Hank and the First Amendment: A Primer

To no one's great surprise, ESPN and Hank Williams have parted ways after he compared Obama and Boehner playing golf to Hitler and Israeli Prime Minister Netanyahu playing golf. Just as well; we've been subjected to that retarded "Are you ready for some football" song for 20 FUCKING YEARS. About damn time to shake things up.

Anyway, Hank immediately played the Victim Card:

"After reading hundreds of e-mails, I have made MY decision," he wrote in a statement on his website. "By pulling my opening Oct 3rd, You (ESPN) stepped on the Toes of The First Amendment Freedom of Speech, so therefore Me, My Song, and All My Rowdy Friends are OUT OF HERE. It's been a great run."

No.

Here's what the First Amendment actually says:

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

First phrase: CONGRESS shall make no law. Not ESPN shall make no law. The First Amendment is designed to keep the GOVERNMENT from telling you what you can and can't say, not ESPN or any other basic cable network. Or your employer. Or your Mom. Or any other non-governmental body. Hank Williams Jr. and ESPN had a mutually beneficial business relationship. When ESPN decided that it would no longer be beneficial, they cancelled it. I have no idea what kind of contract ESPN and Bocephus had, but I'm sure it didn't contain a provision saying that "ESPN will not terminate its relationship with Williams Jr. because of any retarded thing he says in public." But there's not First Amendment involvement here at all.

(Of course, over the years, courts have added a number of exceptions to the seemingly plain "Congress shall make no law . . . abridging the freedom of speech." It's illegal to threaten to kill someone, for example, even though that's a law abridging the freedom of speech. But that's neither here nor there.)

Oh, one more thing: I fully support Hank's right to say whatever the fucks he wants. If he wants to say Obama faked the moon landing and is secretly a Chinese spy, go for it. I'm just saying that ESPN firing him has nothing to do with the First Amendment, despite what he says in his oddly capitalized email.

Monday: Random

- I saw a completely naked guy on a bicycle on the corner of Church and Market yesterday. Is that a thing now? Naked bicycling? There wasn't even a group, just him. Whatever. Everyone is an attention whore in their own way. Walk around with a parrot on your shoulder? Attention whore. Have a face full of metal? Attention whore. BART protester? Attention whore. Naked bicyclist? You guessed it.

- Here's a completely fake rant about Hardly Strictly Bluegrass:

Oh great! Where else can 600,000 white people crawl all over each other and talk through a performance by the Fetal Alcohol Syndrome Band singing songs about a life of hardship and deprivation that the crowd pretends to embrace but which is as foreign to them as a moon rock, since "deprivation" to this crowd is a full parking lot at Trader Joe's? Yes, I know you spread out your blanket at 11 am to save you 8 square feet of space but I don't see any Deed from the City and County of SF tranferring title of this muddy patch of GG Park to you and unless you've developed the first working force field, people are going to walk over your blanket and you're going to have to get the fuck over it.

j/k. I didn't even go this year because I don't like crowds and it's always a nightmare getting anywhere afterwards. But I honestly think it's a very nice event and I've always enjoyed it in the past. But: Too Crowded.

[Also, professional musician? Attention whore.]

- I know it's Election Season again when fucking campaign workers start knocking on my door. (PARENTHETICAL: Does this happen to everyone, or am I just especially afflicted?) One day last time around, we had something like 8 different people come to the door in one day. I've gotta put the "No Campaign Workers" sign back on the door. This time it was 11 am on Sunday morning. I'm sorry, but that is fucking bullshit. You do not knock on someone's door before noon on Sunday. (Well, you should never knock on someone's door, but ESPECIALLY not before noon on Sunday.) So, David Chiu, guess who's not voting for you now?

When they knocked on the door, my dog naturally went apeshit like he do and I yelled through the door "WHO IS IT" and I heard someone say "David Chiu for Mayor" and I said "IT'S NOT A GOOD TIME" and now I wish I had said "YOU HAVE FIVE SECONDS BEFORE I OPEN THE DOOR AND LET THIS DOG OUT."

Trouble

Apropos of nothing, I was thinking about bar fights the other day.

Maybe I'm just lucky, but I've managed to mostly avoid bar fights (or fights in general) during my many dissolute years of bar-going. Honestly, that shit is stupid and I fail to understand why someone looking at your girl would provoke a violent outrage, but I guess some assholes just want to get into fights and need an excuse.

I can only think of a handful of times when I've even been close to getting in a fight, like:

- A couple of weeks after I made the catastrophically bad decision to move to Santa Cruz, one of the Worst Places on Earth, I was playing pool in this dive called the 1007 Club. I hadn't noticed that more people had come in and someone had written his name on the chalkboard to play next game. I started to put quarters in and the guy totally got in my face and was screaming about how he was next and I was like "Fine, whatever, you're next." Looking back now, I realize that he was probably tweaked out of his fucking gourd on meth, like 90% of everyone between the ages of 19 and 29 in that Godforsaken shithole.

- One weekend afternoon I was hanging out at the Columbus Cafe with my ex-wife and drinking and playing the jukebox and shit and this little angry Scotsman started hitting on her right in front of me. He offered to buy her a drink and I said "It's cool, I've got her drinks" and he FUCKING FLIPPED OUT and told me to come outside to settle this and I was like "No, I think I'll pass" and then the bartender kicked him out. The bartender told us the guy works on a ship and comes in whenever they dock in SF and gets into fights.

(Knowing what I know now, I should have let him buy her the drink, then jumped up and pointed and said "A-HA!!! NOW SHE'S YOUR FUCKING PROBLEM!!!" and run out.)

Other times I've been on the periphery of big fights that have started and spilled out into the street. Whatever, that shit is boring.

