the friday five: good bad guys

Jan 182013
 

This post is a request from my son, who simply said to me: “Hey Dad, you know what would be good? If you did a list of your favorite bad guys.”

Done! You know, because I’m a good dad like that …

It also helps that I really didn’t have anything else particular in mind for this week.

And before I start, I should say that before the ill-fated prequels, Darth Vader would’ve been on this list without question. But after telling the improbable and inane back story of the whiny, petty and childish Jedi wannabe Anakin Skywalker, it completely ruined the character in every way, shape and form. Hard to think Vader is all-powerful and evil when he built C-3PO (and somehow forgot about it) and was best buds with Jar Jar Binks.

To paraphrase: “NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!”

Anyway, here are

Five of my Favorite Fictional Villains

1. C. Montgomery Burns, “The Simpsons” – I could talk all day about all the unconscionable qualities and nefarious schemes that makes Springfield’s resident billionaire industrialist a wickedly delightful character, but I think a single word (and the way he says it, while twittering his fingers) sums up his malevolence best: “Exxxcellent …”

Now release the hounds!

2. Dr. Evil, “Austin Powers” movies – I’d argue that Dr. Evil is by far the best part of the entire Austin Powers franchise. He has the best lines, worst puns and is by far the most amusing character—I find myself bored when he’s not on screen.

I also can’t help myself from falling into his voice whenever I mention … one … milllllllion … dollars.

Besides, without Dr. Evil, I wouldn’t know that if I ever built an evil lair, it would need to have sharks with frickin’ laser beams on their heads.

3. Dr. Heinz Doofenshmirtz, “Phineas & Ferb” – If you’re a regular reader of this blog, you know that I’m a big fan of the perpetually helpless Dr. Doof, who in every episode tries to take over the entire Tri-State Area—often with the help of one of his infamous (and often flawed) -inators—only to be foiled by Agent P.

I also love that on the show, every time they mention “the evil Dr. Doofenshmirtz,” they always run a perfectly evil photo like this—

Curse you Perry the Platypus!!!

4. Dr. Doom, Marvel Comics – I’m seeing a them within a theme here!

Of all the fictional evil doctors, it’s hard to argue that the nemesis of the Fantastic Four has the best name and the best outfit.

Doctor Victor von Doom, at your service (not really)

I don’t even care he seems to have a lame back story and really isn’t amusing or entertaining in any particular way. The Lord of Latveria just looks like a badass! Although, with those metal gauntlets, I’m glad he’s not my gastroenterologist.

5. Silas Barnaby, March of the Wooden Soldiers – Every Thanksgiving, we watch this movie, and every Thanksgiving, I am greatly entertained by Laurel and Hardy as well as the wretched, pig-napping, bogeyman-loving villain in the movie, Silas Barnaby.

Fun bad guy fact: When actor Henry Brandon played Barnaby in 1934, he was only 22 years old! (Great makeup, right?) He was also 6 foot, 5 inches tall, so if you watch the film, you notice he’s bent over in almost every scene so he wouldn’t tower over the other actors.

To this day, in the scene in Bogeyland when he’s summoning up his evil minions, I’m still haunted by the odd bonging/thumping noise his club made when he bangs it on the stalagmites. *chills*

Considering his outfit, I’ve always assumed he was some sort of dandy Amish pilgrim, but then again, it may have been this identity crisis that put him in such a constant foul mood. Whatever his motivation, he does a good job of being bad!

 

jerk of the week: putting a “foot” in football

Nov 282012
 

Although many professional athletes act like jerks on the field, court, pitch, etc., every now and then you’ll get a guy who behaves so badly on a regular basis, it transcends the game he plays.

Let’s just say this week’s JERK OF THE WEEK was a “shoe in” for the award.

If you’re following along in your program, he’s #90 of the Detroit Lions—

Ndamukong Suh

Yes, to paraphrase the old Johnny Cash song, what we have here is a jerk named Suh.

