Fade to Black - William F. Buckley Jr.

I always feel like a bit of an idiot writing "Junior" after someone's name, especially when they died at the age of 82. But whatever. Born in 1925, Buckley made conservatism something cool, and his TV show Firing Line is a program I'll always remember.

I was a kid back then, and I thought he was some Limey snob, but he was fun to watch. His mouth was a scar that ran off his face, he talked high and mighty, and his eyes were quick and bright. He wrote tons of articles, over 50 books, and was the founder and editor-in-chief and, later, editor-at-large of the National Review. When he died yesterday morning, he died at his desk while writing a new book about Reagan.

It was interesting watching the news of his death. All of the anchors and reporters kept calling him "conservative." A "conservative commentator," or "conservative writer," or "Bill Buckley, the conservative writer of the conservative National Review who used to host the conservative Firing Line."

I can't remember the last time the media told me about a dead liberal. For them, there is "normal," and "conservative," which shows their bias more than any poll.

Buckley's writing was famous for being high-brow, and I guess he really was the embodiment of Yale intellectualism given center stage, swaggering at being so smart and so right.

My favorite story of Buckley doesn't involve his politics.

He swore the following story was true, and that he was there:

Buckley and David Niven are at a party, talking to another man. Two women come down the stairs.

Niven says, "Look at that ugly woman."

The man says, "That's my wife."

Niven says, "I meant the other one."

The man says, "That's my daughter."

Niven says, "I didn't say it."

Buckley wrote scads of spy novels and, according to him, about 1500 words a day when working, which seemed to be always.

Here's an interview between Buckley and Charlie Rose, after the death of Reagan. Watch it if you have the time and you'll get a good sense of Buckley.



Photo: Sam Falk/New York Times

Hollywood Bust

The numbers have come in, and the Oscars tanked, having scored the smallest number of viewers since Nielsen started the whole Oscar-ratings biz back in 1974.

Myway.com reports that one night of Oscars is worth about 10 million views less than three nights of American Idol. Idol's Thursday special last week scored over 23 million viewers on its own (83 million for the week), while the Oscars brought in a paltry 32 million viewers. In other words, 24 no-name kids singing karaoke songs are drawing more attention than all of the movie stars combined.

No surprise to me. If Hollywood thinks the average American viewer is going to watch movie stars pat themselves on the back, they've got another thing coming. The latest slew of American-bashing flicks did nothing to make America proud of its movie factory, and neither did the endless stories of stars' excesses with booze and drugs.

One minute the audience is hearing about drunk driving charges (Mel Gibson, Kiefer Sutherland, et al), the next they're hearing Michael Moore say, "Please forgive us," to the "international audience" while he walks the red carpet. Then they're supposed to watch these people stage-cry while picking up a statue? Right.

Just once I'd like to hear an honest movie star accept an award:

"All right, here's the deal. I have to thank my agent, the director, the producers, and my publicist. The list of names we all rattle off when accepting an award are not people we care about, only people that can help our careers. I don't really have time to thank mom and dad, because I have to be a sycophant and kiss some A-list ass, otherwise I'm screwed. Besides, I went into rehab and found out that my dad used to beat me and my mom dressed me as Heidi until the age of six. You can see it on the next Oprah.

"If I don't thank the director, he won't want to work with me again, which wouldn't be so bad because I think I'd be a better director than him. Still, I should thank him because he let it pass the day I wouldn't come out of my trailer after taking too many Quaaludes. Not like it mattered. After three weeks of shooting at fifty grand a day, what could he do, fire me? In my defence, if they hadn't run out of Diet Coke, I wouldn't have been so upset. But no Diet Coke? Give me a break. That's like an invitation from Mr. Quaalude himself.

"I have to thank the producers, too. They're the ones that give you the job and hand you a check for 20 million and all the rest of it. Anyway, they phoned me up while I was lounging by the pool. My agent (who's an even bigger prick than me, if you can believe it) had them get me the script. I thought it was great. After the fifth re-write and my script consultants were done with it (that's the Harry Jones and John Crenshaw that I just mentioned, in case you thought they were friends or something), I decided to do the picture.

"This film was a tough spiritual journey. It was a real pain in the ass shooting during basketball season. I had to give my Laker tickets to my hair stylist and he stiffed me for half the money. My trailer was the eighteen wheel Winnebago, which is a little better than the mini-Winnie, but not by much. It sucked, but I accepted it because I thought the film was so personal. I really felt a connection with it. Sure, it was about a serial rapist that lives in Des Moines, but hey, I've been to Kentucky.

"Next I have to thank my co-stars. I'd rip their heads off for a movie role, but there's no need to tell them that. Though they're all no-talent hacks compared to me, and I'd sell their daughters into slavery to get the part in the next Spielberg movie, I love them all very much. By the way, I banged the blonde, and screwing in a Winnebago is not easy, take it from me.

"Finally, I have to thank the fans. I'd like to thank the kids that go on double dates and drop a hundred bucks a night so I can stand here in a tux, pretend like I give a shit, and then go get drunk at a party and crash my car afterwards. All of the courtroom judges in this town are star struck anyway, so who cares? Barbara Walters will have the camera guys shoot me in soft light during the interview, and you'll forgive me. Don't eat meat, drive a Prius, and end the war. Good night."

Photo: Reuters

Bye-Bye Britain -- Part 5

Here's an excerpt from a recent Mark Steyn piece:

Every day around the developed world, minor government bureaucrats get advice from minor government lawyers and make small incremental adjustments to western civilization. “Where there is a valid polygamous marriage the claimant and one spouse will be paid the couple rate,” read the new British guidelines. “The amount payable for each additional spouse is presently £33.65.”

You can’t (for the moment) marry multiple wives within the United Kingdom, but if you contract a polygamous marriage in a jurisdiction where polygamy is legal, such as certain, ahem, Muslim countries, your better halves (or better eighths?) are now recognized as eligible for British welfare payments. Thus, the concept of “each additional spouse” has been accepted both de facto and de jure.

Read the rest of the piece here.

Vantage Point - Review

Director: Pete Travis
Starring: William Hurt, Dennis Quaid, Forest Whitaker
Writer: Barry Levy
Runtime: 90 minutes

Vantage Point is a funny little movie. I say funny, because it's hard to pin down how much, or how little, you like it. In the end, I liked it, and quite a lot.

The President of the United States (William Hurt), arrives to give a speech in Spain. Secret Service agent Thomas Barnes (Dennis Quaid) is there to protect him. Television producer Rex Brooks (Sigourney Weaver) is covering the story from the truck. Howard Lewis (Forest Whitaker) is a tourist in the crowd, taping things with his camcorder. Javier (Edgar Ramirez) is a mysterious bystander.

Bam. The President takes two right in the chest, and down he goes. Ka-boom. A bomb goes off, wiping out scores of people and sending the bandstand sky high. But was he the President, or a stand-in? And who shot him? And who planted the bomb? And will they get away with it?

