3:10 to Yuma - Review

Director: James Mangold
Writers: Welles/Brandt/Haas
Starring: Christian Bale/Russell Crowe
Runtime: 1 hr 57 minutes

Christian Bale and Russell Crowe star in a film based on an Elmore Leonard story.

That sounds like a pitch made in Heaven, doesn't it? Unfortunately, while the movie doesn't turn into Hell, it certainly makes you feel like you're in Hollywood purgatory.

The story follows the Western genre to a T: Bale plays a down-on-his-luck rancher. A railroad executive (the railroad is to Westerns what Big Oil is to today's films) is threatening to run him off his land. If Bale doesn't come up with enough cash to pay off his loans, his family is going to be destitute. Desperate, Bale...

Doesn't do too much.

3:10 to Yuma doesn't work because it's hero doesn't do any. He doesn't make events happen. He watches them, sometimes reacts to them, but more or less goes along with the flow.

After witnessing a stagecoach robbery committed by Crowe and his gang, Bale and his two sons are robbed of their horses. They discover one of the stagecoach victims is still alive, and Bale decides to bring him into town.

Crowe plays one of those "noble villians" that pop up in Westerns: sure, he kills unarmed men, and yes, he's been known to blow up women and children, but at least he's friendly when he does it. He's incredibly smooth and intelligent, and has the aura of man who knows exactly what is going to happen and when.

That's why it's incredible when he gets captured after the stage coach hold-up. He rides into town with his gang. They split up. Crowe knows the Marshal will be returning soon. So instead of high tailing it out of town, he tells his gang that he'll meet them in Mexico, then goes upstairs for a tryst with a harlot. Satisfied, he comes down the stairs and is captured without firing a shot.

Bale, hungry for cash, agrees to help transport Crowe to Contention. This is the town with the closest railroad station, the one that will take Crowe to Yuma on a 3:10 train for his date with a noose. The rest of the film revolves around Bale and the posse getting Crowe on the train before the bad guys can catch up with them.

I tried to enjoy 3:10 to Yuma. The filmmakers wouldn't let me. Bale's character, for one, is frustratingly passive. He's cowed by the railway, cowed by the villians, and constantly insulted by his own teenage son, who rightly thinks that Bale is a chicken.

All of that is okay, however, as we know that cowardly characters are going to eventually break out of their mould and become the "hero." However, in 3:10 to Yuma, it takes forever. Bale follows along with the posse, takes more grief from his son, is volunatrily disarmed and de-horsed on several occassions, needs a handcuffed Russell Crowe to beat off the Apaches, so forth. You will be waiting a long time to like Bale, and in movies, waiting a long time to like a hero is the kiss of death.

A lead character should lead, and Bale's never does. In every scene involving conflict, it is either Crowe or, worse yet, a supporting character that sets things in motion. In one scene, confronted by more bad guys, it is the town veterinarian that saves the day by hitting a man with a shovel. Then the good guys all run away.

The last quarter of the film is quite good. You have to ignore the fact that everyone, Bale included, is the worst shot in Arizona history. That's nothing new in film, but 3:10 to Yuma really makes you wonder what the characters could possibly be aiming at. The ending is also so against character-type that it is hard to take it seriously, but there are still some good moments here.

It's a good idea to judge movies by the genre that they're in. An animated feature meant for children shouldn't be treated like Schindler's List. As Westerns go, 3:10 to Yuma is mediocre.

Short Cuts -- A UN Tuesday

Ahmadinejad

The Iranian President came to Columbia and got them laughing, but not on purpose. He declared, "In Iran we don't have homosexuals like in your country."

The crowd laughed him off. A few booed him. He then called homosexuality a "phenomenon" that didn't exist inside Iranian borders, and said that people seeking nuclear weapons are "retarded."

That drew a smattering of cheers from the anti-nuke crowd, but an uncomfortbale silence from people that don't like the word "retarded."

Can someone tell me the point of Columbia's exercise? President Bush tried to pass it off this way to Fox News:

"If the (Columbia) president thinks it's a good idea to have the leader from Iran come and talk to the students as an educational experience, I guess it's OK with me."

Bush's gambit is the old, "Don't stop your enemy while he is in the process of hanging himself."

Calling Dr. Freud

Another actor has broken bread with Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez.

Chavez is the guy that came to the UN last year and called George Bush the Devil. His opinion of Dr. Condoleeza Rice is that she is an illiterate (Rice speaks English, French, German, Spanish, and Russian) who suffers from sexual frustration. Chavez has also gone on the record as saying that the US is the biggest terrorist in the world. Nothing new there, and neither is his anti-Semitism. For some reason, a dictator must despise America first and Jews second. It's a prerequisite.

Spacey and Chavez
Harry Belafonte was the first star to head down to Caracas and pat Chavez on the back. Fellow career-in-toilet celebrity Danny Glover followed suit. Then it was Sean Penn. Now it's Kevin Spacey, who had a three-hour dinner with Chavez at his presidential palace.

It is traffic-collision interesting to watch these rich celebrities bathe themselves in guilt and self-abasement. The fact that they can't see how they're being used would be sad, if it weren't so funny.

Welcome to Columbia, Adolf

The news out of Columbia University gets more bizarre by the day. On the heels of inviting Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, the Iranian anti-Semitic tyrant, to their grounds for a "robust debate," a Dean of the University has come out with this as their defence: if Hitler were willing to have a debate with Columbia students and faculty, then the Fuhrer would be invited, too.

When you have to use Hitler as an attempt to quell outrage, you know you've lost your grip on reality.

John Coatsworth is the Dean's name. You can see this clown's views on Hitler here.

Coatsworth's name is worth remembering, as he might be canned sometime in the very near future. Then again, probably not. Columbia University is a lunatic asylum, and it's quite obvious that the crazies are running the place.

I know what Coatsworth's game is. He's implying that Columbia is a bastion of free speech, and that every man should get his day in court. But what possible purpose can it serve to invite hate mongers to the floor? If Coatsworth and the morons at Columbia truly believe this, they would invite guest speakers from the Ku Klux Klan.

The invitation to Ahmadinejad is purely political in nature. He despises the United States, and he is an arch enemy of George W. Bush. In other words, he's Columbia's kind of people. Never mind that Columbia is "liberal," yet Mahmoud thinks women should be killed for adultery, and gays hanged in the street for sodomy. Mahmoud's hatred of the United States trumps all of this.

Robust debate? Gimme a break. What are you going to learn that history hasn't already taught you? Debating Hitler and Ahmadinejad about their views is like holding a debate on whether dog crap tastes better than chocolate chip cookies.

Laughing Stock

The Unserious are at it again, with Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad set to appear at Columbia University. The school states that this is another example of "Columbia's long-standing tradition of serving as a major forum for robust debate."

Ahmadinejad isn't coming to NY specifically to visit Columbia. He's all set to go to the UN and speak his mind to the UN General Assembly. It will be another chance for him to laugh himself silly, too. He can sponsor state terror, sanction the execution of homosexuals for the crime of being gay, be a Holocaust denier, and say that Israel should be wiped off the map, then visit NY and ask to lay a wreath at the site of the World Trade Center. Denied that visit, he took up Columbia on the offer to swing by and spew more vitriol to a crowd of fascist worshipping students and faculty.

It's no wonder that the mad bomber-types have a problem taking the West seriously. From their point of view, we must be the biggest bunch of suckers since Neville Chamberlain. Ahmadinejad would like nothing better than to watch the United States go up in smoke. He was a member of the 'students' that held Americans hostage in 1979, and he learned early on that the West can be pushed around without too much trouble.

Picture how stupid we look, the West in general and the United States in particular. Canada and the US have been arguing themselves silly about legalizing gay marriage, yet Iran stages public executions for gays. To show our outrage for these heinous acts, he's flown to NY to speak on the world stage, then invited to a pretty little college campus.

