Phil Spector: Another Famous Creep Walks

Alright, a hung jury in the Phil Spector murder trial. What total FUBAR. I am telling you, it's hard to believe in the justice part of the justice system lately. From the Jena 6 teenagers accused of attempt murder for little more than a serious fight to Phil Spector's lame explanations for a model shot in the face in his home, where is Lady Justice? It just irks me to no end.

This little man is as bizarre as he is crafty, and that's not a compliment. He has a well-documented history of erratic behavior and violence, especially toward women. You've heard all the testimony highlights on TV, but do you know about some of the stranger things he did to his family while married to Ronnie Spector? He insisted the house be kept dark so nobody could see his balding head. He hid all her shoes in hopes of keeping her inside. When that didn't work he locked her in the mansion. He locked his young son in his bedroom with a little pot in the corner for a toilet (by his son's own account). I'm sure glad Ronnie left him in 1972, otherwise she might be six feet under with her head blown half off by now.

He fired a gun during a studio recording with John Lennon. He reportedly made other musicians play their instruments exactly to his specifications while holding a gun to their head. Who does this wing nut think he is? I wish someone would kick his ass and set his hair on fire.

I understand the whole 'beyond a reasonable doubt' concept, the foundation of our justice system. It's well-intentioned, but I truly think that train has left the station. The times, they are a changin'. I don't see how Phil Spector emerging from his home with murder weapon in hand, stating to his driver, "I think I just killed someone", does not go above AND beyond a reasonable doubt. The lunatics have taken over the asylum.

Warren Jeffs' Alter Ego

Warren Jeffs. Where to begin? He is so offensive and absolutely disturbing on so many levels that I feel justified picking on any aspect of him. Besides my utter contempt for the man behind the milk toast face, his physicality irks me as well. I noticed while watching courtroom coverage today how he slides across the floor, so stiff and pale and gangly; someone who looks like they probably spit when they talk and smell bad. I normally don't criticize appearance, but there's something about Warren Jeffs's being that makes my neck prickle.

Aside from the dastardly deeds he's committed with young girls and women, in addition to the injustices he's enacted against young boys and men, beyond the blasphemy against religion he's guilty of, his evil has covered him from the inside out. Even though he's so slight it looks like I could take him down single-handed, he still looks dangerous in a sly and ruthless way.

This funk of his reminds me of an evil character I saw in the movie "Pan's Labyrinth". These are pictures of him. His name was Pale Male and he loved eating little children. Pale Male wasn't outright with his evil; he was manipulative and deceptive first, then extremely cruel. He lured hungry kids with a fabulous feast, stayed calm and still as they explored and then killed them as soon as they were comfortable to eat. This is exactly who Warren Jeffs morphs into when I see him on the news. Besides the physical similarities (clothed and naked, I bet), Jeffs is a puppet master, too. And a heartless one.

With all the prophetizing he's done, I wonder if he's contemplated his own judgement day. He knows he's not the prophet. He's smarter than that. Well, he might not have to wait too much longer to get a sneak peak. Inmates often have special ways to welcome sex offenders into the fold (no pun intended, honest), especially those who have assaulted children. Bye bye, Warren. Watch out for Pale Male.

Disturbing Slang: Side Salads

I went to an Angel's baseball game with a group from work recently. One coworker is related to a team member and thus got to sit in the fancy boxes. Another friend pointed out where his box was. Then he gestured to another private area and said, "That's where the side salads sit". Huh?

Judging by the puzzled look on my face, he explained that 'side salads' are players' mistresses and advised that many of the wives are aware of this and consider it a price to pay for the lavish lifestyles. Well, I don't know about that, but I do have a little something to say about side salads.

First, how unsettling that sports mistresses must be so common as to warrant their own urban slang term. So, what do we call men on the side? Cheese sticks? I apologize; that was crude. But, something tells me we need not dwell on that because I bet there aren't many cheese sticks to speak of. I think this is primarily a male side order.

Second, shame on you side salads. Men are puppies with instinctual reactions to certain female traits and behavior. When I hear of affairs with married men, both parties are guilty, but I blame the woman more. If she turns it off the man will go sniff elsewhere, at least the kind of man inclined to do that. So listen, salads, leave the married men alone. Someone's already ordered that main dish.

I love side salads, particularly with blue cheese. I order them frequently, but I'll never be one.

Death Wand Massacre

Early this morning, in the hours of darkness, I awoke to tickles on my lip. Romantic, you might think? Hardly. A faint buzzing accompanied the tickle, jolting me into consciousness as I have terrible reactions to mosquito bites. I flipped on my light and blinked myself awake. Hmm, a fly buzzed overheard. A rather fat one, but only a fly. And then another, and another and...There must have been 10 flies in my bedroom, on the ceiling, on my nightstand, on ME! Oh, the horror. I hate flies. They're ugly, dirty, and oh, the places they've been, well...

I tried shaking off my sleepy fog to discover why there was a fly family in my bedroom. I don't have a fly swatter because I never have flies to swat. But, I do have a giant spatula. So, off to the kitchen I shuffled. Bumping into a few items on the way, I imagined more buzzing around my head. I flicked the kitchen light on and BAM! Not only did another flock of flies greet me but good Lord! A smell so sour and rank I coughed and covered my nose with both hands.

