What do you make of this? Last night, I was dreaming about Tony Bourdain. We were at my parent’s home and I was cooking dinner for him. He told me that he didn’t care for the pan I was using, he thought it was the wrong size. I proceeded to show him that it was easy to change the pan by clicking on the description and changing the set up for the pan. It would change on the fly, without needing to be washed or losing the food already in the pan. Sort of like changing a page set up in the preferences menu in PageMaker or InDesign. Now where the menu and clickable box were, I cannot say.

Am I spending too much time on the computer? Too much time thinking about Tony Bourdain?

I have this memory. I am very, very small. My mother is holding me in her arms. We are sitting under the arbor at the back of the house on the St. Lucie River, behind the kitchen. There are yellow flowers blooming on the vine, maybe they are alamandas. She is singing to me. She is singing “You Are My Sunshine.”

Wednesday, I took her to a dermatologist to see if we can heal this mysterious rash she’s had for 8 months or so. The previous dermatologist gave her creams and ointments and they have done nothing. She continues to scratch. The rash is spreading. I have to go with her because I am her healthcare surrogate, and if the doctor needs to biopsy anything, or inject her with anything or do anything at all other than look at her, I will need to sign the permission.

Her aide wheels her in. My mother is dressed in her favorite color: purple. I tell her she looks pretty today. The aide smiles at me. My mother is unaware of where she is, I think. I put my knitting in her hands, so she can feel it. You taught me to knit, I remind her. The other patient in the waiting room smiles at me. My mother is unaware of the knitting. The nurse calls us in.

We have to put a gown on my mother, and her aide calls her name, and tells her that we’ll be changing her. After 45 seconds, my mother says “What?” But, delayed reaction or not, she’s responded to her name. We take off her shirt and camisole. She covers herself, aware of her own nudity. We slip the paper gown on her, and she grabs my finger, and holds it tight. I cry silently. The aide pretends not to notice.

The dermatologist gives us four prescriptions and asks us to return in 10 days.

My mother begins to chatter. Numbers. My father’s name. The aide returns her to the home. I take myself to the knitting store, and then home. I manage not to buy a pack of cigarettes.

Last night, Obama tied up the democratic nomination, and ClintonV2.0 allowed as how he had, but refused to concede, and is now campaigning for the VP slot. I hope and pray that Mr. Obama continues to play it straight and from his heart and not the polls and statistics, and puts someone, anyone, else on the ticket. ClintonV2.0 reminded me of that t-shirt from my college days (no, not the smoke Columbian one, the other one) that said “Obnoxious in Victory, Bitter in Defeat”. On the other hand, this is what the next President of the United States had to say in his speech:

America, this is our moment. This is our time. Our time to turn the page on the policies of the past. Our time to bring new energy and new ideas to the challenges we face. Our time to offer a new direction for the country we love.

The journey will be difficult. The road will be long. I face this challenge with profound humility, and knowledge of my own limitations. But I also face it with limitless faith in the capacity of the American people. Because if we are willing to work for it, and fight for it, and believe in it, then I am absolutely certain that generations from now, we will be able to look back and tell our children that this was the moment when we began to provide care for the sick and good jobs to the jobless; this was the moment when the rise of the oceans began to slow and our planet began to heal; this was the moment when we ended a war and secured our nation and restored our image as the last, best hope on Earth. This was the moment – this was the time – when we came together to remake this great nation so that it may always reflect our very best selves, and our highest ideals. Thank you, God Bless you, and may God Bless the United States of America.

Just in case we’ve forgotten what passion and oratory sounds like. And let us remember this, from another man who inspired change and youthful voters—I give you John F. Kennedy’s inaugural address:

The world is very different now. For man holds in his mortal hands the power to abolish all forms of human poverty and all forms of human life. And yet the same revolutionary beliefs for which our forebears fought are still at issue around the globe—the belief that the rights of man come not from the generosity of the state, but from the hand of God.

We dare not forget today that we are the heirs of that first revolution. Let the word go forth from this time and place, to friend and foe alike, that the torch has been passed to a new generation of Americans—born in this century, tempered by war, disciplined by a hard and bitter peace, proud of our ancient heritage—and unwilling to witness or permit the slow undoing of those human rights to which this Nation has always been committed, and to which we are committed today at home and around the world.

Let every nation know, whether it wishes us well or ill, that we shall pay any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship, support any friend, oppose any foe, in order to assure the survival and the success of liberty.

This much we pledge—and more.

To those old allies whose cultural and spiritual origins we share, we pledge the loyalty of faithful friends. United, there is little we cannot do in a host of cooperative ventures. Divided, there is little we can do—for we dare not meet a powerful challenge at odds and split asunder.

To those new States whom we welcome to the ranks of the free, we pledge our word that one form of colonial control shall not have passed away merely to be replaced by a far more iron tyranny. We shall not always expect to find them supporting our view. But we shall always hope to find them strongly supporting their own freedom—and to remember that, in the past, those who foolishly sought power by riding the back of the tiger ended up inside.

To those peoples in the huts and villages across the globe struggling to break the bonds of mass misery, we pledge our best efforts to help them help themselves, for whatever period is required—not because the Communists may be doing it, not because we seek their votes, but because it is right. If a free society cannot help the many who are poor, it cannot save the few who are rich.

To our sister republics south of our border, we offer a special pledge—to convert our good words into good deeds—in a new alliance for progress—to assist free men and free governments in casting off the chains of poverty. But this peaceful revolution of hope cannot become the prey of hostile powers. Let all our neighbors know that we shall join with them to oppose aggression or subversion anywhere in the Americas. And let every other power know that this Hemisphere intends to remain the master of its own house.

To that world assembly of sovereign states, the United Nations, our last best hope in an age where the instruments of war have far outpaced the instruments of peace, we renew our pledge of support—to prevent it from becoming merely a forum for invective—to strengthen its shield of the new and the weak—and to enlarge the area in which its writ may run.