Now, this will not be a surprise to anyone who follows the NFL as Suh was suspended for two games last year after he stomped on a member of the Green Bay Packers who was on the ground during last Thanksgiving Day’s game! He was also recently voted by his fellow players as “the dirtiest player in the NFL,” and that was all *before* this past Thursday’s game and the jerktastic act he perpetrated on Houston Texans quarterback Matt Schaub.

Anyway, like many, I was laid back on the couch after having gorged myself on turkey, mashed potatoes and apple pie, when this play sent me to the edge of my seat because I couldn’t believe what just happened. (And no, this isn’t Mark Sanchez running into his own lineman’s butt—that “joy” was still hours away for me.)

Here’s the clip—

Yeah, that kick to Matt Schaub’s groin was about as accidental as John Wilkes Booth’s revolver going off in the presidential box of Ford’s Theater, and only a little less vicious. I can’t help but think of “Oww! My Balls” from Idiocracy.

Suh wasn’t flagged by the refs, nor was he fined by the league, but given his past transgressions and visual evidence, it’s pretty darn clear that he meant to do it.

Interestingly, after the Lions blew the game in overtime, Suh was ticketed by Detroit police for reckless driving—the perfect end of the perfect day for a perfect jerk.

Speaking of perfect jerks, I know where you can find 15 of them, only a few of whom may have kicked unsuspecting foes in the groin. (I’m looking at you Benedict Arnold and William Stuart!)

Here’s hoping it doesn’t happen to any of you!

jerk of the week: bucket full o’ crap

Nov 142012
 

Oh, World—thanks again for making this weekly feature so easy!

This time, we go Down Under to New Zealand for our JERK OF THE WEEK:

Sam Bracanov

Okay, even though that over-sized sweater vest may look benign, the kiwi jerk wearing it is looking to do some harm—in particular, to Prince Charles and his wife, Camilla, the Duchess of Cornwall.

From CNN:

The 74-year old man, a known anti-Royalist, was arrested in Auckland on Monday at one of the venues Charles and Camilla were due to visit during their tour, according to a statement from the New Zealand Police.

Neither of the British royal family members were in the vicinity at the time, the statement added.

Bracanov was charged with preparing to commit a crime, namely assault, against the royal couple, according to police.

Bracanov had planned to throw a bucket of horse manure at Prince Charles, the New Zealand Herald reported.

Okay, I know you’re chuckling—and so I am, to be honest. A pail of poop for the Prince? Perfect. Not exactly lethal bodily harm, but certainly dramatic enough to send a message. Hey, loonies have used apple pies and glitter to attack public figures, so why not excrement?

And you also may be saying that I’m being a big harsh for declaring this guy a jerk for just wanting to attempt this—heck, some of you may have entertained similar fantasies involving other heads of state. As a matter of fact, I can’t sit here and say that I would be calling anyone a jerk if they had targeted a jerky blowhard sore loser.

But the reason that ol’ Sam wins the title this week is his comments after being released from jail:

“I won’t do it [again this week], I’ve done it once. I was not successful … but there’s always next time.”

Atta boy, Sammy! A true jerk doesn’t let little things like the police or the law stop him from bad behavior.

If you don’t believe me, feel free to put down your poop pail long enough to buy my book!

 

jerk of the week: general disregard

Nov 072012
 

As many of you know, I’m not a big fan of politics, so now that this “election” thing is done with, it comes as no surprise that I’ve decided to offer some counter-programming.

Besides, this week’s JERK OF THE WEEK is a real douchebag.

Please, do not get up and salute this “soldier,” unless you’re using your middle finger.

This week’s JERK OF THE WEEK is—

Brigadier General Jeffrey Sinclair

Yes, it’s sad that Mr. Sinclair, the deputy commander of the Army’s 82nd Airborne Division who has served in Afghanistan, is in the news this week, especially on the eve of Veteran’s Day. You may have heard that he was recently arrested, and is currently being court-martialed at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, although the military seems intent on keeping the details mum and out of the press. Why, you ask?

Glad you asked.

