That's my Alma Mater!

No gay couples at school dance

Bishop Gorman counselors say students can't bring same-sex dates

Sure, it's a parochial school. Sure, they abide by the doctrine of the Catholic Church.

So I guess two underage boys can't dance together, but an adult man can do whatever he wants with a nine-year-old boy.

Glad I got that straight.

(Christ told us to forgive one another. I'm still having trouble with that, apparently.)

Gorman is well within their rights to have this policy. Doesn't mean I have to agree. And it doesn't mean that I have to give up the opinion that the staff has been and always will be a bunch of self-satisfied hypocrites.

I bet a lot of parents are pleased that, while their straight kids are indulging in underage drinking, snorting coke and getting hotel rooms so they can bang each other silly after the dance, they won't be exposed to those homer-sexuals. That's why they pay almost $10,000 per year for their kids to go there. Those good Catholic values.

That's what keeps the cash rolling in. And to my (admittedly jaded) mind, that's the only Catholic value that matters.

I comment on Garth Brooks . . .

. . . and the entire fucking thing disappears.

It's a conspiracy.

UPDATE: I'm back after being down all day. What weirdness.

I still think it had something to do with Garth Brooks. He's one powerful man.

A little note to Garth Brooks

Your children's charity is absolutely wonderful. You do incredible work, and as a member of society, I thank you for it.

That being said, I think you may have a wee bit o'tunnel vision.

Really. Who on EARTH, in this day and age, would name a part of their organization (one that helps kids) the "Touch 'Em All Teammates?"

Just sayin'.

Today's food coma brought to you by Bellagio

Considering who I work for (an ad agency that has four major Strip properties), you'd think I was getting free food and shows all the time.

Nope. Not at all. We get nothing and like it.

So imagine my surprise when I (and a small group of co-workers) was tapped to go on a culinary tour of Bellagio. Bellagio, for heaven's sake. The flagship property of the MGM MIRAGE stable. The restaurants are legendary, because they were the first to bring real foodie food to Las Vegas. With all the other hotels upping the restaurant ante, Bellagio has kept up -- and then some.

Yesterday morning, I got the itinerary:

5:00 Prime
5:30 Olives
6:00 Picasso
6:30 Shintaro
7:00 Circo

Zowie. None of these places are lightweights. But none of them would be serving us a full meal, either. I expected that we'd go to each restaurant, the general manager would give us a tour, and we'd get a couple of nibbles before moving on.

Nope. Not at all. The night was an orgy of butter, wine and various things that would make a vegetarian faint. At each restaurant we were served a little sample of their signature dishes. More than nibbles, it was like eating mini-meals every time we sat down.

At Prime, we had beef that would have been perfect on its own, salted and peppered and melting off the fork -- but they added special sauces and condiments. I've never seen peppercorns used like this. I've never had a Bearnaise so light. And the Merlot was gorgeous.

At Olives, I had a tapenade on airy ciabatta while I chatted with the sommelier. She poured a creamy chardonnay from a small vineyard called Marimar. Then an Italian red that brought tears to my eyes. We each got a plate with three pasta dishes on it: a mint and English pea ravioli, a ricotta-tomato thingy, and OH MY GOLLY GOD -- the most incredible butternut squash tortelli. Light, fluffy, with so many distinct flavors in the most perfect balance I could imagine. Sage in the sauce, almond at the finish, and spicy squashy happiness in between. I'm going back, just for that.

Of course at this point we were all full and loopy, but there were three more stops.

Picasso is a joy. Classic French cuisine concocted by a classically-trained Spanish chef that talked our ears off. And well, there's also the artwork -- real Picassos on every wall. We were ushered outside to a patio table that overlooked the dancing fountains. There, we were plied with Spanish bubbly and a bright Sangiovese/Sauvignon Blanc/Something Amazing blend that went down easy. Too easy. Then, thank heaven, something small -- the most un-fishy, totally yummy scallop I've ever had, topped with fried leeks and perched on blanched asparagus with hollandaise. A classic, perfectly prepared. Which meant it only looked small. The taste and richness was huge. I cursed the French as I tried to stand.

By now, we were walking really slow. I entered Shintaro with something approaching dread. Dear Lord, I prayed, please let this one be small. Really small. Nope. Not at all. It was a bowl of crispy lobster in black bean sauce. At this point, you'd wonder why I didn't just have a taste and stop. Hel-LO! It was LOBSTER. Prepared by the ex-head chef of Nobu. Oh, hell, no. In for a penny, in for about five pounds on my hips.