Imagine the conversations Ahmadinejad and his thugs must have in the back seat of the limo.

"Good speech, boss. A very 'robust' debate."
"Yes, useful morons. And did you see the robust hooters on that sophomore in the front row?"
Hardee-har-har.

Trouble is, no matter how much I despise everything this man stands for, I can't blame him for laughing.

At us.

Superbad - Review

Superbad reminded me of Fast Times at Ridgemont High: an in-your-face film about teens that was aiming to make a modest sum and bam: the producers had a hit on their hands.

The premise of Superbad is simple. Three sex-starved high school misfits want to go to a year-end party. One of the trio owns a fake ID. When a girl asks them to get booze for her bash, one of the boys says sure, no problem.

The rest of the film is an attempt to get the booze by hook or by crook, and to make it to the party for a chance to score some babes.

There's your movie. And you know what? It's great.

It's also raunchy. Writers Seth Rogen (who also stars) and Evan Goldberg don't pull any punches. All of the things you talked about in high school are writ large. If you've seen any of Rogen's recent films (40 Year-Old Virgin, Knocked Up), then you'll know what you're in for.

Rogen takes a backseat in this picture. He co-stars as part of a cop duo that feigns respect for law and order, but still understands the importance of pot, booze, and scoring as a teenage loser.

He and his partner (Bill Hader, also from Knocked Up), are excellent at drawing laughs, but it's Rogen's delivery that really shines. Like Will Farrell, there is something about his voice that lends itself to a crack up. If he read a cook book and shouted out the ingredients, you'd be on the floor.

Jonah Hill, as Seth, plays his part with reckless abandon. He is the "brains" behind the operation, and we all knew someone like him: loud, obnoxious, funny to everyone but your parents. He has a plan, and come hell or high water, he is going to achieve it.

His buddy Evan, played by Michael Cera, is the moral compass of the film. It's funny how friendships always work out like that. Whenever you find a loud, boisterous dude, you always find an upstanding buddy.

The third member of the trio is newcomer Christopher Mintz-Plasse. If the film is called Superbad, then Mintz-Plasse's character could be called Supergeek. He is completely oblivious to the fact that he is a total loser, and revels in his imagined prowess with women. The scene in the liquor store where he tries to buy booze with a bogus ID is very well done. He's also excellent in his scenes with Rogen and Hader. My only worry for Mintz-Plasse is that he'll take another role like this one, and instantly be type cast as a geek-buddy for the rest of his career.

Superbad isn't all raunch and mayhem. Most of the raunchiness is contained in the dialogue and not the actions, and it beats out others in the teen flick genre by remaining a story. It doesn't reach for gross out joke after gross out joke. Towards the end, it even finds some form of poignancy. You'll see it coming a mile away, but find it satisfying nonetheless.

The chemistry amongst the cast is very good. Mix that with a decent script full of good one-liners, and you have yourself a shot at a hit, which is exactly what Superbad is.

All the above being what it is, there is only one thing producers have to worry about when making a comedy. Critics that over analyze comedies always miss the point, as there is just one criteria the film has to meet: did you laugh, or did your not? If you laughed, then in worked.

I laughed.

Cosmo Girls

I was leafing through a Cosmopolitan magazine this afternoon. I've now discovered that it's a good way to gather intelligence on the fairer sex to see what the NY editors are telling them to think, do, say.

Cosmo gives me a good laugh. Most of their stories are made up, and virtually none of them are based on fact. That doesn't stop them from spewing all kinds of random drivel about important topics like prom dresses, hair dye, and orgasms.

Cosmo is the answer to any question involving the battle of the sexes. Women may claim that men are pigs and that we only have sex on the brain, but one look at Cosmo puts this argument to the test. Men may have Playboy and a few skin mags, but women have an entire magazine library to choose from when it comes to questions involving the libido.

Here are the headlines from Cosmo's most recent issue. See what you think each has in common, then tell me if women don't think about sex once every ten seconds.

THE BLENDED ORGASM: So Deep, So Strong. How You Can Have One Tonight.

WHAT MAKES A MAN FALL IN LOVE.

YOU SEX GODDESS! Crazy-Ass Moves He Wants You to Do to Him There.

4 THINGS ALL GUYS KEEP PRIVATE.

YOUR GYNO'S SECRET THOUGHTS ABOUT YOUR SEX LIFE.

HOW TO STAY SAFE: 5 PLACES SEXUAL PREDATORS LOOK FOR WOMEN.

Excuse me? According to Cosmopolitan magazine, the women are the predators.

Now, before Gloria Steinem writes in to tell me that it's men who have forced women to write and talk about this stuff, give me a break. It's women that write the magazine and women that buy it. If they truly didn't like what was in there, they wouldn't buy the thing. The way publishing is these days, 3 months of low sales would close Cosmo down. But it doesn't happen, and so the presses keep churning it out.

Men don't force women to look at themselves as sex objects. I have never told a woman to call someone 'trashy' for wearing a short skirt, nor have I ever agreed with a woman that she should go home and change if she sees someone at a nightclub wearing a similar sweater. These are female thoughts and female decisions. It is mothers and sisters that reinforce these opinions on growing girls. Last time I checked, mothers and sisters are women.

Anyway, I leafed through the latest Cosmo and found this bit:

"Scientists recently have discovered that men thrust deeper when they suspect infidelity. The move dates back to prehistoric times, when men spent their days hunting, meaning another dude could move in on their mates. Deeper thrusting was their way of trying to squeegee or vacuum out a rival's sperm."

Huh?

Whoever wrote this needs to have their head examined. Apparently the source was some egghead at Florida Atlantic University, with "analysis published in BJU International Journal."

All right, somebody's kidding somebody. I don't know what BJU stands for, but with analysis like this, I can guess where the B and the J come from. Playboy might seem too sexual for the feminists amongst us, but at least you don't find the word "squeegee" anywhere near the centerfold.

Let's dissect this breaking news. First, the part about scientists "discovering" that men thrust deeper when they suspect infidelity. I don't know what kind of grants they're handing out at Florida Atlantic University. I only know that if enough teenage boys read this article while waiting at the dentist's office, FAU's enrollment is going to skyrocket.

How did the scientists go about testing this theory? "Bob, your wife's in the next room. Go to it. By the way, the mailman just left out the back door."

Are we to believe that Bob then walked into the bedroom, banged his wife six ways from Sunday, and that his wife later reported, "He whispered that he thought I was cheating. It was the best I ever had."

When I was studying anthropology back in the old days, we discovered a lot of things about preliterate cultures, but never did we hear this kind of trash. There is absolutely no way that anyone can prove that this bunk is true (that's what prehistoric means: pre-history; nobody was writing things down, in crummy magazines or anything else). Yet the editors of Cosmo throw it in as a stunning revelation, complete with footnotes.

Think about that: first, they're saying that prehistoric women sat around waiting to screw the losers that weren't invited on the hunting trip. Then they're saying that prehistoric man knew that sperm had anything to do with sex (a sophisticated leap, not quite believed by many island populations in the early 20th Century). Then they're saying that prehistoric man thought his penis was a sponge, and that he could use it to soak up another man's semen. Leap forward a few thousand years, and Cosmo tells every wife in America that if their husband gives them the apocalyptic sex they've always dreamed of, it means he suspects she's running around.

Great. Thanks, Cosmo. We try to show our ladies a good time and you turn it into another chance for "open dialogue."

A little further on in the article, Cosmo throws in a doozy:

"Men aren't sizing up their partner's body flaws in bed; they're looking at her face to gauge enjoyment."

Since when?

Look, there might be a little truth to that, but don't take it too far. Yes, a man will look at a woman's face to see if she's having a good time, but this is usually when he's down there. Guys can climax in about twenty-five seconds, but it can take women the better part of a baseball game. The guy may be looking at your face to "gauge your enjoyment," but he's probably wondering if you'll reach your magic O before his tongue falls off.