We see the film from six or more different "vantage points," one by one. We stay with Sigourney Weaver while she tells different cameras to take this shot and that shot, zooming in and out on the carnage. Then we follow Thomas Barnes as he tries to find out where the shooter was when it all went down. Then we follow Forest Whitaker as he tapes the foot chase between the secret service and a suspect.

You get the idea.

The audience I was with got the idea pretty quickly, too. It is impossible to review this film without calling attention to the audience, because they became an integral part of the film.

Vantage Point does not play out in real time, nor does it play out sequentially. Rather, when we are done following Barnes, the film "rewinds" back to the beginning and we see things from Forest Whitaker's point of view. Then we rewind again, and see it through the eyes of the President. So forth.

If this sounds like a way to anger an audience, you would be right. But I admired the movie for it. It had guts. My only concern for the director was this: can you make each "post-rewind" segment so interesting, so exciting, that I will quickly forget that I'm seeing the same old story over and over again?

The answer is yes, and I think the audience felt the same. After the first "rewind" sequence, the audience said nary a word. Then the next one came, and the audience muttered. At this point, I got nervous for the movie. Can it hold them? Then the next rewind came, and the audience groaned aloud, and one guy shouted, "Where's Jack Bauer [of 24 fame] when you need him?" and everyone in the theater broke up laughing.

When the final rewind came, I thought there was going to be a riot. And I loved it. Most times, when an audience talks, I get angry because they're talking about their dinner date, or how somebody saw Bobby kissing Susie at the bowling alley. This time, the talk was directed at the movie makers. It's been ages since anyone's thrown popcorn at the screen, and I enjoyed the irony: the audience was upset, but they were playing into the filmmaker's hands. They would holler and boo after each rewind, but were quiet within ten seconds. Nobody left the theater. They wanted to know what happens next.

The film is quite clever, and the editor deserves extra credit. The thread of each "vantage point" comes together well, and there is certainly enough suspense and intrigue to keep the audience guessing. It is only later that you realize the film takes place in a span of roughly thirty minutes, from the time the President is shot, until the film's conclusion. It is the different characters' stories that stretch it out, and the film does it at breathless speed, knowing they'll lose the audience for good if they dare slow down for a dumb love story subplot.

One other gutsy aspect of the movie was the body count. Men, women, children, you name it. Hell, even a darling reporter gets it, which shows how heartless the writer is. The film is violent, but not gory, and action fans should like it.

There are certainly flaws with the plotting when you go back to think about them, but the movie doesn't let you think about them. It doesn't call the flaws into question until after you've left the theater, which means it's done its job. Other things do jump out at you, though, and will bother you if you dwell on them, ie, Could someone really talk on a cell phone during a hectic car chase while driving stick?

The cast is quite good. Sigourney Weaver is an afterthought in the script, but Whitaker and Quaid are fine, and Edgar Ramirez plays his tough-guy role very well, not letting it slip into robot mode.

The only problem I had with the film is that it heavily leaned towards cornball at the end. The brief dialogue exchange between Hurt and Quaid should have been left on the floor, as it is cheesy and totally unnecessary. I'm amazed that they left it in.

Vantage Point is a good action yarn. Whether it is more frustrating than entertaining is for you to decide.

Sneak Peek:

Oscar Round-Up

(In)humane Society

I was having a chat today and found out that it's tough to get a cat from the humane society. Apparently there's a whole red tape tap dance you have to do, at the end of which the adoption "agent" can decline your adoption for any reason whatsoever.

That sounded strange to me. I've watched enough late night TV to know that there's thousands of doe-eyed animals sitting behind cages, begging me to be their friend and companion. Barring that, they just want to get the hell out of that cage and away from the animal-loving weirdos that are protecting them.

I went on the Oakville Humane Society webpage to see what kind of bureaucratic nightmare would await a prospective pet owner. Turns out, the Humane Society is about as sanctimonious as any government agency, and then some.

First, I found out that dogs are worth more than cats. Way more. A cute little puppy will run you $275. (You get a $50 rebate if you go to training classes. Whether it's training for the dog or for you, I'm not sure).

Puppies are the king of the hill for the humane society. Everyone loves puppies, and the humane society knows it, which is why the stick it to you for $275. A full-grown dog will put you out $250, with another $50 rebate for the bogus training course.

Cats? Screw 'em. A kitten will run $160, while a grimy full-grown cat will cost a piddling $135. Plus tax.

It makes a certain amount of sense. Dog owners are the mammoth weirdos of the animal-loving trade (people who love polar bears but have never seen them are a close second). Dog owners will shell out any amount of cash to get another pooch. The humane society adjusts their prices accordingly. Cats get short shrift because cats tend to show you their asshole anytime you talk sternly to them, and they'll take off for a week at a time. "Thanks for getting me out of the cage. Later."

I downloaded the adoption application and had a good laugh. I'm sure the humane society agents consider themselves very thorough and righteous. As the Toronto Humane Society has it, "Providing a home and care for a pet is a lifetime commitment." Italics and boldface theirs.

Er, no. Adopting a Labrador might be a lifetime commitment for Fido, but it isn't a lifetime commitment for me. At least, I hope not. When Fido kicks the bucket ten or fifteen years down the line, I'm hoping to still be vertical. My commitment ends when the last spadeful of dirt fills in the hole in the backyard and I read a poem from Emily Dickinson.

That is, if I can even spring Fido from the pen. Here's a sample of the dog application (yes, there is a different application for cats; strangely, no applications for ferrets and mice). My answers follow.

1. How many adults in the household? How many children, and how old are they? On Friday nights, the place is loaded with strippers and drunks. The rest of the week, just me.

2. Explain why you want to adopt the pet? To pet it.

3. How much time will you spend with your animal? Depends if he's a whisky man or not.

4. How will you be spending time with your dog? Watching porno and drinking beer.

5. How active would you like your dog to be? I want him to place Best in Show at the New York competition. If he doesn't, it's curtains.

6. How active would you describe your family to be? Lazy bastards.

7. How large is your yard? Big enough for a patio bash, not big enough for a Zeppelin reunion concert.

8. What will you do with your dog if you plan to move? Tell him to pack.

9. What type of ID do you plan to put on your dog? A T-shirt that says, "I'm with stupid."

10. It may take your pet two weeks to adjust to its new home. Are you prepared for this? No. If he isn't whipping up cappuccino by the end of week 1, he's out of here.

That's just a taste of what they put you through. Then they tell you that they're going to do a background check, and then they tell you to take a number and they'll be in touch. After that, there's an interview session, where everyone from the house has to come down, sit in a room, and meet the dog, under the supervision of the "agent." Presumably Fido will ask for references.

You could do all this, I suppose. Or you could do like the person I talked to. When I asked her what she did, she said, "They took forever, so I went to the pet store and gave them $100. Ten minutes later, we were home."

So that's why there's so many late-night TV ads for helpless animals. They're not helpless. There's tons of people out there that would love to adopt them, if the Saviors would just get out of the way.

Coming in From the Cold

Well, what do you know, it's snowing again.

