The War On Voter Apathy

Published in the Desert Valley Times
May 31, 2005

It is an unfortunate fact that, unless we’re electing a President or the newest American Idol, too many citizens in this country could care less about voting.
The further down the political totem poll you go, from Federal down to county and city elections, the thinner the voter turnout.
Now we could sit and whine about this, but whining never accomplishes anything unless you’re Jessica Simpson.
What makes this country great is that, instead of doing nothing when faced with a problem like voter apathy, we often rise up, put on our thinking caps, brainstorm, found think tanks, compile lists of suggestions, debate various options, develop focus groups, designate committees, threaten detractors, and THEN do nothing.
In that spirit, I have some suggestions on how to solve this growing dilemma.
First, I have to give credit/blame to Mrs. Susan Bennett, the incredible journalism teacher at our local high school, for suggesting this topic.
I know that there is hope for the future of education in America based on her first suggestion on how to end election apathy:
Threaten to shoot voters.
This isn’t as Lee-Harvey-Oswald as it sounds.
Mrs. Bennett pointed out that this method worked well in Afghanistan and Iraq, where citizens poured into polling stations even after being threatened with death by the various bad guys in those countries.
Voters there braved bullets and car bombs to make their mark.
In our country, we won’t brave a light rain or rush hour traffic to make our voices heard.
She also suggested a new rule where you can’t speak at a City Council meeting, or complain out loud at the coffee shop, unless you can show your “I Voted” sticker.
In addition to encouraging people to vote, it would also cut down those marathon City Council meetings where everyone wants their 15 minutes of fame on cable access channel 46 (which has now been moved to channel nine).
A third concept involves a unique “poll tax,” which would be assessed against anyone who doesn’t show up to vote.
I like this, because the quickest way to influence the behavior of a populace is to threaten their Bingo money.
It also inspired me to come up with some ideas of my own.
Right away, I thought a solution might be to actually pay people to vote.
Unfortunately, I’m afraid we would get sued for patent infringement by the city of Chicago, who founded that concept back in the 30’s.
(For the record, they also hold patents on “Dead People Voting” and the copyrighted election-day phrase “Vote Early, And Vote Often.”)
Of course, when reality isn’t working, turn to reality-TV.
Instead of campaign signs and public debates, we could have the candidates take turns doing silly and death-defying stunts, then instead of voting FOR them, we would vote them off one by one a la Survivor.
Or make the candidates sing, then citizens could phone in on a series of 800 numbers to choose which ones become the next “Mesquite Idol.”
Another idea would be to disguise the voting booths as slot machines, allow folks to make their selection, drop in a quarter, then pull the lever.
(Unfortunately, according to some people in town, no matter which candidate you select, the reels would just come up “Joker, Joker, Joker.”)
If that didn’t work, we could just do away with voting booths altogether.
We would line up the five candidates inside five different dunking tanks such as those you find at the carnival, then hand out baseballs to a line of voters.
The last candidate to stay dry wins.
Frivolity aside, voting is serious business.
We have kids in the Middle East eating sand sandwiches every day while wearing “Shoot Me” signs on their backs, all for the sake of a human’s right to determine his own political destiny.
We owe it to them to show respect for their sacrifices, and those of soldiers who have died before them.
Besides, government studies have shown that failing to vote increases the occurrences of warts, Herpes, sexual dysfunction, memory loss, psoriasis, halitosis, marital infidelity, poor gas mileage, and bling anemia.
So do yourself a favor, one which benefits your friends, neighbors, and insurance agents:
Please vote on June 7.