We staggered to Circo and got wind of what they had in store: a three-course meal. As a group, we sagged, imagining the hell to come. The food in Circo is Tuscan, which means only one thing: holy shit, more pasta. We plopped into our chairs not just well fed, but well and truly fed up. And that was a shame, because Circo's food is a wonder. The appetizer, duck prosciutto and foie gras, was tiny but absolutely busting with flavor and texture. The pasta course (oh crap) was a sage-ricotta ravioli paired with a meaty, bold duck gnocchi. The wine, while marvelous, was something I (unfortuantely) could barely pay attention to. I took bites of everything, grudgingly so, and by then, I was cursing Bellagio. The look on my face must have been of pure horror when they put the peccorino cheese-crusted lamb chop in front of me.

I love lamb chops. This was a huge, tender Colorado lamb chop, exquisitely prepared and plated on a bed of peppery potatoes. And at that moment, lamb was my enemy. It mocked me. I looked around at the hopeful faces of our wait staff and realized that I had to take at least one bite.

For those of you familiar with Monty Python, it was like the "wafer-thin" piece of meat forced into Mr. Creosote's gullet in "The Meaning of Life." I could swear it didn't make it all the way down.

If they'd have fed us dessert, I would have exploded.

Driving was miserable -- I was so full of butter and salt and meat and all kinds of other high-calorie components that the wine was long gone. I was left, instead, feeling as if my little car couldn't support the extra weight. When I got home I showered, had a glass of water and fell into a leaden sleep.

And today, I'm in a food coma.

But I'm not regretting anything (except that I wish I'd paced myself a little better). It was all SO GOOD. Tonight, I'll play soccer and by tomorrow, I may just have an appetite again.

Maybe.

Sauerkraut

Emily hates it.

So do I. And this is why.

To give a little background, Miles and I are in a dinner club with seven other couples. We meet every other month, and its hosted by a different person each time. The hosts pick the theme, assign the recipes and make the main dish. This is a wonderful thing. Usually.

Last Saturday, the hosts were holding Oktoberfest (since the schedule skips October, this was a good idea). Miles was going to be in Reno for his mom's birthday, so I was flying solo. My assigned recipe was cabbage rolls, German-style.

And this is my opinion of the cabbage rolls, as taken directly from an e-mail I sent Miles just before midnight Saturday.

Anyway: as predicted, my house SMELLS. When "smells" appears in all caps, this is not a good connotation. This is, rather, the type of SMELLS that would punctuate any good tale of immigrant woe. Doesn't matter what immigrant group at this point. I've discovered that every poor subsection of society has some awful cabbage-based recipe. Today, we think that's quaint ethnic food. In some parts of the world, this is all they've got. And I'm sorry to report that it makes any kitchen and, by extension, the entire home, smell like a fucking Shanghai laundry.

You think I'm kidding about that whole "everyone uses cabbage" part? I'm not. Cabbage rolls featured hugely in my family. They were meat mixed with filler, rolled in cabbage leaves, put in a pot and covered in some tomato-saucy concoction. This was a Lebanese staple. Later, I found a Greek version. And a British. And a Polish. And today, German. I suspect every ethnicity has a variation on the cabbage roll. And every last one stinks to high heaven.

For instance, the German version adds another level of hell by covering the cabbage rolls in sauerkraut. Fu-cking sauerkraut! Because the dish doesn't have enough cabbage to begin with.

Why the torture? I can't imagine what compelled people to think that, when they could be eating just the meat mixture fried or baked, all by itself, that rolling the stuff up in cabbage would make it better somehow. Nutritionally, it's a wash. You don't need the cabbage. I'm going to go out on a limb, here, and say that cabbage is the most useless excuse for a vegetable. Ever.

I mean, Christ Almighty! Even iceburg lettuce gets more play than this.

The only thing I can find that redeems cabbage is cole slaw. And even THAT is a tough sell, worthiness-wise. At that point, cabbage is a condiment -- its utility based solely upon what you can slather it in.

Why is this consuming so much of this e-mail?

Because MY HOUSE SMELLS TERRIBLE.