I wonder if the writers and editors of Cosmo ever talk to guys when they're handing out all of this guy-advice. A few pages further into the magazine, Cosmo tells the ladies to "Give him a job. Ask him to fix or build you something. Performing concrete tasks is a way of bonding that enhances his sense of success."

Yeah, right. Thanks again, Cosmo! You've just made everyone's girlfriend the Insta-Nag. For the men reading this, relax. If your girl has asked you to build a desk, paint the kitchen, tune up the car, fix the porch, and mow the lawn all in one afternoon, she's not being a nag. She's just a Cosmo Girl.

Cosmo Girls are incredibly fearsome creatures. Here's another couple of tips from the Cosmo Girl Bible:

"A physical space that's totally his is a huge symbol of independence to a man. Signal that you respect that by, say, staying out of his desk drawers and not peeking at his caller ID when his phone rings."

In other words, don't be a headcase.

"Guys are good at left brain stuff, like sales and sports, but can get awkward when it comes to social graces. Take the lead and charm the people you meet and he'll be extra grateful to you. But he may take credit for making those new friends...whatever."

Yup, poor dumb me. I hope my girlfriend will drag my shy, unsophisticated ass around at the next cocktail party. After I'm done slurping soup and taking the toilet paper off my shoe, maybe she'll even make me some new friends. Lucky to have her.

Cosmo Girls. Heaven help us should they create too many.

Death Proof - Review

Death Proof is the Quentin Tarantino segment of The Grindhouse, and it is a waste of time and talent.

I have never looked forward to a film when I hear words like, "This is a real Spielberg film," or "De Palma film," or "Tarantino film." Statements like that let me know that the film is not the story; instead, it's the director.

Death Proof is a good example. It is chock full of Tarantino quirkiness, and there are plenty of links to his past projects. But this time, none of the gags are funny, and the dialogue is flat and boring.

Tarantino has been breaking the rules for a long time. Usually he gets away with it, with spectacular results. I loved both volumes of Kill Bill, and I thought Pulp Fiction was damn fun. Both of those entries broke the rules of screen dialogue.

Rule number one states that no dialogue should be written in a scene unless it is absolutely necessary. Further, dialogue should not be "on the nose." That is, if the character wants a chicken sandwich, the last thing he should say is, "I want a chicken sandwich."

Tarantino
Story is supposed to be subtle, and dialogue should not cram ideas down the audience's throat. Tarantino has always shunned this convention. He lets his characters wander through a forest of dialogue before they ever get to the point, if they ever do. Tarantino's characters are simply sounding boards for his own thoughts. When Travolta is talking about eating at a McDonald's in France, we know these are Tarantino's memories of the country, not Vincent Vega's. All of his characters sound the same because they are the same: they're Quentin Tarantino.

And that's okay, as long as it works. Tarantino has become a Name, and his fanclub buys movie tickets in order to see that Name. They don't care who the stars are, and in fact, they're happy if no contemporary stars appear on the screen (contemporary by Hollywood standards means within five years or so). Since Pulp Fiction, Tarantino's fan club has pumped up the myth that he resurrects "old" actors and gives them new careers.

Unfortunately, it isn't completely true. I'm not a big Sean Penn fan these days, but Penn is correct when he says what hogwash it is that directors draw great performances from actors. Directors don't draw the performance. The actor gives it to them.

So yes, Tarantino gave Travolta a chance to make a comeback in Pulp Fiction, just as he gave Pam Greer a comeback bid in Jackie Brown. But that's all he gave them: a chance. And lucky him, they were good enough actors to make hay out of it, rather than a flop.

I will tell you why John Travolta was in Pulp Fiction: he's all Tarantino could get. Because that's the way it works with new directors who have a lot of talent, but not much money and even less confidence from a studio. Directors such as these go looking for a Name, and they hope it will put their project over the top.

It seems like Pulp Fiction was released just yesterday, but think back for a moment about that cast from thirteen (yes, thirteen) years ago: Samuel L. Jackson was a virtual nobody, and John Travolta was a has-been. Uma Thurman was second fiddle in everything, no one had heard of Ving Rhames, and Tim Roth was kinda-sorta well known (from Reservoir Dogs, another Tarantino film). The hottest actor in Pulp Fiction was Bruce Willis, and he was known as the guy from Moonlighting who was pretty good in Die Hard. And that was your cast.

So what made them great? Tarantino, but not because he drew anything out of them; he gave them an incredibly good script which they sank their teeth into, and he had a damn good crew to develop it. The writing was superb and the film was like nothing anyone had seen in years.

So what happened to Death Proof?

Uma Thurman in Kill Bill Vol. 2
First, the writing: it's tired. Kill Bill was so well written that we know Tarantino's still got the goods, but with this difference: Kill Bill is not about Quentin Tarantino, while Death Proof is nothing but. It has ten-minute lunch room conversations, but only a passable cast saying the lines. Reservoir Dogs it isn't. Tarantino is horrible at writing teenage girl dialogue. He should stick to bank robbers and assassins. Teenage girls talking about boyfriends for an entire scene is the stuff naps are made of, especially since none of these boyfriends are ever going to appear in the movie. In other words, who cares?

The Quentin Tarantino symbolism stuff has also got to go. I could feel him elbowing me in the ribs throughout the film: get it, get it? I said Big Kahuna Burger, like in Pulp Fiction! Get it, get it? I'm using 70's music and old film stock, but I'm also using cell phones. Pretty cool, huh?

I was amazed that Kurt Russell agreed to be in the film. Maybe he fell prey to the Tarantino mystique, that this movie would be a cult classic, not to mention getting Kurt rich. In any event, he's utterly wasted. In his first few scenes, you think he might save the film, until you realize that Tarantino is going to stab him in the back. Russell's serial killer character turns out to be a wimp, and the film ends so suddenly, and so unsatisfactorily, that you have to think Russell didn't see this coming. The film feels about ten scenes light, scenes where Russell might have made a difference, seeing as he is the only truly professional actor in the movie.

Tarantino may have been reading his own headlines this time around. Time for him to write some new ones.

Short Cuts -- Delay at Gate 54

Hanging out in the Denver airport, waiting for a delayed plane. Here's a few things that I've been mulling over.

Smoking Lounge

Not just for adults anymore. Have you seen those reverse knapsacks that parents wear so they can keep a child strapped to their chest? I just saw another one, and it was in the Denver airport smoking lounge. The place was filled with smoke, the large mama was puffing away, and the infant's head was six inches from mama's mouth. The world is never short of morons.

Tower Envy

Looks like Toronto's CN Tower has come up short. The Burj Dubai Tower is still under construction, but has already reached a height of 555 meters. That beats the CN Tower by 2 meters and counting. The Dubai developers say that this breaks the record for the tallest freestanding structure in the world, a record that the CN Tower had held since 1976.

We'll see what Guinness has to say about it when construction is complete. The Tower looks like a tower, but the Dubai thing looks like a stack of Leggo.

McCanns

Who knows what is going to come out of the Madeleine McCann kidnapping case. I was surprised to see the cops take so long to get around to browbeating the parents. That isn't cynicism on my part, nor do I have any evidence that the cops are just reaching at straws and want to smear the McCanns. Fact is, the stats say that a child is very, very rarely kidnapped and killed by someone who does not know the child. That means relatives and friends. Sounds awful, but it's true, and therefore a natural suspicion. When this whole thing started, I said to a couple of people, "They should take a hard look at the parents."

I was met with scorn for saying that. One guy looked pious and shocked. He said to me, "Why would the parents do that?"

To which you can only answer, "Who knows?" That's the same answer you have to give every time a case of infanticide makes the front pages, which it all too often does.

Petraeus

The General went before Congress, and things played out as I knew they would. The Republicans helped him out a bit, and the Democrats tried to discredit him.