UPDATE: Humorously, between the time when I first wrote this and now, when I'm about to post it, I have learned that Famous Teen Mom Bristol Palin almost got herself into a bar fight recently:

Bristol Palin was riding the mechanical bull at a Hollywood bar in front of a throng of paparazzi and reality TV cameras, when a rude drunk yelled, "Your mother's a whore!" Bristol marched up to the man, jutted out her new chin, and got into a heated confrontation:

Man: She [your mother] is evil.
Bristol: You want her dead?
Man: You know what, if there is a hell, and I don't think there is one, she will be there.
Bristol: OK, why is that?
Man: She's evil. She's evil.
Bristol: Is it because you're a homosexual?
Man: Pretty much!
Bristol: And that's why you hate her?
Man: And why do you say I'm a homosexual?
Bristol: Because I can tell you are.

On the way out she gets into a fight with another pair of angry drunks, including one who yells, "White trash Wasilla!" and "You fucking bitch!" as Bristol and friends storm out of the bar.

"Is it because you're a homosexual"? Who the fuck talks like that? Although, I gotta say, it's probably a drag when you're out for your usual night on the town being followed by a camera crew and wearing an ugly sweatshirt that says "Empowered" on the front with a Lightning Bolt Cross and some stranger says "Your mother's evil." I guess that would suck.

(This all happened at Saddle Ranch, right? That place blows.)

This is a non-exclusive list of TV shows I've never seen a single episode of

1. My So-Called Life

I know it's like an iconic show and all, but I was a guy in his 20's when it was on. I mean, come on, that would be kinda weird if I watched it. It would still be kinda weird. Claire Danes was super hot in Igby Goes Down, though.

2. Bones

Come on. I think I saw 5 or 6 minutes once and I was like "What the fuck?"

3. The Beverly Hillbillies

Even when I was like 6 years old I could tell this was dumber than a box of rocks and not funny at all.

4. Battlestar Galactica

The remake, not the original. I was a kid when the original was on and I think I was pretty into it. It was pretty much straight-up scif-fi. The remake is all Very Serious Allegory, right?

5. Criminal Minds

I don't even know what this is supposed to be about. I was just looking at a list of top rated TV shows and this was on it and I was like "What's that?"

6. Saved by the Bell

I don't think I even knew this show existed until it started seeping into the cultural group consciousness (there's a word for that, right? Something Jungian? I forget) and it was on during a time when I didn't watch much TV and I probably wouldn't have watched it anyway.

7. Dr. Who

This is like some serious sci-fi fanboy shit, right? Never saw it. Don't know the first thing about it. Does it involve time travel in some way?

8. Any show that starts "Real Housewives of"

Just doesn't seem like my thing.

9. Grey's Anatomy

How many medical dramas will there be? Haven't we played out every possible angle? (NB: If you want to see a GREAT hour of medical drama, check out the episode of ER that Quentin Tarantino directed. It's awesome. It's probably streaming on Netflix or some shit.)

10. Two and a Half Men

Kutcher's not sweetening the deal, either.

This story just blows my mind

This is from Uptown Almanac:

Bi-Rite Market Hires Bouncer, Institutes One-In-One-Out Policy

The very nice bouncer, who didn't size up my wardrobe or pat me down in search of concealed weapons, informed me that this has started happening on busy weekends lately in response to the fire marshal enforcing capacity limits. He acknowledged the whole situation was "kinda embarrassing." Why? "Because, you know, we're a grocery store."

Anyway, if you can get over the public shaming of patiently and nonchalantly standing behind a red rope for organic peaches and cruelty-free cheeses, Monday afternoon's line was only 2 minutes and 34 seconds long (I timed it, for journalism) and you're treated to a sampling of free tomatoes once you make it to the top of the list.

God, it is becoming SO FUCKING HARD to make fun of anything in San Francisco any more because it ALL MAKES FUN OF ITS FUCKING SELF. How am I supposed to go on as a Relevant Local Lifestyle Critic/Angry Satirist when there are people who *WAIT* *IN* *LINE* *TO* *GET* *INTO* *A* *GROCERY* STORE*????!!!??!!!!!

The following things blew my mind about this story:

1. People will apparently wait in line to enter a FUCKING GROCERY STORE
2. Ummmm, I think that's it. Just that people will wait in line to go to a grocery store.

Seriously, my troubles with waiting for anything are well-documented. If I needed emergency gall-bladder surgery and they said "Sure, we can help you, just put your name on the list and we'll call you when your operating theater is ready," I'd be like, "Nah, it's OK, thanks, I'll self-medicate with Naproxen and shots of Fernet and come back some other time." So the very idea that people who appear to be otherwise Rational and Sane Adults (some of whom may, in fact, have kinda nice legs, but the photo's a little blurry) would stand behind a velvet rope to be admitted into a place to buy Artisanal Sandwiches or Herbes de Provence is mind-boggling to me.

(The comments section should also finally put to rest the stubbornly longstanding SF Urban Legend that Burning Man somehow clears the city [and specifically the Mission] out on Labor Day Weekend. I've been trying to debunk that bullshit for years.)

(I realize this post is basically just an extended comment on an Uptown Almanac post, so I would like to thank the staff of Uptown Almanac for letting me basically steal their material and run with it. If I could fit this entire Rage-O-Gram into a tweet, I would have.)

(Also, speaking of "would have," it's "would have," not "would of," FYI.)

This is a partial list of things that unaccountably enrage me and probably shouldn't

1. People who take up 2 parking spaces

2. Perfectly able people who push the handicapped door opener button and then stand there and let the doors majestically swing open like they're the Queen of England

3. Recycling poachers

4. People who yell into their cell phones

5. People who chatter away obliviously on cell phones while they're blocking an aisle in the grocery store or blocking the sidewalk or something

6. Pretty much anyone talking on a cell phone in public, ever. Text, you bastards, text.

7. People who walk more than two abreast on a sidewalk. BONUS: They're walking slowly. DOUBLE BONUS: They're walking four abreast and all talking on cell phones.

