFP?

Seriously, did L. Ron Hubbard have anything to do with this?

Original MySpace post: 7/3/2007

The Secret of My Success

Thu, 03 Sep 2009 07:08:49 GMT

My 10-year high school reunion was this past weekend, which officially ushers me into my twilight years. The only good news is that I think I can access my 401(k) now.

I attended the casual meet-and-greet part of the reunion weekend on Friday, which was a lot more fun than I thought it might be. I'm just glad everyone wore name tags. Of course, once it got dark, I couldn't read them. Still, I had only two or three awkward moments when a former classmate addressed me as "Kenley" and I just called him "man."

Unfortunately, I had to miss the real blowout party Saturday. So I sent my brother Logan as my proxy. People confuse us all the time, so I figured most of my former classmates wouldn't even notice--until, you know, he pissed on the entrees, blew smoke into a teacher's eye or spewed profanities in front of small children. That would probably be a giveaway.

Apparently, I was voted "Most Changed" at this party I didn't attend. I can't figure out whether that's a good thing or a horrible thing. I mean, my senior superlative in high school was "Most Likely to Succeed," so maybe everyone changed their minds.

I guess I have indeed changed. Not so much physically, although I did have more hair back then. Maybe balding men will never be very likely to succeed at anything.

I'm certainly not the person I was 10 years ago, and while I'd like to think it's all been forward progress, who really knows? I've had my moments of backsliding. It's an ambiguous honor.

But then, it's a gray world.

"Most Changed," huh? I kinda like it.

Original MySpace post: 6/18/2007

The Great Cornholio

Thu, 03 Sep 2009 07:07:04 GMT

So go ahead and add corn on the cob to the list of foods I've recently discovered that I, in fact, love.

I know, I know. "Corn on the cob? It's delicious. Everybody knows that."

Well, sorry. I didn't know that. At least not until I visited friends in New Orleans a few years ago and sampled some of that city's sumptuous cuisine (alligator cheesecake, anyone?). I realized then that corn on the cob was actually edible and even rose to the level of amazing when butter, salt and pepper were added.

But I still don't like corn if it's been "pulled" or de-cob-ified or whatever you call it when it's no longer on the cob. And creamed corn? No way in hell.

I'm a picky eater and always have been. I'm a die-hard carnivore and wouldn't last five minutes on the "Lost" island without John Locke hunting boars for me or Jin catching his fish.

I don't eat many green foods other than Jell-O or Gummy Bears, and I don't trust food that comes from the dirt. It just seems ... I don't know ... dirty.

And for me, it's a consistency issue. If it's lumpy or squishy, I'm not liable to like it.

I have no sympathy for cows or chickens, but I'll allow that I find myself in something of a moral quandary when it comes to little baby piglets. From "Charlotte's Web" to "Babe," they're just so damn cute and smart. And yet, so very, very tasty.

But I've always known that. What I didn't know is that corn on the cob totally rules. And there's a growing list of foods--very popular and, some might say, essential foods--that my palate is only just learning about:

-- Grits. Yep. I grew up south of the Mason-Dixon, but I only just started liking grits--no, scratch that, ADORING them--a few years ago at a friend's wedding, where they were mixed with shrimp. Holy shit that's good. Grits might be the single best thing the South has ever done for this nation.

-- Eggs. That's right. All through my childhood, I hated them. Hated them, I say. That started to change near the end of college and the beginning of my first real job. I started getting late-night breakfast biscuits at Chick-Fil-A and decided I would "tolerate" eggs with my sausage. And then after college when I moved in with the band, sometimes eggs, bologna and Budweiser were the only damn things to be found in our fridge. And I've loved all of them ever since.

-- Rice. As a youngster, the sight of rice on my plate made me want to heave. Particularly white rice. But then during high school I went to Kyoto's Japanese Steakhouse one night and had cooked rice with marinade or oil or sauce or whatever it is those amazing and entertaining chefs use. I've never looked back.

And so I salute you, corn on the cob. I've been missing out on you for so long, but fear not. I totally plan on making up for lost time. And who knows, Mr. Spinach? You might be next.

But I doubt it.

Original MySpace post: 4/28/2007

I'm Your Huckleberry

Thu, 03 Sep 2009 07:05:48 GMT

I'm not often told that I resemble a celebrity, but when I do hear it, I usually don't understand it.

Eons ago when I had (long) hair, I got the occasional comparison to Stevie Ray Vaughn, probably because we both have wide noses and play guitar. And except for the fact that he did lots of drugs and women--and could play circles around me even if I severed one of his arms--I guess the two of us bear a resemblance.

And once, as I was getting off the light-rail in D.C. several years ago, a male passenger stopped me and asked me if I was Brad Pitt.

I'm pretty sure he was a crackhead, so that doesn't count.

It's also been said I take after Peyton Manning ... you know, if he were a lot shorter, scrawnier, poorer and didn't have an NFL ring.