I’ll let Wired tell you:

The first wave of details about Sinclair’s case began to emerge on Monday. Little has been revealed about Sinclair’s case besides the list of charges against him, including “wrongful sexual conduct,” forced sodomy, misusing official funds and more. But at the military version of a grand jury hearing on Monday morning, the Army disclosed that Sinclair’s alleged misconduct involved five women, four of them subordinate Army officers, in locations as varied as Fort Bragg and Afghanistan. The Fayetteville Observer reported from the hearing that Sinclair’s “encounters” with the women occurred “in a parking lot, in his office in Afghanistan with the door open, on an exposed balcony at a hotel and on a plane, where he allegedly groped a woman.” At least one of these encounters, the military contends, was forced.

Allegedly when confronted about his behavior, Sinclar simply said: “I’m a general, I’ll do whatever the [expletive] I want.”

Guess what? You’re also a jerk, and now I hope the grand jury does whatever the [expletive] it wants to you.

Speaking of jerks, feel free to order my book, Speaking Ill of the Dead: Jerks in Connecticut History. Hey, order two—one for yourself and one for that special jerk on your holiday shopping list!

the friday five: master debater

Oct 192012
 

Fact: I have not watched any of the 2012 presidential debates.

And I have no intention of tuning in now.

See, the problem is that I really am not a fan of politics, and I’ve become convinced now more than ever that pretty much every candidate running for office—from the two presidential hopefuls right on down to those aspiring to be your local dog catcher—is more interested in what public office can do for them rather than what they can do for the public while in office. You know, the polar opposite of that gloriously idealistic JFK inauguration speech. Sad how far we’ve fallen in half a century.

Consider: At last check, an estimated $1 billion will be spent on this presidential election, most of it invested by Very Wealthy People (on all sides). These people are usually very rich for a reason, mainly because they tend not to back causes that don’t have a potentially high return for them. In other words, they are investing an colossal amount of money in this election because they know that winning the White House is important for their bottom lines and how much more money they can possibly make. It has nothing—and I repeat, NOTHING—to do with helping the American people. You’ve been hanging out too long in Plato’s cave if you believe otherwise.

As far as the debates themselves go, I’ve also come to the conclusion that both candidates (any candidate, really) will say absolutely anything to be elected, and then will somehow get a pass later if they go back on their campaign promises. Really, it’s a silly dance that’s been going on for decades when you think of it—they tell us what we want to hear to get elected, then when they don’t fulfill those pledges, we sort of say, “Well, that’s okay—it was a campaign promise, so we never really expected you to do it anyway.”

Oh sure, some presidents to try to keep certain promises, but more times than not, they fall by the wayside when the reality of taking office sets in.

As such, I propose

Five Ways to Make the Presidential Debates More (Interesting to Me, Anyway)

1. Allow weapons – I’m not talking about guns or knives or anything that will cause permanent damage, but I’d like if they used fencing foils, pugilsticks or nunchuks, or if they went the pro wrestling route and allowed flaming steel chair or two. Even if it was a normal debate, and then at some point, Obama reached into his jacket pocket for “a foreign object” and used it on Romney (or vice versa), that would be must-see TV!

2. Debate girls – You know, to hold up the score cards between matches. (Hey, it works in Vegas to “class up” boxing matches.) Sex sells, right? And of course, since I’m all about equality, if they want to throw in a few beefcake ring guys for the ladies to enjoy, so be it.

3. Karaoke – This would only work if they had Simon Cowell as a judge. “Mitt, that rendition of ‘My Boo’ was absolutely dreadful. I mean, the absolute worst ever—you wouldn’t hear a version that bad on a cruise ship. Obviously, your parents were wealthy enough to pay off your music teachers to tell you that you could sing. Shame on them,  shame on you and shame on anyone who contributed to your campaign in the hopes of hearing something special. You may have the breeding and money, but you couldn’t carry a tune in a milk bucket, I’m sad to say.”

4. Shocking truth – This one is pretty simple: During the debates, electrodes are attached to each candidate’s genitals. As they statements are made, they are checked by a non-partisan group like factcheck.org. If a candidate tells a lie, they get a angry jolt of electricity delivered right to Mr. Nutsack or Ms. Ladypart. If anything, I suspect this will greatly shorten debates.