8. iTunes

9. "There is a new version of iTunes available. Would you like to download?" Hey Apple, how about saving up the changes and just releasing a new version once every six months, instead of every other day?

10. The bagger at Safeway yesterday who put my bread at the bottom of the bag

11. Fox Sports

The Bachelorette: More of this Bentley crap and frankly, everyone's fucking sick of it now

Like Romeo and Juliet, this season of the Bachelorette has also been all about star-cross'd lovers, although instead of the Montagues and Capulets, we have a relentlessly perky future dentist from Maine and a heavy-lidded sociopath from Salt Lake City with a daughter named "Cozy." This season has been all about Ashley Chipmunk and Bentley and we are reminded of that fact by his name coming up about 10 times in the first 3 minutes of this episode and as it turns out ABC has flown him to Hong Kong, the next stop on our Worldwide Tour, and I am hoping for a murder-suicide but will no doubt be disappointed. Instead, Chipmunk goes to see him in the hotel and I guess he sort of dumps her or something and anyway she walks away to this swelling music that is meant to make us think that she is a Soaring Bird Who Will Fly Away With Love. She also sums it up with a bleeped "fuck you" and would have come in handy, oh, THREE EPISODES AGO.

Let's get back on track now. Solo date with Lucas, who has never been to any big city, so Hong Kong should be a good start. Chipmunk must be feeling better because she's back to spouting her usual inanities like "Look at the street market! People are selling things!" (ACTUAL QUOTE, NOT MADE UP.) Very good, Ashley! What does the cow say? Then they have some dinner on a boat and he tells his boring divorce story and whatever. Why did I decide not drinking on Monday nights was a good idea?

Group date time. The 6 losers are separated into groups of 2 and then electrocuted on the beach. No, wait, I was just imagining that. No, instead they must fan out in Hong Kong and recruit people to man dragon boats for a race. A surprising number of locals have Prior Dragon Boat Experience! It must be like Rec League softball there. Anyway, then there's a dragon boat race that's about as interesting as a rerun of the McNeil-Lehrer Report from 1981. For the Night Portion of the date, we are off to some Vegas hotel-looking bar where Ames yanks Chipmunk into an elevator and does what I guess he imagines the humans think is romantic. Seriously, this guy is SO FUCKING WEIRD. He's like a bad actor trying to play someone who's uncomfortable all the time.

Solo date w/ JP. They're having dinner in "Kowloon Walled City," she thinks but I don't think so because "demolition began in March 1993 and was completed in April 1994." Oh, wait, I guess there's a touristy replacement thing. Anyway, usual outdoor dining thing. God forbid we go more than 10 minutes without a Bentley reference so she tells him all about her meetup with Bentley and JP nods all understanding-like and he's all like "Thank you for your honesty," you crazy fucking basket case. Then they take some tram up to the top of this mountain and HOLY SHIT THERE'S THAT SAME GUY FROM EVERY SUBWAY STATION PLAYING THAT CHINESE INSTRUMENT THING. You cannot get away from that guy. He is stalking us all.

Cocktail Party! Holy shit, things are busting out all over with Chipmunk and the Breastanator 5000 dress she's rocking. Lest another second pass without a mention of He Who Is Called Bentley, she repeats her fucking Breakup Story to the whole group and ABOUT FUCKING TIME instead of cocking their heads to the side and saying "Awwwww," THEY PISSED. Good for you guys! Chipmunk deploys the Girl Natural Defense Mechanism, crying alone quietly, but they ain't having it. Mickey's all "I don't know what you saw in that guy" and bounces! Good for you, man! Blake gets all pissed too but then he realizes this isn't really helping but it's too late because once you're mean to Ashley she will love you forever never forgive you. He gets cut.

Exit interview: Blake says, plaintively, "I just want a friend." Blake, you need to be on "America's Next Top SPCA Rescue" because WE ARE NOT HERE TO MAKE FRIENDS.

Are we going to get anything for those AT&T utility boxes? Does anyone know?

As you no doubt know, Telecom Giant and Notorious Provider of Craptastic iPhone Service AT&T wants to install 726 huge fucking ugly graffiti magnets all over the city. 726 is a lot of boxes! These vertical outdoor urinals will be 4 feet high, a little over four feet long, and a little over two feet wide. In other words, a grey monolith the approximate size of a Vespa, but without the annoying little twerp in the scarf.Photo illustration with helpful dimensions courtesy of the SF Appeal, who doesn't know I'm using it but are hopefully cool with that.

Now, the last thing I want in SF is 700 of these sidewalk-blocking pieces of shit clogging up corners all over goddam town, but I'm sure in the end AT&T will end up getting their way and we'll have all kinds of new obstructions and places for kewl wheatpastes and for hobos to throw up on. Here's the one thing I can't find out from any article:

WHAT DOES THE CITY GET OUT OF THIS DEAL?

Hopefully someone out there knows and can tell me. What I can tell you is that, at a minimum, San Francisco should be getting $13,500 a month from AT&T in rental if this goes through. Honestly, if our feckless Board of Supes had any fucking balls, they'd say "Sure, AT&T, put your boxes up. FOR A MILLION BUCKS A MONTH. Take it or leave it." But they won't do that.

So at least ask for $13,500 a month. These boxes have a footprint of about 9.2 square feet, so 726 of them are a total of 6,679 square feet. Here's a house near Alamo Square with "almost 7,000 square feet" that's renting for $13,500 a month. SOUNDS FAIR. So that's the MINIMUM fucking price the BoS should extract from International Devourer of Souls AT&T.