I just moved, folks. I love my new home. To have it smell that bad was really bothering me. It still has a little cabbage miasma hanging around.

To be fair, I may have been a little hard on the cabbage. It does have a lot of vitamin C. So I'm not getting scurvy. There's that.

Anyway, when I read Emily's hatred of sauerkraut and the subsequent love-hate discussion that followed, this post seemed appropriate.

Sauerkraut? Hate. Definitely hate.

The 2,996 Project • Thomas W. Kelly, FDNY

At 9:03 a.m., September 11, 2001, the South Tower of the World Trade Center took a fatal hit from hijacked Flight 175. The North Tower had been hit fifteen minutes earlier. As the frightened and injured tried to get out, Ladder 15 -- and Tommy Kelly -- were trying to get in.

From The New York Times

Thomas W. Kelly: Sentimental and Dependable
Published: August 25, 2002

Firefighter Thomas W. Kelly, 50, wasn't one for telephone chit-chat — "Hihowareyo, here's Kitty" was his standard greeting as he turned a call over to his wife — but his actions shouted. He quietly stuck by his friends, worked a second job to help his widowed mother, and at Ladder Company 15 in Manhattan was known as Mr. Dependable, a mentor to the probies. But, his sister, Maureen Paglia said, "Tommy never wanted praise for anything."

Something else his actions shouted: this Sinatra fan and father of two sons had a big, squishy, sentimental streak. Raised in Brooklyn, he bled Dodger blue so truly that he paid $1,420 for an original seat from Ebbets Field. Firefighter Kelly, who lived in Staten Island, collected bats, cards, statistics and baseball caps from special events. He was so proud of his little brother Dennis that he saved his sports trophies, newspaper clippings and diplomas, from grammar school on, and presented them after the birth of Dennis's second child.

His wife saw that sentimental streak on their first date, in September 1971. Mr. Kelly, then a steamfitter, took her to his construction site, his grandest project: the 40th floor of 2 World Trade Center.

September 11. 9:21 a.m. A radio repeater transcript places Tommy Kelly in an elevator at WTC 2. At 9:27, he lets Battalion know that he has an engine company on 40.

On 40. His adult life began here. And, dear Lord, it ended here.

From The Staten Island Advance
10/01/01

Thomas Kelly, 51, a firefighter, had history with Trade Center

Livingston man took his future wife to landmark on their first 'big date' 30 years ago
Date of Death 9/11/2001

As a 20-year-old apprentice in the steamfitters' union, one of Thomas W. Kelly's first assignments took him to the World Trade Center. It was 1970, and what would become New York City's most prominent landmark was climbing upwards.

He was responsible for spraying asbestos to provide heat and insulation on the 40th floor of Tower 1 [this account differs from the Times']. He wrote his initials and 638, his United Association union local, in the stairwell. Next to it, he wrote "UA forever." In September 1971, he showed this marking to his future bride when he took Kitty Murphy out on their "first big date."

Mr. Kelly completed the circle on Sept. 11, returning to the place where his career began — only this time he was on a rescue mission as a firefighter with Manhattan's Ladder Co. 15.

His younger brother, Dennis, 43, exited a Wall Street subway station moments after the first plane struck Tower 1. Already, a steady stream of debris was falling from the sky. After the second strike, he immediately made his way to his brother's firehouse. He was told by Firefighters Arthur Barry and Eric Olsen that Mr. Kelly was already on his way to the scene.

After wishing his brother's comrades "Godspeed," Dennis Kelly boarded the Staten Island Ferry, knowing his brother was in the inferno that was blazing behind him. From St. George, he ran the 1½ miles to his brother's Livingston house, where the family was already keeping a vigil.

Mr. Kelly is listed among the missing victims of the World Trade Center disaster. He was in the middle of a 24-hour tour when he responded to the devastation. Olsen and Barry, both Staten Islanders, are also missing.

"He took me to the Trade Center on our first big date," Mrs. Kelly said. "We went to the Copacabana and after the Copacabana, we took a taxi to the Trade Center."

A $20 bill convinced the security guard to let the young couple upstairs. The security guard told Mr. Kelly "to put a hard hat on your young lady." After placing a hard hat on her head, the two rode the elevator to the 40th floor and to 30 years of happiness together. They married March 2, 1974 in Holy Cross R.C. Church, Brooklyn.

Mr. Kelly joined the Fire Department in 1984.