Memorial Day

Today marks a unique American tradition known as “Memorial Day.”
As bizarre as the custom of celebrating the death of Jesus by flaunting bunnies delivering eggs and marshmallow-filled baby chicks, it is a holiday where citizens raise a flag and burn hamburgers on the grill in celebration of those who gave their lives in time of war.
I’m not sure of the connection, but there it is.
It has also melted into a generalized acknowledgement of all persons deceased, not just those who died in the service.
My daughter recently asked about the difference between Memorial Day and Veterans Day.
I told her that Veterans Day is basically for those soldiers who actually made it through the war.
That is in no way disrespectful to those courageous souls who made the ultimate sacrifice on behalf of their nation, but a short-hand response small enough to satisfy the curiosity of an MTV-generation teenager.
While we all cherish the extra day off from work, most of us have lost the spirit of the day.
This is evidenced by the wane of Memorial Day parades in most small towns like mine, where a good haircut used to be sufficient cause to roll out the fire trucks and plant the mayor on the back seat of an antique car.
But we’ve lost our bearings on most of our American holidays.
For example, Arbor Day.
Other than some nebulous reference to trees, what is its purpose? How are we supposed to celebrate?
Columbus Day is another big one that has lost its significance in the face of political correctness, where the hero has been knocked from his perch as the valiant discoverer of the western continents down to a land-grubbing, Native American bashing expansionist who exploited a new discovery for its resources.
(Columbus sounds like a good Republican to me, so I don’t understand the conundrum.)
Independence Day has managed to maintain its patriotic symbolism, where we basically paint anything that will sit still long enough with red, white, and blue, then blow stuff up with colorful explosives at the end of the day.
Even a major holiday like Christmas has evolved from a celebration of the birth of the Savior into a day featuring a jolly guy in a red suit and a Welfare state of mind, handing out toys to kids.
It has become so absurd with protests by every nut-job anti-religion and alter-religion group that it won’t be long before the word “Christmas” will join Carlin’s list of the seven words you can’t say on TV.
And Labor Day?
Even I can’t figure that one out. My best guess is that it must have been some bargaining chip forced by the UAW somewhere along the way, back when unions actually had a place at the social and political table.
If truth-in-advertising laws really worked, we would just be honest and rename Memorial Day and Labor Day as Start Day and Finish Day, because their best use is as the demarcation points of the beginning and ending of public schools’ summer vacation.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have charcoal to nurture.

Diabetic Dreaming

I am a diabetic.
(Sounds like the intro at some twelve-step meeting, huh?)
I don’t usually mention this to people, because I never want to be one of those annoying people who bore people to tears with their litany of maladies.
It’s a genetic gift from my father, who died from diabetes-related complications, which is a kind way of saying they ran out of things to amputate.
But one thing he told me about this illness is true:
If you have to have a dread disease like diabetes, this is the moment in history to have it.
One of the biggest benefits is the scientific advances in the area of artificial sweeteners.
Thanks to Sweet ‘N Low, saccharine, aspartame, Equal, and Splenda, I can eat almost anything that normal people eat.
(Obviously, I also don’t have any politically correctness when it comes to the disease. Nobody needs to handle me like a Faberge’ egg, no need for people to speak in whispers around me, I’m not pitching for a telethon or insisting on some idiotic title like “sugar-challenged.”)
Food manufacturers have also smoothed the road for diabetics with sugar-free sodas, sugar-free ice cream, sugar-free candy, etc.
Any day now, I’m waiting for someone to introduce sugar-free cotton candy and sugar-free Twinkies.
In fact, Splenda is almost the ninth wonder of the world, since it’s basically sugar-free sugar.
These are blessed innovations, particularly since I don’t think they will find a cure for diabetes in my lifetime.
I say this for two reasons.
First, as Chris Rock so eloquently pointed out, doctors aren’t going to do anything that stupid. Doctors, like dope dealers, have learned that the money is in the come-back.
Rock said in one of his videos, “What was the last thing they actually cured? Polio?”
I have to agree with this. In my case, I have had the disease for about 6 years. I know what I need, know what to watch for, know the warning signs and the pre-warning signals.
But my last three doctors have all insisted that I can’t have that three-month prescription (which, until last month, hadn’t changed in over three years), unless I make the quarterly pilgrimage to their office.
They will not find a cure for diabetes because it cuts off a pretty significant revenue stream.
The second reason I know there is no cure on the horizon is President Bush.
Most of the positive reports on diabetic advances point to stem cell research.
Unfortunately, our Prez has a real problem with any medical breakthroughs that involve the use of discarded fetal residue.
Or, as the extreme right wing considers them, the murdered pre-Jesus (since every aborted zygote has the potential to be the next Messiah, in their opinion.)
So while my life will most likely be shortened by the disease, I am grateful for the quality of life that has been made possible by our sugar substitute sorcerers.
To paraphrase the late James Dean, I’ll live fast, die young, and eat plenty of sugar-free Reeses Peanut Butter Cups before I go.