The next idiot that says, "Yeah, but I'd miss the change of seasons," when I say, "Hawaii would be better," is going down. Anyone that says, "Well, there's been worse winters in the past few years," is going to join him.

Like I care what it's been like the past few years. I'm freezing now, bonehead.

Pacino/DeNiro: The Movie

Not a bad paradoy of these two.

Where Are All The Predators?

The other day I was watching the tube, and one of those "beware of online predator" commercials came on the air. You know the type: a screen-shot of a chat room, with Innocent675 saying, "What's your favorite color?" A response by Youngkid12 saying, "I like blue, and vanilla ice cream is good too!!!" Then Innocent675 says, "Let's meet at the mall on Tuesday."

Smash cut to a shot of Innocent675's creepy man-hand on a mouse, while scary music plays and a voice-over warns us about online perverts.

After seeing the latest dire warning, the thought occurred to me: "Just how many predators are really on the internet hunting for young kids?"

The way the media has it, there's a weirdo lurking in every chatroom.

Turns out, it's hype.

I thought it might be. Nothing sells like fear, and the fear for children sells the highest of all. Here's an interesting report from the Crimes Against Children Research Center, debunking a lot of online myths. The most striking to me is the one that is often portrayed as the MO of perverts: posing as teens to prey on unsuspecting kids. In fact, only 5% of them ever pose as children themselves.

Other myths, as reported by mcclatchydc.com:

Internet predators are driving up child sex crime rates.
Finding: Sex assaults on teens fell 52 percent from 1993 to 2005, according to the Justice Department's National Crime Victimization Survey, the best measure of U.S. crime trends. "The Internet may not be as risky as a lot of other things that parents do without concern, such as driving kids to the mall and leaving them there for two hours," Wolak said.

Internet predators are pedophiles.
Finding: Internet predators don't hit on the prepubescent children whom pedophiles target. They target adolescents, who have more access to computers, more privacy and more interest in sex and romance, Wolak's team determined from interviews with investigators.

Internet predators represent a new dimension of child sexual abuse.
Finding: The means of communication is new, according to Wolak, but most Internet-linked offenses are essentially statutory rape: nonforcible sex crimes against minors too young to consent to sexual relationships with adults.

Internet predators trick or abduct their victims.
Finding: Most victims meet online offenders face-to-face and go to those meetings expecting to engage in sex. Nearly three-quarters have sex with partners they met on the Internet more than once.

Internet predators meet their victims by posing online as other teens.
Finding: Only 5 percent of predators did that, according to the survey of investigators.

Online interactions with strangers are risky.
Finding: Many teens interact online all the time with people they don't know. What's risky, according to Wolak, is giving out names, phone numbers and pictures to strangers and talking online with them about sex.

Internet predators go after any child.
Finding: Usually their targets are adolescent girls or adolescent boys of uncertain sexual orientation, according to Wolak. Youths with histories of sexual abuse, sexual orientation concerns and patterns of off- and online risk-taking are especially at risk.

You can read the full article here.

Untraceable - Review

Director: Gregory Hoblit
Writers: Burnett/Fyvolent/Brinker
Starring: Diane Lane
Runtime: 1 hr 40 minutes

The last time I saw Diane Lane is a really good picture, it was Unfaithful. It was a movie about Lane's character cheating on her husband, played by Richard Gere. If anyone in the audience was having an affair behind their spouse's back, I can guarantee that Unfaithful sent shivers up their spine. It was a well done movie.

Untraceable is not, but that's no surprise. This is the time of year when Hollywood puts out the movies it wants to sweep under the rug. A release in February is too late for the Oscars, and too early for the summer crowd. By the time next year's Oscars come around, anything released in mid-winter will be long forgotten. January and February are the doldrums for movies.

Untraceable is a thriller that doesn't thrill. It takes a very good, very sexy Diane Lane and casts her in the most boring possible role. When you think of crime movies about serial killers, you would naturally suppose that the hero is a slick FBI agent, a tough cop, or a hot CSI chick on the prowl.

Diane Lane could play any of those if she wanted to, but here she's cast as an internet detective.

A what?

That's right. Lane plays Jennifer Marsh, an FBI agent that sits on her butt and tracks down internet criminals. Sitting next to her is Griffin Dowd (Colin Hanks). He's another internet detective. Together, the two of them talk about IP addresses, internet servers, and a lot of other geek mumbo jumbo. As Marsh's boss says in one scene, "I didn't understand a word you just said."

Tell me about it.

All right, that's a lie, I did understand most of what Marsh said. But who cares? When our hero has her ass plastered to a chair for the first twenty minutes of a film, I couldn't care less what she's talking about. I want her to do something.

Eventually, the film takes shape. There's a psycho on the internet. He kidnaps people and rigs them up to strange torture devices and puts their demise on a webpage. The kicker: the more people that log on to watch the victim die, the faster he'll kick the bucket. Of course there's no way to stop this, so we get to watch these people die in graphic detail, without once thinking that any of them are going to survive. There is virtually no suspense in these scenes, and they go as follows: man begins dying in sulphuric acid, Diane Lane looks horrified, man dies even faster, Diane looks more horrified, man boils and bubbles, Diane steps out for air, man dies, Diane looks upset.

It is up to Lane to catch the killer, but that's going to be difficult because the killer's a genius. As with every computer guy in the movies, he's three steps ahead of the cops, and can come and go on the wings of angels. If you're guessing that the only way this guy will be caught is if he is stupid enough to go after Diane Lane, you'd be pretty much on the money.

The movie is fairly derivative. Marsh throws a birthday party for her kid, but alas, her beeper interrupts the bash. Marsh has a daughter and mom living at home, but after the killer gets too close, she sends them away, never to be seen again (in the movies, everyone has an aunt living in the next state, where kids and grandmas can stay until the shooting stops). Marsh has a small quasi-love thing with a Portland detective, but it never comes to sex because he's a nice guy.

The movie feels like a cross between "pick a thriller" and Saw. The torture sequences are there to be what they are: torture sequences. Watching these people die feels silly, because you find yourself asking, "Let me get this straight. The guy's a mechanic, a chemist, a computer scientist, and an electrician all rolled into one? Guy should be at MIT."

I want Diane Lane to go back to dramas and play movies with meat. She is going to reach that age where Hollywood wants to send her off to TV land, and I don't want her to go. She's too damn good for this kind of movie, and I hope she knows it.

Photos: Yahoo Movies

Sneak Peek:

Bye-Bye Britain - Part 4

I don't know if it's because I'm an English-speaking guy, but it is rather sad watching Britain slowly flush itself down the toilet.

Here's the latest installment, which comes on the heels of the Archbishop of Canterbury saying that sharia law in England is a foregone conclusion.