There, in my beautiful sink, were the regurgitations of more than one family's evening meals. I live on the ground floor of a three-story condo complex and while I do love my surroundings, it truly sucks to be on the bottom of everyone's plumbing issues. So there, in smelly glory, were corn kernels, bits of noodle, some rice, pieces of a cheese-like substance, a lot of black chunks and filmy liquid. But these flies!

How did this infestation happen so quickly? I still don't understand it. They danced around the filth juice, buzzing back and forth between my head and the sink. And so unleashed my rage. I snatched my spatula and went into commando mode. "Prepare to die, flies!" I squealed with bizarre excitement I can only describe as giddiness, after the fact. Is this the rush murderers are addicted to? I digress. I have an active imagination. What can I say?

Those flies were quick little nasties and I was soon talking like a seasoned trucker. But, one by one, I pounced and smashed them to death. Between my bedroom and kitchen, I made two little death piles with their bodies, some still writhing in their final moments. Perhaps most disturbing, I leaned down to the kitchen death pile and said, rather loudly, "What's up now, flies!"

Anyhow, after scooping all the corpses into the trash and promptly taking it out to the bins, I am left exhausted at only 6:30 a.m. It took me the better part of an hour to complete my death wand massacre, but I am extremely pleased with myself. I cleaned out my sink and sprayed it with orange oil (a natural pest deterrent) and sit poised to call maintenance at 8:00.

I make myself a nice pot of coffee and reach for the sugar. There, on top of my canister, a lone survivor. A single, fat, laughing fly rubbing its hands together and mocking me. Excuse me while I get my death wand...

Trouble

Warning, this post is so far out there it doesn't even register on the outer limits of the UltraJam common sense-o-meter. What's this about Leona Helmsley's will? The Queen of Mean died last week and left $12 million to the dog? The beneficiary, who shall be known as "Trouble" from here on (that really is his name) is apparently quite accustomed to living large. The Maltese wears a diamond collar and designer clothes.

I guess this kind of dog bling needs maintenance money, but for real now, $12 million? That's just obscene. Imagine all the struggling families who could be pulled off the bankruptcy cliff with just fractions of that amount. Ugh. Do the brains of the astronomically rich begin to marinade in fantasy juice after a certain net worth? I just don't understand it.

Others who might feel my pain are a few of Leona's grandchildren who were passed over financially for 'reasons known to them'. Ouch! I do wonder, though, what it was like having a grandmother dubbed, "the meanest woman in history" by Donald Trump. Hey, I respect family dynamics. I'm not in a position to judge from the outside looking in. But still! A dog? To be fair, Helmsley did leave billions to charity. But it still seems whack that two remaining grand kids get $5 million each and the dog barks off with $12 million.

Leona, look down or up depending on where you are and make some sense out of this for us 'little people who pay taxes'. Remember when she allegedly said that? I guess Trouble got a modest amount considering she was worth some $3 billion when she died. All the same, he better watch his back.

Aqua Death

I'm in mourning. My beautiful beta fish, affectionately named Bait, died. It was a slow death; painful to watch. He listed to one side on the bottom of his aquarium one evening. Several loud taps on the the walls didn't stir him. I was concerned but hoped he'd be back to his old self in the morning. I awoke to find him completely flat on his side, gasping slowly. Gills flapping out, holding open, then shaking closed. Poor Bait. I tried to make eye contact, let him know I was there. He just stared vacantly forward. I felt horrible going off to work, leaving him to struggle alone on the black gravel.

This went on for two more days. I debated about euthanizing him, just flushing him away and out of his misery. I couldn't do it. I let nature take its course. Upon returning from dinner (a fish dinner, no less), I found him still. He was dead.

What happened next is a bit concerning. I was unable to fish him out and flush him away. I kept his body there in the aquarium for two days. I knew it was wrong, a bit disturbing, even disrespectful to little Bait. But, I missed him and I just couldn't say goodbye. I started wondering about those sick souls you hear about on the news who keep the dead bodies of loved ones they've murdered in the house for weeks. Is this how it starts, I wondered? Did they keep their dead fish around for days? No. Snap out of it. I did not murder Bait. Big difference, as I see it.

One thing I did realize is that this is the first pet death I've experienced since leaving home. My Mom, saint that she is, always took care of our animals when they got sick and died. Dogs, hamsters, birds. You name it, Mom came through. She was the one strong enough to do what was best when the rest of us couldn't face it. So, I reminded myself I'm a grown-up now and fished Bait out, brought him to the toilet and flushed him down. Then I went to Petco and got another. Life goes on.

Sheep's Clothing

I was enjoying my morning coffee yesterday when (play nails on a chalkboard sound in your mind here) Uber Fiend John Mark Karr's whispery voice floated from the TV. That unmistakable, unsettling sound got me running from the kitchen to the TV, only to catch the last second of the teaser, "Next up, we talk with John Mark Karr!"