Watching TV

A few quick observations about the cathode-ray teat…
…First, NBC announced they won’t be renewing “Revelations.”
I really wanted to like this show, and thought the premise had promise.
But leave it to last-place NBC to make the end of the world into a boring, plodding, tiresome series…
…Word has it that Fear Factor may also be on the chopping block. Maybe there IS a God…
Back in the seventies, I was a slave to Saturday Night Live. My parents weren’t particularly impressed. Now, my teenage daughter is addicted to Mad TV, and I just can’t stand the show. I’m sure my dad is in heaven, pointing his finger and laughing…
…Bashing NBC one more time, why can’t they leave things alone in the scheduling? I finally found an enjoyable drama that didn’t revolve around cops or doctors. I actually penciled the show “Medium” into my day planner. Now, in its first season, you have to be a mind-reader to know when the damn thing will be on, since NBC has pre-empted the show three different times this year for such inspiring TV fare as “Hercules.” I’ve decided to hell with it. I’ve completely given up on the show and the folks at the No Brains Company network…
…We need a new American catch phrase. There hasn’t been a good one since Budweiser’s “Whazzzzzup.” I miss “Where’s the Beef?” and “I can’t believe I ate the whole thing,” and even the Quizno’s Spongemonkeys singing “We love the subs.” Can you think of a current TV ad catch phrase, other than Paris Hilton’s trite and irritating “That’s hot!”?...
…Sitcoms continue to circle the bowl after the reality-TV inspired flush. “Everybody Loves Raymond” is the latest to go down the pipes. Meanwhile, like the stubborn nuggets of feces that just won’t go down, “That 70’s Show,” “Two And A Half Men,” “Still Standing,” and “King of Queens” remain above the whirlpool. I never thought I would hear myself say I miss “Friends.”…
…And I guess I’m just getting too darn fussy. I never thought Bruce Springsteen’s song “57 Channels And Nothing On” would actually be a daily mantra, but I am finding it harder and harder to find anything fit to watch. Thank God for a huge library of old movies. I would rather watch “Backdraft” for the 83rd time than try to stomach a single episode of “Stacked.”…