[USUAL DISCLAIMERS: If part of this deal is some huge cash injection into the city that I just don't know about, apologies all around and I'm sorry I called you "feckless," Board of Supervisors. You should be publicizing that! But if you can't even get market rate rent, you are more fucking hopeless than I thought. Also, fuck AT&T. You think they're going to force Comcast to lower their rates? Yeah, maybe for a month. Then, 6 months later, everyone will be charging the same and we'll have these Toilet Towers all over town for no reason.]

Local bloggers frustrated in search for post-museum drinks

Went with Jessica and Stephen to SFMOMA today to check out some art. If you haven't seen "The Steins Collect," what the fuck are you waiting for? Do you hate art and beauty? What kind of fucked-up person are you? Go see it. Anyway.

We got out of there around 3:30 and it's a beautiful day out and so we thought we might grab a quick drink. THIS IS WHEN THINGS WENT WRONG.

First thought: B Restaurant, in Yerba Buena Center. I knew it had outdoor tables and you gotta sit outdoors on the 3 days a year it's warm enough in San Francisco to sit outdoors. No dice. They weren't open until 4:30.

New plan: We will return to the Mission and get some beers at Rosamunde and sit on their front porch. BZZZT it's totally full when we get there because no one in the Mission has a job so a bunch of deadbeats and losers had already filled up the whole porch. Dorks.

Next plan: But wait! The Liberties has like 10 or 15 outdoor tables! Perfect! Quick walk there. Maybe 3 or 4 of the outdoor tables are taken. Plenty of room! Finally! We will realize our dream! So we walk in and there's one guy at the bar and the bartender and that's it. We're getting ready to order and she says, "Are you guys planning to take these outside?" And we're all "Yeah," thinking we have to order from a waitress outside or something.

"You have to order food to sit outside," she says.

Wait what. "Do we have to order, like, a LOT of food?" Jessica asks, not unreasonably.

"You have to order one item per drink." So we were all "You have got to be kidding" and left.

Now, seriously, The Liberties, are you fucking kidding me? You just lost the business of three heavy drinkers in an empty bar with at least 10 empty tables outside. Is that a good business plan? I get that you want to capitalize on your outdoor seating when it's nice out, but seriously, why fucking turn away business when the tables will just sit empty? I mean, who does that?

Also, I've sat at those outside tables plenty of times before without ordering food. So that whole thing was fucked.

(As you may have gathered, I'm off work this week so I've been taking the dog to the beach and all over town so much that he basically thinks we're going steady now and I'm also doing things like going to the museum on a Tuesday. Yes, I am taking a few days off but not leaving town but DO NOT say that word, the one you're thinking, that starts with an "S" and ends with "aycation." Do not say that word.)

What the hell is the deal with Rolling Stone magazine? It's for old people, right?

There's this "music" magazine called Rolling Stone. I think it was popular with kids in the 1960's. I picked one up in the airport because I only had 2 magazines on me and a long plane flight and neither Muscle & Fitness nor Penthouse Letters looked good. I also bought a $5 water.

Let's take a look at this very odd publication. This issue is called "Special Issue: Best of Rock 2011."
Adele's on the cover. She's the "Best Soul Superstar" in the "Best of Rock" edition. I guess that's cool. Adele is one of those people that everyone likes, right? Not me, especially, but everyone else in the world, apparently.

"Best Anniversary" is Pearl Jam, because it's the 20th anniversary of "Ten." I think the last time I listened to a Pearl Jam song was in 1994. But hey, an anniversary's an anniversary.

The weird thing about Rolling Stone is that it's full of rock acts that no one under 45 has thought about in 20 years. Check this out:

Page 26: "Buffalo Springfield Book First Tour Since 1968." That pretty much says it all. I don't even need to make a joke about that.

NEXT PAGE! Page 28: "Seger Turns the Page With Spring Tour." That's Bob Seger. Not counting truck commercials, he was last heard from around 1985. But if you judge music by Rolling Stone magazine, he is an incredibly Viable and Important Figure in Music.

Page 36: The "Q&A" column is with Ray Davies, who co-founded The Kinks in 1937. He appears to be about 158 years old and wants his brother to know they can still tour if they patch things up. They've been fighting about whether talkies are good for the film industry.

Page 62: In our "Best Of" package, Stevie Nicks is recognized as the "Best Hippie-Queen Earth Mother," apparently just to feature a picture of Stevie Nicks. They left off "Who Once Had People Blow Cocaine Up Her Rectum Because Her Septum Was Too Destroyed to Snort Anymore." That would get more readers I bet!

Page 66: "Best Reunion." Who do you think? Pavement, right? Guided by Voices? Gotta be Soundgarden, right? Nope. It's Rod Stewart & Jeff Beck. If this tour isn't sponsored by Polident, something has gone terribly wrong.

Page 71: One ONE PAGE, both Buddy Miller ("Best Sideman") and Jackson Browne ("Best New Roots") are featured. If you don't know who those people are, don't worry.

Now, in all fairness, the issue also has pieces on Panda Bear, the Fleet Foxes, and Odd Future, but I guess what cracked me up was that it exists in some kind of fantasy world where Bob Seger is relevant in some way.

Are the Top 3 songs in America destroying our nation's youth? An investigation.

Listening to my local right-wing radio station the other day, as is my want, I was alarmed to hear that (1) "gangsta rap" is probably responsible for the nation's decline, and it's a wonder that "anyone graduates from community college, let alone real college," and (2) that the top 3 songs in the US right now are so filthy they "can't even be played on the radio."

INTEREST PIQUED.

Now, normally my relationship with any music on the Billboard Top 10 is like the US's relationship with Central America: I'm vaguely aware of it, but I certainly don't want to interact with it in any way. Thus, having no idea what songs might be the Top 3 in America right now, I set off to find them and hopefully enjoy some disgusting, perverted lyrics.

DISAPPOINTMENT FOLLOWED.