And then there were the comparisons last year to "American Idol" reject Chris Daughtry, or "Daughtry," as he is now known. But let's be honest, folks. The only reason anybody ever said I looked like him was because we both shave our heads. He's way out of my league.

But I got a new one this weekend: Val Kilmer.

That's right.

Which begs the question: Are we talking about the old, badass Val Kilmer? The Iceman? Doc Holiday? Madmartigan?

'Cause that's kinda hot.

Or are we talking about today's Val Kilmer? The one who's so drugged out and bloated he looks pregnant?

'Cause I'd resent that.

Original MySpace post: 4/10/2007

What the Hell is a Jigawatt?

Thu, 03 Sep 2009 07:02:58 GMT

From kindergarten through fourth grade, I was enrolled in a private Baptist school where my mother also taught. I always fared well academically, and when the school closed down and I had to start attending public school, my good grades carried over.

Mom attributed much of my success, I think, to the fact that I hadn't had to slug it out in the trenches in the South Carolina public school system those first few formative years. There might be some truth in that.

But I'm too much of a populist to believe it's the whole truth. Both my parents are exceedingly intelligent people, both former valedictorians themselves who would accept nothing less from their first-born offspring. I'm also the product of a long line of educators: parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins.

And in the end, I just have a kickass memory that served me well during midterms but not so well on standardized tests.

None of it means I'm smart. Or noble, for that matter, as I took some of the same shortcuts everyone else takes. I cheated occasionally, procrastinated frequently, sometimes got by on reputation alone just because I could.

Nor does it mean that private school was all wine and roses, either. In the first place, alcohol is like a deadly sin to Baptists, right behind long hair, dancing and any other forms of fun.

And for all of my elementary school's academic benefits, there was an astounding lack of diversity inside its walls, as with most private facilities. Those first five years of schooling, I didn't even know what a black person looked like. To say nothing of the fact that things like hall passes and detention and school-bus routes were all foreign concepts to me.

I thought Friday Chapel and "Onward Christian Soldiers" were standard fare at all schools.

And so I was ill-equipped to deal with life outside those walls once First Baptist Church School shut down after my fourth-grade year. To say I was sheltered (with my mom working just upstairs from me) would be an understatement.

I remember how confused I was when I started fifth grade at Kensington Elementary, how I hated it at first. I had to pee really badly one day and raised my hand to let my teacher know I was heading to the restroom.

"Not without a hall pass you're not."

Um, a what?

So I get this wooden, block-shaped thing-a-ma-bob called a "hall pass," but then I realize that I'm going it alone. No one is going to walk with me to ensure I make it back safely.

Worse yet, no one has ever bothered to show me where the hell the bathrooms are in this huge, horrible place.

So I walk out the door of the fifth-grade wing, wander aimlessly for a while, and then I just say "fuck it" and begin to relieve myself behind the wall of the building.

And, of course, I get caught, yelled at and disciplined.

WTF?

I needed a transition class. Someone to tell me what life would be like now that I was outside the insular reach of the Fellowship Hall, and the chapel, and Mom. I was thrown into a situation--at 12 or 13 or however old you are in fifth grade--that was totally alien to me, and I was expected to acclimate immediately.

Same thing when I transitioned out of high school and college. You can take home economics or University 101, but there's no class on balancing your checkbook. Or buying your first car. Or opening a 401(k). Or closing on a house.

No one tells you shit. You simply have to improvise.

So for the record, Kensington Elementary, pissing on your wall was a pleasure.

Original MySpace post: 4/4/2007

Top Three Lies and Unsubstantiated Fantasies

Thu, 03 Sep 2009 07:01:19 GMT

1) It's nobody's fault.

This, of course, is patently stupid. It's always somebody's fault. Or maybe it's everybody's fault. But it's never nobody's fault. Someone is to blame. In my experience, that person generally is either me or President Bush. But the fact is, someone must be held accountable. They made a whole democracy about that.

2) It's not you, it's me.

Rubbish. If you ever hear this line, it most certainly IS you, sucker.

3) Smoking isn't cool.

And there it is, dears. The granddaddy of them all, one of the greatest whoppers ever foisted on the general public.

Smoking may be disgusting, cancer-causing, expensive, off-putting and malodorous. And certainly those are the characteristics that anti-smoking advocates should be focusing on when trying to prevent kids from taking up the habit.

But smoking is not, nor has it ever been, uncool.

Why? Because despite all of smoking's ugly traits, people do it anyway. And nothing is cooler, or more American, than rebellion.

What is James Dean without cigarettes? His "cool" quotient plummets precipitously.

What are rock stars without tobacco? They are laughable tin minstrels.

What is The Dude without a joint? He's just plain ol' Jeffrey Lebowski, that's who.

Why do they invariably offer you one last cigarette before you're summarily executed in front of that firing squad? Because they, too, know that even in your final minutes on Earth, you desperately yearn for coolness. And if you gotta go, you wanna go out like a badass.

Anti-smoking backers need to stop taking the tack that cigarettes and marijuana aren't cool, because the surgeon general simply can't prove that. The evidence against him is insurmountable.