"A new sharia law controversy erupted last night over Government plans to issue special "Islamic bonds" to pay for Gordon Brown's public-spending programme by raising money from the Middle East. Britain is to become the first Western nation to issue bonds approved by Muslim clerics in line with sharia law, which bans conventional loans involving interest payments as "sinful." -- Daily Mail

Many of my English buddies like to put the kibosh on my arguments by defaming the source. As in, "Ah, that's just the Daily Mail, bunch of bigots." Yet I've quoted the Daily Mail, the Guardian, The Spectator, The Times, and others in the past. How many papers do you need to quote before people say, "Huh. Maybe it isn't the racist British rags, but a fact of life."

Britain's decline is intriguing. Perhaps it is post-colonial guilt. Never before has a people been so hell bent on trashing their own traditions and culture in favor of ones from a different land, ones which they've never practiced in their lifetimes. Rome was invaded, and the Aztecs were slaughtered, but the English are exercising an amazing act of self-destruction.

The Mail goes on: "A spokesman said: "The Prime Minister is very clear that British laws must be based on British values and that religious law, while respecting other cultures, should be subservient to British criminal and civil law."

So that's how the law works? Silly me. I didn't know that religious "law" existed in Britain. I thought there was only British Common Law. Any religious laws are supposed to be "rules," practiced by the people in the religion, such as a "rule" against eating pork, not having sex before marriage, so forth.

There is no religious law subservient to the law, because there is no religious law in Britain. At least, not yet.

Vid Cast 1

Shiver Me Timbers

California lawmakers have passed a bill making it mandatory that global warming be taught in the classroom. The bill is heading to the state assembly, where it will presumably pass. If the Governator signs the bill, then California will be producing enviro-boobs at an even greater pace than it already is.

No surprise. California is always on the cutting edge of stupidity.

As for me, I'm with my geophysicist buddy: "We're in a very long historical curve here," he said over a pint of beer. For a moment I thought he was talking about our binge drinking, but no, he was discussing climate change. If anyone would know about the earth and all the myriad ways it can rise up and kill us, it's this guy.

"The Earth warms and cools," he added. "Always has. These people are morons." Then, to prove his brilliance, he asked a very important question: "Another beer?"

Here's a great line from the National Academy of Sciences report entitled "Climate Change is Real."

"There is now strong evidence that significant global warming is occurring. . . . It is likely that most of the warming in recent decades can be attributed to human activities. This warming has already led to changes in the Earth's climate."

First, if you have to head something, "Climate Change is Real," there's a good chance it isn't. The NAS sound like those guys that froth at the mouth when you say wrestling isn't a real sport.

Second, who says climate change isn't real? There's winter, summer, fall, spring. Lots of change. Why, just the other day, the temperature went from -10C to 0C in no time at all. Then it rained and, in a nice change, the temperature fell, the roads turned to ice, and I almost went into a ditch. That morning, my life was like a Barack Obama campaign: preaching for change while living the audacity of hope.

I want one of these global warming boneheads to come over to my place and start my car in the morning. I've been freezing my ass off for three months, firing up the car, and sitting in it for ten minutes to turn the man-made sludge into man-made oil. While my hands freeze on the wheel and the transmission sticks on the way from second to third, I could use a little warming in my life. Let's start by setting fire to all the copies of "Climate Change is Real."

Happy Valentine's Day

Here's what I was thinking last Valentine's Day, and my views haven't changed much since. Here goes:

I've never been a fan of people that sit around and trash holidays. There's always some guy sitting in the corner of a Christmas party that says, "Christmas is materialistic crap." These types are looking to have an impact, which they do. They make everyone looking for the rum punch tell their friends to avoid the loser in the corner.

Valentine's Day is no different. People that don't have a hope in hell of getting laid hate Valentine's Day. But hatred isn't enough. You need a reason to hate something. It's simply less humiliating to say that you hate Valentine's Day because it's too commercial, as opposed to saying that you dislike it because you can't score at the office bender.

People that hate holidays don't get it. When they see a Christmas party, a Valentine's card, or an Easter bunny, they immediately jump on the no-fun bandwagon and think that all of these things used to mean something ultra-serious. They take the high road and declare that we're too commercial, too modern, that somehow we corrupted something sacred. What bores.

For the losers: a) holidays are simply an excuse to party. b) why aren't you out helping the poor on Christmas Eve, rather than drinking our free booze and bitching about life until you're the last to leave the house? c) why are Christian holidays the only ones to take it on the chin from people that never step inside a church? I don't hear anyone saying how we've corrupted New Year's Eve or Halloween. Hanukkah, Canada Day, and the Fourth of July go by with nary a bitter word, but show someone an Easter bunny and suddenly they were outside the cave when Christ moved the rock.

I've got no problem with the idea that Jesus was born, then rose from the dead, and all the rest of it. And sure, I guess it's handy to know that some guy named Valentinus died in the 3rd century AD. But this isn't what I'm thinking about when I fill out the cards and put my friends' names on them (well, let's be honest; I send e-cards like everyone else). I may think about Christ and Val in private from time to time, but when it comes to being friendly with friends, I'm all about the "Merry Christmas. Pass the bottle." And there is nothing wrong with that.

Incidentally, there were three of these Valentinus characters, and no one knows exactly what it is they did, or why one of them (or all of them) is a saint. Call it canonization by committee. One was a priest, one was a bishop, and one was a guy in Africa, back when Africa was the name of a Roman province. All of them lived and died in the 3rd century AD. Apparently they became martyrs, but again, no one knows why. To get past this little hurdle, Pope Gelasius I said that their works were "known only to God."

Gelasius I sounds like a party boy. He decreed the feast of St. Valentine in 496, and like any good party animal, he used an excuse that couldn't be impeached:

"Gel, why did you name this feast after Valentinus?"
"God knows."

Today's version:

"Sean, why did you tell people that it was okay to party in my living room and wreck the place?"
"Ask Gelasius I."

The roots of St. Valentine's Day will never be known, but we have some clues. Some argue it was used to supersede the pagan festival of Lupercalia, which was still being celebrated in 5th century Rome. Lupercalia was also known as Februatio, from the root word "februare," which means "to purify." The festival was celebrated on February 15th, and its beginnings may be older than the founding of Rome itself.

Luperci (a collection of pagan priests) would dress themselves in goatskin, then sacrifice two goats and a dog. They would then smear the sacrificial blood on two young Luperci, who were expected to laugh and smile at the gift. Then these two Luperci would take whips made from the dead animals and run around the city, using them to whip girls and women, who would line up for the honor. This, it was believed, would aid in fertility and ward off sterility.

By the 5th century, the pagan festival was outlawed and it was up to Gelasius I to kill the name outright. He did a good job. Today, everyone knows St. Valentine's Day, but nobody says too much about their local Luperci smearing them with goat blood. Still, we can thank the Romans and their bloody festivals for the name of the month in which St. Valentine's Day is celebrated.

February was the last month of the Roman calendar (March, named after Mars, was the first), but no matter. February is our second month, and we use its 14th day as an excuse to finally get up the nerve to ask out the chick that comes into the coffee shop every morning. Should you decide to whip her with goat skin, I won't post your bail.