The #1 song in America right now, according to the Billboard Hot 100, is "Born This Way" by Lady Gaga. I think I knew this was a song, but I've never heard it before, so I listened to it. It's kind of a terrible ripoff of "Express Yourself," by Madonna, but if you think this is so filthy it can't be played on the radio, you probably think Cap'n Crunch commercials are debased, sickening documents of a declining civilization. I think it's about gay animals accepting themselves ("It doesn't matter if you love him, or capital H-I-M/Just put your paws up/'Cause you were born this way, baby"), and if you have a problem with gay animals, you spend too much time alone.

NEXT: "Fuck You" by Cee Lo. OK, you're right about this one. Are they playing the "Forget You" version on the radio? Cause if they are, (1) that's lame, and (2) IN YOUR FACE, Right-Wing Radio Person! Also, I love this song.

NUMBA THREE: Something called "E.T." by Katy Perry. Also never heard this, so I checked it out. Apart from being SO AWFUL IT'S DIFFICULT TO LISTEN TO, I don't hear anything that would preclude it from being on the radio. Even with the memorably terrible lyric "Infect me with your love." Ewwww pass.

Oh wait, I think I see what's going on here - there's a version of the song with Kanye rapping and I guess parts of that are pretty filthy. I mean, if you think "I'm trying to bathe my ape in your Milky Way" is filthy and not just WEIRD.

(Also, this is so precious: Some YouTube commenter says "cant we all just keep our thoughts to ourselves and enjoy this song?" FIRST TIME ON THE INTERNET HUH?)

Results: Inconclusive.

Hard-hitting Chronicle columnist tackles the Sheen story; readers yawn

Oh good! Semi-retarded[*] Chronicle columnist Debra Saunders has decided to weigh in on the Charlie Sheen thing. Last seen penning a hard-hitting interview with the Governor's dog, let's see what fresh insight that bomb-thrower Saunders brings to the Sheen story:

This week Charlie Sheen owns network news. No wonder Americans hate the media.

In a rush for ratings, TV news shows have been clamoring for sit-downs. The goal, of course, is to get Sheen to say something nutty that makes news. But no one wants to look like a vulture, so from their high horse, interviewers try to prod the bad boy to admit that he needs help.

Frauds. They're not bottom-feeders; they dress up the package with a redeeming angle. Like: Is Charlie Sheen bipolar?

Whoa, whoa, whoa, Debra, hold the phone for a second because you are BLOWING MY MIND. TV shows are motivated by ratings? Holy fuck, you just blew all my illusions about the entertainment business out of the water. Here I am thinking that they're all ars gratia artis and you're telling me it's ABOUT MONEY? Fuck, thank God Debra Sunders is here to clear the scales from my eyes. "Frauds." PULITZER ON LINE TWO, DEBRA.

Also, Americans don't "hate the media." Americans fucking LOVE the media. Sure, different people like different aspects of "the media" but to make a blanket statement like that is ridiculous. If Americans "hated the media," you and Charlie Sheen both would be out of a job. For one of the two of you, that would be a good thing.

If Sheen doesn't kill himself, you know the script: The arrest, the rehab, the contrite I'm-an-addict comeback interview, another drop-dead gorgeous wife, a new baby, a new series starring a character who is Charlie Sheen without the child support and cocaine. Big box office.

The Romans made gladiators kill each other in the circus for their entertainment. For their viewing pleasure, Americans pump up celebrities, who then misbehave in public, so that we can feel superior to them. The Romans demanded blood. Americans go for shame.

More incisive commentary from Debra's thoughtful pen! So let me get this straight. You're saying that Americans enjoy watching celebrities fall? No shit!?

I'm not surprised Saunders decided to write about Charlie Sheen. It sells papers! Oh, whoops, isn't that what Saunders was decrying earlier? Never mind. Anyway, it's fine to write about it, but recycling all the same fucking tired commentary that's been said 1000 times only fills up column inches and bores the fuck out of the rest of us. If you can't think of something original to say, just leave it the fuck alone, OK?

[*] I'm not supposed to say "retarded" any more. It'll take some time. Bear with me.

The Bachelor: Stalk This Way

We now find ourselves in Costa Rica. This gives the producers a good opportunity to show Brad meandering through the jungle and staring meaningfully at a waterfall. Meanwhile, the chicks arrive at the Springs Resort and Spa, where Michelle hopes Chantal “gets attacked by monkeys. Or apes.” Or some other higher primate. Like Brad!

Solo date with Chantal, the Overly Emotional Normal Girl. Finally, it’s fucking Helicopter Time. Where have the helicopters been this year? They are going ziplining through the jungle, which will be a metaphor for their relationship. Is ziplining a thing? Like, are there ziplining hobbyists and a National Ziplining Association and stuff? Anyway, post-zipping, there’s a picnic by the river and it starts raining and this is also a metaphor for their relationship. Luckily, there is a nearby hotel room to take refuge in! Brad happens to have some dessert handy. Watch that cheesecake, Chantal, looks like you’ve already put on a few! She’s wearing one of his shirts like she’s in a Cotton ad and gets the Almost Naked Rose.

Group date. They’re going Waterfall Rappelling. Jesus, what’s next, BASE jumping? Build and fly your own airplane into a hurricane? I would keep Michelle away from the rope when the other girls are rappelling. She is mad and starts hitting Brad. Here is a preview of the rest of your life with Michelle, Brad. Physical violence and mental illness. I wonder what happened to Michelle as a child.

It’s Hot Springs Bikini Time. Michelle says “Watching Brad take his shirt off makes you want to go home and [bleep] [bleep].” What did they bleep out? “Bowflex drunk”? “Watch House”? “Roofie yourself”? Hey, what does Brad’s back tatt say? What is that, “Prosepia”? Did he sell ad space on his back to a hair restoration product? Pretty smart move, Brad. No one gets a rose. Michelle says, “If he can’t make a decision, I’ll be forced to take matters into my own hands.” Don’t worry, Michelle, the next group date is free diving followed by Russian Roulette, so we should lose at least half the group doing that.