You can say the Republicans are jerks for liking war and what have you, but the Democrats have a lot of explaining to do. One, why they want their country to lose the war and get booted out of Iraq. Two, why they voted for funds to keep the military in Iraq, then continue to scream for a troop withdrawal timetable. Three, how they expect to win elections when their MoveOn.org crowd calls General Patraeus a traitor. Four, how they'll live with the slaughter of Iraqi civilians should the US depart within the next 12 months as the Democrats wish they would.

While we're at it, what's up with the NY Times and CNN asking if we should stop having commemorations on September 11th -- during commemorations of same? I imagine they'd like to erase Veterans Day from the map and take a leak on the tomb of the Unknown Soldier, but news to them, the American public will stop commemorating 9/11 when they feel like it, not when the NY Times tells them to.

Most Valuable Prescription

I went on the record a couple of weeks ago and said that the Rick Ankiel comeback story was a great thing for baseball. In fact, I thought it was a great thing for life: the story of a pitcher that loses his stuff, then re-tools himself as a superb hitter. As Charles Krauthammer pointed out, it's a real life version of The Natural.

With everything I've seen from baseball in the past ten years, how could I have been so stupid?

All of Ankiel's greatness now comes crashing down with the news that he used human growth hormone (HGH) all through 2004. That year was early days for his comeback quest, when he was just so-so at the minor league plate. Then Ankiel got good. In only 23 games this season, he's hit 9 home runs, 29 RBIs, and owns a .358 batting average with 22 runs scored.

Those are impressive numbers. The problem with baseball today is that anything impressive must be looked upon with deep suspicion. Too many times we have found out that these guys are cheating via the pharmacy. It places every player under suspicion, because time and again, we find out that the players are juiced.

According to the Daily News, Ankiel purchased 8 shipments of HGH between January and December, 2004. Ankiel's defence will be that he quit using HGH before Major League Baseball banned the substance in 2005. This sounds shady. It may just be coincidence that Ankiel stopped purchasing HGH moments before the league banned it, or it may be he heard the news on the wire and got out while the getting was good.

It's not like he was dealing with reputable physicians. The pharmacy where he purchased HGH is under investigation for illegally distributing prescription drugs. This brings up an interesting question that no one has yet asked: if Ankiel stopped purchasing HGH from these Florida quacks in 2004, what's to say he didn't start buying them somewhere else in 2005? Or '06? Or yesterday?

There is no sure way to test for HGH. ESPN had a spot the other night where a doctor said you'd have test a man within minutes of his taking HGH in order to find the stuff. A 100% test for HGH does not yet exist, which is why Ankiel was discovered the old-fashioned way: paperwork. His name appeared on some reports recently obtained by the Daily News. They saw that he purchased Saizen and Genotropin, two forms of HGH. Then they exposed him.

La Russa
Ankiel's manager, Tony La Russa, must be ready leap from a cliff. First he has to go through the whole Mark McGwire fiasco. Then he sends Ankiel down to the minors because the kid lost his stuff. Then he brings Ankiel back on a wing and a prayer, hoping he'll do well as a fielder. And man, does he ever. At a press conference, La Russa was reduced to tears just thinking about the recovery this amazing player had made, right before his eyes.

And now this. If La Russa is not a cynic yet, then he is not a human being.

Today, another player got hit on the nose by a different publication. Troy Glaus. This one hits close to home, as the Blue Jays are my club. SI.com reports that Glaus received steroids from an allegedly illegal internet drug distributor between September 2003 and May 2004. SI.com points out that their information deals only with the receipt of the drugs, and that they don't have evidence of actual use.

So if the allegations are true, Glaus is either a steroid dealer, or a juicer. Wonderful.

The dates of Glaus' steroid purchases is interesting. They match the time that he was out with a bad rotator cuff and shoulder surgery. It's not a stretch to imagine that he wanted the juice in order to help him through the recovery process.

Jose Canseco released a book a couple of years ago. In it, he fessed up to his steroid use, and said that while he was in the bigs, approximately 80% of the league was juicing. He was lambasted by sportswriters, players, and fans as a dirty rat.

It's turning out that he's likely the most honest man this league has produced in decades.

Short Cuts -- From the Porch

The Beckham Bust continues, as the man who would save soccer in North America is now out for 6 weeks. He sprained his MCL in a game against Pachuca, a team from Mexico.

The AP's Beth Harris points out that Becks has made a little over thirty grand per minute in the games that he played this season (his yearly contract is worth 6.5 million dollars). Total playing time: 198 minutes. Total goals: Zero.

For the first time in a while, I can say the words, "Hell, even I can do that," and mean it with absolute certainty.

The English team can't be too thrilled with Beckham's Hollywood lark, either. He's due to play for them in upcoming international games, and now he's got a bum knee from playing soccer against a third-rate Mexican club.

King Edwards

I was channel surfing the other night and happened across a Battle of the Bloggers on CNN. Two ladies were representing the right and left, and the anchor was tossing softball questions for each of them to hammer out of the park.

I'm always struck by how pious and arrogant news guests can be. The entire time the right-wing lady was talking, the left-wing lady looked like she was sitting on a broomstick and eating glass.

Anyway, the left-wing lady sat munching and squirming while the right-wing lady blathered on about something dealing with presidential hopeful John Edwards. She was calling Edwards a hypocrite because he's been telling people to stop driving SUVs even though he's been seen in an SUV on the campaign trail. Seemed pretty straightforward to me: the lawyer is full of it. Wouldn't be the first time.

When it came to her turn, the left-wing lady defended Edwards by saying, "John Edwards was the first to declare a carbon-neutral campaign."

I swear it. That's what she said.

I have a liberal buddy in California. A couple of weeks ago he blew me away by saying he was probably going to vote Republican in the next election. It floored me. He's a California liberal, and he hates George Bush. He'd feel right at home living in a rain forest, or the parking lot of UC Berkley. I didn't have time to ask him why he was planning on voting for the other side, and now I don't have to.

There's a war going on. People are blowing things up. Soldiers and civilians are dying. Iran wants nukes, and North Korea already has them. At any moment, some maniac might blow up another building or airplane. Yet a presidential candidate has the time to spout off about a "carbon-neutral campaign."

My buddy in California might be a liberal, but at least he's a serious liberal.

Brand New Season

College football is back on the airwaves, and not a moment too soon. I was missing football quite a bit over the summer. Having overdosed on baseball, I needed something new to occupy the sports-side of my brain.

Here's a couple of quick takes from the first day:
(Photo: AP/John Raoux)

Virginia Tech beat East Carolina 17 - 7, and they needed the victory. A little good news on campus might go a long way. The school had a mass murder 4 months ago, and their hero alumnist Michael Vick just pleaded guilty last week to killing dogs.

I enjoyed the game, but the constant references to 'tragic events' was irritating. They even threw up a graphic of the number of killed and wounded, plus the major (English) of the mass murdering student. I found this a bit weird in the middle of what they were calling a 'healing' football game. Dead students aren't football stats, and the murderer wasn't a wide receiver; who cares what his major was?

For the record, mass murder is not a tragic event. It's murder. 9/11, 7/7, the Virginia Tech shootings, all of them have been labelled 'tragic.' They're not. Tragedy is a 3-year-old girl fighting leukemia, or a church roof collapsing on a wedding party.

Murder is murder. To call it a tragic event makes it seem accidental, and that the murderer was merely on the scene. It does a disservice to the victims: they were not victims of accident or circumstance. They were victims of a scumbag lunatic, and we need to remember that lest we let it happen again: "Oh, dear. Another tragic event. What can you do?"

Another thing I noticed during the game was a camera shot inside one of the athletic buildings. There's a room named after Michael Vick. His name is emblazoned on the door. I wonder how long it will stay there. It could remain there forever for all I care; I'm just interested to see which way the school goes.