Playing With Money

Published in the Desert Valley Times
May 24, 2005

After a relatively long period of monetary stability, it appears that America’s financial underpinnings are in flux.
It’s not the stock market, or the value of the dollar against the yen.
It’s money itself.
For years, American money was boring yet consistent.
Your five-dollar bill in 1973 looked just like your 1994 model.
And the biggest change in change (yes, it’s a pun, and yes, it’s a lousy one) came when pennies quit carrying wheat and began carrying advertisements for one of D.C.’s favorite tourist attractions.
(For those of you playing along at home, it’s the Lincoln Memorial building.)
Now, you can plunge your hand into a plastic casino cup full of metal money and come up with three dozen different varieties of coinage.
The fronts still look the same (kind of), but the backs are as varied as, well, as the states.
If you don’t see Washington’s mug on the front, you might be holding a quarter with a minted story about Alabama or Maryland, or you could be holding a bus token from Saskatchewan.
Like most folks, I thought the idea of each state getting their own quarter was cute in the beginning.
Now that the variety has become so diverse, you need a degree in numismatics to figure out if you’ve got enough change for that Snickers bar.
And if it’s confusing for me, what kind of torture do you think it poses for tourists visiting from other countries?
They might wonder how much a quarter is worth.
But then the subtle nuances kick in.
Is a Georgia quarter worth as much as an Ohio quarter?
If you try to use a Virginia quarter to buy North Carolina cigarettes in South Dakota, do the money police show up to take you away?
Not satisfied to keep people off-balance about their quarters, the U.S. Mint is now employing the same shell game with our nickels.
It’s still Tommy Jefferson on the front, but the back is festooned with various state mottoes and maybe even an ad for the last Star Wars episode.
But the fun doesn’t end with jingling money.
Have you seen the latest $20 bill?
No you haven’t, because they changed it again five minutes ago.
I used to suffer from a national inferiority complex, because our money was pretty boring with its shades of green, while other countries used blues and reds and purples.
Now, our newest folding money changes colors right before your eyes, with secret images and magic threads and a seeing eye over the pyramid that captures electronic images of the inside of your wallet and transfers the photos to a huge database in Washington D.C. where bureaucrats collate the information to determine whether your taxes need to be increased.
(Basically, if there is a single dollar bill remaining in your wallet, your taxes are too low and need a bump.)
I always feel guilty when I spend one of those colorful new bills, because anything that artistic deserves to be hanging on my refrigerator with a gold star and smiley face.
And have you seen the new $100 bill?
Okay, I work for the DVT, so I haven’t seen one either.
But I hear they’re tinkering with the color schemes and inserting GPS homing beacons so Uncle Sam can gather them up more easily every April 15.
I know the current currency designs (yes, another pun, but this one is marginally better) are intended to discourage lazy counterfeiters from lining up at Kinko’s, but I’ll be happy when the U.S. Treasury finally finds a version they like and declares a winner that they’re going to stick with.
Otherwise, playing Monopoly at my house is just going to get more confusing.

Miller’s Rants Canned

CNBC pulled the plug on comedian Dennis Miller’s talk show last week.
Personally, I never understood the logic in putting that show on CNBC in the first place.
The cable network is supposed to be the purview of the financial arts, a haven for stock brokers and accountants.
Ever met an accountant with a sense of humor?
Every night, Miller must have stepped onto the set saying to himself “Tough network, tough network.”
I’m glad his show is over.
To me, Dennis Miller isn’t just a comedian.
He’s a 21st century philosopher.
He was also the victim of an uninspired writing team that could have served as poster children for the Peter Principle.
Hopefully, if he doesn’t just kick back on his jillions in the bank and hang around the house annoying his wife, this will free Miller to return in a format more suitable to his style, one which will allow him to go back to the winning formula of writing his own material.
His HBO show was fantastic in the early years because it was only once a week, allowing Miller to write most of his own jokes and rants.
Unfortunately, I don’t think he’ll ever get the hang of interviewing guests, because so few of them match his intellect.
“So, Jessica, you have a take on this whole Iraqi torture tale?”
“Well, Dennis, you know I believe in equality, and if the guy wants to be a welder, who are we to say no? Just because he’s from South America doesn’t mean he shouldn’t be allowed to use a torch! By the way, did you see the cute Jimmy Choo shoes on the cover of my new CD?”
Also, even if you’re Dennis Miller, making commentary on bad skits featuring untalented members of your incompetent studio crew and staff isn’t comedy.
In redneck parlance, it’s shooting over a baited field.
I don’t always agree with his stances, particularly on handguns and the Constitution, but I will quickly submit that he is one of the smartest guys ever to grace the small screen.
I’m glad that he is free at last.

