News Of the Week In Review

We found out this week that, in death, Michael Jackson was an even bigger ratings boost for the networks than when he was being tried as an alleged pedophile.

We learned the city of Los Angeles forked over as much as $3 million to host the funeral of a private citizen. This must be heart warming to all those laid-off municipal employees and school teachers, not to mention the citizens whose services have been cut and whose children's class sizes have swelled to unmanageable levels.

We learned that, as of Friday, a web site asking for donations to reimburse L.A. for the funeral had collected a paltry $35,000. Would that some of you self-professed M. Jackson lovers put your money where your mouth is.

We have our latest member in the "Yes, I'm a Stinking Hypocrite" club: meet John Ensign, Republican Senator from Nevada, another in a long line of "Family Values" Republicans who just can't seem to keep it in their pants. This one is even more sordid than usual; seems Ensign's parents gave his mistress some $100,000 in hush money as Ensign sought to keep the affair secret. She sang anyway, leaving Ensign looking both stupid and hypocritical. Somewhere a certain ex-President is laughing his ass off.

Scientists say we may be headed for a "major" El Nino event this winter. This means that in addition to the annual fall conflagrations and random earthquakes, California can look forward to torrential rainstorms and the inevitable mudslides and wanton destruction of which we are so fond. On the bright side, should be some nice wildflower displays next spring.

Seriously, at some point a major California politician needs to grow a pair and state the obvious: quit building homes in places where we know for certain they will eventually either burn or get washed off the mountain. Us low-landers are getting tired of footing the bill for rich folks who knowingly put their homes in harm's way. If you want a nice view, climb Mt. Baldy.

Selling Ice Cubes To Eskimos

My Pop Warner Football Fund Raising Adventure

I should have known something was up the moment I walked into the meeting room that morning. It was our first team meeting for the Yorba Linda Colts, my son's Junior Mighty Mite Pop Warner Football team, and I was met by an unholy stench; it was an odd mixture of a florist shop, the cosmetics counter at Macy's and my ex-wife's bathroom.

The head coach began speaking. "I know we usually sell candy or frozen pizza as our team fund raising program, but we're trying something new this year. Let me introduce the team Mom."

The team Mom walked to the front of the room, proudly displaying her wares. "This year we'll be selling these beautiful scented candles. They feature double wicks, non-dripping wax, and come in over a dozen tantalizing aromas . . ." At this point, most of the men in the room were groaning, and at least three appeared to be visibly sick. Me, I remained stoic. It was a composure born of a stubborn belief I can sell almost anything to almost anybody. Either that or I was in abject shock.

I've peddled all sorts of crap to help fund my son's various sporting and scholastic endeavors. Frozen cardboard (I mean pizza), cookie dough (Salmonella, anyone?), and wrapping paper are a few of the items I've foisted on unsuspecting family and friends over the years. But scented candles? I had the feeling this wasn't going to be the slam-dunk the team mom might have thought it was.

My ex-wife was going to have it easy; all she had to do was parade my son door-to-door around the neighborhood, cornering other moms and the occasional blue-haired retiree. These people, of course, are the target customers for such a product. What woman can resist the overtures of a tow-headed eight year-old trying to raise money for his football team, particularly when the product smells nice?

I didn't have that luxury. I only get to see my son about four days a month, and I was unwilling to waste any of that precious time hawking scented candles to innocent neighbors, even if it is a good cause. This left me just one place to go if I was going to meet my candle quota, the one place in America where the victim is always captive, where they can't slam the door and they can't run away: the workplace.

So I spent the week suffering the indignity of pitching scented candles to my co-workers. The women, thank God, were easy marks -- I was selling a product they actually found interesting. Unfortunately, we only have four females at my office, and one was on vacation. This was going to leave me far short of my quota. I was left with no choice but to target my male co-workers.

I don't think I'll ever get out of my mind the somewhat disturbing image of a forty-two year old man scratching and sniffing a page labeled "Strawberry Delight." Nor will I soon escape the stigma and shame of asking grown men to fork over twenty-four bucks for a scented candle, a product that -- should it not end up in the trash -- will at the very least cover their furniture with the stench of a cheap bordello.