Michigan lost to Appalachian State, 34-32. Appalachian who? I had to Google the school to find out where it is on the map (Boone, North Carolina; apparently they have quite a music program).

It was a hell of game. It's the first time in college football history that an under-division school has beaten a top-25 ranked team (Michigan was ranked #5). Further, Appalachian State won on Michigan's home field. This pretty much assures that Michigan will be knocked out of the top 25. The rest of their season will be a fight for pride. A conference championship is remote at best, and as for the national championship, you can forget it.

This game is the epitome of the old saying, "That's why you play the game." The game was played in Michigan, and it should have been a walk. The only people more embarrassed than the Michigan coaching staff are probably the gamblers in Las Vegas.

I'd write more, but I'm now busy watching Wake Forest and Boston College kick the hell out of each other.

It's a brand new season, and I love it already.

Ten Years Later

It was 10 years ago, and I was struck by life's irony. A wonderful woman passed away. She gave her heart and soul to the poor and the diseased. She wanted nothing more than to help people. Then she was taken from us and...nobody noticed.

Her name was Mother Teresa. The nun of Calcutta had enough humility to recognize God's sense of humour: Princess Diana died only six days before. The headlines remained in England.

People wept and prayed over a woman who did her best to live the high life, destroy the reputations of her benefactors, and ski the slopes of wintry paradise. In between visits to Monaco and Paris, she would visit pristine hospitals to shake the hands of AIDS patients. The shutters would click, the bulbs would flash, and there she was: the Princess. And people would swoon.

When you have beauty, you do not need humility. You can go on television and in one breath discuss your infidelity and your eating disorders without shame. Sunlight is not the great cleanser. Television is. If you tell your neighbours that you cheated on your husband by banging the riding instructor (I'll say) and that you barfed after every breakfast, they'll call you a headcase. Tell it to the world on TV, and they call you "poor thing."

No one noticed the passing of Mother Teresa, and in a way I always liked that. She wouldn't have wanted the headlines, unless they came with a donation for her Missionaries of Charity. She had no crown jewels, and would have hawked them for food if she did.

10 years on, the news coverage still makes me laugh. A few days ago, a number of papers ran a story about how Teresa questioned her faith in God towards the end of her life. That's a great hit job on a devoted Christian, and a wonderful way to celebrate her life, isn't it? Diana, however, gets the tears, the flowers, and the orgasmic excitement of a nation in mourning. Fire up the TV. Replay the Elton John tune. Edit the video and photo montages. Set them to music, with soft focus and dissolve transitions. Nothing's too good for the Princess.

The differences in their deaths could not be more striking. One with malaria and heart failure, the other in a millionaire's limo. Guess which one gets the full blown Larry King treatment?

From Airport to Railroad

I may have jumped the gun in that last piece, but I'd like to say it wasn't entirely my fault. Senator Craig pleaded guilty to the disorderly conduct charge from June 11, 2007. When someone pleads guilty, you have to figure there's a lot of truth to the charge.

Don't you?

AP Photo/Matt Cilley

I just finished going over the transcript of Senator Craig's arrest interview. The officer in the case, Sgt. Dave Karsnia, advised Craig of his rights, and then asked Craig for his side of the story.

It's an iteresting tale. Nowhere in the transcript does Craig or Karsnia mention the infamous 'shoe tapping' that has been heard so many times in the press. We discover that Craig was standing while in the stall, not sitting. Craig says he spread his legs far apart so as not to have his pants hit the floor while taking a leak. At this point, Karsnia says their feet bumped. Craig is not so sure, but gives a "if you say so" argument. It makes one wonder how far apart the cop's legs were in the neighboring stall.

Further along in the interview, we learn that Craig picked up a piece of toilet paper. Karsnia doesn't confirm or deny this. Karsnia instead says that the Senator put his left hand under the stall. He knew what hand it was, because he saw the Senator's wedding ring.

But hang on. The Senator says that is impossible, because he put his right hand down, not his left. With the Senator standing up in front of the toilet, Karsnia was to his right. Karsnia skips this by asking if the Senator switched his wedding ring to his left hand sometime before the interview. Craig says of course not.

Another interesting bit involves sexual preference. Look at this exchange early on in the interview:

LC: I don't, ah, I am not gay, I don't do these kinds of things and...

DK: It doesn't matter, I don't care about sexual preference or anything like that. Here's your stuff back sir. Um, I don't care about sexual preference.

LC: I know you don't. You're out to enforce the law.

DK: Right.

I found this exchange interesting. Karsnia doesn't care about sexual preferences? Then what is he doing in the toilet waiting for men to proposition him for gay sex? Sexual preference is the most important part of his job, otherwise he would have to arrest everyone in the bathroom. If a man looks him dead in the eye while standing at the sink, is that a "gay pass," or a "straight stare"? According to Karsnia, it doesn't matter. He can arrest you and interpret your actions to mean whatever he wants.

Another interesting exchange:

DK: But there's the, there there's two ways, yes. You can, you can, ah, you can go to court. You can plead guilty.

LC: Yep.

DK: There'll be a fine. You won't have to explain anything. (inaudible) I know.

LC: Right.

DK: And you'll pay a fine, you be (inaudible), done. Or if you want to plead not guilty, ah, and I, I can't make these decisions for you.

LC: No, no. Just tell me where I am (inaudible) I need to make this flight.

DK: Okay. Okay. And then I go to people that are not guilty, then I would have to come to court and end up testifying. So those are the two things, okay. Did I explain that part?

That scares the hell out of me. Police officers and prosecutors, whether real or fictional, have long been using the idea of a plea bargain as a way of making everything all better.

In a nut shell, this is what Karsnia is saying: "If you say you're not guilty, I can take you to jail and you'll have to go to court. Your political career, and life as you know it, will be over. But if you say you're guilty, I'll give a get-out-jail-free card, called a fine, and this will go away."

Further along in the interview, Karsnia has the audacity to say, "I'm not trying to act like I have all kinds of power here."

Yeah, right. Whatever you say, Krupke. The highlight of your day is jailing people that want a quick handjob before a flight to Phoenix. You sit in stalls hoping to get hit on. When women ask what you do for a living, you have to lie in case they think you caught VD off a toilet seat. Not trying to act like you've got all kinds of power? Discovering you've arrested a US Senator must make you feel like you've hit the Mother Lode.

I listened to the audio of the interview. The Senator sounds relatively composed throughout. Karsnia does not. His voice rises in frustration and anger as things don't work out so well: the Senator is willing to pay the fine to avoid the embarrassment, but he's not admitting to anything.

Nor should he have. This is what they had on him? It's a he said/he said case. Where's the crime? There is not one shred of physical evidence in this case, nor is there any audio or videotape. Everything hinges on this cop's story. Even if you buy everything the cop says, it's a hell of stretch to say that the Senator committed a criminal act.

I remember reading a book written by a retired cop in Chicago. He went through the vice squad to pay his dues. For that detail, he had to watch gay men go at it in public bathrooms. He couldn't arrest them until they were virtually in the act of sex, otherwise there was no crime. He wrote some pretty disturbing images in that book, about Vaseline and all kinds of stuff, but it's an important example: to convict someone of a crime, there must actually be a guilty act. The lawyers called it mens rea (guilty mind) and actus reus (guilty act). You need to have both in order to constitute a crime.

To believe that the Senator is guilty of a crime, you must then believe that everything the arresting cop is saying is the truth, and you must assume that Senator Craig was looking for sex. It just doesn't stand up. If you believe it does, then God help you when you're in the hands of an overzealous cop.

Imagine it this way:

You're in a parking lot, waiting for your friend. Your window is down. There's a man parked beside you. You run your hands along the rearview mirror, perhaps clearing dust. A moment later, you run that same hand along the window sill, because you're bored and people do things with their hands when they're bored. Then you touch your ear.