Solo date with Alli. They get on some tiny horses and ride off, followed by even tinier horses. It’s horses all the way down. They go into a cave that Brad says is 40 million years old. That sound you hear is creationists turning off their TVs in disgust. Some horror movie shit goes down inside the cave with bats flying around and lethal spiders and some rock formation called the “Altar” that’s clearly where the human sacrifices happen. Then they get to have dinner sitting upright like normal people. For the first time, there’s a girl more interested in the food than Brad! “What is this, chicken?” No, Alli, it’s Spider Loaf with a Cricket Drizzle. Alli’s been Friend Zoned from way back and she gets the Teary Drive-Away.

Brad’s back in his hotel room trying to “process how he’s feeling” without the help of TV Therapist when Crazy Michelle shows up! WTF is up with this chick and her stalking! She opines that she likes he got rid of Alli but is mad that he kept Chantal. Bitch, get your own dating show! Then you can decide yourself!

Cocktail Party time. Ugh, this is boring. Lifetime Emily knows she said she likes to sabotage relationships but won’t sabotage THIS one. Michelle starts crying to make Brad like her again. She either has a tack in her shoe or is imagining a dead puppy because she is a dead husk and has no actual emotions. Shawntel wants to have a Silence Contest, which does not make for particularly compelling TV. Chantal is in love with Brad and his Dessert Delivery Service.

Let’s hand out some roses. Pretty much what you’d expect. The last one comes down to Michelle or Jackie. Michelle’s human mask almost slips off but she holds it together. Jackie and her nose get the boot and head off to their bright future impersonating that chick from Glee. Next week we are off to “Anguilla,” which, frankly, sounds made-up.

Bachelor Jesus: The Girls of Galilee

It’s only Week 2 and I’m already dying over here. Why did they have to put this on during Sober January? Only 2 more weeks. I know three weeks is the 31st but that’s close enough motherfucker. Don’t make me watch this show without booze any more please.

Time for some dating! Dr. Hairflip is up first. She dons some kind of Tinkerbell-meets-Lady-GaGa getup and off they go. He drives her down an isolated dirt road where he rapes and murders her. Oh, wait, this isn’t Lifetime. They come across some kind of electrical switch which she flips and sadly is not electrocuted but instead they are at some kind of Super Creepy Carnival of the Woods that would scare the crap out of Stephen King. I mean, there is blood literally dripping from the Tornado.

(SIDE NOTE: To confirm all your worst fears about carnival rides, please consult RideAccidents.com regularly. Thank you.)

So they have some wholesome-y type fun and a big makeout session and puke up wine coolers or whatever people do at carnivals. Dr. Hairflip has an alkie dad who’s MIA and is probably the guy outside Zain’s liquors on 3rd Street. This prompts Brad to whine some more about his Absent Dad. Oh, for fuck’s sake, every fucking episode we have to hear about this deadbeat. At this point I want him to appear and go “OK!!! I’M RIGHT FUCKING HERE!!! WHAT DO YOU WANT!!??!!” Hairflip gets a rose.

Next we have 15 Crazy Bitches in a Hummer limo for what’s either a group date or a rap video. It’s some kind of bullshit Red Cross thing to encourage people to give blood. I’ve already slit my wrists so Mission Accomplished. So they’re filming fake PSAs. Ugh, this is painful to watch. Britt says she doesn’t want to do the threesome scene because she’s a food writer from Woodinville, Virginia, but then she basically makes Girls Gone Wild look like Little Women and I guess Woodinville is more fun than we knew. Michelle is an Attention Whore because she’s not getting enough attention. This behavior is rewarded, just like in real life.

Now it’s off to the rooftop pool at the Roosevelt Downtown, which is a loft building that went bankrupt. Just like this show, creatively. BAM see what I did there? Anyway, Melissa the Crispy Waitress is embroiled in some kind of conflict with Raichel. Michelle wants to dissect him and peel away the layers. So do we all, Michelle. So do we all.

Solo date with Jackie the Emotionally Underdeveloped Artist Who Needs a Nose Job. It is to be her very own “Pretty Woman Experience”! Except getting paid to fuck strangers. They go to the Hollywood Bowl and have dinner on stage and talk. Jackie says she never had a boyfriend in college but can’t bring herself to tell him she was a LUG. She gets a rose for some reason. Then SURPRISE!!! Train appears. Now they have to listen to Train play. I know what you’re thinking: “This isn’t a commercial for something or the receptionist’s desk. Why is Train playing?” Oddly, they don’t kill Train and then themselves like any sane person would do. Man, I don’t get paid enough to listen to this.

Time for the Cocktail Party, a perfect end to a day of boredom and loathing. Michelle swoops in to grill Brad about his dietary habits and fave coffee. She’s crazy, which I like. Then some time alone with Lifetime Movie Emily. Blah blah blah. When are you gonna tell him about Racecar Baby, Emily? Spring it on him after the engagement, that’s the ticket.

More Crispy Melissa-Raichel fighting. Raichel says “Jesus does love me. That’s why I will stay.” She is apparently on a different dating show! Bachelor Jesus! “On this date, I thought we would feed all of Echo Park with this loaf of artisan bread and then take a ride on my magic carpet! I will grant you three wishes. You may not wish for additional wishes.” That’s how Jesus works. (NOTE TO ABC: THIS IS MY IDEA DO NOT STEAL IT.)

Oh hey, here come Roberto and Ali to see who is Here for the Right Reasons! Ali lost her dime store extensions and now looks like a Real Live Girl. They will interview the potential candidates for the job of Future Wife and see who measures up. Knowing Ali and Roberto, I imagine the first question might be “Can you help us with the TV Guide crossword? What is Cheers star Ted?”