"He had a love of saving people," Mrs. Kelly said. "He was just looking for that."

He was a member of the department's Emerald Society. "He was sarcastic, funny, he was really a very interesting person and such a caring, loving man," Mrs. Kelly said.

Mr. Kelly left a wide circle of friends, who still can not comprehend that they will never see him again.

"You grab a stool, order a beer and wonder why Tommy is not here. Then the thoughts of that dreadful day bring on feelings of sadness and dismay," wrote close friend Charlie (Buddy) Hostetter in a tribute to Mr. Kelly. "You stare blankly into space knowing you'll never forget Tommy's face."

Barbara Freda said Mr. Kelly always rooted for the underdog.

"I met him 30 years ago," she said. "He's been a very close friend to me and we'll miss him dearly."

A player on Liedy's Shore Inn softball team, Mr. Kelly was an avid collector of Brooklyn Dodgers memorabilia. He was also an expert in the kitchen and loved taking care of his four cats.

Born in Brooklyn, he moved to Livingston in 1983. He was a parishioner of St. Paul's R.C. Church, New Brighton.

In addition to his wife of 27 years, Kitty, Mr. Kelly is survived by two sons, Frank and Thomas; four brothers, William, Robert, Frank and Dennis, and a sister, Maureen Paglia.

Mr. Kelly would have celebrated his 51st birthday on Sept. 18, one week after the attack. On Sept. 25, two weeks after the attack, he would have celebrated the 30th anniversary of the day he met his wife. And tomorrow, three weeks after the attack, Mr. Kelly will be remembered by his family and friends in a memorial mass.

"To give closure to this, I wanted to do it on a Tuesday," Mrs. Kelly said. The mass will be held at 10:30 a.m. in St. Peter's R.C. Church, New Brighton. The Rev. Vincent Bartley, pastor of St. Paul's Church, will officiate.

At 9:36 a.m., September 11, Tommy Kelly was in position on the 40th floor when his Lieutenant called (Tommy is 15OV):

Ladder 15 Lieutenant: "Tommy, listen carefully. I'm sending all the injured down to you on 40. You're going to have to get'em down to the elevator. There's about 10 to 15 people coming down to you."

Ladder 15 Firefighter: "Okay."

Ladder 15 Lieutenant: "Ten civilians coming down. Fifteen to OV."

Ladder 15 Firefighter: "Got that, I'm on 40 right now, Lieu."

9:39 a.m.

Ladder 15 Lieutenant: "Alright Tommy, when you take people down to the lobby, try to get an EMS crew back."

Ladder 15 Firefighter: "Definitely."

At 9:49, Tommy hadn't been able to move his charges, because the elevator wasn't working.

Ladder 15: "Fifteen to 15 OV. Fifteen to 15 OV.

"Fifteen OV."

Ladder 15: "Tommy, have you made it back down to the lobby yet?"

Ladder 15 OV: "The elevator's screwed up."

Ladder 15: "You can't move it?"

Ladder 15 OV: "I don't want to get stuck in the shaft."

9:50 a.m.

Ladder 15: "Alright Tommy. It's imperative that you go down to the lobby command post and get some people up to 40. We got injured people up here on 70. If you make it to the lobby command post see if they can somehow get elevators past the 40th floor. We got people injured all the way up here."

Then, at 9:57:

Ladder 15 OV: "Fifteen OV to Fifteen."

Ladder 15: "Go ahead Fifteen OV, Battalion Seven Operations Tower One."

Ladder 15 OV: "Stuck in the elevator, in the elevator shaft, you're going to have to get a difference elevator. We're chopping through the wall to get out."

At 9:59, the South Tower collapsed.

Tommy Kelly's last recorded words show how tense the situation was. And how hard he was working to save those people that were with him. As his wife, Kitty, said, "he had a love of saving people." The words you come across over and over again in connection with Tommy are "love," "pride," "care." You can tell he had a huge heart.

What else can possibly be said? What would help us understand this level of loss? Five years ago, 2,996 Americans lost their lives in the space of about two hours. Two hours on one beautiful September morning. And we still feel the shock and horror. There are still no words for what was done to us. And nothing could possibly describe the anguish felt by the family and friends of those 2,996.

I am honored to have had the opportunity to become acquainted with Thomas Kelly. He lived with love, pride and strength. He died a hero.