Finally, to those nations who would make themselves our adversary, we offer not a pledge but a request: that both sides begin anew the quest for peace, before the dark powers of destruction unleashed by science engulf all humanity in planned or accidental self-destruction.

We dare not tempt them with weakness. For only when our arms are sufficient beyond doubt can we be certain beyond doubt that they will never be employed.

But neither can two great and powerful groups of nations take comfort from our present course—both sides overburdened by the cost of modern weapons, both rightly alarmed by the steady spread of the deadly atom, yet both racing to alter that uncertain balance of terror that stays the hand of mankind’s final war.

So let us begin anew—remembering on both sides that civility is not a sign of weakness, and sincerity is always subject to proof. Let us never negotiate out of fear. But let us never fear to negotiate.

Let both sides explore what problems unite us instead of belaboring those problems which divide us.

Let both sides, for the first time, formulate serious and precise proposals for the inspection and control of arms—and bring the absolute power to destroy other nations under the absolute control of all nations.

Let both sides seek to invoke the wonders of science instead of its terrors. Together let us explore the stars, conquer the deserts, eradicate disease, tap the ocean depths, and encourage the arts and commerce.

Let both sides unite to heed in all corners of the earth the command of Isaiah—to “undo the heavy burdens ... and to let the oppressed go free.”

And if a beachhead of cooperation may push back the jungle of suspicion, let both sides join in creating a new endeavor, not a new balance of power, but a new world of law, where the strong are just and the weak secure and the peace preserved.

All this will not be finished in the first 100 days. Nor will it be finished in the first 1,000 days, nor in the life of this Administration, nor even perhaps in our lifetime on this planet. But let us begin.

In your hands, my fellow citizens, more than in mine, will rest the final success or failure of our course. Since this country was founded, each generation of Americans has been summoned to give testimony to its national loyalty. The graves of young Americans who answered the call to service surround the globe.

Now the trumpet summons us again—not as a call to bear arms, though arms we need; not as a call to battle, though embattled we are—but a call to bear the burden of a long twilight struggle, year in and year out, “rejoicing in hope, patient in tribulation”—a struggle against the common enemies of man: tyranny, poverty, disease, and war itself.

Can we forge against these enemies a grand and global alliance, North and South, East and West, that can assure a more fruitful life for all mankind? Will you join in that historic effort?

In the long history of the world, only a few generations have been granted the role of defending freedom in its hour of maximum danger. I do not shrink from this responsibility—I welcome it. I do not believe that any of us would exchange places with any other people or any other generation. The energy, the faith, the devotion which we bring to this endeavor will light our country and all who serve it—and the glow from that fire can truly light the world.

And so, my fellow Americans: ask not what your country can do for you—ask what you can do for your country.

My fellow citizens of the world: ask not what America will do for you, but what together we can do for the freedom of man.

Finally, whether you are citizens of America or citizens of the world, ask of us the same high standards of strength and sacrifice which we ask of you. With a good conscience our only sure reward, with history the final judge of our deeds, let us go forth to lead the land we love, asking His blessing and His help, but knowing that here on earth God’s work must truly be our own.

And finally, from another voice, a very old cartoon strip, that maybe, just maybe, is no longer relevant. Oh, how I hope.

Doonesbury (c) 1974 G.B. Trudeau. Reprinted with permission of Universal Press Syndicate. All rights reserved.

Well, this is a pretty sucky day here at the Casita des Zappatos. First we lose Yves St. Laurent and now, the inimitable (OK, highly imititable) Bo Diddley. I can’t think of many other artists who so indelibly marked rock and roll. You only need to hear the beat, and you know when you’re listening to Bo Diddley, or one of his successors.

The Bo Diddley beat is one of rock & roll’s bedrock rhythms, showing up in the work of Buddy Holly, the Rolling Stones, and even pop-garage knockoffs like the Strangeloves’ 1965 hit “I Want Candy.” Diddley’s hypnotic rhythmic attack and declamatory, boasting vocals stretched back as far as Africa for their roots, and looked as far into the future as rap. His trademark otherwordly vibrating, fuzzy guitar style did much to expand the instrument’s power and range. But even more important, Bo’s bounce was fun and irresistibly rocking, with a wisecracking, jiving tone that epitomized rock & roll at its most humorously outlandish and freewheeling…

His very first single, “Bo Diddley”/“I’m a Man” (1955), was a double-sided monster. The A-side was soaked with futuristic waves of tremolo guitar, set to an ageless nursery rhyme; the flip was a bump-and-grind, harmonica-driven shuffle, based around a devastating blues riff. But the result was not exactly blues, or even straight R&B, but a new kind of guitar-based rock & roll, soaked in the blues and R&B, but owing allegiance to neither.

from All-Music Guide review by Richie Unterberger

As a live performer, Diddley was galvanizing, using his trademark square guitars (namely one of his Grestch guitars he nicknamed The Twang Machine) and distorted amplification to produce new sounds that anticipated the innovations of ‘60s guitarists like Jimi Hendrix. In Great Britain, he was revered as a giant on the order of Chuck Berry and Muddy Waters. The Rolling Stones in particular borrowed a lot from Bo’s rhythms and attitude in their early days, although they only officially covered a couple of his tunes, “Mona” and “I’m Alright.” Other British R&B groups like the Yardbirds, Animals, and Pretty Things also covered Diddley standards in their early days. Buddy Holly covered “Bo Diddley” and used a modified Bo Diddley beat on “Not Fade Away”; when the Stones gave the song the full-on Bo treatment (complete with shaking maracas), the result was their first big British hit.

from All-Music Guide review by Richie Unterberger

What more is there to say? He was a giant. An innovator.

This morning we reached an new low in public grooming: the woman on the seat across from me on the train applied her deodorant as I watched. ON THE TRAIN people. Reached her Secret under her shirt and into her pits and scrubbed it on. Then gave me a challenging look, like what the fuck are YOU lookin’ at, bitch?