As for all of the people out there that are going to be ticked off about another Valentine's Day, in a word: relax. Seeing someone receive a card from Hallmark cannot be nearly as stressful as watching your mom get hit with a dead goat. And if you'd get off your butts and into the swing, you might just get some action this year. Buy a card, pick a flower, and tell the chick in aisle 9 that her dress looks nice.

Try it. No matter if your mood or your sensitivity training tells you different, you might (just might) like it. And probably she will, too. Women must be getting tired of expecting something from men on Valentine's Day. According to the Greeting Card Association, a whopping 85% of all Valentine's cards are bought by women. If that's the case, competition facing an average guy for a woman's hand is so low as to be laughable.

So start laughing and enjoy the party. For once.

Rambo - Review

Director, Writer, Star: Sylvester Stallone
Runtime: 1 hr 33 minutes

Sly Stallone returns as John Rambo, in a movie that is bound to make movie reviewers puke and Far East movie fans cheer for more.

That's the way it goes with action pictures. I've worked with and befriended a lot of Filipinos and Indonesians, and they all adore two things: karaoke, and movies about men with guns. After America's pussification in the 1970's, action movies have had their biggest draw from international audiences. Since these audiences aren't American, they don't find it shameful to watch an American blow things up all in the name of fun.

I don't know why Stallone turned to another Rambo flick. Perhaps he's going through a mid-life crisis and saying good-bye to some old memories. First there was Rocky Balboa, to which even the critics gave grudging respect. But Stallone went a bridge too far this time, and they're slamming Rambo.

I'm not.

When are critics going to lighten up? They hand garbage movies Oscar nods (Atonement, No Country For Old Men), and talk about them in breathless whispers. Then they turn around and crucify a 90 minute action movie for being a 90 minute action movie.

Exactly what do people expect from a movie that has a poster showing Stallone wielding a homemade machete?

Here's what you get with Rambo: he's living in Burma as a snake wrangler. To the north, the Burmese army is killing civilians with impunity. A missionary group shows up, and they talk Rambo into taking them north. Rambo tells them several times to go home, but of course they don't listen. So guess what happens? That's right, the missionaries are captured and Stallone goes north to kill everyone he can get his hands (or bow, or machete, or machinegun) on.

But here's the kicker: I actually think Stallone put some thought into this one. Go ahead and laugh, maybe you're right. But tell me, is Rambo wrong when he says that the missionaries can't change anything? That this is the way some of the more horrible parts of the world operate?

Stallone wrote and directed the picture, and he had some guts making it. Though everyone thinks genocide and murderous regimes are evil (Rwanda, Darfur, for that matter Burma), not too many films are talking about it. Burmese monks are being shot and killed in the streets as I write this, and women are being hacked to death in Africa every other day. But Hollywood has nothing to say about it.

I may be crazy, but I think Stallone might have slipped one under the radar with this movie. Yes, it's a dumb action flick, but it has more to say about the violence and horrible evil going on in this world than any film has said since Hotel Rwanda.

Perhaps dumb action pictures are what it takes. "Important" films only talk about Western injustice (as was the main thrust of Hotel Rwanda, no matter who actually spilled the blood). To make a film about injustice in Africa or Asia you run a very great risk of being called a racist or a warmonger. Stallone walks this line with gusto, and I found myself admiring him for it.

In the end, Stallone avoids the racist/warmonger tags by being Stallone (no one takes him seriously, anyway), and hiding his views under a sequel. If Mel Gibson or Spielberg made a film with this subject matter, the fallout would be huge. When Stallone does it, it's "Ah, what do you expect?"

I think Stallone's vision of the world is very dark indeed. You do not write and direct a movie such as this without one. It is not by accident that one of the lead, peaceful missionaries in the film finds himself faced with an ancient dilemma (kill or be killed) and decides to bash someone's head in with a rock. And then is horrified that Rambo's early prophesy came true: this is what the world is, depending where on the planet you happen to find yourself.

Am I making too much of all this? Probably. But if the critics and the Academy are allowed to make a big deal out of a piece of crap like Atonement, then I'm allowed to wax eloquently about Rambo.

The reality of politics and war in the modern world is rendered very well here. The killing for killing's sake, and the absolutely brutal regime in Burma. Stallone is not far off the mark with his one-dimensional evil characters. As a rule, evil people in life are one-dimensional. They kill people, they plunder their land, and they kill more people. Until, in this case, Rambo shows up with lines like, "If you're pushed hard enough, killing's as easy as breathing."

The special effects in this movie are the best gunshot effects I have seen in any movie, ever. Pekinpah would have loved this flick. Sam started the whole "bullet going right through the guy" trick, and it hasn't changed much since. Stallone just did. It is probably the first and only movie that will show you what a large caliber weapon does to a person: it doesn't put a hole in them. It blows them to pieces.

That might draw your ire, but my hat is off to Stallone. He decided to go over old ground, but he did it with some new tricks, and he ended the movie after 93 minutes, before you had time to be over the whole thing.

Photos: Yahoo Movies

Fade to Black - Roy Scheider

"You're going to need a bigger boat."

With that line, Roy Scheider cemented his place in movie history. The line is a beautiful piece of writing and acting, and it helped Scheider make Jaws the smash hit that it was.

Scheider died yesterday after fighting a battle with myeloma.

I always loved Roy Scheider. When I was a kid, Jaws made him the king of cool. Who else could climb the mast of a boat, face an oncoming great white shark, and blow it to smithereens while believably muttering, "Smile, you sonofabitch." For years I thought the line was, "Smile, you sonofa--" KA-BOOM. Later, with the miracle of VHS, I could rewind the scene, turn the volume way up, and find it. The missing "bitch."

Scheider made an excellent everyman. In Marathon Man he was great as Babe's older brother, and in French Connection he was superb as Popeye Doyle's partner. In 1979 he tried his hand at playing Bob Fosse, in the semi-bio-pic All That Jazz, and it got him an Oscar nomination.

My favorite scene in Jaws is when Drefuss and Shaw are comparing scars from the old days, showing off their machismo. There's a cut to Scheider, and he pulls up his shirt a little and looks at his belly, rubs at it, then sheepishly pulls the shirt back down. Stab wound? Bullet hole? He never says.

All That Jazz
Scheider never made it to superstar status. The big hiccup came when he had to turn down the choice role of Michael in The Deer Hunter. That one gave De Niro his uberactor moniker, while Scheider had to keep his contract commitment to film Jaws 2. It would be an understatement to say that Scheider got the short end of the stick on that deal, and I've often wondered if it stunted his career. From then on he was a very good character actor, and a leading stage man, but movie superstardom never arrived.

In his later years, he contented himself with TV, and much later, the odd anti-war demonstration. I never watched him much during this stretch. Seeing the star of Jaws act as a nice guy in SeaQuest just didn't do it for me. His post-80's films were just so-so, and I felt a little sorry for him. No need to, since he was crying himself to sleep in a big bed full of cash, but I just thought his career could have been more, leaning towards Gene Hackman or Morgan Freeman.

Not to be, but no matter. From now until the end of entertainment, somewhere on late night TV, you'll hear those magic words: "You're going to need a bigger boat."