But let's leave that aside for a moment and ponder the obvious questions: Scented candles? For a football fund raiser? Talk about your non sequiter. Could they possibly have picked a less manly product for such a venture? I might have understood had the candles come in aromas such as "Eau du Jock Strap" or "Unwashed Socks," but "Kiwi Surprise" and "Pineapple Sunrise?" How un-football like. Do I even need to mention it was a woman who thought up this hare-brained scheme? Will I be expected to sell Vermont Teddy Bears and Harlequin romance novels next season?

I had to guilt the poor bastards at my office into buying the things. I felt dirty when I left at night.

Anyway, I did my part. I finally hit my quota by forcing my sister to purchase a "Very Berry" and an "Outrageous Orange." Our seven and eight year old football players will proudly wear matching socks when they take the field this fall, and every boy will get his "esteem building" trophy at the season's conclusion. But at what cost? Now, my co-workers scurry like roaches when they see me coming. I'm concerned my brother in-law will try to poison me the next time I'm invited for dinner. My pride may be damaged beyond repair, and my reputation at work is irreparably soiled. All things considered, I think I'd rather sell cardboard pizza.

Random Thoughts on the Day's News

or, Michael Jackson Is Still Dead

For the love of all that is holy, please bury the man. Have your multi-million dollar "celebration." Hell, have a parade if you want. Just please get him off my T.V. It's All Jackson All the Time, and I just can't stand it any more. Dead is dead.

There are so many more compelling stories out there. Sarah Palin just resigned from office. Isn't this a more interesting story line than the death of an alleged pedophile and so-called pop icon? Sarah fancies herself the front-runner for the 2012 Republican presidential nomination, yet if she can't stand the heat of an Alaskan kitchen, what makes anyone think she can survive the crucible of national presidential politics? If she's still considered the favorite, the Republicans are in even worse shape than we hoped.

Al Franken was just admitted to the Senate. Which is more improbable, that a former "B" grade movie star could become president, or that a Saturday Night Live comedy writer could rise to represent the good people of Minnesota in the U.S. Senate? Bill O'Rilley was absolutely apoplectic; he cites the Franken election as proof the country is in really sorry shape. Of course, Bill and his ilk have conveniently forgotten who got us into this mess.

Finally, if the Lakers and their benefactors can pay for a parade and celebration, saving the cash-strapped city of Los Angeles millions, why can't all those rich Hollywood celebrities find a way to pay for this Jackson fiasco? If I lived in L.A. County, I'd be pissed. If I were a layed-off city employee, I'd be really pissed. Moreover, in these economic times, such an ostentatious display should be an affront to the sensibilities of every Angeleno. Please make Michael Jackson go away. Now. Forever.

My Weekend In the Southern Sierra

Just returned from a solo, three-day backpacking trip in the Golden Trout Wilderness in the Southern Sierra Nevada Mountains. Took a walk from Lewis Camp Trail head down to the Little Kern, looking for the elusive Little Kern Golden Trout (oncorhynchus aguabonita whitei), a subspecies of our State Fish.

In one of my dumbest moves ever, as I set up camp I realized I had somehow forgotten to pack my sleeping bag. (When I packed at home Friday morning, I remember thinking: "Seems I have a lot more room for my gear than usual.") I had to sleep in my jacket and down pants, yet awoke both mornings at three A.M., shivering. Ended up pacing around the campsite for two hours each morning praying the sun would rise earlier than usual. I tend to forget one or two items each trip, despite my obsession with lists, but never have I neglected to bring one of the "big three." Sheesh, next time I'll probably forget to bring my pack.

Despite my lack of sleep, I managed to get in some fishing Saturday. Access to the Little Kern in this area is, to say the least, difficult. The gorge is narrow and steep, and defined by huge expanses of granite that are impossible to traverse. Reaching the pools and runs that harbor the golden trout requires considerable (and dangerous) effort. As I scrambled down a steep pitch south of my camp, I remember thinking "if I break an ankle here, I'm probably a goner, because nobody knows where I am and nobody would think to look in such an inhospitable place."

Anyway, I managed to make it to the river without incident. I hooked and landed nine of the little yellow buggers (including an eleven-inch, my biggest golden yet from a stream) before the dog's barking and whining convinced me to let her take a swim, ruining the fishing.

Sadie is the least fishing-friendly dog I've ever known. When bass fishing she's constantly "falling" in the water (falling in parenthesis because I'm pretty sure she's doing it on purpose at least half the time). When stream fishing I have to tie her to a tree to keep her from thrashing into the water, chasing my lure like the knucklehead she is. But when tied up she whines and barks incessantly, not exactly the serene and peaceful fishing experience to which I usually aspire.