Finally, God help us, time for the cuts. Bye to both troublemakers Crispy Melissa and Jesus-dating Raichel. Then Keltie, who admits she will die alone. This was her last chance. Apparently Keltie has never tried Walking Into a Bar Anywhere in America. Anyway, whatever.

A short story based on today's Trending Topics for San Francisco, at around 9:00 a.m.

Jim Harbaugh was upset. He paced his office, fuming, then grabbed his iPhone 3GS and called Vince Young, whom he findly referred to as “Huckleberry Finn,” for reasons neither of them could remember.

“Vince,” Harbaugh said. “Did you see these god damned People’s Choice Awards?”

“Maybe,” said Vince Young. “What’s up?”

“Well,” Harbaugh fumed, “I was watching and the category for Favorite Constitution came up. Can you fucking believe this shit? Britain was nominated?”

“Great Britain doesn’t have a written constitution,” Vince Young said. “What are you talking about? Are you drunk?”

“No, Vince Young, I’ve never been more sober,” Harbaugh said. “So did you see who won?”

“Was it the Netherlands?,” Vince Young asked.

“Japan!,” Harbaugh yelled. “And their constitution only dates to 1947!”

Vince Young shook his head. “Just seems wrong. Anyway, who won for Favorite Pseudonymous American Author?”

“Mark Twain,” Harbaugh replied. “But he wins about every year. At least the years that Ellery Queen doesn’t win.”

Vince Young sighed. “Anyway, #Whats4Breakfast?”

“What did you say?,” Harbaugh asked. “Did you just say ‘Hashtag what’s for breakfast,’ all strung together really fast?”

“Maybe,” Vince Young said. “#ces.”

Controversy swirls around Time's Person of the Year 2010 choice.

So yeah, Mark Zuckerberg is Time's Person of the Year.

(Does this photo seem oddly stretched or something? I stole it from the WSJ b/c that's the first one that popped up on Google News. Anyway.)

Makes sense, I guess. It really did seem like 2010 was the year where Facebook went from just a social networking site to Utter and Total Ubiquity. 2010 was the year your Mom joined Facebook and started posting stupid shit 24/7, right?

(As I have mentioned many times before, maybe to the point of annoyance and/or self-aggrandizement, I am one of 2 (or maybe 3) people I know who does not have a Facebook account. The reasons are still chiefly the same and may be somewhat unique to my personality but that's neither here nor there, plus at this point it's almost too late to join. Now it just seems lame. Like you're the last person who shows up at a party and goes "OK, now we can get started!" I do like the stalking aspects of FB, but based on looking at other people use it, I would quickly get way way way too annoyed to enjoy it.)

ANYWAY, one "Scott Simon" from NPR does not at all agree with Time's choice!!!!!!!


LOLz. This is the dumbest shit I've read all day. The Chilean miners, Scott Simon? Really?? I barely remember that the Chilean Miner thing happened today. Imagine people reviewing the list of POTYs in 10 years and going "Who the fuck are the Chilean Miners? Did they like discover cold fusion underground or something? What the fuck?"

Honestly, Scott Simon, I'm glad you're not picking the POTY or in 1987 Baby Jessica would have been the Person of the Year instead of Mikhail Gorbachev.

(Incidentally, we totally need to get together and have a screening of "Everybody's Baby: The Rescue of Jessica McClure," starring Beau Bridges and featuring, oddly, Will Oldham. Yes, that Will Oldham. Bonnie Prince Billy. WTF.)

Where was I. I get lost. Oh, right, Scott Simon. Listen, Scott, the way Facebook is going eventually it's going to be the Ur-Application and I will eventually have to get a FB account myself or I will cease to exist. You probably won't be allowed to have a job or buy vicodin online from a Russian website without a FB account, so it'll be a necessity. So Zuckerberg's probably a rational choice.

The Chilean Miners will be the subject of a Where Are They Now special on TLC in 10 years.

Today in NIMBY: Opera singer will now be allowed to utterly destroy quality of life, children's dreams in North Beach

God, I hate people sometimes. OK, all the time, but who I hate at any particular time changes.

There's this Italian restaurant called Colosseo on Columbus Ave. in North Beach. I know, what are the odds? Anyway, it must be fairly new because it wasn't there when I lived in North Beach. Oh shit, I moved out of NB in 2004, so maybe it's not so new. Tempus fugit, etc.

For those of you outside the 415/510/650/707 area codes, North Beach is the faux-"Italian" neighborhood in SF. At one point, many years ago, it was actually an Italian neighborhood but now it's just the Italian restaurants and a few other remnants.

There's a big hill called Telegraph Hill that probably had something to do with telegraphs at some point that rises over NB. I used to live right on top of that hill, at Vallejo and Montgomery. There is a neighborhood group called the Telegraph Hill Dwellers who are the villains of this piece and to whom we will return shortly.

OK SO, Colosseo had a quaint idea! They will import the uninomial "LUCA," who, we are told, is a "highly trained opera singer," and LUCA will "serenade customers while they dine." BUON GIORNO LUCA!!! How quaint. Tourists will clasp their hands to their chests and go "This is a uniquely San Francisco moment." I love it! Bring LUCA on!

Did you think it was going to be that E-Z? You funny. It seems that LUCA would be accompanied by "a small speaker system that will provide orchestral backing."

Uh-oh.

This small speaker system caused the politically powerful Tel Hill Dwellers (henceforth "THD") to lift their dragon-shaped heads from the primordial muck in which they rest, shake off their slumber, and cast a jaundiced eye on LUCA and his boom box. Take it away, Chron!

