The King is Dead

I am going to miss Richard Jewell. I always made a point of scanning TV Guide (which I subscribe to faithfully, despite its total obsolescence) during NBC's outstanding coverage of the world's "greatest" sporting competition, hoping to come across some episode of Montel featuring Jewell as a guest. Damn those shows were special, the bloated former-scapegoat, his torpid body tumid from diabetes, his fate sealed by the mere word "suspected." In fact, Jewell was a hero. He actually saved people, and was alert on the scene. But someone thought he was the bomber. So he's dead. Simple as that. Welcome home, Nostradamus, welcome home Richard Jewell.



Ever since I became an indirect employee of a state government yesterday (and a union member too) I have felt the soul of a strange curmudgeon swiftly and silently usurp my very being; suddenly, I begin to treat others as though I were a postal worker, their slightest misunderstanding sending me into fits of "Sir, I'm afraid you're going to have to be more prepared in order to talk to me" and "The line begins OVER THERE."

At the DMV, I become outraged at a child's screaming, to the point where I began to say something to the mother about "shutting up her little monster" before some vestige of reason quiets me. When a woman's faux-pearl necklace comes off its string due to the overactive hands of her young child rather than bend and help her recoup the beads I smile and laugh, looking around at my "coworkers" in the line as another moment of hilarity has broken up the tedium of our lives as bureaucratic city employees.

As a new union member, I am obviously frothing at the mouth for the first strike. I want to strike immediately, having not even received my copy of the proposed contract.

Perhaps I have been taken over by one of Dostoevsky's "Demons," a maligning and spirit-destroying ennui that bleeds the soul while leaving the body to live on, a hollow and indifferent shell. Perhaps I exaggerate. But in any event, the Geist of civil service has plenty of fresh Lebensraum in my life now, and I will never shake off its nourishing tentacles...


Apologies to Eric...

But I have to post a link to this angry Australian story from last Halloween, featuring this picture of Bill Maher dressed as a dead Steve Irwin...



Have let this slip for a long time. Sorry.

Eddie Griffin is dead... This is a tragedy roughly on par with the death of Darell Russell... Eddie had tremendous potential, was a gifted athlete and a seemingly nice guy, but alas, the demon booze did him in, as it has so many talented people in so many fields...

It seems as if Eddie's death was a suicide. He crashed his SUV into a moving freight train... Pretty awful way to go after being cut just last March by the Wolves... Pretty awful. Eddie, we will miss you.