CNN, for whatever reason, engaged this slippery perv in yet another meaningless interview. I thought after the repeated uncomfortable pauses with Greta Van Susteren last summer, that was it. But no, a year later, we go again. He sat across from the anchor, so obviously enjoying himself and clearly invigorated by the attention or "fame", as he likely sees it. The interviewer greeted him nicely, thanked him for coming and after a few more pleasantries asked him what exactly he meant by certain statements he made while in custody for the JonBenet murder. "What did you mean when you said her death was an accident?" she asks.

I sigh in frustration. Before I can draw my next breath, Mr. Karr responds in predictable fashion, "Unfortunately, I just cannot discuss the details of certain things. I wish I could, but I just can't." Barf, I say. He always responds this way to questions about the strange and incriminating things he'd so willingly blurted out to media so many months ago, in the center of what I imagine was his finest hour - to him.

Then the journalist does as so many before her, she morphs into a police detective during interrogation. "Did you kill JonBenet Ramsey?" Oh come on, reporters. Come on! Not you too, CNN. Please, stop the insanity. No more John Mark Karr broken record interviews. I just imagine him enjoying these appearances so very much. There is not going to be any on-air admission. There will be no questions answered. There will only be an unpleasant image of a true wolf in sheep's clothing for me to push out of my mind all day long.

Queen Cazizzle

As Will I Am's new single, "I Got it From My Mama", climbs the charts here in the U.S. I stand agasp, mouth open, head shaking, pockets a lot emptier than his. Come on public! Are you serious? Do you really think this is a great jam?

An examination of the lyrics reveals gems such as, "If the girl real pretty, nine times out of ten, she pretty like her mama. And if her mama real ugly, I guarantee ya she gon’ be ugly like her mama". Is that the bar for making it in the biz today? If so, I'm fairly confident I could raise it, or at least meet it, with a jingle of my own celebrating sons and fathers.

Will I Am has got to be laughing his arse off about the popularity of this song. I imagine it was born out of a conversation involving the statement, "I dare you to submit this to the label with a straight face!".

Well, back to my budding music career. Before I document my musical brilliance with catchy lyrics about sexual attractions to moms and their daughters and the politics of the female gene pool, I think I need some street cred. Thus, I'm ditching my name Cat for Queen Cazizzle. A gal's gotta talk the talk to walk the walk. And I got that from my mama.

Passion, Music and Demons

I so enjoyed "El Cantante", Jennifer Lopez's new film that opened last night. Talk about a movie that swallows you up - I was right there with Hector and Puchi, feeling their passion for each other, for music, hating Hector as he jeopardized everything again and again. But also hoping he would make it, defeat his demons. Critics, including people who lived the story, say the movie unfairly focuses on Hector's drug use and portrays Puchi too favorably. The real story, they say, is Hector's struggles to be recognized as an artist in a discriminating industry. Well, maybe so, but I was captured by the movie and the story the producers chose to tell anyway.

I don't really listen to salsa, but it's so easy to enjoy. I almost can't resist twisting my hips to the beat. In fact, I did several hip twists right there in my theater seat.

I digress. The film is moving and appeals to the human condition with realistic portrayals of struggles with infidelity, drugs, joy and death. The movie's about Hector LaVoe's life, the prominent Puerto Rican singer who introduced the salsa sound in the 1970s. Lopez plays Hector's wife, Puchi and her husband Marc Anthony portrays Hector. The two explode off the screen. I easily forgot their own celebrity, buried under their embodiment of the LaVoes. The story's pretty tragic and I won't spoil it, but you might find yourself thinking, "are you kidding me?" when one blow after another hits the family. Not that most aren't self initiated, but still.

If you want to take a break from mass destruction and murder movies (which I'm known to frequent, myself) and see a film where actors really do master their craft, go see Hector and Puchi. "El Cantante" might leave you emotionally exhausted, but you won't feel ripped off by another over hyped, silly movie. I might actually buy some bongo drums.

PERV Called Out

Jack J. McClellan, 45, enjoys photographing young girls and posting their pictures on websites he maintains for the pleasure of pedophiles according to local news reports here in Southern California. The Santa Monica Police Department took an unusual chance this week by releasing an information bulletin to the public featuring this filthy man's photo, address, vehicle description, license plate and method of operation. Outstanding! The document clearly states he has not yet been convicted of a sexual offense and is not currently wanted. It simply issues a warning to parents to call in any questionable behavior by McClellan to police.

McClellan was recently seen in the children's section of the Santa Monica library and stated on TV he, 'just likes to be around the kids'. Pardon me while I shiver. I really applaud Santa Monica PD for supporting parents' rights to be informed of this deviant's behavior in their own backyards. The backlash of civil rights violations is brewing. This man, straight from the creep-o-torium, has already claimed his privacy is violated and blames police for putting his life in danger when he "and most others like him just like to look at the kids, but haven't crossed the line of doing anything sexual". YET.

When, not if but when, the fine attorney who has no doubt already negotiated a deal with this man crawls out, alleging discrimination, right to privacy and the necessary compensation for severe mental distress caused by this outing, I shall vomit right here all over my keyboard. Please, society, can we just once let the police warn us without worrying about whether the deviant is okay with it? If you'd like to express support of this bulletin to Santa Monica PD, you can email them here.