Generation Gap Of Sound

Published in the Desert Valley Times
May 17, 2005

Back in the day, a young man measured his worth using the currency of horsepower.
Your level of “cool” was directly proportional to how fast your car ran.
I would like to say that I was among the elite in this measurement back in the 70s, but there is only so much “cool” to be derived from driving a Pinto station wagon.
(Admittedly, my “cool” quotient rose a few clicks after the news broke about that unique Ford factory accessory known as “the exploding gas tank,” but my potential would always be limited by my four-cylinder engine.)
Guys would get together and compare engine displacements and transmission ratios, convinced that bigger was better for attracting girls.
Little did we know that we were conceptually correct, only mistaken about where size counted.
Most of us were into our late teens before we realized that size indeed mattered, but that the important measurement involved the bulge in our pants.
Specifically, in the right hip pocket, where the size of a guy’s wallet meant a lot more than the size of his hemi.
But that didn’t stop us from doling out machismo in the form of mag wheels and oversized carbs (which had nothing to do with food ingestion and everything to do with fuel injection.)
Today, that foolish notion about “bigger is better” continues with the teen set.
And the standard still revolves around a guy’s car.
However, in this age of nearly three dollars a gallon for high-test gasoline, it’s not about how big your engine might be or how fast you can turn the quarter mile.
It’s a question of decibels.
“Coolness” is now determined by the size of your sub-woofer.
Like kids in the seventies who plowed hard-earned dollars into Hurst shifters and traction bars, today’s macho teen is working like a union apprentice to get the money necessary to pump up the volume in his ride.
They spend hundreds of dollars on amplifiers and bass bins in the quest for testosterone supremacy, which is determined by who has the loudest stereo system.
One of the by-products is today’s kid is every bit as obnoxious in his automotive pursuits as we were in my day.
When you spend that much money on your car, you can’t just quietly ride around the community in silent superiority.
With a tricked-out 300 horsepower Camaro, the only way to get your deserved attention was to gun the engine loudly and squeal wheels at every intersection.
In fact, we used to joke about stop signs as being a permission-giving acronym for “Spin Tires On Pavement.”
Here in the 21st century, the financial investment made by some of these adolescent car enthusiasts absolutely demands that it’s knobs-right on the volume and bass controls as they cruise around town, a musical “look at me.”
I can tell I’m getting old, because I can look back fondly on the traffic-law misadventures of my high school brethren, racing their cars at 60 mph in front of the school (where “school zone” held a different meaning than that intended by our local gendarmes), while staying in a constant state of irritation by the “boom, boom-boom” of today’s sound-barrier-breaking scofflaws.
I’m sure a part of my irritation is a result of the musical generation gap which has probably existed for centuries.
(I figure parents in the 1800’s probably chided their teenagers often with such statements as “Turn down that Chopin crap right now! Beethoven and Mozart, now THAT was music!”)
It seems that booming rap music is the preferred song selection for those with the heavy duty sound gear, even if the driver happens to be a geeky little white kid with taped-up glasses and a pocket protector.
Apparently, the Dixie Chicks and Merle Haggard just don’t make the fillings in your teeth rattle sufficiently when played through these monster systems.
So while these young purveyors of sound pollution continue to do what teens have done for centuries, which is to annoy adults, those of us who grew up in the Mustang and Firebird eras will just have to remember that we were young once, and simply look back fondly on the days when aggravating adults was our own mission in life.