To which I can only say…well, nothing, really. Just bang my head on my desk repeatedly.

I have no idea what’s going on with my little camera. There seems to be a weird magenta glow on everything.

Anyway: the Person Dressed in Black and her daughter, waiting for the school bus this morning, in mother/daughter flowered shoes.

Today is one of the high holy days of my personal religion. Today is Bob Dylan’s natal anniversary…birthday for those of you too illiterate to figure out the first phrase. Yep, the Bob is 67 years old today. I’m celebrating in my own way, going out yarn shopping with Star and then dropping in for dim sum in Miami’s finest dim sum joint. And then, for desert, more yarn shopping. All the while playing the Bob on my car cd player.

You celebrate in your own fashion, OK? I have, as I do every year, made plans for a fabulous home-cooked meal, in case he’s in the neighborhood and wants a little nosh. One year he was down in Miami on tour, and I even sent a formal invitation to his label. I don’t think they passed it on, because he never showed up and I had left over brisket for days. This year I’m going to make potato pierogis. In other years I’ve made kugel. Maybe it’s the chopped liver that he wants?

I mean, I figure, how often does the man get a nice, home-cooked Jewish meal? His mom’s still with us, or she was when he won the Kennedy Center honors, because she was his date, but who knows if she’s still cooking for him. And who knows if Mrs. Zimmerman was much of a cook to begin with? Still, the Bob sings about kitchens and food a lot, so I’m counting on sooner or later, hitting on the menu that will bring him to my door.

I walked outside the other morning, and found two lizards makin’ sweet, sweet love on a slice of mango tree out by the koi pond. Lizard Sutra, anyone?

Way, way back in the day, when I was president of the Dade County Young Democrats, and Joe Kennedy was running for his first term, we held a fund-raiser for him down here. I decided to prep myself for the after event, a private dinner for the organizers and Joe, by calling my father. Daddy grew up in West Palm Beach and played basketball in the church league. His was the only Jewish team, and they held their own, he said. He also said that he’d played against those Kennedy boys, and I figured that this would give me something to talk about with our guest. My daddy, his daddy (Robert), our uncles, all dribbling in good natured, young male humor on the courts of Palm Beach. I thought.

I called my father and asked him to tell me everything… the name of the church they played for, the location and name of the courts, whether his team had ever beaten their team. He told me everything I asked. Except he became very reticent about the outcomes. I pressed.

“Come on, Daddy. Did you guys ever win?”

“They were tough competitors.”

“Oh. Did you even come close?”

“They were very tough competitors.”

“They smoked yer asses, huh?”

“Oh, all right. They cheated.”

“Great. Daddy, I don’t think that that is going to go over real well when I tell this story to Joe. Yeah, your family beat the crap out of my father’s team because your sainted father and his brothers cheated.”

“It was only Jack.”

“Oh, that’ll be even better. Your sainted uncle Jack cheated. Great. Thanks a lot, Pop.”

So. The cocktail party went off fine. The Kennedys breed, I can safely say, having been in their presence, for teeth and charisma. There is nothing like it. I can’t explain it. I’m not easily impressed with people, and particularly not impressed with people whose reputations precede them to such a degree, but damn. I’ve never felt anything like it before or since. And The Person Dressed in Black, back when she was at Conde Nast, once met John-John, and says the same thing. The charisma was a physical presence, and she is totally disdainful of the Kennedys and their mystique. But I digress.

I find myself at some point between the cocktails and dinner, alone at the hotel’s front desk with Joe. I begin to tell the story of how, when they were just lads, his father and uncles played basketball with my father and uncles. And then I get into the delicate matter of the punch line to my tale. I stutter to a halt, somewhere around the part where my father has just told me that the Kennedy boys were Very Tough competitors. I look up at Joe and say, you know, maybe I should just stop here. He tells me to continue. I do. I get to the part where Daddy said it was just Jack who cheated. Joe looks down at me and says, “That doesn’t sound right, kiddo.”

My stomach drops to my ankles. I break an immediate flop sweat, and he gives me a huge toothy grin, and says “Hell, they ALL cheated!” and roared with laughter.

I’m so sorry to hear of Teddy’s diagnosis. I send my prayers (such as they are) and best wishes to the family.

We open with a lovely montage of Rome and highlights (or lowlifes) of our time there with the bitches and the hos, and end in the limo with the final four. Big Whitney is all twitterpated because she’s been in the bottom two twice now, and usually the second time means an exit interview. She is both stunned and relieved to find herself still here and Katarzyna gone.

Anya is riding high on her multiple challenge wins and assures us that she is not worried, and knows that she “brings it” on set. Brings what, she does not say. Coffee for the crew, perhaps? Donuts for Mr. Jay? Back in Ca Trya, the artwork on the walls has been switched to all Salacious D, all the time. Perhaps to remind us who won last year? Or perhaps to give Dominique-inique-inique the segue to this monologue: “I knew as soon as I laid eyes on her last year that she’d be the winner. She had it all. I’m the Salacious D of this season.” Uh, no. Unless you mean saddled with an unfortunate make-over. In any event, Dominique-inique-inique says she has a headache (She says that a lot. Maybe she actually listens to herself talk, because she sure gives me a headache.) and wanders out of the room. The other three take the opportunity to play the how-do-we-dislike-Dominique-inique-inique? Let-us-count-the-ways game. She’s a tranny. She’s a know it all. She’s delusional. She’s a secret eater. She eats off other people’s plates. She eats candy in bed in the middle of the night. She’s annoying. She also thinks that she is the most improved “girl” in the house. Well, if by that you mean…no. There is no way that can be true under any circumstances.