While the media, police, courts and this particular yanker sort it all out, please be aware that you can look up sex registrants in your area by visiting a Megan's Law website directory, searchable by name, address and zip code. You'll get a photo and offense information for any registrant matching your search. Keep in mind many registrants don't keep current with their obligation to report their addresses to law enforcement, so the lists are not comprehensive. But it's something, nonetheless. If you'd like a nicely packaged report with updates emailed to you when a new perv moves into your area, other sites will do so for a small activation fee and monthly charge, usually about $5.00. For the price of a Starbucks coffee, you can arm yourself with some information vital to your child's safety.

Protect Your Checks

Here's another way to jam the crooks and make their trade just a little less easy street. Uniball offers a new pen to thwart check washing, which is soaking your signed check in a solution that removes all the fields you've filled in after the thief has traced your signature.

The Uniball 207 claims to infuse your check with permanent ink resistant to these shenanigans. I for one am dishing out the $2.29 plus tax to prevent some clown from erasing my documents and taking me for whatever they can get. It's true, most of us don't write checks anymore with the omnipresent debit card and bill pay, but I still have a few instances where checks are necessary.

You'd be surprised how many cases of this kind of fraud are filed by detectives at my law enforcement agency, so I know it is indeed a real crime. Tell your world about the Uniball 207! Someone over at that company sure had their thinking cap on.

Pull Your Pants Up

Another jurisdiction is playing with fire by banning low slung pants that expose underwear or private parts. This ordinance actually has a hammer: up to $500 in fines and six months in jail. Hooooweeee! Go on with your common sense self, Delcambre, LA! This is old news now, having passed last month, but I hadn't heard about it. Yesterday it was a call-in topic on a hip hop radio station I flipped across.

Boy were those callers mad! "Freedom of expression!", "Illegal!", they cried. And inevitably, "Discrimination!" Let's unclutter the issue. Underwear, if anyone is uncertain about its intended use, gives us a great clue in its name: Underwear. It's to be worn under our clothes. I don't want to see anyone's boxers, briefs, whale tails or coin slots when I'm walking down the street, thanks. What yahoo got everyone thinking these sights were sexy, cool or worse yet, no big deal? Man up, society! Let's not be afraid to say, 'that's disgusting and stupid', when something's disgusting and stupid.

There were almost 100 comments posted to the Washington Post article I linked to. Most were outraged at the government telling us what we can wear or astonished at the steep penalties. Well, when parents or we ourselves can't recognize inappropriate public apparel, maybe we need a little help. As for the fines, yes, they're stiff alright. A juvenile can steal about 10 cars before they see any formal probation or camp time in my jurisdiction in California. So someone going to jail for flashing their butt is great cause for celebration to me.

Somewhere along the line, we've forgotten the difference between sensuality and sexuality. Being sensual is far more enticing than raw sexuality to me. By the way they're dressing, many young people must think the more skin shown the better, the sexier. Sensuality is the great intoxicator, though. It gives us hints to what may lay beneath. We don't see the blasted boxers or thong hanging out, but we imagine what it might be like under there after someone's sensuality blips on our radar.

So please, America, pull up your pants. No matter what you see on MTV or what your friends say, you look ridiculous.

Death of a Snailsman

I feel absolutely horrible when I step on a snail. I hear the cracking of that little shell. My foot slides forward a bit, lubricated by snail goo and I'm just wrecked for the day. It's strange, I can review police reports all day about people beaten up, robbed and generally mistreated and it doesn't affect me as much as accidentally smashing a snail.

The snail's murder occurred last night near my condo. I'm usually quite careful because it's somewhat damp here by the bay at dusk and snails are known to frequent. I guess it really wasn't murder because I had no intent. It was, like I said, purely accidental. So I suppose this makes it manslaughter. Snailslaughter. Crunch. Agony...

It is like the train wreck cliche; after I've smashed it, I just cannot look away. I cringe, but kneel down and look at it. And there he was, poor thing, writhing naked, shell-less, on the sidewalk, seconds to live. It was purely horrific.

I don't know why I'm so empathetic toward the snail. It defies logic, common sense, which is what I examine here on UltraJam. It's just so easy for me to imagine him gathering up his gusto for an evening stroll..."Okay! Here I go. I just know I can make it to the other edge of the sidewalk before dark if I start out now. Ready, set, AHHHHHHH!" Silence.

I know, let it go, you say. It's only a silly snail. But alas, is there a creature more docile? More defenseless against the human foot than a snail? I know his remains are out there, by my door, and I will need to muster strength to pass by him this morning. His family is no doubt assuming the worst by now. Tomorrow is truly promised to no one.

Starbucksopoly Alternative

I'm a coffee lover. My Dutch heritage and my Dad's birthplace of Java genetically predisposed me to coffee-loving. I do not love Starbucks coffee. Their specialty drinks either taste like warm milk or scalding hot sugar syrup to me. Thankfully, I've discovered a fantastic alternative to the Starbucks on every corner: Peet's Coffee and Tea.

Peet's serves robust coffee straight up or in delightful mixtures of the latte and cappuccino varieties. When I take a sip, I no longer scowl at the absence of coffee flavor in my coffee; I smile in pure bliss (after I swallow).