5. Dunk tank – Each candidate climbs up on the bar over the tank, and answers the questions. Whoever gets them wrong, gets dunked. It could also be rigged where the audience gets to vote on the answers or the performance, and the candidate who loses goes for a swim. The dunk tank could also be replaced with a vat of ticks or a bengal tiger pit—I certainly wouldn’t to deter the imagination of the American people.

Any chance we can get these in place before the next debate?

jerk(s) of the week: family style

Oct 182012
 

This week, we have JERKS of the week, and when you discover why they are being so (dis)honored, I think you’ll agree with me that they are more than worthy of sharing the “distinction.”

Meet husband and wife JERKS OF THE WEEK—

GREGORY AND LaQURON LACY

“Okay, that looks like a pair of mugshots,” you might be saying to yourself. “That can’t be good.” And you would be right.

The Lacys were arrested for allegedly running “an exotic strip club” in their Perris, California home, complete with a stage, stripper pole and private “erotic zone.” Although illegal and generally frowned upon by more prudish neighbors, that isn’t exactly jerk of the week material.

From the Los Angeles Times:

Investigators found seven adopted children, all under 11 years old, living there and at least five ecstasy pills sitting on the kitchen counter, the documents said.

According to the documents, the children told officers that LaQuron Lacy, 43, would hit them with “fists, belts, hangers and metal objects, which caused them traumatic injuries and scarring,” and that she “often refused to feed them and often locked them in their bedrooms.”

The children told officers they witnessed late-night strip club parties that lasted until the early morning, the documents said.

Four of the seven children “described being hit … with belts and a metal cane” by 60-year-old Gregory Lacy, and a 6-year-old child said he threatened them with a Taser, according to the documents.

A 7-year-old girl also told officers Gregory Lacy had recently sexually assaulted her on a bathroom floor, according to the documents, an act apparently witnessed by some of the other children.

Sometimes, “JERK OF THE WEEK” isn’t strong enough a term for someone. I’d very passionately argue that this would definitely be one of those times.

I’ve often stated I understand how some sorts of child abuse can happen—I’ve been occasionally driven to absolute frustration and anger with my kids, but then I have that little thing that goes off in my brain that says, “Okay, calm down. They’re just kids. You love them, they love you . . . big deep breaths . . .  let it goooooo . . . .” But then there are some times and some stories—like this—that I can’t even picture how someone could get to the point where they would treat another person, let alone innocent children, in such a fashion. I’d say it’s unreal, but a glance at the full dockets of juvenile and family courts tell me that it’s all too real.

As many of you know, I don’t believe in God, which means heaven and hell aren’t concepts I buy into, either. Thus, I hope that there’s some sort of special retribution meted out on these two subhuman creatures in this life, maybe something in front of prison cameras so we can all watch, and then mentally slowly tuck a buck in the waistband of the inmates who provide justice. Not that it’ll help those poor kids . . .

This is one of those times that after I read the story, I just sort of went over, hugged my kids and told myself that even though I sometimes make mistakes as a parent, things are generally pretty damned good in my life.

Really, I’m not sure that I have anything else to say that isn’t already obvious. Buy my book, thanks.

jerk of the week: take the money and run

Oct 032012
 

See, it’s guys like this week’s JERK OF THE WEEK who give hard-working, honest, public-interest attorneys like my wife a bad name.

That’s right, this week’s JERK OF THE WEEK is

DOUGLAS ARNTSEN

It’s always sad to see those who are supposed to guide the rest of us through legal system abuse it for their own gain. In Arntsen’s case, that gain was $10 million. Not that he got to keep it—the long arm of the law caught up with him.

See, Arnsten, a corporate attorney, tried to make his fortune the old-fashioned way: By embezzling it.

From the Wall Street Journal:

Douglas Arntsen, a former attorney with Crowell & Moring LLP, pleaded guilty in Manhattan Tuesday to stealing more than $10 million from his clients, local prosecutors said.

The sum belonged to two former clients of Mr. Arntsen, 34 years old, while he was employed by the Washington, D.C.-based firm, according to the Manhattan district attorney’s office.