Methane Gas Gambit

The Discovery Channel recently broadcast a documentary about the Bermuda Triangle.
While this is a well-plowed field of superstition, supernatural, and psychobabble about alien landing zones and time travel portals, Discovery’s show actually came up with a scientific answer:
Methane gas.
Also known as “swamp gas,” methane has been heralded as the explanation for UFO sightings, as well as the answer to all of the world’s energy problems.
For those who never heard of methane, it’s the gaseous by-product of the decay process.
In swamps, it’s usually the decomposition of dead fish and grasses.
In humans, it’s the decomposition of Big Macs and any product listed on the menu at Taco Bell.
I’m not a particular fan of sophomoric “fart” jokes, because they show a certain lack of intellectual evolution.
But here is a respected television channel telling us that, basically, the loss of hundreds of ships and planes in the Bermuda Triangle comes down to ocean farts.
By extension, it means that unexplained flashing lights seen in rural areas are actually alien farts.
According to Discovery, there are methane beds beneath the bottom of the ocean in the Atlantic Ocean that are constantly releasing little bubbles of methane.
Once in a while, an underwater landslide occurs, releasing an enormous bubble of the stuff, which is violent enough to break up and sink 500-foot cargo ships.
Further, the large bubble continues to rise into the atmosphere, where it stalls the engines of prop-driven planes and makes the altimeter do funny things.
Personally, I like the idea of a mutant octopus or ocean-borne rips in the space-time continuum way more than methane gas eruptions as a reason for the disappearance of so many ships and planes. I also think they are about as credible.
But it certainly opens the door to the “methane” defense in everyday life.
Why didn’t the electric bill get paid before the lights were shut off?
Methane gas.
Why didn’t you call your wife to tell her that you weren’t going to get home before a quarter-past Tuesday?
Methane gas.
Why is your homework late?
Methane gas.
If this excuse is good enough for a bunch of pointy-heads with big budgets (which they used, among other things, to sink a nice ski-boat with artificial fart bubbles), it should be good enough for your boss.
And you’ll know that the “methane defense” has become a legitimate excuse for every malady in America when Michael Jackson uses it next week to escape molestation charges.
“No, your honor, that wasn’t my hand. Methane gas. Thank you.”

Church Of The HOA

Published in the Desert Valley Times
May 10, 2005

Which homeowners association do you belong to?
It has become almost as important a question in Mesquite as which church you attend.
And like the church, you have a certain contingent of “non-believers” who reside outside the boundaries of any HOA, replete with the snubs and marginalization of second-class citizens.
There are almost as many HOA’s in town as there are churches from which to choose, each with their own dogma and belief structure.
You have the long list of associations north of the Interstate which are offshoots of the Mesquite Vistas project, similar to the litany of divisions under the Protestant umbrella.
Each association has its own way of doing things.
Some believe in a strong authoritarian position, including board presidents who sometimes see themselves as the Pope of their particular PUD.
Others subscribe to more board-ly ways, with every decision balanced by a host of association apostles.
Some even believe in the “live and let live” theology, although those associations are few and far between.
The scariest part of HOA living is similar to believing in certain aggressive religions where zealots rule the day.
At church, zealots will pick up snakes, chastise those who fall short of the Biblical bar, and rail of fire and brimstone for those who don’t believe in the same set of guidelines that he or she holds sacred.
The HOA zealots arm themselves with cameras and violation forms in search of infidels who commit the mortal sins of leaving their trash cans out too long or failing to roll up their garden hoses before nightfall.
Their CC&Rs are their Koran, their Architectural Standards serving as their Bible.
Now, all this vitriol aside, HOA’s, like churches, serve an important function in a civilization.
Without churches, the world would be a sin-filled landscape of unfettered fornication (and even some fettered fornication) and immoral endeavors.
Kinda like Vegas.
Without HOA’s, neighborhoods would be filled with circus-colored houses and wheel-less cars up on blocks.
Admittedly, in wealthy ‘burbs like Calais, the wheel-less cars up on blocks might be Hummers and Cadillac Escalades, but even an $80,000 eyesore is still an eyesore.
And like the religious tribunals of old, every once in a while the associations have to hold hearings for the transgressions of their flock.
There have been no documented reports of stoning, although there have been more than a few witch-hunts rumored over the last few years.
All of this boils down to an essential question:
Are HOA’s un-American?
For over 200 years, men and women have fought and died for your right to paint your house orange.
They call it freedom.
In order to own a home in an association, you have to surrender a certain amount of your freedom.
The trade-off is that your neighborhood will most likely be a clean, beautiful, and safe place to live, filled with friendly and polite neighbors (although, if some of the associations get their way, none of those neighbors will be renters or humans under the age of 55).
As Benjamin Franklin once said, “Those who sacrifice essential liberty for temporary safety are not deserving of either liberty or safety.”
Of course, Ben never lived in a nice three-bedroom two-story villa in Mesquite where the lawn was mowed each week by someone other than the family goat.
He might have objected to that “No kite flying” rule in the CC&R, but I think he would have liked limping along nicely manicured yards under tasteful streetlamps made possible by one of his discoveries.
To be fair, no one holds a gun to the head of prospective home buyers to force them into neighborhoods featuring severe deed restrictions.
And the lower property values of homes outside of HOA neighborhoods is a financial testament to the success of associations where you can paint your house whatever color you want, as long as it’s tan.
So while Mr. Franklin and his cohorts may have won the Revolution back in the 1700’s, the battle over fence height restrictions and lawn ornaments rages on in Mesquite.
Just know that, while you can be leisurely about choosing your religion since you can usually change it with the turn of a steering wheel and an extra gallon of gas, make sure you do your homework before deciding which HOA you will be pledging your allegiance to, since the new flag will likely bear the slogan “Live Free or Pay Your Dues.”