The earthy brown beans roasted on site at Peet's greet you at the door and the staff even make attempts to memorize your first name. Kind of a nice neighborhood feel. There aren't too many Peet's around on the west coast, I guess because Starbucks really is on every corner. But if you come across one, don't pass it by! This is coffee for grown-ups.

Dry Sausages

Occasionally, after an especially draining or tedious day at the office, I reminisce about my waitressing job of high school and college. Those days under the tray were exciting, indeed. I never knew what characters would sit at my tables and the money wasn't bad, either. I regularly pulled $300 in tips a night on the weekends at an Italian fine dining house with very over-priced wines. In fact, it was a much fairer compensation system than my current civil service pay structure. Your tips directly reflect your customers' satisfaction and motivate you to provide your very best service. In civil service, everybody gets the same salary and automatic (albeit tiny) pay increases once a year whether you're a hard charger or a slug. Unless you have designs on management positions, which are almost always inside jobs, there's really no monetary incentive to do your best. Thus all those civil service worker jokes..."how many civil servants does it take to...". Naturally, there are always exceptions. I count myself among those. There are employees who have a strong work ethic among the sloths. It's just a broken system, all the same.

Of course, waitressing has its pitfalls. Strange birds who might crack off a dollar on a $100 tab, or those curious people who must round the charge total to an even amount, even if it short-changes the waitress. Grrrr. Waitressing is hard work, folks. My restaurant was a former house, with the kitchen upstairs. The owner was a bit Cruella DeVille-esque (crazy white hair, loooong red nails, black and white outfits) and insisted us girls wear those black parade shoes with 2 inch heels with our Italian maiden dress uniforms. Every one of us took a tumble down the stairs and if you'd been holding food or dishes, she'd take the cost of what you dropped out of your check! Beyotch, eh? No matter, the tips were so good we came out ahead anyway.

I had my little share of regulars and one guy, in particular, was beyond odd. But I was always happy to see him. He dined alone and was crabby. No small talk whatsoever. Always insisted on the same table and ordered the same thing: spaghetti with Italian sausage and peppers, with a twist: the sausages MUST be dry. We marinated our sausages in sauce all day. Mr. Dry, however, wanted no sauce anywhere near his plate. So I obliged, washing off the two sausages, drying them and placing them in their naked glory on the plain white noodles. He was happy at last! He left me a $50 tip that first night and every night there after until I left the job four years later. See? He appreciated my service! And that just made me want to dry those sausages extra nicely time after time.

So I propose all civil servants complete one year of waiter/waitressing prior to permanent appointment. It will be readily apparent who wants to work and who's there for the free ride about five tables into the first night. And remember, support your food servers. Please tip accordingly!

Los Angeles ExPat

I've become an expatriate under the definition of someone residing in a culture other than that of their upbringing. Bingo. The latest act in the center ring of immorality circus, Mayor Villaraigosa cheating on his wife for the second (known) time with a Telemundo news anchor assigned to cover the Mayor's post (honestly, no pun intended). Did I mention his wife's battling cancer? Nice.

City Attorney Rocky DelGadillo and wife step up to the ring with their exciting trick, driving for more than a year without auto insurance! His wife has a little more experience under her belt, having been busted twice for driving under a suspended license, once in her husband's city car. Bravo, DelGadillos! It seems a little DelGaHypocritical to jam Paris Hilton for doing something so similar to your own M.O.

Young Hollywood leaving their vajayjay prints on leather seats all over the city and certainly a few major airline carriers. Ghastly. Alcohol wipes are a must have accessory for every Angelino now. All of Hollywood assuming the rest of us are interested in their political views. I'll pass, thanks. Please stars, just stick to making great movies and getting spray tans.

Let's see, Los Angeles is cheating, lying, being reckless behind the wheel, exposing private parts and running at the mouth. L.A. is going through puberty! This is just not my gig. Although I love the beach, eclectic culture and a little bit of edge in my day, I hope the winds of change blow through here soon and bring a little decency to town. Might take a category 4 hurricane at this rate.

Reverend Frank Floats my Boat

I saw "License to Wed" today and it was hil-frickin-larious (rolls off the tongue better with 2 l's). The critics, however, hated it! I think the critics need to have their humorology examined. I am telling you, I can rewind a few scenes in my head and still laugh out loud. Robin Williams' character, Reverend Frank, is a lovably annoying and wise man. And his mini me, an odd little boy in his 'ministers of tomorrow' program, is the perfect wing man.

I live within walking distance of theaters, so I skip right over quite a lot, with or without friends. Today I went solo, which I've convinced myself I'm totally comfortable with. Perhaps I still have kernels of lone movie-goer shame left in me. After sitting down and getting the once over from nearby couples and quartets, I busted myself for pretending to look for my 'friend' coming in either of the entry points until the blessed darkness fell. Wuss. I should embrace my by myselfness and proudly take that end seat with reckless abandon.

Back on point. This movie has lots of funny scenes and cameos from most of "The Office" cast, as a nod to the lead actor. There's a fantastic series of blunders when the couple is dealing with fake twin baby dolls going ballistic in Macy's. The dolls are part of Reverend Frank's marriage course to help them know each other better. It was a scream. When I laugh like that I begin to laugh at myself laughing, which leads to stifling, which culminates in choking and gasping and a few looks of concern from my seat neighbors.