Just then, the man gets out of the neighbouring car, and places you under arrest. He says you've solicited him for gay sex. He says "people do this all the time in parking lots." He goes on to say that if you plead guilty, he'll merely give you a fine and that will be the end of it. If you plead not guilty, he will take you to jail, you'll go to court, your name will be in the papers, you'll likely lose your career, and perhaps your family.

What do you do?

I'll tell you: lawyer, lawyer, lawyer, lawyer. Got that? If the Senator had called a lawyer there would have been no fallout whatsoever. The case would have never gone to court.

As it is, I'm glad the tape was released so I could get a handle on the facts. I now know the cops were running a sting operation in the airport, and that they were hungry for arrests. I also know that the Senator's crime was not lewd behaviour, whether he was after a romp or not.

His crime was stupidity. If there's a cop sitting across from you and the tape recorder's rolling, call a lawyer. No matter what.

Brokeback Bathroom

Can someone tell me what a Senator is doing in the john, tapping out Morse code signals on his foot and hoping to score?

The story of Republican Senator Craig is weird all the way around. I never would have thought an airport craphouse was the perfect place to pick up a one-minute stand. According to the cops, men use them all the time. They sit on the toilet, drop their pants, and tap their finger on their right shoe. This tells fellow swinging dudes that you’re looking for a good time. If your neighbor is game, he’ll run his finger along the bottom of the stall.

So that’s what that guy was doing. Here I was just sneaking a cigarette before the redeye to Copenhagen, and I accidentally gave a guy blue balls. He probably had an 18-hour flight to Auckland and I left him hanging. As it were.

The media’s been too busy crucifying the Senator to ask the penetrating questions. For instance, why are cops in the can looking for Senators that want to throw away their careers? We’ve been led to believe that the airport stiffs are searching for terrorists and mad bombers. Not the case. They’re sitting in the WC and waiting for guys to hit on them.

I wonder how long the cops spend waiting. They must be the guy in the first stall. Usually, if you go to the john in the airport, there’s a pair of shoes under the first or second door. They remain firmly planted on the ground as you go about your business, wash your hands, and exit. I’d always thought they were constipated travelers or stroke victims. Turns out, they’re gum shoes, hoping you’ll take a seat beside them and invite them to…what?

I don’t know if it’s possible to get it on in an airport toilet. I’m not gay, but it doesn’t strike me as the most romantic place to hook up. And with all the people coming and going all the time, the heavy breathing stuff is out the window. Or down the toilet. Or whatever.

The news of the Senator’s “disorderly conduct” bust no doubt scared the hell out of every smoker in the country. For the first time, we found out that there really are cops in the john, and that the $5000 smoking fine might be enforced. What’s worse, I used to tap out my cigarette on the side of my shoe. No longer. Not only might I pay five grand on a smoking rap, but I could wind up on CNN apologizing for propositioning a cop.

After pleading guilty to the charge, Senator Craig is now in front of the microphones saying he didn’t mean it. He’s not gay, and he’s not guilty. He was confused, and duped. As always, poor people are criminals and rich people make mistakes. What else is new?

I feel sorry for the cops. Not the ones on the street, but the ones that pull toilet duty in the airport. God knows what they go through on a given day. Sitting there staring at poetry such as, Here I sit lonely hearted, came to crap and only farted, or reading For a good time call messages. The stink must be unreal after the long European flights let out. They sit through all of this in the hope that some guy will sit down and make an offer 99% of the population would refuse. These cops cannot be the city’s finest. Only a flunking grade at the academy could get you stuck with this detail.

When you screw up in the army, you have to clean the latrine. When you’re in the bad books as a cop, you have to sit in it and wait for a romantic pass. A lesson for high school kids making a career choice.

Strike Three - You're Up

I was going to do a piece on Rick Ankiel, the pitcher who crumbled and then returned to glory as a right fielder...but Krauthammer beat me to it. It's a good write-up. Read it here.

(AP Photo/Tom Gannam)

Michael Vick - Please Plea Me

It looks like Michael Vick has copped a plea regarding the dog fighting allegations. Click here to see what I wrote about the allegations last month.

A plea bargain for Michael Vick confuses me. I always thought that plea bargains were used to leverage information from criminals. As in, "We'll chop three years off your sentence if you give us info on the Godfather."

Two defendants in the dog fighting indictment have already rolled over and begged for the prosecution. So what can the prosecution possibly need from Vick?

I suppose a plea agreement saves the taxpayers a costly trial, but something smells fishy. They must have given Vick something to agree to, and we won't know what that is until it comes out at the hearing.

Until then, all you can say is, "What a bozo."

In 2004, this man signed a 10-year contract with the Atlanta Falcons. Pay check: $130 million dollars. And he pissed it all away killing dogs.

Bill Moyers - Mythical Conceit

An interesting bit I found on the MRC website. Bill Moyers got a smackdown from his own ombudsman, and here's his letter of response:

"The journalist’s job is not to achieve some mythical state of equilibrium between two opposing opinions....The journalist’s job is to seek out and offer the public the best thinking on an issue, event, or story.

That’s what I did regarding the argument for impeachment....There’s a movement for impeachment, not one against impeachment, and to fail to explore the arguments driving that movement would be as foolish as when Washington journalists in the months before the invasion of Iraq dared not talk about ‘occupation’ because official sources only wanted to talk about ‘liberation.’...I could have aired a Beltway-like ‘debate’ between a Democrat and a Republican, or a conservative and a liberal, but that’s usually conventional wisdom and standard practice, and public broadcasting was meant to be an alternative, not an echo."

— PBS’s Bill Moyers in a letter to PBS ombudsman Michael Getler, who had criticized the July 13 edition of Bill Moyers Journal for featuring only guests who favor Bush and Cheney’s impeachment.

I love it when the media-types decide that they know better than everyone else. It's interesting to see their thought processes, as in the above letter.

A few questions for Bill Moyers:

1) If the journalist's job is to provide the public with the "best thinking" out there, who decides what the "best" thinking is?

2) If there is a "movement" for impeachment, how can there not be one against it?

3) Since when was public broadcasting meant to be an alternative to anything? Just because you suck at your craft and have to appear between telethons and Nova re-runs doesn't mean you can give yourself a cool title like "alternative."

4) When did journalists "dare not" talk about anything because officials didn't want them to? Did you even watch the pre-invasion press conferences? I did. Guys were asking Generals if Baghdad was going to resemble Stalingrad. This proves two things: they don't toe the official line, and they are morons.

5) "The journalist's job is not to achieve some mythical state of equilibrium..." Really?

News to us. We lowly worst-thinkers always thought it was. It's nice to know that Bill Moyers believes equilibrium in a story of opinions is a thing of myth and legend.

In case you missed Journalism 101, bonehead, here's what we want from you:

Who, What, When, Where, How.

When it comes to the why, give me both sides of the story, if you please.

Grand New Flag

I was driving down a suburban Canadian street today and something caught my eye. A woman was driving one of those scooter machines, the kind that help old people go shopping, pick up groceries, and run down arrogant teenagers.

In her lap was a little girl. Beside the scooter was a black Labrador retriever. His leash was so tight that you'd think the engine had failed and he was towing the scooter down the sidewalk. On the front and back of the scooter were two Canadian flags, the size of Manila envelopes. They wearily flapped in the breeze as this unlikely trio made progress at 3mph.

I thought, where they hell is my camera?

The Canadian flags really made the image. Not one flag, but two flags, and it reminded me of all the Canadian pennants I see on a daily basis. Stuck to houses, jammed in lawns, stamped to beer bottles, hanging from eavestroughs, embroidered on sweaters, stitched to backbacks, emblazoned across bartenders' breasts.

There is no escaping the Canadian flag today. What cracks me up are the Canadians that declare how proud they are to be Canadian, yet bash the Americans for being patriotic.