Photos: Yahoo Movies

The Casting Call

I'm in the process of putting together a cast for a script, and it got me thinking about the casting calls I've shot in the past.

If you don't know how a casting call goes, it's something like this: you walk into a room and meet two or more strangers. There's a camera at one end of the room, and someone tells you to step in front of it. If the project is a corporate ad or a commercial, there's probably a teleprompter on the camera, and it has a script. If not, then someone just hands you a piece of paper.

A couple of seconds later, someone says, "Go," or "Action," or "Whenever," and you start to read. After thirty seconds or less, that same person will say "Thanks," or "Stop," and then tell you that they'll be in touch.

You leave the room and wonder if they'll really be in touch, and you think that they probably won't. And you'd be right.

It isn't always your fault. If you want the breakdown of a casting call from someone that shoots them, here's my take. I don't know if it's good advice, but it's advice nonetheless. Right now I'm trying to kill time waiting for a DVD to burn, so I figured I might as well write a new blog. So take this for what it's worth if you're an actor who thinks they still have some things to learn. (If you're an actor that doesn't think they still have things to learn, then I don't want to work with you, because I'm still learning, too. Always will be). These are off the top of my head and in no particular order.

1) It doesn't really matter if you shake my hand, look me in the eye, or otherwise ingratiate yourself. It only matters if you can act, and if you can read well on the first go. Not perfectly, but well.

2) Any casting director will know in about 2.5 seconds whether you're any good. That's not an exaggeration. One spoken sentence is about all it takes. They don't need your resume to know if you've done cold reads before. If you haven't done cold reads, it means you haven't auditioned much, which means you haven't acted much. It will show. If the casting director is unkind, they'll tell you to stop reading after ten seconds. If they're a wimp like me, they'll give you a whole minute or two, just so you don't think you wasted your time getting down to the audition.

3) If you're pitching to the lens, never take your eyes off the lens. Ever. Newscasters don't, and neither should you. It makes you look shifty and is the first sign of an amateur.

4) With all of the cheap video cameras lying around, it amazes me that actors trying to get into film and TV don't tape themselves and practice in front of a lens. A small, decent video camera will cost you no more than $200. A usable tripod will cost another $30. Use it. Set it up and read to it. Get used to being in front of a lens and talking to it. Talking to a camera is not a natural act, and it takes practice.

5) Practice more.

6) Practice again.

7) When you're done a read, keep looking into the lens until someone says "Cut," or "Thanks." Pros don't look away from the lens until they hear that, because they know an editor needs time to cut away or fade out after the dialogue ends. Since they know this, they habitually keep their eyes on the lens even after doing a rehearsal or a cold read. It's the mark of a pro. Actors that finish reading, then immediately look to the casting director for feedback, are obvious amateurs.

8) There's nothing wrong with being an amateur, except that it means you will need more direction. This means longer shoots. Longer shoots means more money, for studio time, a director's fee, editing, maybe even aspirin. This is why a limited number of pros get most of the good corporate and commercial spots: they're good, they're easy to work with, and they nail things in a small number of takes. Unfortunately, this means that amateurs have to wait for their "break" to get a job. But while waiting, they should...practice.

9) Practice again. Get a computer and write a script on it. Have a friend put the laptop or monitor on a shelf at eye level, with the camera just above or below it. Stand ten feet away. Have your friend scroll down as you read the script. Do it again. And again. And again.

10) Loud people tend to come off as pros when they walk into a room. I don't mean jerk-loud or wanna-be-loud. I just mean gregarious and slightly above conversation level. They sound confident and like they've been there before. I don't suggest you try it, unless you want to sound like a dork, but I say it in passing.

11) Don't smack your lips when you talk. Try not to lick your lips, either.

12) If you need a glass of water before you start, then ask for one. Most casting directors are not jerks. Don't be afraid of them. They'll give you a glass of water.

13) You might not be right for the part, and there might not be a good reason why. Not your fault. Move on.

14) Listen to direction. I often give people two or three reads, even if they suck, and I'll give them a couple of pointers. My philosophy is this: if they suck, at least they'll tell their agent I was cool with them. If that's the case, the agent will probably be cool with me. (I also run the risk of agents treating me like an acting coach for their new guys, but it's an acceptable risk). However, if I give a pointer and you blow me off because you know it all (when you obviously don't), then you can forget working with me again until you get an Oscar. I had one guy who had never been in front of a prompter before. I tried to coach him a bit, but he kept cutting me off in mid-sentence with "Got it," and a wave of the hand. Do you think I passed him on to the corporate client that was going to be there for his taping and pay for his work?

15) That said, casting calls are not acting school. You're expected to know your craft. It is, after all, a job interview. "But how can I learn when I don't get gigs?" you might ask. To which I say...practice.

16) If the font on the teleprompter is too small, say so. They'll increase it.

17) Don't wander. Keep your feet firmly planted on the ground.

18) Don't ask what you should do with your hands. That's amateur. Keep your hands at your sides. Use them for inflection when the moment seems right, but don't flap them all over the place and distract from the medium, which is your face and voice.

19) It is the teleprompt operator's job to slow down or speed up according to your read. Don't follow his speed. He follows you. Don't panic and read too fast, and don't slow down to robot-level. Just read the way you think it should be delivered, and the operator will try to keep your next line in the middle of the screen. If he screws up, just keep reading. He'll get it back on track. The only exception to this is when a script needs to be delivered in an exact timeframe. If that's the case, they'll tell you.

20) If a casting director asks if you've done prompter work before, lie and say yes. Remember that friend with the laptop?

21) Casting directors don't make the final call on whether you get a job or not. They tape a number of people, cut out the bad ones, and send their suggested ones to a director or corporate client. Those people get the final call. The casting director can be an immense help to you, because if they like you, they'll suggest you strongly. Piss off a casting director by acting like a bigshot, and you can forget it.

22) Casting directors want you to do well. They do not want you to fail. When you walk into the room, they want you to succeed, because they want to find someone they can easily work with for years to come. The casting director is the last person from whom you should feel pressure.

23) I've been saying the word "read" a lot. "Read" means speak. If you're in front of a prompter, we shouldn't see your eyes following the script. Generally, the closer to the camera you are, the more we'll be able to tell that you're reading. You really have no control over this, because if the director wants you there, and the camera here, you'll have to deal with it. A good trick is to slightly move the tilt of your head every couple of sentences. A little left, a little right, a little down, a little up. And I mean a little. Just a touch. Too much, and you'll look weird. You'll know what I mean when you...practice. Get in front of a camera and do some reads. Use the laptop trick, and also do some memory reads. Play it back and watch yourself. Work on it.

24) Your resume doesn't mean anything. Bring it with your headshot anyway, because it has your contact details on it. But really, the following criteria are of upmost importance. a) Look. b) Delivery. c) Easy to work with. You may have been in twenty plays and fifteen commercials, but if your look is wrong for the part, or if you act like a jerk, then you're not going to get the job. The only people that can act like a jerk and get the job are stars, and stars don't do casting calls.