All well worth it! If you feel like laughing and learning love tips simultaneously - go see it. And please don't stare at the LMGs.

Blogholes

There are blogholes out there. I've discovered many blog directories with fun features and virtual friends to exchange tips with. But there, in between meaningful messages on the forums, lurks the bloghole.

They lay in wait on every directory I've visited, barking stuff at novices and vets alike. The blogholes call people names for asking questions, belittle honest suggestions, blast out arrogant comments and pollute the blogosphere with useless flaps from angry little fingers on keyboards. Tap, tap, tap!

But hark, there's always a voice of reason that exposes the bloghole for all the world to see with one rational reply. I love it! I've seen threads going nuclear until the bloghole gets shut down and blurp, they slink for a bit and then post a good thread for forgiveness, only to amp back up to their undeniable blogholeness a few replies later.

WTF blogholes? Stand down. There's enough page ranks to go around. Enough badges and votes and trackbacks and...wait a minute...a bloghole remedy! Please, some spectacular smart geek (and I do love geeks) out there write some code to slap a bloghole badge on someone's avatar that just cannot be removed. Blogholes, watch your backs. The code is coming...

The Dingleberry Chronicles

The hair is the villain in this story; not the cat. The hair is the keeper of the dingleberries. I have feisty cat. Never mind she's 14 years old; this crabby tabby thinks she's an absolute lion. She's the best in my book...except for all that long hair. Gobs and gobs of it everywhere. I constantly vacuum. I have lint rollers at the ready in my bag, my car, my desk at work, on the table in the foyer for guests to roll the hair off as they leave. I groom her. I trim her. But alas, the hair just grows back seeminlgy overnight.

Sorry to be graphic, but this story must be told. I trust there are others out there who wrestle with the dreaded dinglberry. It is, of course, a stubborn little ball (sometimes albeit not so little) of crap stuck to the long fur around the exit orifice. The mighty dingleberry wreaks some havoc in this household. My cat has two reactions: either she leaves it there and sits or spins on every imaginable surface in my home, or she does a butt drag maneuver across the carpet attempting to disengage it. As you can imagine, neither option is too effective, let alone sanitary. The sit and spin does provide a little entertainment as I 'follow my nose' to find all the defaced areas. The drag leaves a lone skid mark - much more mundane.

When I came home tonight and greeted my cat I saw by that very distinctive walk that a most unwelcome guest was here, the dingleberry. I have become quite good at swift dingleberry extraction, but any goings on down there agitates my poor cat tremendously. She's just not herself for the rest of the night.

Another thing that's just not itself is my new ergonomic desk chair with a double layer of extra special vented nylon 'comfort mesh' on the seat. Now, a golf ball sized area is smeared with dingleberry firmly packed into all those little holes in the material. I just can't deal with it. I wheeled the chair to the trash bin. It's gone. The dingleberry wins again. Drat.

Deliciously Unplugged

My satellite TV was killed for 24 hours thanks to an over zealous pelican who apparently pushed my dish out of alignment while prancing around on the roof. Gasp! No TV? Actually, I'm glad he stopped by.

I went exploring 'round the neighborhood instead of watching my early evening line-up. To my delight, I found a community of jelly fish floating peacefully in the alcoves of the bay that my condo nestles against. They are so beautiful in their translucent glory, gently rolling back and forth with the changing current.

One photo is natural and the other is electrified a little with Photoshop neon effect. I sat transfixed upon these jellies for about half an hour; quite contently at that! This encounter with nature makes me wonder what else I'm missing with my face pasted to the TV or computer monitor all day...Breathe in the outdoors. There's nothing like it on TV!

Ultra Tag

This is fantastically exciting for me! I've never been 'tagged' in the blogosphere. Thanks to Bill Blunt, tag, I'm it. The rules require me to list 8 random things about myself and tag 8 other blogs in return. I'll happily oblige -

1. I never take the first item on the grocery shelf, usually the second in line, sometimes the third.
2. A former boss of mine was diagnosed as a sociopath (I knew it wasn't all in my head).
3. I am secretly in love with Conan O'Brien.
4. I thank God every morning for a body that works.
5. The scent of pine (fondly) reminds me of the first day of school.
6. I am arguably the world's, galaxy's, universe's biggest Stevie Nicks fan.
7. If I could meet 3 strangers on earth or in heaven, I would choose a 9/11 survivor, my paternal grandmother whom I never met and Ronald Reagan.
8. I am first generation American.
9. I like to end lists on an odd number.

Now for my tags:

I like the following blogs for the following reasons and I hope you will check them out!

• Ramblings of a Psychic: A very cool glimpse into the world of a reader and her telephonic customers.
• KchristieH: A nice blog of 'eclectic musings' and thought-provoking questions.
• Project Afterlight: A web designer and music lover who likes to write offers technical tips and interesting perspectives on reflection and other things.
• Don't Be Shy: A fresh blog about the struggles and advantages of being shy.
• Stupid Criminal Files: Entertaining and true accounts of dumb crooks
• Click: A beautiful Italian blog that proves photography communicates in any language
• Eighty Deuce on the Loose in Iraq: A personal experience of serving in Iraq
• Rantings of an Arab Chick: A special ed teacher with 'a foot in each hemisphere' comments on news, politics and personal life in a witty and intelligent manner.