Next we have Fatima confessionalizing her own mission on this planet, which is to win this competition. To which I say, meh. If I were you, my first mission would be to find a dermatologist and follow her instructions to the letter. And bringing up the rear of the praise be to me train in Anya, who says she is so impressed with herself and her multiple wins. And I’m either getting used to her weird ass speech impediment, or she’s secretly been practicing her elocution, because I understood what she said. Not, of course, why she would say it, but what she said.

Finally and at last, the long dark night of the soulless models is over and we come to the next morning and Tyra Lisa mail. “Take a picture, maybe you’ll last longer.” Hmm. Sort of the whole plot of the series, right there in seven words. The hamsters squeal, a little half-heartedly and haven’t a clue as to what this might mean. Katarzya was the brains, wasn’t she? Off we go to a park. Trees. Grass. Paulina. Paulina posing for photographer Francecso Licata. His job today will be to teach the girls (and Dominique-inique-inique) how to take shoot with an SLR. Paulina says that this knowledge of photography can be helpful when one is on the other side of the lens. I wish Lauren were here for this. She’d kick the other hamsters’ asses to the curb. I mean, have you seen her artwork? Fierce. And I say that with all sincerity.

To begin, the FinalFabFour all shoot each other, but alas, there are no bullets in the cameras. Dominique-inique-inique and Fatima spend most of their time tearing each other down. It is boring and lame. Ann Shoket and her nose arrive to tell the hamsters the nature of this challenge. They will each get five minutes to shoot Paulina. The winner of the challenge will get an extra 50 frames at the next photo shoot. We know from past seasons how great a prize that is. It usually ensures a win. Fatima says that she absolutely has to win this and get those extra 50 frames. She goes first.

Anya says that Fatima was good at giving direction. Paulina says that Fatima was strong, and led her along by the hand toward a vision and that she (Paulina) wanted to go on that trip. Dominique-inique-inique is next and takes advantage of the fact that Paulina is a pro and tells her to do what ever she wants. What she wants is to stand there and make Dominique-inique-inique give her direction. Unfortunately for all concerned, this leads to posing in front of a random cactus. Actually, it looked like a Spanish Bayonet, and those have some wicked sharp points. I hope Paulina wasn’t hurt. Anya says that Dominique-inique-inique had no vision. Paulina says that Dom wanted to do something great, but was clueless as to what or how.

Whitney gave Paulina direction while keeping in mind that Paulina is a judge, and a pro and can make or break her career. Or at least her time on ANTM. Dom opines that Big Whitney came across as professional. Paulina says that Whitters was fun to work with, and didn’t hesitate to take control of the shoot.

Anya has ideas, all of them awful. One idea involves Paulina throwing a pile of leaves in the air and watching in wonder as they fall around her. Another involves Paulina looking at a flower and tugging on its leaves in wonderment. I feel that a lot of Anya and her childlike wonder of the world around her is coming through here. I’m just saying. Well, you know what I’m saying. Big Whitney says that Anya was all over the place. Paulina is more delicate, suggesting that perhaps, just perhaps, Anya might want to try to focus.

Ann Shoket and her nose return to give the final critiques and announce the winner. Whitney’s beauty shots were perfect and Paulina liked working with her. Anya was the most fun to work with, even though a lot of her ideas didn’t work. Fatima gave the most options, and Dominique-inique-inique had lousy compositions, i.e.: lots of cactus hats. (snork) The winner is Fatima. I don’t know why, since everything sounded like it would be Whitney. Fatima, naturally, assures the world that she deserved the win. Gracious in victory, that one.

Back at the apartment, Fatima practices her walk while Dominique-inique-inique tells her that she sucks and doesn’t know what the hell she’s doing. Fatima replies “I’m rubber, you’re glue; whatever you say bounces off me and sticks to you.” And also, “neener, neener, I won and you didn’t you big old secret eating loser.” Dominique-inique-inique goes off into the confessional to drone on and on about herself in the third person, while Anya interviews that Dom sucks all the energy out of a room and then clutches her head and says “I’m melting…” It is one of the high moments of this season.

Salacious D has her moment of life as a Cover Girl. It involves walking in a Tibi fashion show.

Back in Rome, there is more Tyra Lisa mail, and the requisite squealing (albeit somewhat half-hearted at this stage of the game) ensues. Blah, blah, blood, blah, blah, fame. Blah, blah, no clue. But wait: here IS a clue. Dominique-inique-inique interviews that she isn’t sure if Big Whitney is going home this week, but better Big Whitney than Dominique-inique-inique.

The shoot this week is a night shot. The hamsters will be dressed up like movie stars from the 50s. They will be paired with a random Italian male model and the concept is that they are ducking down a staircase in the dead of night, only to be surprised and shot by the paparazzi. Nigel (swoon, drool) will be their photographer, and he’ll be shooting the whole thing: paparazzi, movie stars, stairs. The word of the day from Mr. Jay is “cinematic”. He should have explained what that meant, because none of the hamsters get the concept at freakin all. Anya assures us that she can take direction and give energy. She can also look like a wax copy of Gwen Steffani. Mr. Jay resorts to calling her name and distracting her in order to get a decent shot. Actually, her best shot is one where she is stepping out of her shoe and slipping. Luck be a lady.

Fatima comes to set with her usual stank attitude and says that she has a huge advantage because she won the challenge and has 50 extra frames. After 11 weeks, the girl still has a hard time facing into the camera and/or the light. She hears, but does not take, Mr. Jay’s and Nigel’s directions. She needs all fifty of her extra frames, and still sucks wind. Nigel snarks at her “Honey, that stuff isn’t inspiring.”

Big Whitney takes the set and echoes of Tyra’s “play down the hootchie” still ringing in her ears, she plays down the glamour. No one is impressed. She interviews that she didn’t do her best, but hopefully she looked pretty?