Godspeed, Thomas.

• Visit the Ladder 15 Memorial site
• Visit Thomas Kelly's Guestbook at legacy.org

It's not like we can be surprised . . .

‘Crocodile Hunter’ Steve Irwin killed by stingray

What I find most odd is that, after all the crazy shit he's done, he was killed by a "freak accident." How on earth do you define "freak accident" for someone who spent most of his life grappling with crocodiles, grabbing poisonous snakes and generally getting close to something wild and deadly and then spouting (with real wonder) "Crikey! Wouldja look at that!"

I used to watch his show all the time, and he was never anything less than joyful about his work. He'd been bitten by anything with teeth. He'd been kicked by kangaroos and scratched up by koalas. And he never lost his enthusiasm.

We've lost a fascinating, truly exuberant character who, for his part, absolutely loved the animals he spent his whole life chasing.

R.I.P., Steve. My thoughts go to your family.

Dumbasses in the drive-thru

Note to, well, EVERYONE:

Never, EVER, go through the Starbucks drive-thru at 8:15 am with a LIST. If you're buying snooty-ass coffee drinks for more than two people, GO INSIDE.

The little pep talk and the long week

It's been a long, crappy week at work already. So this morning I did deep breathing, ate a good breakfast, made the bed, put on a pretty blouse instead of a snide t-shirt, polished my nostril ring and otherwise girded my girl loins for the upcoming hell.

And before I left, I stopped in front of the mirror and stared into my own eyes. I gave myself the pep talk. I said, "It's Just Advertising."

Everyone will have their own special complaints about their chosen fields. This is mine: Advertising is a shitty business, with understandably high rates of alcholism, drug abuse and suicide. It's populated by asshats, dickweeds and douchebags. And, God help me, I'm one of them. I think I'm more of a douchebag than a dickweed or an asshat, though. Depends on the day.

This morning, I got to work and looked at the pile. This is the pile that haunted me all night long. Because yesterday, I slogged at the pile and because of various interruptions and sundry stupidity, I got absolutely nothing accomplished. Nothing. Nada. The TV casting I'd sent to client was received with outrage at our choices. The lines I'd written for a major hotel ad with major placement were received with silence. The New Year's Eve invitation I'd written suddenly had all-new information. The homebuilder direct mail that I thought I'd rid myself of last week came flying back, requiring a whole new direction by end of today. TV spot music I was having recorded came back for for my approval and wasn't even in the time zone of what I was hoping for. There was easily ten pounds of proofreading bowing my inbox. And by the way, where was I on those witty lines for those restaurant ads that I just found out about that morning even though the job had been open for three weeks?

It's Just Advertising, though.

Appropriately enough, I started the day with another change to something that was okay the first seven times everyone involved saw it. So I devised an addendum to the little pep talk. This, I put on a sticky note and hung on my computer: Not Every Change Is Stupid. Because that's my knee-jerk reaction. And it's not fair, because there could be a really good reason for the change. That wasn't the case this time, but it could be the case on another job.

Ten minutes and another change (to the same frickin' thing) later I amended the addendum: Not Every Change Is Stupid. Just Yours. Then an hour later, on an unrelated job, I was told by my Creative Director to just "push that witty headline button."

The "witty headline button." That must be the button that resides somewhere around my ass, right next to the "compelling copy button."

It's Just Advertising. It's Just Advertising. It's just the place I spend most of my waking time.

I've rarely written a full-bore complaint about my job. It seems ridiculous to complain when there are other jobs out there, and especially ridiculous when I consider that I can dress like a slob, have visible piercings and MAKE SHIT UP for a living.

Thing is, Advertising has simply ceased to feel like a creative job and more like data entry. I can't remember the last time I did something creative -- something that I was proud of. I don't have a portfolio of my work anymore, because I've been unable to update it. I just don't have anything new and good to add.

It's Just Not What It's Supposed To Be.

My friends are at other agencies all over town. They all have the same basic complaints: Clients are stupid, Account Executives are stupid, bosses are stupid.

Hah. Maybe we're stupid for banging our heads against this particular wall. They that give us pain don't change. Probably because being paid tons of money seems to be a sort of affirmation. Their formula is working for them. The formula doesn't apply to douchebags like me.

I have a plan, a little plan, to bust out of the formula.

When I can make it happen, I'll let you know.