Amy's All That

I love all sorts of music. Love Fleetwood Mac, love Sade, love Big & Rich, love Dave Brubek, Celia Cruz, The Gypsy Kings, Tina Turner, well, you get the idea. I go from here to there on the genre spectrum. Music is such a powerful medium. It can change your mood with a few notes, a few words. I deeply admire musicians and I sure appreciate a creative song with a good hook among the cookie cutter pop tarts today.

One such musician is the undeniable Amy Winehouse, British jazz songstress. Amy is a bit unconventional, one of her appealing traits. She's high on the charts now with "Rehab" and another great jangle, "You Know I'm No Good", is following close behind. The lyrics for rehab are funny but speak Amy's truth, I think. It's very catchy and her voice is absolutely genuine. I find myself singing "they wanna make me go to rehab" at my desk at work. That turns a head or two. It's great fun.

As for Amy's look, it's a little shall we say heroin-chic lately and also a bit slutty. So, perhaps not the best choice for a tween idol. But for us grown folks, Amy's a good find indeed. Give Rehab a whirl for yourself!

The Scarlet Letter Remixed

The crooks are on to something with this one. It seems four criminals branded "SNITCH" on a woman's face during a surprise attack after luring her into an apartment. They allegedly did this in retaliation for her reporting two of them to Arizona's Department of Child Protective Services for endangerment involving drug abuse. The couple's kid(s) were taken away as a result. Awww.

Let's turn the tables and brand the criminals instead of the victims. Wouldn't you like to know if your new babysitter had a drinking problem? I bet a big "DUI" across her forehead would be helpful. Or the teacher of your son's first grade class sporting a "pedophile" in small block letters from one cheek to the other via the bridge of the nose. This is fun! One more..."fraudster" branded into your financial advisor's palm.

Relax, ACLU. Of course this could never happen. People deserve a second chance. Just not a ninth or tenth one. Sizzzzle....

Don't Be a Target

After analyzing robberies for years at work, it's become habit to take precautions that make me a harder target. Are you aware of small changes you can make to encourage thieves to pick on someone else? Let me explain. Cell phone snatches are about to overtake your age-old purse snatch nationwide. With all those sexy models out there and plenty of ways around activating a stolen phone, cells are robbery magnets.

• Try to avoid talking and walking down the sidewalk or in parking lots. Wait until you're stationary and around groups of people.

I know, the point of a cell is the convenience of the walk and talk. However, you're distracted by your conversation and may not realize someone's about to run up on you from behind, grab the phone out of your hand and bolt. That's the M.O. for most cell snatches. If possible, make your calls while still sitting in your car with the doors locked. Or wait until you're among more people than on a neighborhood sidewalk, like at a mall.

• Don't get a false sense of security if you don't see anyone else on the street around you. Thieves often work in teams and chirp each other about approaching victims.

Suspect 1 might be at the window in his apartment watching for people on cells to approach the corner. He sees you and chirps his buddy waiting on a porch around the corner you'll soon pass. Before you know it...Snatch! Your phone and the suspect are running out of sight. You're left dumbfounded without any description at all because it happened so fast.

• Sign up for Web access with T-Mobile Sidekicks.

In my city, Sidekick phones are the most desirable to steal because of the cool features. They're also easy to spot from a distance because of the two-thumbed texting the keyboard allows. It's an extra charge to get the Web access, but Sidekicks are the only phone that uploads data daily to the T-Mobile server. So, any texting, photos, calls, etc., the suspects make with your stolen phone will be stored on the Web for you to print out and take to detectives. Or be sure to tell detectives what your code is so they can access the web content. Suspects won't have your web log-on code to delete the content. However, if you sign up for access after the phone was stolen, the log-on info will be automatically sent to your stolen phone, so not a good idea.

• Be wary of anyone who approaches and asks for something while you're on your cell.

Common sense tells you something's up with people who are going to interrupt a stranger on the phone. Suspects often ask for the time, change, cigarettes or directions while they're catching you off guard and sizing up your phone model. These thieves often approach on bikes. As you're distracted by their question, your phone's snatched and away they go.

Remember, it's us against them. They have their tricks and plays. You should have yours, too.

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Pimp Juice, Whoop Ass and Kickbutt Amped Energy Balls

Energy drinks, they're everywhere. I continue to resist peer pressure at work to 'just drink one already'. I'm holding the line, but I might just cave soon. My coworkers love them, as do many of my friends. Around two in the afternoon, the tops pop, the satisfied "aaahhhs" are audible and a faint citrussy sweetness infuses the air. So what's not to like?

I'm afraid of them. I think they might be canned heart attacks. I think they're loaded with caffeine, weird bull amino acids and spoonfuls of sugar. Sigh. I can no longer support my argument on assumptions. Fact-finding is in order. In fact, I think it's time for a... 'jammigation'. Yes, that's right. I'm inventing words here on UltraJam because, well, because I can.