Good luck, and one last time: practice.

The Saints Go Marching Out

2.5 years ago, Hurricane Katrina slammed into the South. The rallies began. The fundraisers. The government relief efforts, the rock concerts, the internet money drives. Mother Nature didn't do it, Bush did it. Western guilt was shoved down our throats, and it's still being fed to us on a regular basis.

Three months ago I heard a guy on the radio say that he had recently been to New Orleans. He said, "I looked around at all the devastation and I thought, hmmm. Somebody's fault." The DJs murmured agreement. They patted him on the back for raising money and trying to make a difference.

You know which 'somebody' he meant. He meant the state government, the Federal government, Bush, and I suppose, the world at large. Yup, poor New Orleans. No one is there to help them.

Last year I wrote a blog about New Orleans, and I let them off easy. I said, "I have no right to tell them how to live, but maybe they should start helping themselves instead of waiting for more assistance."

Today I read the following:

"A gunman opened fire Wednesday morning and killed a 26-year-old man driving a rental car in the Lower Garden District, sending the car careening into a nearby building.

The fatal shooting, the 21st murder in New Orleans this year, occurred closely on the heels of a trying Carnival season for police, one in which four people were murdered and 12 others injured in shootings in the past five days, according to police records." -- Times-Picayune

So now I've changed my tune. To the people of New Orleans: shut up and get off your ass. Crying for more cash while you throw Carnival parties and shoot each other? "21st murder so far this year." Nice way of putting it. I prefer, "21st murder in the last 38 days."

As for Ray Nagin, that butthead of a mayor, I'd like him to put a sock in it, too. During Katrina, the guy ranted and screamed on the phone that the Feds didn't care about his electorate; the next day, Drudge ran a photo showing dozens of buses in a New Orleans parking lot, up to their windshields in water. When confronted about it on Meet The Press, Ray said the buses sat idle because there was no one to drive them. He really said that on national TV.

That's about as big a knee-slapper as I've ever heard. Who was he kidding? There must have been a ton of guys in the can doing a stretch for grand theft auto. They would have been pleased to help him out.

What need do you have of donations, Ray? Ask your citizenry to turn over the loot from their last hold-up. You obviously don't want to do anything about the crime in your 'needy' city, so why should I care?

Here's a quote from Nagin's Katrina rant: ""Now get off your asses and let's do something, and let's fix the biggest goddamn crisis in the history of this country."

Nevermind the country. The man should listen to his own advice and do something about the crisis that is his city.

Almost three years since the storm hit, and I'm supposed to feel guilty because New Orleans and tough-talking Ray can't get their act together? I'm out.

Will Strikes Again

A good one from Will Ferrell:




Here's another turn on it:

The View From Oklahoma

Hanging out in Oklahoma gives you time to do things you normally wouldn't, like leaving The View on while you shave.

It isn't my fault. Last night I was watching the Super Tuesday coverage on ABC. I watched morning man Charlie Gibson continue to practice being an anchorman, and I watched him to continue to fail. Poor Charlie. Interviewing a high school band for Good Morning America has proven to be easier than interviewing politicians and columnists. Last night, Charlie tried the Dan Rather "hotter than a Laredo parking lot" shtick, and it sounded phony and foolish.

Anyway, when I flicked on the tube this morning, The View was in full swing. Four arrogant women were telling the unemployed of America about the hottest news items of the day. No, not the election results, and not the killer tornados in Arkansas. Rather, they were discussing what pisses them off most about the men in their lives.

Ooops
One is unimpressed with her husband clipping his toe nails while she's in the apartment, and another was upset that her husband made too much noise while eating pretzels. Whoopi, for her part, is miffed at men in general for leaving the toilet seat up.

Good grief. With these ladies as role models, the bitchiness factor of women is going to skyrocket over the coming years. The View dames then went on to add that, oddly, their men didn't say much about what bothered them about their wives' irritating habits.

The liberal show's token conservative, Meredith Hasslebeck, found it interesting that her husband "didn't want to pick a fight about the small stuff."

Well, Meredith, that's because it's small stuff. Yes, men do hate it when you leave half a roll of toilet paper drowning in the bowl. And sure, men find it pretty gross to find several discolored cotton balls lying all over the place. We're also vaguely disturbed when we reach for our razor and find it on the edge of the tub. But that's the price you pay for being in a relationship. As any man knows, fighting about the small stuff will only lead to big stuff. "You don't like my cotton balls? Well, I don't like the way you looked at that tramp's ass five Friday nights ago."

So we deal with it. As should you.

And for the last time, what is the deal with the toilet seat? This tired, boring cliche has about run its course. You want the toilet seat down? Then put it down. You're a big girl now.

And when you're done, if you wouldn't mind, put it up.

Not that I want to fight about it.

Hillary for President

How's that for throwing my friends out of their chairs?

Hillary for President? Berry's finally hit the crack pipe and no rehab in the world can straighten him out.

Not quite. I'm a Canadian, so it doesn't matter a damn what I think. Still, I'm watching the Super Tuesday primaries right now, and I'm struck by a few thoughts.

1) If a Republican wins it will be a miracle. The coverage given to the Democratic candidates (Clinton and Obama) is about ten times that of the Republicans. In this election, without an incumbent with the bully pulpit of the presidency, the Republican candidates are going to be hard pressed to deliver a message. The press have decided that McCain is a Republican left-winger, and that Huckabee is an evangelical weirdo. Those views will remain the same all the way into November, no matter how many speeches they give, meaning McCain is the man. As for Romney, forget it. Good-looking guys that run for President are supposed to be Democrats, and the press will never allow him to go against type. They've given him no air time, and his results show it.

All in all, it's a shame about Huckabee: he's the best speaker from both parties, and his ex-disc jockey skills come in handy on the stump. Believe it or not, the man can actually tell a decent joke.

2) Obama and Clinton are the story of this election cycle, and not merely because the press vote 90% Democratic. Race and gender are facing off in a country that once had slaves and didn't allow women to vote. To ignore that this primary cycle could be historical would be silly.

3) I am beginning to wonder when the hit-jobs on Obama and Clinton will come. So far, the press have been content to hammer Hillary because of her husband, but haven't hammered her directly for anything in her own past (or lack of it; before becoming a NY Senator, her public service was an outsider's disastrous attempt at health care reform).

I am betting that they hit Hillary pretty hard in the coming month, at least until a clear front runner is decided. If she becomes the Democratic candidate, they will handle her with kid gloves from then on and throttle McCain. If the press wanted to go after Obama, they would have done it already, about his naive views on foreign policy, his affiliation with a racist church, his drug use, and his bobbing and weaving regarding his childhood upbringing (though he did say that being a kid in Indonesia has helped him prepare for foreign policy; cool! That should make me a shoo-in as Prime Minister).