Prosecutors accused Mr. Arntsen of using the funds to pay for visits to “expensive restaurants, sporting events and strip clubs.”

Mr. Arntsen worked at Crowell & Moring from February 2007 to September 2011. In early 2009, Mr. Arntsen began embezzling several million dollars from an escrow fund owned by client Doina Capital LLC, an investment fund, prosecutors said.

The next year, he began stealing from a second client, Regal Real Estate LLC, to cover the shortfalls, prosecutors said. He stole more than $7 million from Regal, they said.

In September 2011, a Regal Real Estate employee confronted Mr. Arntsen about the missing money. Mr. Arntsen fled to Hong Kong, where he was arrested and extradited to the U.S., prosecutors said.

Now I know you may be saying that he was “only” stealing form rich corporations, but stealing is still stealing, and he violated the trust of his clients. The money didn’t belong to him, and the fact that he tried to escape after getting caught red-handed is even more odious. (Yes, odious!)

My favorite part of the story—and what cinched this week’s award—is this from a story on NBCnews.com:

Prosecutors accused him of fleeing to avoid arrest. His lawyer, Alan Lewis, has said Arntsen was taking a planned trip.

Of course he was—he planned on avoiding getting his comeuppance in prison by taking a trip on the other side of the globe, you know, because HE’S A JERK!

As always, if you want to spend money in a responsible—yet somewhat jerky manner—I know how you can. Thanks!

 

before they were jerks: p.t. barnum

Sep 302012
 

As I’ve said numerous times while pimping out my book, there is all flavor of jerk out there, including lovable. And there may be no better example of this than legendary showman, P.T. Barnum.

Barnum is known as “Prince of Humbug,” but I’m not sure everyone knows what that the means any more. “Humbug,” as Barnum referred to it, was excessive hype or publicity, often related to a hoax or in jest.

When most hear the term nowadays, they tend to think of Ebenezer Scrooge and his famous line, “Bah, humbug!”—Scrooge was suggesting that Christmas was overhyped. (Way ahead of his time, obviously.) But somewhere along the line, the word has changed meaning, gaining a more negative connotation. When used now, it seemingly suggests that rather than trafficking in humbug, someone is a humbug, i.e., that they are Scrooge-like in their behavior. “Don’t be a humbug,” as in “Don’t be a grouch about Christmas.”

Anyway, Barnum’s more “pure” version of humbug revolved around hype, and his personal view on it was that any amount of publicity—be it truthful or not—was okay, as long as those being hyped received some sort of value or entertainment in the end, even if it wasn’t exactly what was promised.

Barnum lived one of the most interesting and well-documented lives in American history—he wrote his autobiography in 1855 and continually updated it in subsequent printings—so I had *a lot* of material to consider for his chapter. One thing I didn’t have space to include was his relationship with his grandfather.

In his memoirs, he wrote of his grandfather, saying: “My grandfather would go farther, wait longer, work harder, and contrive deeper, to carry out a practical joke, than for anything else under heaven.”

Here’s an excerpt from Barnum’s autobiography to show how that maybe it was genetics that led him to become a lovable jerk.

Previous to my visit to New York, I think it was in 1820, when I was ten years of age, I made my first expedition to my landed property, “ Ivy Island.” From the time when I was four years old I was continually hearing of this ” property.“ My grandfather always spoke of me (in my presence) to the neighbors and to strangers as the richest child in town, since I owned the whole of ”Ivy Island,” one of the most valuable farms in the State. My father and mother frequently reminded me of my wealth and hoped I would do something for the family when I attained my majority. The neighbors professed to fear that I might refuse to play with their children because I had inherited so large a property.

These constant allusions, for several years, to “Ivy Island ” excited at once my pride and my curiosity and stimulated me to implore my father’s permission to visit my property. At last, he promised I should do so in a few days, as we should be getting some hay near “Ivy Island.” The wished for day arrived and my father told me that as we were to mow an adjoining meadow, I might visit my property in company with the hired man during the “nooning.” My grandfather reminded me that it was to his bounty I was indebted for this wealth, and that had not my name been Phineas I might never have been proprietor of “Ivy Island.” To this my mother added :

“Now, Taylor, don’t become so excited when you see your property as to let your joy make you sick, for remember, rich as you are, that it will be eleven years before you can come into possession of your fortune.”