Sleeping With The Judge

What is this world coming to?
For decades, the running joke about such TV fare as “The Miss America Pageant” has revolved around female contestants sleeping with male judges to win the big prize.
And of course, as is the case with most jokes and salacious innuendo, there is no truth to it.
Well, there was that whole Miss Black America thing where one of the contestants decided to visit Mike Tyson’s hotel room in the middle of the night, but Tyson wasn’t technically a judge, so that doesn’t count.
Now, we have a new charge of a contestant claiming to have slept with a judge.
The twist?
The contestant was a guy. The judge, a woman.
Former American Idol contestant Corey Clark is making a big deal about the fact that he had a sexual relationship with AI judge Paula Abdul while competing on the show.
Wow.
What’s next, female bosses chasing male secretaries around the big desk? Female construction workers whistling at male bicycle messengers? Famous female company executives going to jail for insider trading?
On the face of it, this sounds absolutely absurd.
Paula Abdul is a forty-something bona-fide rich hottie.
The guy in question is a smarmy, scummy, street-wise twenty-something singer with a girl’s voice and bad hair.
Oh, and he is also perpetually broke, a convicted sister-beater (no, not a hip black female, his actual sister), and a confessed liar.
And did I mention his bad hair?
Leading up to his appearance on an ABC crap-u-mentary, it appeared pretty obvious why he would make such outlandish claims.
He is selling a “tell-all” book about his experience on American Idol, and it didn’t look like it was going to sell many copies with the only “tell-all” story involving the fact he got kicked off the show for lying about going to jail for beating up his sister.
He is also working on a new album, and as Madonna has taught us, whatever is lacking in talent can be compensated for with controversy.
Then there is the appearance money from talk shows and interviews, and the opportunity to score on a whole new parade of rich network hotties.
But then the dirtball came up with a paper trail.
Phone bills, medicine bottles and receipts for clothes that, if legitimate, give credence to his claims.
Ms. Abdul isn’t helping herself, hiding behind the “I’m not going to dignify such outlandish lies by answering questions about them” gambit. (You saw how well it worked for Bill Clinton and Michael Jackson).
If the claims turn out to be true, it could be the end of her tenure as an AI judge.
But in the end, she didn’t really do anything heinous (other than display incredibly bad taste in sex partners, which is a Hollywood trademark).
She didn’t pass him the answers to upcoming quiz show questions, she didn’t seal a pact to vote for him, (at that point in the competition, all of the judging was done by brain-dead Americans with good speed-dialing equipment, who managed to eventually select “Reuben Sandwich” Studdard over popular androgynous crooner Clay Aiken), and she didn’t tinker with the voting.
According to the scumbag in question, she did help him with advice, but telling him to get a haircut and pull up his pants can hardly be considered insider trading.
I’m hoping the charges are not true.
Not because I give a whit about the “integrity” of such seminal television fare as “American Idol,” but because I sense that Ms. Abdul is a genuinely nice person who got caught up in trying to help out an obvious loser.
(It’s a pattern…she was once married to Emilio Estevez).
As for the Clark-meister, he will go on to make millions, then will probably squander it on coke-parties and bling because that’s what scum bags do.
The sad part is that he’ll do it on the American dime, because that’s what we do; buy trashy, salacious books from pusbags like Jose Canseco, and plunk down buckage for CD’s by untalented hacks who have managed to punch the clock on their fifteen minutes of fame.