4) McCain, like Obama, gives me unsettling thoughts about seeing him in the White House. The press adore his candor, but what is he being candid about? His biggest fight in the last few years has been campaign finance reform. And, with due respect, who the hell cares about that? When he speaks he attempts humor and comes off as sarcastic. He constantly talks about his war hero status from forty years ago, but that was forty years ago. Which reminds me, the man is damned old, and I'm not sure if he's not a little nuts. Plus, his speaking voice sucks.

So why do I say Hillary? Because she's a known value. Obama talks about change, change, change, but never says exactly what this change is going to be. Free money for everybody? Ice cream on every street corner? The man's commentary regarding world terrorism could fit into a sock. He has said that he will hold discussions with any dictator that asks for a Presidential chat, and he brags about not voting for the Iraq war. But notice this: he never says what he would have done instead. Everybody and their mother thought Saddam had WMD, and the UN security council voted to punish him for it. So what would Obama's answer have been, beyond a "no" vote? I would like to hear an answer to that question, but it's a question that will never be asked.

Hillary is unashamedly a bitch. She can fight dirty, and she probably likes it that way. She may have ripped people off in a land deal years ago, and if she didn't, she probably wishes that she had. She's tried the tear-jerky stuff a couple of times, and then canned it, because it isn't her. I get the feeling that the Hillary Clinton you see is the Hillary Clinton you get. You know you can't trust her, and that's okay. To paraphrase an old line, I can handle my enemies. God save me from my friends.

I can live with a distrustful Hillary more than I can live with a man that talks in riddles about "change" and "hope" but doesn't have a concrete word to say about virtually anything.

As for the rest of the world, they'll be lining up to kiss Hillary or Barack's ass. Me, I don't think the US needs to care about other countries "respecting them again," but if they think it's so important, I've got news for them: everybody's always hated the States, and they always will. When I was a kid, I remember reading a Canadian newspaper article called, "Why You Should Hate America." So is this the return that you're looking for?

Unless McCain makes major headway in the next half-year, I predict a Democratic president, and a Republican Congress to keep her in check.

The Individuals vs. You, Me, and Steyn

Mark Steyn is getting a lot of support from various factions regarding the CHRC, but he's also taking some shots from the left.

I still can't figure out the "liberals" in Canada. They're for every right under the sun: gay rights, women's rights, environmental rights, freedom of speech*, freedom of expression*, so forth.

But notice the asterisks. According to liberals in Canada, freedom of speech is only protected as long as you're saying something they agree with. Expression? Well, they haven't a clue.

Want proof? Here's a piece from Jason Cherniak. Reading his stuff is an interesting study in the Canadian Left's intellect.

"As a matter of principle, I support this law. Hate messages should not be protected expression. Indeed, they are an attempt to silence the free expression of others by removing their individuality. At its heart, I believe that freedom of expression, and the entire Charter of Rights and Freedoms, is about protecting the individual. People who attempt to use their individual rights to remove the individual rights of others should not be surprised when they end up on the wrong side of the law."

Got that? Me neither. Cherniak thinks that an individual's right is sacrosanct, and should be protected from other "individuals" trying to remove their right. Okay. Then why is he saying that neo-Nazis should be silenced? If they, as individuals, are speaking their minds, then their speech should be protected from individuals that want to shut them up. Cherniak runs around in circles and never gets anywhere. The man actually disagrees with himself while agreeing with himself. Tough to do, but he manages.

I sent him a comment asking if he was kidding, but it was probably a waste of time: lefties don't kid, and their sense of humor and irony is completely non-existent. Here's another bit from Cherniak:

"For example, we all have freedom of opinion, assembly and expression. Perhaps somebody has the opinion that everybody with red hair should be tied up. Perhaps that person might gather together a mob of people with the same opinion. Perhaps those people will express themselves by tying up a person with red hair and leaving him in the middle of the Trans-Canada Highway. Obviously, such a chain of events should be illegal. However, it can be described as a group of people holding an opinion, assembling and then expressing themselves."

Er, no. Tying someone up and leaving them in the middle of the highway cannot be argued as "freedom of expression." I doubt that Ezra Levant and Mark Steyn would say that kidnapping and assault are protected freedoms. Nobody would. Cherniak's observations are so completely void of logic that they're laughable.

Then there's this knee-slapper: "I do not know enough about the specific accusations against Mr. Levant, Mr. Steyn and Macleans to give an opinion in their individual cases. However, I do know enough about the law to understand that their cases will be tried according to constitutional and legal principles."

What a buffoon. If you don't know enough about the accusations against Steyn and Levant, then what the hell are you doing writing an opinion about it? And while we're at it, since when are their cases going to be "tried"? This isn't a criminal court proceeding, and they aren't being tried for anything. Maybe Cherniak just made a slip of the tongue. I'm sure he'd love to see Steyn tried, drawn, and quartered. But not this time, pal.

If this is Cherniak's evidence for how much he knows about the law, I can only hope that no one will ever need his legal advice.

In the end, Cherniak's arguments all amount to the same old leftist anthem: "All people are equal, but some are more equal than others."

Weathermen

So there I am shoveling the better part of 8 hours off the windshield of my car. Cold. Snow.

I get in and turn on the radio and what do I hear but the weatherman. I never really paid much attention to the weatherman before. He said it would rain, and sometimes it would. He said it would snow, and sometimes it wouldn't. I dug it. Weather's funny that way.

To me, the weatherman is either the comic relief on the morning news shows, the bonehead on the radio that tries to make the weather sound as important as the political headlines, or the chick with big hooters that couldn't cut it as an actress.

Anyway, today the weatherman sounded especially pleased with himself. There was a big snowstorm here all day long, and the weatherman couldn't be happier about it.

In breathless whispers he told the afternoon drive DJ that we'd had quite a big "snow event." A little west of here, there was more of an "ice pellet event," and later on tonight we could expect a "rain event." Tomorrow there will be another "rain event," but as of right now, today's "event" stands out as a real doozy. Then he went on to add that we probably won't see average temperatures until the middle of March.

I have an event I'd like to see. Like, say, this particular weatherman getting kicked in the balls.

The news programs have gotten completely out of hand. No more snow storms, no more rain. They're "events." In the summer, you have a "humidex," but in the winter you have a "wind chill."

"It's a heat wave today, folks. We'll have a thunderstorm event in the evening. So far it's 80 degrees. BUT the humidex will make it feel like 110."

Kiss my ass. In the winter, the cold gets hyped, in the summer, the heat. Why isn't there a wind chill in the summer?

"This afternoon it will be minus 5. BUT the wind chill will make it feel like minus 50."

Says who? I'd like to see the "feels like" thermometer. And then I'd like to ask the weatherman how it feels after I jam it up his rear end.

Scum of the Earth

The moral bankruptcy of these Al-Queda thugs knows no bounds. On Friday, two women blew themselves and 70 others to smithereens in Baghdad shopping bazaars.

The link between the two women goes beyond a coordinated attack. How's this for disgusting: they both had Down's Syndrome, and their bombs were detonated by remote control.

The scumbags that would strap bombs to the mentally handicapped and then send them walking off to await detonation deserve worse than death, worse than hell, worse than anything you can think of.

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