She added much more good advice, to all of which I promised to be calm and reasonable and not to allow my pride to prevent me from speaking to my brothers and sisters when I returned home.

When we arrived at the meadow, which was in that part of the “Plum Trees” known as “East Swamp,” I asked my father where “Ivy Island” was.

“Yonder, at the north end of this meadow, where you see those beautiful trees rising in the distance.”

All the forenoon I turned grass as fast as two men could cut it, and after a hasty repast at noon, one of our hired men, a good-natured Irishman, named Edmund, took an axe on his shoulder and announced that he was ready to accompany me to “Ivy Island.” We started, and as we approached the north end of the meadow we found the ground swampy and wet and were soon obliged to leap from bog to bog on our route. A mis-step brought me up to my middle in water, and to add to the dilemma a swarm of hornets attacked me. Attaining the altitude of another bog I was cheered by the assurance that there was only a quarter of a mile of this kind of travel to the edge of my property. I waded on. In about fifteen minutes more, after floundering through the morass, I found myself half-drowned, hornet-stung, mud-covered, and out of breath, on comparatively dry land.

“Never mind, my boy,” said Edmund, “ we have only to cross this little creek, and ye’ll be upon your own valuable property.”

We were on the margin of a stream, the banks of which were thickly covered with alders. I now discovered the use of Edmund’s axe, for he felled a small oak to form a temporary bridge to my “Island” property. Crossing over, I proceeded to the center of my domain. I saw nothing but a few stunted ivies and straggling trees. The truth flashed upon me. I had been the laughing-stock of the family and neighborhood for years. My valuable “Ivy Island” was an almost inaccessible, worthless bit of barren land, and while I stood deploring my sudden downfall, a huge black snake (one of my tenants) approached me with upraised head. I gave one shriek and rushed for the bridge.

This was my first and last visit to “Ivy Island.” My father asked me “How I liked my property ?” and I responded that I would sell it pretty cheap.

Good to know that even the Prince of the Humbug had one put over on him on occasion.

 

radio date

Sep 232012
 

So last Wednesday I was invited to be an in-studio guest for the “Chaz & AJ Show” on WPLR, 99.1 FM. It was a good time, but throughout the entire experience, I just kept flashing back to my dating days.

It really started a week earlier when I was contacted by the show’s producer Phil—he called to say that the guys saw the New Haven Register story about the book and thought it’d be fun to have me on. It was weird like, “What, someone’s interested in me? Really?” You know, like someone telling you that their friend saw you in the hall after 3rd period and “likes” you. (But not like like—too soon for that.)

Honestly, although I do know the show and have caught it from time to time, I don’t listen to them on a regular basis, so like anyone going on a potential blind date (being a little familiar with them, should I call it a semi-blind date? a cataract date?), I spent the next few days scouting them, you know, watching clips on their website and listening in the mornings. Think of it as using a lav pass to wander past their home room to check them out—not quite stalker level interest, but curious nonetheless.

The night before my appearance, I didn’t sleep well. I was nervous and wanted to make a good first impression but I also had this fear of oversleeping and waking up to discover that I’d blown my chance as they mothefracked me up and down the dial. Fortunately, my neurosis worked on my behalf, and I was up well before the alarm went off at 5:45 a.m.

Actually, the irony is that I’m pretty sure I never lost sleep *before* a first date in high school or college. I’ve always fretted over a lot of things, but for some reason, not that. Let’s just say back in the day when I used to date, my attitude sort of echoed some wisdom that a ladies man named Bernie imparted to me in the warehouse of Sears (because that’s where all the ladies men hung in the 1980s). “When you’re young, women are like buses,” he told me that long-ago summer day. “If you miss out on one, don’t worry. There’s always another one coming along.” Sure, it sounds crass, but at that point in my life, it certainly proved to be true.

Radio appearances to promote a book, however, come along a little less frequently (although I have one on Monday on AM 1320 WATR’s “Talk of the Town” at 12:30 p.m., if you haven’t had enough of me yet). I was up and ready to go!