He can't deny that the best and most feared bullies in high school are the ones smoking in the boys room. Nobody fraks with them. Nobody.

He can't prove that a cigarette isn't an uber-effective preventive measure for the misanthropic barfly who wants to drink alone and undisturbed.

He can't shed doubt on the fact that smoking lends instant credibility to sad-sack, angst-ridden musicians everywhere.

He can't prove that film noir would be better if nobody lit up.

What he can prove is that smoking kills. That it makes your hair brittle and strawlike. That it stains your teeth (so does sweet tea). That it costs too much. That it's addictive. That it's a natural laxative (oh, wait, that one goes in the "positives" column). That industry leaders are lying capitalist pigs.

Or any number of horrible and true things, really.

But to say that smoking isn't cool? That's just crazy talk.

Original MySpace post: 2/20/2007

Sounds Like a Country Song

Thu, 03 Sep 2009 06:59:50 GMT

Three or four years ago, I got into a fight in Five Points. It left me with a bloody lip, an acquaintance with a bruised face, and my drummer with a few minutes of lost time after being knocked out cold (Poor Ronnie. Can't take him anywhere without him getting punched in the face).

So yeah ... it's safe to say Team Kenley lost.

There is nothing quite like getting beaten in a fight to remind you that you, sir (or madam), are alive. Nothing is quite so jolting, so visceral, so liberating. The punch (or in my case, the headbutt) lands, it splits your lip or knocks you out cold and senseless, but you're really not senseless until you hit the ground. And in between, it's like a wave washes over, takes you under, floods your lungs. Tasting the blood in your mouth, feeling the swell and throb of a black eye, you start to understand what "Fight Club" was talking about.

In 27-and-a-half years, I can count on three fingers the number of times I've been in a legitimate fight (fake WWE matches in my dorm room not included), and I can count on one finger the number of times a fight has ended well for me.

It was my freshman year in college. I leapt on top of a no-neck, pierced-punk meathead at a Violent Femmes concert who couldn't control himself in the mosh pit and began wailing on my good friend/guitarist.

Why was there a mosh pit at a Violent Femmes show, you ask? Good question, but not the point of my story.

The two were rolling around on the dirty venue's floor, and I jumped in and delivered a few solid shots to the guy's lower back. It had all the effect of shooting a BB gun at a charging rhino. Fortunately, I was there with a big crew (ain't no party like a Georgetown party) who rushed to my aid. A bouncer then grabbed Mr. Meathead, threw the Million Dollar Dream on him and escorted him out. Ted DiBiase would have been jealous. I know I was.

I also remember being surprised--perhaps as surprised as you might be, gentle reader--to find myself down there in the mix on that sticky floor, smelling the spilled beer and cigarette butts and the stench of the sweaty rhino. But I got my licks in, I helped out a buddy, and I earned a little honor that I have long since squandered.

The fight in Five Points was nowhere near as dramatic and only slightly more pathetic. And I wasn't so fortunate this time around.

It began, as most fights do, with alcohol. My erstwhile roommate Ronnie, his brother and I were out on the town. We'd tossed back more than a few shots and were walking to our next watering hole. The three of us made it about a block up the road, when we passed a group of maybe six to eight frat boys who were, um, fraternizing and chortling among themselves suspiciously in the Harper's parking lot. Almost at the same moment, we passed by the guy they were laughing at. He was a thin, pale, smallish slip of a boy wearing eyeliner, a mesh shirt and various piercings--a goth, I believe is the term. In any case, he stuck out like ... well ... like a goth kid in the South.

I heard one of the frat boys utter the slur that got Dr. Burke in trouble on the "Grey's Anatomy" set, and I knew at that moment that the pale kid was as good as toast. Milquetoast, if you will.

No sooner had I turned around than I saw this poor kid backing away, reeling, leaning up against a parking meter, bleeding from the mouth and surrounded by Kappa Alpha Asshole.

I don't know that I would have done this without all the Southern Comfort I had imbibed moments earlier, but my companions and I physically inserted ourselves between the victim and the most vocal of the attackers. I was wearing my metal-encrusted biker's jacket and my combat boots, looking rather goth myself, and I guess in my head I combined that with the liquid courage and was feeling no pain.

Until the headbutt smashed into my face, of course.

I lurched backward, my outmanned friends lurched forward for counterattack, but in the end we were all repelled, wretchedly and emphatically. And then I remember the most vocal of the attackers yelling something to the effect of, "Woooo! That's right, man! Don't mess with S.C.! Wooooo!"

I was both drunk and seeing stars at the time, so I'll leave it to you, gentle readers, to determine whether his words make any more sense in the cold light of day than they did to me at the time.

The goth kid ended up having to get his teeth capped, and I went to court to testify on his behalf. My lip started turning an ugly purplish-blue that week, so to avoid arousing suspicion among my bosses, I simply told co-workers that a ballpoint pen had exploded in my mouth.

Go, Team Kenley!

Original MySpace post: 1/30/2007