In the meantime, I have three versions of a slot tournament invitation to write.

It's Just What I Do.

Because Ken asked

A sweet meme from the wonderful Mr. Summers. One of music's greatest pleasures is that it can reveal who you are at any given time. Right now, these are my answers. But, like all people that love music, I understand that I may not have answered the same way yesterday. I may not answer the same way tomorrow.

Either way, it's a good thing I'm doing this on the same Mac that contains my music library.

Four songs that you could listen to over and over:
Neil Finn, "Turn And Run"
Bright Eyes, "Lover I Don't Have To Love"
Ani Di Franco, "The Poet Game"
Maria McKee, "Panic Beach"

Four songs that drive you up the friggin' wall:
No Doubt, "Don't Speak" (more like, "Don't Sing")
Berlin, "Take My Breath Away" (yours first)
Def Leppard, "Pour Some Sugar On Me" (pour sugar on you and plant you in a fire ant hill)
Madonna, "Live To Tell" (because of this)

Four songs that you're embarrassed (or should be) to admit you like:
Olivia Newton-John, "Magic"
Firefall, "Strange Way"
Eponine in Les Miserables, "On My Own"
Asia, "The Smile Has Left Your Eyes"

Four best driving songs:
U2, "Where The Streets Have No Name"
Chingon, "Malaguena Salerosa"
Brian Setzer, "Drive Like Lightning, Crash Like Thunder"
John Hiatt, "Tennessee Plates"

Four songs that make you cry:
Dan Fogelberg and Tim Weisberg, "Paris Nocturne/Since You Asked"
The Beatles, "Golden Slumbers/Carry That Weight"
Crowded House, "Four Seasons In One Day"
Ithzak Perlman, "Remembrances"

Four best risqué songs:
Lovage, "Sex (I'm A)" (a deadly-hot cover of the classic)
Madeleine Peyroux, "Dance Me To The End Of Love"
Squeeze, "Tempted"
Ella Fitzgerald, "Bewitched"

Four best kid songs:
Trout Fishing In America, "The Window"
Justin Roberts, "My Brother Did It"
Veggie Tales, "Where Is My Hairbrush?"
Animaniacs, "The Presidents"

Four songs I love to sing on karaoke nights:
Carmen McRae, "Whatever Lola Wants"
Garbage, "Stupid Girl"
Linda Ronstadt, "Blue Bayou"
Carpenters, "Superstar"

And a tag to any visitors. Leave 'em in the comments.

Pleading ignorance

After one year, one thing that I keep hearing in all these Katrina retrospectives is that nobody knew she would be responsible for so much devastation.

So I'm going to repeat, in its entirety, my post from EXACTLY one year ago:

As I write this, Katrina hasn't made landfall. By the time I get up tomorrow, she will have done most of her damage to NOLA and the shores of Mississippi and Alabama.

This doesn't feel like it's going to turn out well. Especially since I've never EVER read a government weather report where the writer has so thoroughly lost his nut. They pulled it off the NOAA website, but Drudge still had the text:

Urgent Weather Message from NWS New Orleans

DEVASTATING DAMAGE EXPECTED

HURRICANE KATRINA MOST POWERFUL HURRICANE WITH UNPRECEDENTED STRENGTH...RIVALING THE INTENSITY OF HURRICANE CAMILLE OF 1969. MOST OF THE AREA WILL BE UNINHABITABLE FOR WEEKS...PERHAPS LONGER. AT LEAST ONE HALF OF WELL CONSTRUCTED HOMES WILL HAVE ROOF AND WALL FAILURE. ALL GABLED ROOFS WILL FAIL...LEAVING THOSE HOMES SEVERELY DAMAGED OR DESTROYED.THE MAJORITY OF INDUSTRIAL BUILDINGS WILL BECOME NON FUNCTIONAL. PARTIAL TO COMPLETE WALL AND ROOF FAILURE IS EXPECTED. ALL WOOD FRAMED LOW RISING APARTMENT BUILDINGS WILL BE DESTROYED.