I shaved because it was my day to do so—I only drag a sharpened hunk of steel across my delicate face every other day—but I laughed at the idea of getting physically gussied up to go on radio, a decidedly *not* visual medium. And no, I didn’t splash on Axe. Since it was radio, I did gargle extra—gotta keep the pipes clean, right?

So all purdy and ready to go on my “date,” I kissed the wife, got in the car and drove to Milford. I had “Chaz & AJ” on as I drove, trying to get a sense of how they were feeling. Apparently, the show’s news/traffic anchor Megan had contracted food poisoning and was regularly running to the bathroom to vomit between segments, which in my head was a good thing because if she threw up after I was on, I’d have thought it was my fault. (Not that it still couldn’t have been, but at least now I could *tell* myself it wasn’t necessarily my appearance.) The guys sounded okay, and certainly not nervous about me showing up.

Of course, at my advanced age, I was about 10 minutes earlier than they had asked me to come in, so I took my time crossing the empty lot—not a lot of folks around before the sun is up. “You’re here?” said Phil the producer, sounding slightly surprised after I called him to let me into the building (it’s locked until a reasonable daylight hour). “Okay, I’ll be right down.”

Phil met me at the door, and was very enthusiastic about me being there—pretty much the complete opposite of the brother and father of every girl I ever called upon, with the possible exception of my wife’s brother, who was 11 when I first met him and still seems happy when he sees me. Then again, he seems happy to meet everyone. Hmm …

Anyway, Phil brought me up to the office, giving me advice along the way about what to say and what to do. He asked if I needed to use the bathroom—I made some comment about not wanting to catch whatever it was that was making Megan vomit. He sort of nodded and half=laughed; I realized a few minutes later that Megan wasn’t in the studio, but instead was working from her home. D’oh!

Because I was early, Phil asked me to sit in the empty lobby for a few minutes until it was time for my segment.

The luxurious WPLR lobby, if you've never been.

As I waited there nervously—like waiting for a date getting ready—I thought of this girl Pam whom I dated. I showed up at her house and before I could even see her, her father brought me to the living room and started grilling me about my intentions. He was tough and I was floundering a bit until he mentioned that he was upset about how the Mets had lost that day. I agreed. “Wait, you’re a Mets fan?!” he exclaimed, his face suddenly brightening. “Really?!” I told him to go check out the weathered Mets license plate on the front of my 1978 Datsun B210. We weren’t exactly BFFs after that, but he was certainly less frosty.

Having listened to WPLR for years, I almost half-expected the Wigmaster to show up like some crazy father figure to grill me, but it wasn’t the case. This time.

Finally, it was time to meet my “dates.” Phil led me into the studio and gave me instructions, and then introduced me to the guys, who were very nice. Chaz said he hadn’t seen my book yet (fortunately I had brought a copy with me), quickly went over how the interview was going to go, and then went about preparing—in silence. Hey, it’s a very small staff, and these guys have to do everything themselves. Plus, they’re live on the air, and although the songs give them some time to do stuff, there’s not a lot of margin for error.

Even though I understood that, I wasn’t quite sure what to do with myself as I waited there with Chaz. (AJ was in a separate booth behind me.) I tried to strike up a conversation, sort of joking about how I know you’re not supposed to use inappropriate language on air, but it seems that the more you don’t want to use it, the more those are the only words on the tip of your tongue. Chaz sort of looked at me for a few seconds, nodded slowly and said, “Yeaaah.”

Awk-ward!

I decided that from that point, it might be best to just be quiet and the let the pros do their work.

Once it was time to be on the air, however, all the quiet and awkwardness dissipated, and we had a nice “date.” It’s all sort of a blur, but I know I didn’t make any major gaffes or do anything to embarrass myself. I felt my phone vibrating in my pocket, and every time I did, I could only imagine the snarky texts that I was getting telling me what I was doing wrong.

The second part of my appearance can be heard here, although it’s the part where they had callers suggesting jerks for the next book. I don’t say much until about halfway through—the first half of the interview I got a lot more air time to talk about some of the people in the book.