After another almost sleepless night, I awoke at three-thirty to find no stars in the eastern sky. It took me several moments before I realized the stars were obscured not by clouds, but by smoke. By daylight, the lightening-caused fire (which I later found was near the confluence of Shotgun Creek and the Little Kern, about ten miles from my camp) had spread a pallor of smoke and ash over the lower Little Kern. My subsequent hike back to the trail head, five miles and about two thousand feet of elevation gain, was not fun. By the time I reached my truck, my eyes burned, my throat was sore and my lungs felt as if I'd chain-smoked five packs of Winstons. But I did catch those yellow fish, so count my long weekend a success.

Did Michael Jackson Die Yesterday?

Did Michael Jackson die yesterday? Holy Toledo, the death of Jesus Christ wouldn't receive this much coverage. I know he was a pop icon. I know "Thriller" was the best-selling non-greatest hits album of all time. I know his death came as a shock, that he was only fifty. Still, isn't the wall-to-wall, non-stop coverage a bit over the top?

And what of the knuckleheads seen traipsing around Hollywood Boulevard, placing flowers on Michael Jackson's star? The wrong Michael Jackson. You know, radio personality Michael Jackson. Why am I not surprised?

Of course, the one person truly happy to hear of Jackson's passing was South Carolina Governor Mark Sanford, the sanctimonious and hypocritical former Senator who famously called upon Bill Clinton to resign from office for having an affair. The Jackson death -- coupled with the passing of Farrah Fawcett -- served to take Sanford off the front pages, where he has been deservedly lampooned for his own marital indiscretions involving an Argentinian senorita.

Anyway, in a city of freaks Michael Jackson was king. He made Phil Spector and Dennis Rodman seem normal by comparison. He set the weirdness bar at a heretofore unattainable height. Suffice it to say we'll never see another like him -- and that's probably a good thing.

Rush Limbaugh Is A Double Agent

Of course, everyone by now knows Rush Limbaugh has famously said he "hopes Obama fails." Let's leave aside for a moment the unpatriotic treason apparent in such a statement (who in America truly hopes our country fails?). The fact Rush is in effect the titular head of his party, isn't such a statement destined to drive mainstream Americans to the other side? If the vast majority of voters hope Obama's policies get us out of this economic malaise, won't they tend to disavow those who would hope those policies fail?

Then there's the unappealing spectacle of Republican leaders criticizing Rush for these outrageous statements and then turning around, apologizing and kissing Rush's ring in abject deference because they fear Rush will skewar them on his radio show. Not only is this behavior disgraceful, but it only goes to further marginalize an already powerless Republican leadership.

I say Rush has been conning us all along. I say he's a double agent bent on destroying the Republican Party once and for all. Just my two cents.

Lapel Pin?

Let me get this straight. Last night was probably the last chance to get Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton together for one of their "debates," the last chance to try to get them to differentiate their policy proposals. The country is mired in recession, with full-blown depression on the horizon. We're still in Iraq, an untenable occupation that is draining the public treasure and killing and maiming our soldiers. Our schools are failing, millions of people have no health insurance, the middle class is disappearing, we still don't have a coherent immigration policy, gas is almost four dollars a gallon, and almost none of the 9-11 commission's recommendations have been adopted.

There are any number of pressing issues upon which the voting public is clamoring for the opinions of both Obama and Clinton, yet the best the finest minds at ABC news can come up with is to focus on Barack Obama's fashion sense? Are you kidding me?

Let's leave aside the fact that flag etiquette suggests that "the flag should not be used as part of a costume or athletic uniform, except that a flag patch may be used on the uniform of military personnel, firemen, policemen and members of patriotic organizations." Instead, let's focus on the specious claim here: that, somehow, not wearing a flag on his lapel means Barack Obama isn't patriotic. All I can say is that if this is the best his opposition can come up with, Obama can go ahead and book his room at the White House.

Indeed, Charlie Gibson and George Stephanopoulos -- pin-heads that they are -- wasted a good fifty minutes trying to play "gotcha" with Obama while a giddy Hillary grinned like the village idiot as she played spectator. It was last night, as I watched a once-proud network sink to the dark depths of tabloid journalism, I finally realized that what many pundits have been saying for years is really true: broadcast journalism (with the exception of Keith Olberman), is officially dead. Thank God for the internet.