The difference between the US and Canada can be summed up by the scooter woman: a Canadian would call her cute. If she was in the States and flying American flags, that same Canadian would call her lame.

Point is, Canadians are far more outspoken about their country than Americans are, but won't admit it. The t-shirt Canada Kicks Ass was making the rounds a few years ago, and every time I saw it I wanted to ask, at what? Free (until you pay your taxes) health care? Besides, Canadians are supposed to be the Mr. Nice Guys of the international scene. We have soldiers on our ten dollar bill, and none of them are carrying weapons.

Red Ensign
Canadian arrogance is out of all proportion to its post-Maple Leaf deeds, and the flag tells the story. Well, there isn't actually much of a story. There were committees, and a lot of arguments, and some Federal ramrodding, and bingo: in 1965, you had a Maple Leaf flag take the place of the British Red Ensign.

And that's the whole tale. What does the flag mean? Not much. Contrary to popular belief, the points on the Maple Leaf do not denote the 10 provinces plus territories (back when this would have made sense; Nunavut didn't yet exist). Unlike the Australians, who use their star's points to show how many provinces they have lying around, the Maple Leaf has no significant meaning. In the early days, the leaf had 13 points, or 15, and sometimes more.

Why is the flag red and white? No, not because a patriotic Canadian thought it would be a good idea. It was jolly old King George V that made that decision. In 1921 he said that Canada's national colours would be red and white because the British cross of St. George was red, and the emblem of France was white. So the Canadian flag, adopted as a symbol to separate Canada from Britain, owes it's colours to a British king. Better yet, the flag didn't officially become a symbol of Canada until after Queen Elizabeth II approved it in 1965.

News flash: when you are still seeking approval from foreign queens, you are not, by definition, self-determining. And please don't hand me any commonwealth talk, or that it works both ways. Fly to England and apply for a job. Tell me how far you get.

I read an article about the flag a little while ago regarding the maple leaf. It said the maple leaf was adopted in the 1700's to celebrate the environment and nature of Canada. Unlikely. This smacks of a post-1990's worldview, something that was missing from the canoe toting boys of the 1700's. They were more concerned with such important eco-matters as cutting down trees and killing as many beavers as they could get their hands on. I suspect that the maple leaf was used as a symbol of Canada because there were a lot of maple trees getting in the way. It could just as easily have been a spruce, which would have been quite prophetic: a spruce would greatly resemble the flag of Lebanon, and we all found out last year how many "Canadians" are living there.

Diefenbaker
The Canadian flag isn't really a symbol of anything, at least not anything of historical significance. However, the flag is truly representative of its country. Like the majority of things Canadian, the flag was launched by committee, and raised without consulting the Canadian people. During the great flag debate of 1964, former PM Diefenbaker demanded that a referendum be held on the issue. Lester Pearson used the tyrannical powers of the Canadian prime minister's office to shun that idea. He turned the decision over to a 15-member panel, and they made the decision for everyone. They picked a design from a contest, handed it over to the House of Commons, and that was that.

The flag looks pretty, but it means little. The rules that govern it don't actually exist. When you hear someone say that the flag shouldn't touch the ground, or shouldn't be used to wipe up coffee, they're borrowing from the Americans. There are no rules governing the use or misuse of the Canadian flag. You have every right to fly it over your house, or use it as a lobster bib.

However, there are certain times when the flag should be flown at half-mast. Let's have a look at them. They will tell you a lot about the flag, and a lot about the Canadian people.

- the death of a current or former Prime Minister
- the death of a current or former Governor General
- the death of a member of Federal Cabinet
- the death of the Monarch, or one of her kids, her husband, or mom, or whatever
- April 9th (Vimy Ridge Day; quick, tell me what happened there)
- April 28th (Workers' Mourning Day)
- Last Sunday in September (Police Officers' National Mourning Day)
- November 11th (Remembrance Day)
- December 6th (National Day of Remembrance and Action on Violence Against Women).

There's your list of important half-masters. I have two favorites. The first is the one about the Federal Cabinet. Who says Canada isn't a democracy? We fly a flag at half-mast for important people, but only if they were hand-picked by the PM. If you're walking down the street and ask someone why the flag is at half-mast, grab a cup of coffee. The person just might respond, "Well, the poor President of the Queen's Privy Council for Canada, Minister of Intergovernmental Affairs and Minister of Western Economic Diversification. We lost them last night."

My other favorite is the December 6th deal. Again, you're walking down the street. Again, you ask someone why the flag is at half-mast. Imagine your surprise when they say, "We're bemoaning the fact that Canadians beat and kill a lot of women."

Men don't cut it. Screw 'em, let them die in the street. Kids? We never liked them anyway. But let's be sure to remember the women. Canadian men beat them mercilessly on a daily basis. It must be true. There's only five half-mast days in the calendar year. Why else would one of those days be dedicated to it?

Yes, I know what December 6th is. It's the day that a man walked into the Ecole Polytechnique in Montreal and shot unarmed women. On this day, we are supposed to fly flags at half-mast, wear white or purple ribbons, and hold a minute of silence to hope for an end to violence against women. I've got a better idea: how about we hold a moment of silence to hope that next time, all of the men won't slink out of the room after being ordered to by the patient executioner.

Whatever your chosen day of mourning, if you want a flag, they're yours for the taking. Flags flown on Parliament Hill are available free of charge. All you have to do is ask for one, provided you'll live long enough to see it. The waiting list to obtain a Peace Tower flag is 18 years. By that time, you might be dead. No worries. Tell your family to fly it at half-mast.

Poor Canada. A people with a trademark for a flag, and a national anthem that confuses visiting Red Sox fans. Canadians do not know who they are, and they have forgotten where they're from. We are not proud of ourselves, we are proud of who we are not.

Don't believe me? Fine. Tell me when Flag Day is. It's the day Elizabeth II let us have our flag, and we celebrate it every year. It should be a no-brainer. Go on, tell me.

Now look it up.

Short Cuts -- While Dodging the Heat

A few quick takes from last week.

Asterisk
Barry Bonds* has passed Hank Aaron on the all-time home run list. The book Game of Shadows can tell you everything you need to know about Bonds* and his legacy.

As for me, Hank Aaron will always be the true home run king, but home runs no longer count for much.

In case you haven’t noticed, I am a massive baseball fan. To be a baseball fan, you have to look at numbers. There’s no avoiding that. Taken a step further, looking at numbers means you have to look at all-time records. So I will say now that there’s only one record that interests me: Joe DiMaggio’s 56-game hitting streak. The rest are details. I will make an exception if A-Rod beats the home run record a decade from now, and if he avoids allegations of drug use.

Hot Air
The enviro-boobs aren’t saying anything about it, but Mark Steyn is: after re-examining faulty data, NASA has changed the hottest year on record to 1934. The steamy, terrifying years from the past decade don’t even make it into the top 10.

This won’t change the enviro-boobs’ outlook on anything for one reason: environmental activism is their occupation. It’s how they make money. To admit their errors and say that they have no idea what they’re talking about would mean a spot on the unemployment line. No more government grants, no more donations, no more sainthood for Earth gigolo David Suzuki. To say nothing of the fact that even this data could be faulty; really, who was checking the temperature back in 10 000 BC?

Summer is hot. Winter is cold. You want me to pay you for saying that? Get real.

Speaking of the Earth gigolo, have you seen those commercials with David Suzuki showing up in people’s houses to change their light bulbs? If I found this weirdo in my house telling me what to do, I know where that light bulb would end up.

Borat
I watched Borat last night. It disturbed me.

I’d been putting it off for quite a while, because the commercials told me everything I needed to know. He was going to make Americans look dumb, and he was going to do it in a faux-reality TV format.

One thing the film did show me is that it’s becoming more and more hip to pick on Jews. Antisemitism is returning to the days of being acceptable as long as its done to a laugh track. One scene that particularly bothered me involved the title character throwing money at two cockroaches. The roaches represented the elderly Jewish couple that had given him a place to stay for the night.