Dominique-inique-inique is ghastly. She’s stiff and stagey. Mr. Jay keeps telling her to move it around. That this is supposed to look like a still frame from a movie. Crickets. Mr. Jay interviews that the whole evening was awful, that nobody got the concept or took a decent shot and that Dominique-inique-inique even took steps backward. All the hamsters pick up on this vibe and are nervous going into panel. The guest judge is Ann Shoket and her great honking nose.

Anya gets the first critique. She looks good, but didn’t bring STAR! Big Whitney looked stunning, but also a little stunned. Paulina says she looks gorgeous, but stiff. Dominique-inique-inique arrives dressed like a cheap cocktail waitress on a morning run to Wal-Mart for diapers. Paulina takes one look at the photo and cries “TRANNY” then backtracks and says, but beautiful tranny. Miss Jay rolls her eyes. Fatima took a romantic shot, a Cover Girl shot, which is fine and dandy, but not the assignment. She tries the old, “I don’t know nuffin’ ‘bout having a boyfriend” schtick and Tyra calls foul. Oh, no, says Tyra. Don’t even go there. As a model you are paid to do and be things that you have never done and never were. Nice fucking try, beeyotch. Back to your place in line.

In the judging, Anya is credited for lucking into a great shot. But she wasn’t in control of it. Ann says that Anya oozes glamour. As opposed to say, Fatima who oozes stank and Dominique-inique-inique, who just oozes. In her photo, Fatima looks beautiful, but not startled. She came off snotty on set, and everyone agrees that she doesn’t listen. Ann thinks that Whitney isn’t using enough hootchie. Tyra neglects to mention that this would be because she’s been telling Whitney to play down the hootchie for 11 weeks. The whole make up contract thing is seen as problematic for that big old snout-nosed tranny Dominique-inique-inique. Miss Jay gets the best line of the night by saying (in a basso profundo) that that’s why it’s called Cover Girl, because it covers up the man in you. Bwahahahahaha.

The photos go to Anya (strongest in a weak bunch, and then only by luck) and Whitney (quit trying so hard). This leaves our protagonists, Dominique-inique-inique and her best enemy Fatima in the bottom two. Who stays? The tranny who started out bad, then got better and finally sucked so badly even the judges couldn’t ignore it? Or the pimply-faced egotist with the dreadful past and a total inability to take direction? Hmmm. Hard call, and they can’t send two girls home tonight, so Fatima gets to stick around for another week.

Next week? A Cover Girl commercial and a muthafuckin walk-off.

I have to admit that I’ve never much cared for Tim Robbins as an author. I thought he was, at best, sort of a recycled, lesser Richard Brautigan. But an old friend sent this to me, the text of a speech Robbins gave last month to the National Association of Broadcasters, and I was so impressed with it that I present it to you in its entirety.

Subject: Tim Robbins

Date: Thu, 17 Apr 2008

The following is my opening keynote speech for the National Association of Broadcasters Show in Las Vegas, which I delivered Monday night.

Hello, I’m Tim Robbins. I’d like to thank you for the invitation to address you here at the National Association of Broadcasters. When I first received the invitation I was a little confused because the last time I had contact with the national media I seem to remember them telling me to shut the hell up.

I would like to start with an apology. To Rush and Sean, and Billo and Savage and Laura what’s-her-name. A few years ago they told America that because I had different opinions on the wisdom of going to war that I was a traitor, a Saddam lover, a terrorist supporter, undermining the troops. I was appealing at the time for the inspectors to have more time to find those weapons of mass destruction. I was a naïve dupe of left wing appeasement. And how right they were. If I had known then what I know now, if I had seen the festive and appreciative faces on the streets of Baghdad today, if I had known then what a robust economy we would be in, the unity of our people, the wildfire of democracy that has spread across the Mideast, I would never have said those traitorous, unfounded and irresponsible things. I stand chastened in the face of the wisdom of the talk radio geniuses, and I apologize for standing in the way of freedom.

So when they asked me to come speak to you I said, ‘Are you sure? Me?’ And they said, ‘Yes.’

And I said, ‘You know, I have a tendency to say things that I believe at the time to be well-intentioned but that are actually traitorous.’ And they said, ‘Sure, cool.’ And then I read the press release and it said, ‘Mr. Robbins will be speaking about the challenges of new media and delivery systems.’ Oh, OK. But I just want you to know I’m not sure I know what that fucking means.

But it is an honor to be speaking to you here at this years National Association Broadcasting convention even if I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about.

I owe a lot to broadcast media. I got my start in radio in the early 20s. In my early twenties. And it was television.

But these tremendous inventions have benefited us all.

Radio has come a long way from the early days when family’s gathered around the trusty old Philco to listen to such programs as Superman, Sherlock Holmes and Amos and Andy. Thanks to music and sound effects, this magical medium was able to transport families to a place where a man could fly, a brilliant detective could solve the most perplexing of crimes, and two white guys could portray ridiculously offensive black stereotypes for the amusement of millions.

The first broadcast occurred on Christmas Eve in 1906 at Brant Rock, MA, when a man named Fessenden played his violin, sang a song and read Bible verses into a wireless telephone of his own invention. His goal was to find financial backers, but no investor of the day believed that radio could ever replace the most popular leisure activity of the day; listening to the hoot owl while playing the zither as your 14-year-old niece bounced on your knee. Some of you may remember. It was all the rage in the early century.

But soon broadcasting over the radio caught on and zither playing and child molestation were a thing of the past. Radio reached a boom time during the Depression as people begin to listen to and depend on radio to lift their spirits during that catastrophic economic crisis. Shows such as The Bickersons taught people life is not so bad as long as somebody has got it worse.

President Roosevelt became the first ‘radio president’ and his ‘fireside chats’ set the stage for later presidential weekly addresses such as; ‘chew the fat with Ike,’ ‘LBJ’s bull session,’ and George W’s ‘Hooked on Phonics and Strategery Hour.’