Representatives from the Telegraph Hill Dwellers did not return multiple calls and e-mails seeking comment. The group has successfully stalled a number of projects in San Francisco, including a plan to build a 430-foot condo tower near the Transamerica Pyramid and the redevelopment of the Pagoda Palace Theater, vacant since 1994.

In comments to the city's Planning Department, the group suggested that it was concerned giving the restaurant a permit for amplified sound could allow the owners, or a future owner, to turn the property into a dance club or concert venue.

That's right. Instead of singing "Non più andrai" from Marriage of Figaro, THD fears that LUCA will sing "Back That Azz Up" from Juvenile's justly-praised "400 Degreez." MUCH AS WE MAY WANT THAT, it is unlikely to occur.

LUCA performing. (As conceptualized by THD.)

Now, a complete review of THD's activities over the years is well beyond the scope of this piece, but let me just say this: You look like idiots.

Luckily, the Planning Commission, FOR ONCE, didn't bow and scrape and now LUCA will be free to sing to the delight of a Couple from Grand Rapids and their bored 13-year-old.

Moral of the story? Now matter how innocuous, how charming, how utterly perfect an idea you have that will bring Joy to the Hearts of Many or maybe Cure the Cancer or whatever, SOMEBODY in this town is going to be against it. In this case it happens to be THD, and they have a history of doing this kind of thing, but it happens all the time. I'm not advocating tearing down Postcard Row and replacing it with a Jiffy Lube and a Rite Aid, but I mean, really, COME ON, when you complain about a guy singing opera with a boom box in a restaurant on a busy street around the corner from a two-block-long Ed Hardy nightmare of strip clubs and vodka-and-Red-Bull bars, you really are crying wolf. Go back to stopping libraries or something.

"Rehab: Party at the Hard Rock Hotel": A Critical Reappraisal

"Rehab: Party at the Hard Rock Hotel" is a television program in which grotesquely oversized steroid-addled higher primates with a surprising amount of disposable income and the microbikini-clad females who mate with them purchase $1,000 bottles of champagne, jump up and down and shout "REHAAAAAAAB" into a camera, and get into fights around a hotel swimming pool in Las Vegas, Nevada. I've previously considered the merits, or lack thereof, of the show, but it's been a few years and it seems time to revisit the topic.

(I don't believe the show is, as my friend Generic would put it, a Signpost of Cultural Death, although, it is true, that in 2008 I called it "yet more evidence of the decline and fall of whatever was left of American civilization." That seems a little harsh to me now.)

Long story short, this season isn't as good as last season.

(I know, I'm actually comparing seasons of "Rehab" now. Hey, life can't all be Jonathan Franzen.)

For lack of a better word, this season just seems staged. I know what you're saying: "When did you undergo a frontal lobotomy?" I mean, "What do you mean, staged? Aren't all reality shows staged?" Well, no, not really, and if they are, sort of, not as blatantly, I guess.

This is Jonna, which, for some reason, is pronounced "Jon-NAY." Recognize her? If you do, you have no room to talk to me right now, because you recognize her from The Real World season in Cancun.

(Let's pause here for a second. I don't watch the Real World any more, and I think I only saw a few episodes of the Cancun season, but it really is amazing that a show that started out with some charged conversations about race and class has devolved into essentially a multi-episode filmed Spring Break with more booze and dumber people. Also, the Cancun season featured something named "Ayiiia," three "I's," which sounds very much like the name of one of the blue things in "Avatar." Anyway.)

Why did I post her picture? I forget. Oh wait, I remember. Because she is on the show not as an actual waitress, like the waitresses in the first season, but as an actress playing a Goofy Waitress who Always Fucks Up and Is in Trouble All the Time. Krazy Hijinx ensue. They got rid of the first season manager, Justin, a normalish guy with a regular-looking girlfriend who didn't appear to be a bikini model or stripper, and replaced him with MATT, a combative little megalomaniac whose job seems to consist chiefly of apoplectic outbursts of sheer and unvarnished rage directed at his hapless staff, who seem to be trapped in some kind of Stockholm Syndrome relationship with their terrorizing nemesis.

It goes on. Whole episodes seem staged now, what with a troupe of drunk midget wrestlers causing problems or the inevitable don't-let-my-fiancee-catch-me bachelor party or the escaped snake or whatever.

I suppose the viewing interest here is essentially the same as something like "Jersey Shore" or, going back a ways, touring the Bethlem Royal Hospital to point and jeer at the hapless inmates within; something between an interest in a strange and foreign subculture and the basic need to feel superior. But, that being the case, TruTV, give me the actual subculture. Believe me, it doesn't need your help.

On the very odd case of Alvin Greene

I don't know if you've been following this unbelievably weird Alvin Greene Senate campaign in South Carolina, but the nutshell is that an unemployed, not very articulate guy somehow got on the ballot and won the Democratic primary without campaigning at all and therefore won the right to get annihilated by ornery oddball Jim DeMint in November. The whole thing is deserving of a book of its own which I don't have the time to write, but there's one thing about it that keeps bugging me.

You see, in addition to all the other weirdness, Candidate Greene is currently facing charges of "communicating and disseminating obscene materials," because he apparently showed a female college student some online porn in a computer lab.

Here's what I don't get: IT'S ILLEGAL IN SOUTH CAROLINA TO SHOW PORN TO A COLLEGE STUDENT?!?!! Holy fuck, it's a good thing I didn't go to college in South Carolina.

Seriously, I'm sure it's creepy if there's some guy hanging around the computer lab and he goes "Hey, check this out" and it's some streaming donkey midget porn or whatever, but the appropriate response is to kick the guy out of the computer lab, not charge him with a crime. Jesus. This is going in the "absurd overreaction" file. (And yes, I would say the same if it were the Republican candidate. Republicans just know better. They do their kink in private.)

That thing everybody thinks about this weekend isn't true