Yes, yes, I know. It was only a comedy. I can laugh at most anything, and I can dish it out as much as I can take it. Still, I had an unsettling feeling creep over me with every new Jew-bash in the picture.

I pointed out some time ago that Hollywood has no problem bashing Asians. Jews get the same treatment. Try that with blacks, Hispanics, or gays, and your career would be over. It's interesting how the degree of your prejudice is measured by what group you happen to be picking on.

The film did manage to show me that while Americans can appear stupid at the hands of a comedian and his editor, they always appear extremely polite and welcoming. I doubt that’s the effect Borat was going for.

See You Later, Merv
Merv Griffin died on Sunday. If you've ever watched Jeopardy or Wheel of Fortune, then you've seen his name at the end of each episode.

I remember staying in the Beverly Hilton about six years ago. It was one of his hotels. Merv's greatest hits were on one of the hotel's channels, and I watched an old interview he did with Richard Burton. Burton said to Griffin, "You're more successful than I am."

Merv looked suitably surprised, and asked Burton to elaborate. Burton said, "You're more successful than I am. Because you're on television." His emphasis on that last word was a sign of Burton's smarts.

He was correct, of course. Movie stars are movie stars, but they only reach us once a year or so. Merv Griffin reached everybody, all the time. Though he was passed over for the Tonight Show after Jack Paar retired (Carson was chosen instead), Griffin later went on to great success with The Merv Griffin Show. It was on the air for 20 years.

His real windfall came from his game shows. Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune are still smash hits. When he sold their rights to Coca-Cola back in 1986, Griffin grabbed a cool $250 million in the deal. From there, he went on to buy resort hotels, including the Atlantis in Nassau, Bahamas.

I was at the Atlantis a few years ago, and I told a friend, "Hey, did you know Merv Griffin owns this pad?"

"Griffin?"

"Yeah, the guy that created Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy."

"No kidding. Man, he must be worth a ton."

He was. And Richard Burton was right. Any time during the primetime week, you can flip on the tube and find Merv Griffin's name written somewhere, welcoming you as his next guest.

Making a List, Checking it Twice

If you want to know when you're heading for Dumpsville, an article on Yahoo gives you the goods. Elina Furman penned the piece, and it's one of those mundane Cosmo articles that pops up on your homepage from time to time.

You know the drill. You click on your homepage and up comes NEWS. It says Bush is an idiot or that Iraq is a failure. As you move to click on this inspired story, the little box changes to ENTERTAINMENT. Now you're looking at Brad Pitt as he breaks up with another wife or girlfriend. Then the little box changes to FOOD, and SPORTS, and so on.

I usually by-pass this stuff, but today I decided to click on Furman's piece. Her by-line is Special to Yahoo Personals, and she's written a piece called 5 Breakup Signs - How to Tell When You're Going to Get the Boot.

I've never been a big fan of lists. They're usually bogus. The Top Ten this and the Number One that are terribly subjective unless they can be backed up by hard facts. Even if the facts are there, the list is generally pointless: The Top 10 Deadliest Poisons in the World is not a list you're likely to see because all of them are deadly, and who cares if you've got an extra minute to live if you drink one but not the other: you're dead, anyway.

Lists also beg the question of who wrote them, and how qualified the author is. Take Ms. Furman. She's written a list of five signs that you're going to get dumped. I doubt she took a college course on this material, so there's only two ways that she can know this stuff. Either she practices these traits on her partners before kicking them to the curb, or she's had them done to her so many times that she's a thirty-something neurotic who sees a breakup around every corner. Being her boyfriend would be a pain in the ass, because she probably walks around with a notebook and writes down everything you say as a 'sign.'

In any event, here's her list, with my constructive comments after each. If Elina is qualified, how can I not be?

1. Picking fights. No one is saying you have to get along 24/7. Constructive conflict can actually be good for your relationship. But if you find that your partner has become argumentative over petty issues like your clothes or choice of restaurant, that should serve as a warning sign that he/she may be looking for an excuse to bail.

Maybe. Or it could be that you dress like a loser or eat at lousy restaurants. I don't think I've ever met a woman who doesn't comment about the way their man dresses. Supposedly they find it cute to throw away a man's favorite t-shirt because it's gone ratty and they hate it. As for the restaurant deal, is there a woman alive who hasn't made the choice of a restaurant seem like a Russian/US Summit Meeting?

2. Forgetting to call. Used to be that your phone would ring all day long with your sweetie wanting to make plans or calling just to say, "I love you." Now your significant other doesn't even call when he/she is running three hours late. It may seem obvious, but going from speed dial to a blocked number is a sure sign that your relationship may be nearing its expiration date.

Perhaps. Or maybe he's finally convinced you not to call him at work. Better yet, maybe you've convinced him that you "need your space." By the way, if you've gone from speed dial to blocked number, it's because you were calling him all the time and he thinks you're a stalker. He's probably correct.

3. Changing their stripes. A major change in appearance can be a sign that your partner is looking toward greener pastures. Whether they've chopped off their hair, lost 40 pounds or gone from a bold brunette to a sultry blonde, major cosmetic changes should be noted. Of course, there's nothing wrong with being a little vain, but if the change is accompanied by any of the other signs listed here, you may need to get ready to go solo.

Let me get this straight. Women bitch when we don't comment on every new outfit and haircut they get, and now we're supposed to pack our bags when we finally take notice? News to me. New clothes, dyed hair, fad diets. Isn't that a typical woman's week?

4. Criticizing. If your sweetie isn't feeling you anymore, don't be surprised if he/she becomes less tolerant of everything, from how you brush your teeth to how you tie your shoes. Constant criticism is a telltale sign that your days as a twosome are numbered.

If someone criticizes how you tie your shoes, they were a headcase to begin with. Don't be afraid of getting dumped. If you're a woman, just walk away and be thankful you did. If you're a man, don't breakup with her. She'll sleep with your friends. The easiest way to speed a woman on the path of dumping your ass is to wait until the next family dinner. Blow a fart at the table, and your relationship is gone with the wind.

5. Losing sexual interest. A healthy sex life can make or break a relationship. If you find that your partner is becoming more sexually aloof, you need to get to the root of the issue. While it's natural to have less sex as you settle into a comfortable groove together, waiting weeks or months to have sexual contact is a sign that something is amiss.

Don't sweat it. He's probably gay. Even if he's not, tell people he is. Especially your gay friends. They'll be in a tizzy to see who can out him first, and it will make your cocktail parties more entertaining.

Now that you know the warning signs, don't panic [too late; you just ruined tonight's dinner for half the couples in North America]. Just because your partner exhibits some of these behaviors, that doesn't necessarily mean the relationship is over [but I thought you just said it did]. In fact, it's usually a combination of signs and not one isolated incident that foreshadows a breakup [thank God; sweetheart just finished saying that I wasn't brushing my teeth correctly. I started to cry].

If you're worried that your partner is itching to get out [you just caused it], the most important thing you can do is sit down and discuss your issues in an honest and open manner [there goes the football game]. If you take these signs as your cue to improve communication, your relationship may just have a fighting chance [if all of these things are so terrible, why are you telling me to fight for the relationship?].

This piece was obviously written by a woman for women. She threw in a couple of he/she bits, but the telltale signs are there. Honest. Open. Communication.

Whatever. Look, if your relationship is headed for the dumps, you don't need a stranger to give you a list. You need to go with your gut. Guy never calls when he's always three hours late? He's balling somebody. Woman doesn't want to have sex with you anymore? She's not attracted to you. Guy constantly picks on your appearance? He's a jerk.

You know these things, but knowing is not believing. No list in the world is going to help you with that problem. Everybody's been there. When friends are calling your boyfriend an idiot or your girlfriend a witch, you know they're right. You just don't want to believe it.

You're on your own with that one.