Radio continued to expand and soon, the public turned to their radios for news, which began to mature during World War II with the regular reports of the bombing of London by Edward R. Murrow, with his ‘London After Dark’ series, where Murrow coined the famous phrase: ‘Good Night and Good Luck’ as well as the lesser known phrase; ‘Die, you Nazi cocksuckers.’

In the post war years, the radio business exploded when 90% of all American’s claimed radio was their primary source of news and entertainment. To meet this incredible demand Philco built 6 million radios in 1947. And to provide content for those 6 million radios, we were introduced to some of the greatest drama, comedy and musical entertainment this country has ever seen.

In the ‘70s, radio took a serious nosedive when Edwin Armstrong invented FM to eliminate the static and noise associated with AM and unwittingly provided a home for easy listening jazz rock, overly dramatic disco songs and 20 minute psychedelic sitar jams.

In the ‘80s and ‘90s the FCC, under pressure from the Reagan and Clinton administrations, changed the rules limiting the number of radio and television stations a business entity could own, paving the way for such conglomerates as Infinity broadcasting and Clear Channel to buy up local stations and put them under the umbrella of their larger corporations. Again the community benefited because due to Clear Channel and Infinities’ conservative approach, listeners no longer had to be subjected to perplexing controversial subjects, or confusing varied opinion, or alternative rock. And as a bonus these large companies, with the help of Mr. Reagan and Mr. Clinton got rid of that annoying Fairness Doctrine, freeing its listeners from the burden of hearing equally from all sides of the political debate. What a bore.

This new world of conglomeration also brought us back to a simpler, more exciting time with regard to natural disasters and calamities. Your local station would now be broadcasting from a city many miles away and should there be a tornado coming your way you wouldn’t know about it until the funnel was in full view. Exciting times.

In the 1950s, television began to replace radio as the chief source of revenue for broadcasting networks. It quickly became apparent that talking about ‘Old Sandusky Lager’ on the radio didn’t quite have the same impact as watching a buxom flaxen haired temptress in a skin tight dress play pool in a bar while she drank ‘old Sandusky Lager.’ Beer sales skyrocketed.

In the ‘60s, American television networks began broadcasting in color bringing a new vibrant reality to the content of the day. Suddenly it didn’t seem unusual that an astronaut was dating a scantily clad genie that lived in a bottle in his living room.

Television also brought the horror and reality of war into our living rooms airing footage of the war in Vietnam. Building on the mistakes of the past, war is now televised in an easily digestible sanitized version. The current administration has proven that war doesn’t have to be upsetting, or sacrificed for, or even reported on at all. We have come a long way, baby.

But what is the state of broadcasting today? Some critics have noted that there is a dangerous lack of diversity and opinion. That may be true, but imagine the nightmare of having to rectify that situation.

I propose a much simpler solution, which I’ve separated into three prongs, or a Satan’s trident if you will.

First, erase all diversity. Thankfully the majority of what is broadcast over television and radio is of two opinions and that feels good. That’s simple. But unfortunately there is a tiny minority out here on the airwaves expressing a different view outside of the Democrats and Republicans nexus trying to confuse us all. Can we please shut them up? How expensive could it be to buy Pacifica Radio? These people are driving us apart.

Secondly, let’s stay focused on Sex Scandals. Stop with the in depth reporting that gets outside of the sound bite. More sex scandals! Surely with a little more prying, a little more effort we can find more sexual deviants. And trust me, sexual deviancy is something we can all agree on. It’s deliciously intoxicating to watch unfold. It’s titillating.

The absolute zenith of news, the perfect storm of reporting, the shining city on the hill in news coverage was Lewinsky v Clinton. Now that was fun. We couldn’t get enough of that. There were salacious details, semen stains, oral sex. And the president lied. He threatened every notion of marriage and the sanctity of family. He put our country at risk. And when he did lie we held his feet to the fire. We reported on every angle, every permutation of the story. We held hearings, appointed an independent council, led off every newscast for months about the lie, played it until there was no hiding from it, and then held him accountable by impeaching him. It is our moral responsibility to report on the sex lives of the powerful. It is the only thing that kept our country alive at that point. It righted our ship of state. It saved our collective soul. And it was great, juicy fun. Imagine what would have happened to our country’s soul if the president lied and nothing was done about it, if impeachment was off the table. Where would we be today if we did not hold our president accountable?

Third, find more racially divisive news and play that constantly. As long as we hate each other we will never be bothered with this gnawing lefty obsession with information. Let’s make the purpose of the media salacious entertainment, not information. The more our news outlets and talk radio can distract us the better. We love distraction. When the nattering nabobs of negativity tell you that the economy is falling apart, that gas costs four dollars a gallon, that they are foreclosing on your home, that there is chaos in Iraq, when these propagandists spread this ‘information’ it is our moral responsibility to distract. I don’t know about you but show me a starlet without panties getting out of a car and suddenly the world seems like a better place. Show me Knight Rider drunk on the floor eating a hamburger, and I won’t ask why my kid has no health insurance. Let’s stop burdening people with facts. I bet some of you are saying; ‘Sure Tim, there’s no question, sex scandals, race riots and drunken TV stars are a lot of fun, but shouldn’t broadcasters see themselves as part of the larger picture? Isn’t there an obligation to honestly report on what is going on, to pursue stories past their headlines? Haven’t criminal acts occurred in government? Shouldn’t there be accountability for inept policy decisions? Shouldn’t someone be fired?’ And you know something? I didn’t hear any of that because I’m still thinking about that starlet getting out of the car without her panties. You see, that doesn’t take any energy. I know exactly what to think about.

Now some of you are concerned with that unrelenting pesky competition. You know, the new technologies; the Internets and satellite radio and television. The problem is there are too many people in this country that take the notion of creativity and invention too damn seriously. Just when one technology is centralized, conglomerated, monopolized, along come new technologies and delivery systems to threaten the good work born of deregulation. Just when we were getting close to a national playlist for our music, satellite technology is threatening to provide music that people actually want to hear. Just when we were close to a national news media, providing a general consensus on what the truth is, along comes the Internets that allow its users a choice on the kinds of news it watches. And the You Tube. My God we’ve got to stop them. Recently when we were about to enjoy our great national pastime of ‘tearing apart a presidential candidate with relentless repetition of ugly things his friend said’, You Tube provided the candidates reasoned response and millions watched and responded positively.