CONCRETE BLOCK LOW RISE APARTMENTS WILL SUSTAIN MAJOR DAMAGE...INCLUDING SOME WALL AND ROOF FAILURE. HIGH RISE OFFICE AND APARTMENT BUILDINGS WILL SWAY DANGEROUSLY...A FEW TO THE POINT OF TOTAL COLLAPSE. ALL WINDOWS WILL BLOW OUT. AIRBORNE DEBRIS WILL BE WIDESPREAD...AND MAY INCLUDE HEAVY ITEMS SUCH AS HOUSEHOLD APPLIANCES AND EVEN LIGHT VEHICLES. SPORT UTILITY VEHICLES AND LIGHT TRUCKS WILL BE MOVED. THE BLOWN DEBRIS WILL CREATE ADDITIONAL DESTRUCTION.

PERSONS...PETS...AND LIVESTOCK EXPOSED TO THE WINDS WILL FACE CERTAIN DEATH IF STRUCK. POWER OUTAGES WILL LAST FOR WEEKS...AS MOST POWER POLES WILL BE DOWN AND TRANSFORMERS DESTROYED. WATER SHORTAGES WILL MAKE HUMAN SUFFERING INCREDIBLE BY MODERN STANDARDS.

THE VAST MAJORITY OF NATIVE TREES WILL BE SNAPPED OR UPROOTED. ONLY THE HEARTIEST WILL REMAIN STANDING...BUT BE TOTALLY DEFOLIATED. FEW CROPS WILL REMAIN. LIVESTOCK LEFT EXPOSED TO THE WINDS WILL BE KILLED.

AN INLAND HURRICANE WIND WARNING IS ISSUED WHEN SUSTAINED WINDS NEAR HURRICANE FORCE...OR FREQUENT GUSTS AT OR ABOVE HURRICANE FORCE...ARE CERTAIN WITHIN THE NEXT 12 TO 24 HOURS. ONCE TROPICAL STORM AND HURRICANE FORCE WINDS ONSET...DO NOT VENTURE OUTSIDE!

Oh, my God.

Uninhabitable areas? Check.
Roof failure? Check.
Weeks of power outages? Widespread destruction? Human suffering incredible by modern standards?
Check, check and check.

In fact, you could argue that this guy was being conservative.

The only reason I dredge this up is because I'm TIRED of the blame game. Face it: the local governments failed. The state governments failed. The federal government failed. And, the damn people who were supposed to be responsible for themselves and their families FAILED.

Katrina was a bitch and nearly everyone, even though they had warning days before this little gem of a forecast, was taken by surprise. Here's the deal: if you are the head of a household, your first responsibility is to take care of you and all those depending on you. Not easy for some. Impossible for others. But if you're healthy, able, and have a couple of brain cells to spare for those around you, then be a frickin' grownup. You may need a plan. You may not get some "agency" to save you.

In the end, you may just have to do it yourself.

Revolutionary concept, I know.

And one I keep in mind every day -- if something happens, if my son needs me, will I buckle down and do what I need to do? I sure as hell hope so. Because, and this takes some perspective too, I know I'm the only one who really cares about us.

Agencies and governments can only "care" in the most abstract of terms. They don't know you personally. They don't know what you had for breakfast, where you like to hang out, or what kind of crap you keep in your junk drawer. So don't think for a second that when all hell breaks loose, they're going to come straight to your house in a helicopter and spirit you away to a soft, warm bed and some cocoa.

Am I being harsh? Maybe. Am I tired of the constant whining and sense of entitlement that seems to permeate our society? Definitely.

Mostly, though, I'm being real.

Katrina was a real threat. She did real, lasting damage. And a lot of people, no matter what title they held, no matter who they worked for, really screwed up. So either we learn or we don't. Either we go forward or we keep wallowing in what's past. Either we stand up or we keep falling down.

And the first step to doing the right thing is to stop pleading ignorance. Stop pointing fingers.

Start being accountable.

Oh My God.

No, Zod.

Finally, a candidate we can all stand -- or grovel -- behind.

My friend Andrea here at work is sporting his campaign buttons.

I have respect!

I got the last answer on Ken's trivia contest!

Why I sometimes hate Pampered Chef products

They stay sharp. Really sharp.

For example, if you own the wonderful and mostly handy multi-slicer . . .



. . . please pay attention to how you remove it from the dishwasher. Hidden beneath the smooth cutting surface lie compartments to store the other blades. Like the grater.

The grater that sliced the pad off my left ring finger. Not completely off. Enough "off" to bleed through four cotton balls. Does anyone know, by the way, how much blood that is, in terms of volume? Just wondering.

Typing is fun today.