Slot Machines

Published in the Desert Valley Times
May 3, 2005

First the disclaimer:
To my friends back at Gamblers Anonymous and my boss’s bosses back in Utah, who have a lot in common, I’m not much of a gambler.
First because I’m a newspaper writer, which means my paycheck barely covers such luxuries as food and gas.
Second because I really suck at it.
But I have been known to drop a few quarters into the occasional slot machine.
Not any more.
Tri-Properties, the company which owns CasaBlanca, the Oasis, and the Virgin River casinos, has put a ton of money into sprucing up all three properties.
In particular, they’ve upgraded most of the slot machines, particularly at the ‘Riv.
The new machines and the atmosphere are beautiful.
(That sound you may hear in the background is me, kissing up to the biggest advertiser in our paper.)
But to be honest, I’m not a big fan of the new one-armed bandits.
They are now coin-less.
They will only take dollar bills.
This doesn’t work for me, because I’m a cheapskate.
I may be willing to put four quarters into a machine, but I’m not going to put in a whole dollar!
Also, again because I’m a cheapskate, the machines always reject the foul, crumpled one-dollar bills I’ve been hoarding and squeezing since Reagan’s first term.
So I no longer have a place to get rid of my itinerant loose change.
Another thing I don’t like is that you put money in, but they never give money out.
And I’m not talking about my usual prowess, which resembles the same likelihood of hitting the jackpot by sticking quarters into a parking meter.
When you win, you don’t get money anymore.
You get a slip of paper with foreign symbols on it.
Then, unless you’ve accidentally mistaken it for your dry cleaning slip and retrieved your best suit with it, you are supposed to stick the slip into another slot machine, or a change machine.
I miss the clanging cascade of quarters ringing against the metal drop trays, although some of the computerized machines have been programmed to play a recording of that sound.
Also, when I win, I want everyone to know it.
Instead of using one of the cute little plastic buckets, I like to fill both pockets with change then go jingling-jangling-jingling around the casino like a dusty-spurred gunslinger at high noon.
My favorite part was trying to pay for my meal at the buffet with fistfuls of quarters.
It’s all different now, because you can’t use the little slips to buy anything.
It also adds another sobering trip to the change machine.
I’m going to miss the change girls who used to pop up for the bigger payoffs (so I’ve heard, since I’ve never hit a jackpot big enough to require human intervention).
At first I was worried about their careers, envisioning lines of out-of-work change girls holding plastic buckets labeled with signs like “Will convert quarters to nickels for food.”
However, they will have a chance to move on and up in the gaming world.
(Excuse me, someone’s at my front door. Pretend you’re listening to “On hold” Muzak until I return.)
(I’m back. It was a nice lady in a red long-sleeved shirt asking for someone named “Keno…Keno…”)
I know I’ll eventually get used to the new technology.
And I do see the advantages of eliminating all the finger-blackening coinage from the equation.
Besides, considering my meager pay, the casinos are an integral part of my retirement program.
I figure that, in the next 25 years, I should be able to rack up enough points on my Virgin River “frequent flusher” card to get comped meals delivered to my future address at machine 4293 in the nickel slot section for the rest of my days.