Well you here at NAB have the power to stop this dangerous technology. The question is, how? I respectfully suggest that you do what others have done when facing the competition of new technologies. Get compromising information on your enemy and expose them in a sex scandal. Or call them a racist, or better yet a traitor. That not only undermines your competitor, but provides the public with fantastic entertainment.

Of course you can do that. And no one in this current world would fault you for it. It is, after all, where we stand today. In all seriousness folks, let’s face it. We are at an abyss as a country and as an industry. And I know that saying we are at an abyss isn’t the stuff of keynote addresses but all sarcasm and irony and rude pithiness aside, we are at a critical juncture in this nation’s history. This is a nation divided and reeling from betrayal and economic hardships. And you, the broadcasters of this great nation have a tremendous power, and a tremendous potential to effect change. You have the power to turn this country away from cynicism. You have the power to turn this nation away from the hatred and the divisive dialogue that has rendered such a corrosive affect on our body politic. You can lift us up into a more enlightened age. Or you can hide behind that old adage; ‘I’m just a businessman, I provide what the audience wants.’ Well, I’m here to tell you that we don’t need to look at the car crash. We don’t need to live off of the pain and humiliation of the unfortunate. We don’t need to celebrate our pornographic obsession with celebrity culture. We are better than that.

Some of you are trying. Some of you are inspiring people towards altruism and compassion with your programming. Some of you are trying to lift the civic dialogue into a more responsible and adult arena. But I know you do so against the odds of ratings and job security. It is really up to the leaders in this room. It is up to you, the scions of this industry to leave behind formulas and focus groups and your own fears of job security. Only with your courage and your vision can we begin to imagine a world of broadcasting where the general consensus of those with real power say ‘Enough is enough. Now is the time to move away from our lesser selves. Now is the time to stop making money on the misfortunes of others and the prurient and salacious desires of the public. Now is the time to admit and recognize that we aren’t just businessmen but the guardians of the human spirit, with a responsibility to the health of this nation. That we can lift this country up with our programming, that instead of catering to the gossips and the scolds and the voyeurs we can appeal to the better nature in our audience, the better nature of what this country is all about.’

This is a country filled with people of great compassion and tremendous generosity. This is a country that has survived dust bowls and depressions, that united to defeat Hitler and fascism and communism. We are a resilient people and a tenacious people. And we are ready for change.

Imagine a new broadcasting industry aesthetic, that respecting the better nature of the American people, produces shows that promote strength instead of fear. That does not divide, but inspires, that does not promote hate, but unity, that will not tear the weak down, but build up their strength. Imagine a world of broadcasting where the American people are encouraged to reject despair and distrust. And when they turn their TVs and radios off at night and go to sleep they possess strength, and unity and compassion for those they disagree with. That’s not out of the question. You can make that happen. It will be difficult, and will fly in the face of conventional wisdom, and standard operational procedures. But do we have any choice? The road we are on is leading us to a corruption of our former selves. We are better than that. You can help us reclaim our better nature, our perfect union. It isn’t necessarily a matter of country before profit, or of patriotism and truth before personal comfort. There could be money to be made in appealing to our better selves. Wouldn’t that be great?

And if there isn’t and we came out of it a little less rich but more unified and healthier as a nation wouldn’t that be something we could all be proud of?

Brilliant. And, sadly, true. Even sadder? I knew this man when he was still the president of the Florida Young Democrats, before he determined that electability in the Cuban Diaspora was dependent on being a Republican, and switched parties. So much for convictions.

I’m trying not to obsess about my brother, Biggus Dickus’ latest actions, but I am obsessing. Answer me this: why did he send a letter to the owner of the home in which we have our mother complaining that she never sends him reports about Mummy? And why did he tell me that he was sending such a letter, but neglect to mention part B, which is that there is a “very dear friend of the family” (of whom I have never, ever heard) who often has business in Miami and will be coming to see Mummy from time to time, to give Biggus Dickus reports on her, and that he wants this person to be granted every courtesy the owner would grant a family member. And why, if he is concerned about Mummy or her confines, does he not A) ask me, who sees Mummy almost every week, or B) get his ass down here and see her for himself? Why would he hide this visitor from me; why wouldn’t he ask me to meet with her and take her to see Mummy.

Who is this third person? What business is it of hers? Why didn’t he tell me? Why isn’t she contacting me? Why doesn’t he call me to find out about Mummy? And really, and come on, what is there to say about a 90 year old woman with end-stage Alzheimer’s? She gets 3 home-cooked meals a day, which she eats with assistance. She gets a bath every day, and her hair shampooed. She has regular bowel movements and her diapers changed promptly. She naps. She talks. She still has hallucinations, we think. Her blind eye is still blind. She still can’t walk without assistance. She still doesn’t remember anything nor is she aware of much. She’s otherwise healthy as an ox.

Does Biggus Dickus think I’m lying about this? Does he not want to talk to me because I sound a tad judgemental about his inability to see his mother in this condition? Dude. Not only are you a professional mental health specialist, you are a 60-year old man. Sack up, ho. Buy yourself some powder milk biscuits and get the strength to do the things which need to be done: i.e.: see your mother. Does he think I’m stealing money? That I’m not taking good care of her? That I don’t actually visit her regularly?

What the fuck is wrong with him? What band of wolves dropped him at my parents door because he was too antisocial and irredeemable to be part of the pack? At what point did he forfeit his humanity? His soul? What am I supposed to do?