More on the shillelagh

Pronounced "shil-lay-lah."

My grandpa had one. We found it after he died. It was a stick of wonderfully weighted wood -- perfect for cracking the heads or kneecaps of ne'er-do-wells. The grip was smooth and slender, and when you whipped it forward, it had the most satisfying SNAP. This thing would have done a ton of damage, even in weak hands. I don't have weak hands at all. And I remember holding it and imagining an enemy in front of me. I imagined flicking my wrist and -- WHAP-PO! -- broken nose, cries of pain, and lots of begging for mercy.

At this point, I think I should disclose this: my greatest enemy at the time was my ex-husband.

Anyway, thinking about the shillelagh, I went to Wikipedia. The entry had my new favorite term: mêlée weapons.

What a gorgeous way to say "small portable things that, in close combat and with a minimum of brute force, can really mess a person up." A gun is not a mêlée weapon. The fabulous shillelagh and its club-by relations are.

So, scanning the Wiki article, I eventually came across this.

Suddenly, being enamored of Grandpa's shillelagh seemed quite disturbing. Look at the picture again. Go ahead, I'll wait.

It's terrifying in so many ways: the girl's rapt expression, Grandpa's grin, the way they're BOTH holding the thing. And, dear LORD, it looks like the cover of a frickin' children's book.

Yes, yes, yes -- in this case, the shillelagh in question is a walking stick, but still. Still. EW.

So. What's the point of all this? What's the moral of this story?

Don't touch Grandpa's shillelagh, even if he's not using it anymore. It's just too weird.

The shillelagh in question went to my uncle, eventually. Part of me wishes I had it, creepy connotations aside. I've had to settle for an entirely different home security system: a 36-ounce aluminum softball bat. I suspect that would make a dandy mêlée weapon, too.

They call me Shillelagh

Why? Because my headlines are blunt instruments, meant to bludgeon the reader with the message.

And that, my friends, is how the job is going.

Move over, you stupid motherf***in' snakes!

My Name Is Bruce is in post-production.

Why do I care? Why, a good friend of mine was toiling in the dark, leafy poison oak of an Oregon forest to SHOOT the thing. Support my buddy Kurt. Go see it.

Or rent it. I really have no idea if this thing is going straight to video or not.

Since I'm not into lengthy explanations . . .

. . . I'll just say I'm back. Where was I?

Oh, various places.

For most of July, I was out of my ever-loving mind. That is not an exaggeration. I was detoxing from a hideous antidepressant called Effexor XR. They call it "discontinuation syndrome," but I prefer to call it "the worst mindfuck I've ever endured." While I was "discontinuing" or "mindfucking," I was constantly dizzy and nauseous. Concentration was impossible. My dreams were vivid and hideous, so I was afraid to sleep. Everything -- and I mean everything -- made we want to cry. When I didn't want to cry, I wanted to scream. Without triggers and without warning, my entire consciousness would go sideways, as if everything between my ears had been given a good shake. And then the hallucinations started. I saw bugs. Everywhere. I'd feel them drop onto my shoulders.

All this while trying to outwardly act like nothing was wrong. I went to work and tried to write. I went home and tried to parent. I went out and tried to smile.

The worst has passed. The physical side effects are gone. The only remaining problem is the unpredictable mood swings. Those, too, are becoming less frequent, though. Today, I'm on a nice, easy dose of Wellbutrin. I've mostly quit smoking already, I've been drinking a lot less, and I'm shaking the cobwebs off those dusty little corners of my life that had been forgotten.

Like this one.

I also went on vacation last week, which was more hectic than my day-to-day life. I will say that there were beautiful moments: times at Disneyland when Conor's face would radiate joy; digging in the sand at Newport Beach to create a fort for little plastic army men; looking up across the water and seeing a pod of dolphins making their way north -- just out of reach of the surfers.

Then on Thursday, my little boy (who's becoming less little all the time) turned 8. He'll start third grade next week. His school supplies are ready to go, and we have a meet-and-greet with his new teacher on Friday.

Oh. And I moved into my new house.

So, without going into the gorier details, that's it. Here I am.

Did I miss anything while I was gone?

Oh, Glory Day!

Maddux is a Dodger.

Crotch Kennel?!?

WARNING: CLICKING ON THE ABOVE LINK CAN CAUSE BURNING OF THE CORNEAS.