After the second segment was done, they all came over and thanked me for coming in. Chaz said he hoped I sold a lot of books, and then … it was over. Just like that.

Chaz went back behind the console, AJ went back to his booth and Phil went back to another room. I was standing there for a second when Chaz shouted, “Hey Phil, show the guy out!”

Phil came over and pointed down the hall. “Go there, make a left, back through the lobby and push the button to let yourself out. Thanks again!”

Obviously, it was great to be on the air, they were nice, and they did indeed help me sell books—I jumped from #30 on Amazon’s “regional>biographies>New England” section to #7 in a day. It just ended so quickly, and with how I was pimping myself and the book out, I got a sense of, “Hey honey, there’s $50 on the dresser and let yourself out.”

Quite the opposite of how many of my dates normally ended.

 

jerk of the week: redundant

Sep 122012
 

“Reader, suppose you were an idiot. And suppose you were a member of Congress. But I repeat myself.”—Mark Twain

When assembling the cast of jerks for Speaking Ill of the Dead: Jerks in Connecticut History, I purposely stayed away from politicians because, as I say in the book, “there are too many from which to choose.”

Exhibit #130,907 (approximately) is this week’s JERK OF THE WEEK!

Emmett C. Burns Jr.

Mr. Burns (a real-life Democrat and not a fictional nuclear power plant owner) is a delegate in the Maryland House of Delegates, representing the fine city of Baltimore. Recently, when Baltimore Ravens linebacker Brendon Ayanbadejo recently voiced his support for same-sex marriage (something he’s been doing publicly since 2009), Burns took exception.

Via the Huffington Post:

In a letter dated August 29, 2012 and addressed to Ravens owner Steve Biscotti, Burns writes “I find it inconceivable that one of your players, Mr. Brendon Ayanbadejo, would publicly endorse Same-Sex marriage, specifically as a Ravens football player.”

“Many of my constituents and your football supporters are appalled and aghast that a member of the Ravens Football Team would step into this controversial divide,” wrote Burns, “and try to sway public opinion one way or another.”

According to WBALTV, Burns became upset when he learned that Ayanbadejo had contributed a pair of Ravens tickets to a fundraiser for Marylanders for Marriage Equality. After expressing his dismay at Ayanbadejo’s actions in his letter, Burns then asked the Ravens to silence the 36-year-old veteran.

“I am requesting that you take the necessary action, as a National Football League Owner, to inhibit such expressions from your employees and that he be ordered to cease and desist such injurious actions. I know of no other NFL player who has done what Mr. Ayanbadejo is doing.”

Now, normally I’d go off on a rant here condemning Burns (“They are saying Boo-urns“), but Minnesota Vikings punter Chris Kluwe has already stepped up to defend his NFL brother Ayanbadejo—and same-sex marriage—in a wonderfully eloquent and *amazingly awesome* open letter.

I won’t quote the whole thing, although I highly recommend you read it (if you haven’t already—NSFW language). Here’s just a bit …

As I suspect you have not read the Constitution, I would like to remind you that the very first amendment in this founding document deals with the freedom of speech, particularly the abridgment of said freedom. By using your position as an elected official (when referring to your constituents in order to implicitly threaten the Ravens organization) to argue that the Ravens should silence Brendon Ayanbadejo from voicing his support for same-sex marriage, not only are you clearly violating the First Amendment, but you come across as a narcissistic fromunda stain. What on Earth would possess you to say something so mind-boggingly stupid? It baffles me that a man such as yourself, a man who relies on that same First Amendment to pursue your own religious studies without fear of persecution from the state, could somehow justify stifling another person’s right to free speech. To call that “hypocritical” would be to do a disservice to the word. “Mindfuckingly, obscenely hypocritical” starts to approach it a little bit.

I am not about to change my football allegiance to the Vikings, but I will forever root for punter Chris Kluwe.

Thanks for kicking a jerk where it counts!

If you want to kick me where it counts—my wallet—you know what you can pre-order at Amazon.com.

Thanks!

 

 Older Entries