Before the show, I was tewtally jacked up in antici—pation. The RLA was concerned for me on two counts. The first, he said, was that I was coming perilously close to knee-sucking behavior. The second, he said, was that I was setting myself up for disappointment if the show wasn’t all I was hoping for. Don’t worry, I said. I’m too old to rush the stage, and I refused to go into the open pit. As for the show not being as good as I hope? All the on-line chatter agrees: this tour is a throw back to the 70s and 80s when the band played four-hour sets with no intermission. The set lists are amazing. If he plays any of half a dozen songs I haven’t heard in years, I’ll be happy.

At work, one of my coworkers offered up the same advice. Don’t get your hopes up too high, the man is how old now? 58? It might not be all that. You could be in for a big let down.

And I almost was. I got to the on-call window with well over an hour to spare, and waited patiently as person and person ahead of me had problems with their tickets that took time to resolve. I got to the window, and presented my ID. There were no tickets in my name. I told them the name of The Coolest Person in the World’s Husband. No tickets. I told them the name of The Coolest Person in the World. No tickets. A line Nazi barged up from several people behind me in line to yell at and berate the window worker, sneering that it was an 8 dollar an hour job and she was incapable of doing it. He was an unmitigated ass, and demanded I get out of the line. I stepped aside to let the other people get their tickets. The ticket lady asked how I had gotten my tickets. I told her through the production company, a roadie by the name of Lyle. What is his last name? I have no idea. I only know his e-mail addy, which I got from the Coolest Person in the World’s Husband. I had left my phone in the car, and couldn’t call either TCPITW or her husband. Another asshole charged the window to complain about his seats. He was promised good seats, and these were too far to the side. He wasn’t going to sit there. They could just give him good seats or take these back, because he’s too important in his own head to sit with the riffraff in a side seat. I tuned him out. I don’t know how that was resolved.

There was one of the famous Men in Black, the Springsteen crew, standing next to the line. I asked him if he knew who Lyle is. I told him the names of TCPITW and her husband. He didn’t know them. Then, some random guy came out of the crowd and asked me if I was a friend of TCPITWH. Yes. And you? Haven’t seen them in years, he said. I knew all of the Claire Brothers’ crew back in the day. The Man in Black picked up some tickets from the window and left. And then, out of the blue, and a mere 45 minutes after I got to the window,  the ticket lady came back and said that my tickets had all been straightened out. She handed me two tickets and my credit card and my driver’s license. Enjoy the show.

Into the arena, but not before another Line Nazi yelled at me for mistaking a line for a line when it wasn’t an official, I’ve been standing in this line for an hour line. I wandered further off. I ended up standing next to a guy who was here for his 30th show. We discussed our mates, who weren’t hard core fans like us. She was in for her first show, and I told the RLA that he would FINALLY see a Springsteen show. What have I been going to for 15 years, he asked? NOT a REAL show, my new acquaintance and I told him. A real show is three hours long, at least. He tells stories. He has a good time. The band feeds off the energy in the crowd and the crowd feeds off the energy of the band. It is a religious experience. Yeah, yeah, yeah, said the RLA, I’ve heard THAT one before.

Our seats were maybe ten rows up, to the side, but front of the stage. In fact, the extensions that Bruce ran along were right in front of us. The show started late. The crowd was a mix of aging rockers like me, older folks (no, really. There was an 83 year old abuela going up the stairs in front of us) and kids. Little kids. Babies, even, and even in the pit at the front of the stage. Finally, 15 minutes late, the lights went out and the band took the stage. Four mics were set up, which meant no Pati (and who cares anyway). This is the E-Street Band as it should be. (I can accept Suze). Danny has been replaced by the guy from the Seeger Sessions band.

The show opened with a video tribute to Danny, as Bruce sang Blood Brothers from a dark stage. And. Then. The earth shook. Here’s the set list: read it and weep. I sure as hell wept. And danced. And laughed. And felt a joy that goes beyond anything. The band was at the top of its game. Bruce was calling audibles, changing the list at whim. He was taking signs from the audience, holding them up and showing the band. Were they already in his set list, and he was just changing the order? Or was he taking requests. From the way the crew was scrambling to change his guitars, I think it was the latter, requests. At the end of the evening, the RLA acknowledged that yes, he had finally seen a Springsteen show and it was good.

Blood Brothers

Promised Land

I Wanna Be With You

Radio Nowhere

Out in the Street (first audible)

This Hard Land (sign)

Gypsy Biker (and Little Steven works it)

Bruce takes a moment to tell a story about Danny and CB radios.

Growing Up (request)

Candy’s Room

Prove it All Night

She’s The One (Oh. My. God. Miz Shoes can die happy, right then)

Bruce takes a moment to discourse on the last 8 years, and launches into the political, pointy portion of the show

Living In the Future

Mary’s Place (sign)

Girls In Their Summer Clothes

Devil’s Arcade

The Rising

Last To Die

Long Walk Home (Stevie takes a vocal solo and Miz Shoes goes weak at the knees. She may or may not have screamed “I LOVE YOU STEVIE”)

Badland (and Stevie and Bruce trade some fierce licks)

the band leaves the stage, and a sea of flickering cell phone screens light the arena. Encore number one.

Thunder Road (a sign says THUNDER RD, I’m 21 today)

Born to Run

ROSALITA

10th Avenue Freeze Out (with a guest horn player. He’s either the charter pilot or a commercial pilot, but he’s flown the band and tonight he’s got on his uniform and he’s playing with Clarence)

American Land (complete with karaoke on the jumbotron)

the band leaves the stage, but the crowd won’t hear of it. Chants. Clapping. Second Encore.

KITTY’S BACK, all 15 minutes of it, with each member of the band soloing

And that, my friends, is 25 songs, and three hours of non-stop rock and roll. THAT, my dear readers, is a Springsteen show.

Disappointed? I think not. Elevated? Revived? Liberated? Yep. High mass at the church of rock and roll.