Anyway, I researched and discovered some surprises, including a fondness for the industry's naming convention - It's totally unconventional! There are some hilarious names out there, whether or not they're intended to be funny is a different matter. Back on point. Here's my list of fears and facts. (I found a great deal of info on www.energyfiend.com, linked repeatedly below)

• They're lethal caffeine bombs - No. A 16 oz. Starbucks coffee has more at 372 mg than an average like-sized e-drink at 344 mg. Many of the e-drinks have higher caffeine concentrations of mg/oz, but even those don't approach the tall Starbucks coffee.


• They might jack up my heart and kill me - Negative. Thinking they contained obscene levels of caffeine, a central nervous system stimulant, I logically concluded I might vapor lock my system. And I take blood pressure pills. It seems I'd need to drink about 98 cans of Monster at once to do so. Check out the 'death by caffeine' meter for your own demise. Still, some researchers claim that e-drinks stack the deck by not extracting the caffeine found in guarana, another common ingredient, on the nutrition label. And then there's the matter of 245 cases of "caffeine abuse" reported to the Chicago Poison Control Center in three years. The average age of the patient was 21, and most of the cases involved e-drinks taken with alcohol or other drug stimulants.


• They contain strange bull mojo - True, to a point. Most contain taurine, an amino acid used to make bile for aiding digestion. Rumors have it that taurine is extracted from bull urine and testicles. Not. But then there's that whole "Red Bull" name thing. Well, it was first isolated from bull (Bos taurus) bile in 1827 by Austrian scientists and named after the Greek word for bull, or 'taurus'. In people, taurine results from synthesis in the liver. As for how taurine gets in the e-drink cans, rumor also had it that it was extracted from bull intestines and added to the e-drinks by manufacturers. Gulp. The most definite answer I could find was on Wikipedia. Taurine is sometimes extracted from the intestines of cattle, but many food industry sources, including Red Bull, make efforts to use synthesized sources that are vegetarian friendly. Danger! "Make efforts" to me sounds like there could be squirts of bull intestine taurine in e-drinks. Granted, I've likely eaten worse in a hot dog, but still...

In all fairness to taurine, it's not a stimulant. It might be added to e-drinks to actually reduce the effects of high caffeine dosage, if that makes any sense. It can also reduce muscle fatigue. It's used in some contacts solution and cats need it for good health. Most e-drinks contain anywhere from 2,000 to 5,000 mg of taurine. I'm thinking 5,000 mg of anything is not a good idea.

E-drinks seem less risky than I formerly thought. I don't know, though. Call me old-fashioned, but I think I'll pick my poison and stick with coffee.

Now the best part, the wacky e-drink names. With over 500 brands competing last year alone, companies are trying to stand out. Many are inventing provocative names to do so. Here are are few faves:

• Kronik, Swing Juice, Cocaine, Crunk, Who's Your Daddy?, Pimp Juice, Whoop Ass and Kickbutt Amped Energy Balls.

7-11 stores banned Cocaine e-drink. What's next? Crystal Meth breath mints? Cha-ching. Oh, and if you can't tell, I'm not a medical professional. Please don't take any of this information to be sound medical advice.

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Vile Men Picked Off

The world is a little safer for children today as British police and U.S. authorities crashed a global internet pedophile ring of 700 suspects and 31 child victims. Most of the children live in London, some only a few months old. About a third of the suspects are also London-based. Officials said the U.S., Canada and Australia provided major investigative support, along with help from 35 countries in total.

Police used surveillance methods normally practiced for anti-terror and drug trafficking operations to expose this ring from the bottom up to top level players. They traced the ring to a chat room called "Kids the Light of Our Lives" offering streaming videos of kids enduring horrible sexual torture.

Bravo, police! I can only imagine the scores of investigators who likely put their own lives and families on hold in pursuit of bringing down the devil. I know from my own workplace how investigations consume officers and sometimes devour them for years with no tangible outcome. It encourages me so much that people like these investigators are here with us, on our side, willing to sacrifice and tip the scales back towards goodness.

It seems to me there really is a constant pull between good and evil around here. An ancient tug-o-war from the beginning of time. At some point, everyone must choose what side of the rope they will tow. What makes a man cross over to filth? What happens to the decency inside a person when they offend against children, especially? Is it completely snuffed out or is it still there, screaming into the perv's conscience only to be pushed aside by twisted desire? Well, luckily 700 such unspeakables are now in custody. Let's hope the charges stick.

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Candy Man

As a crime analyst, I read stacks of police reports each day. Yesterday I devoured a load of narcotics arrests. Today I am wondering what it might be like to be a drug dealer, i.e., a "baller", "bidnessman", "pusher", "pharmacist" or "candy man". I began with a career comparison to my civil service job. Let's see...

1. I am not required to be on-call. Their cells and pagers blow up 24/7. That's a lot of pressure.



2. I do not need bilingual skills. They must speak drug. Would you understand if someone asked you for a fat albert (fentanyl), moon rock (crack mixed with heroin), biscuit (50 rocks of crack), mac & cheese ($5 of pot and dime bag of cocaine) or wake and bake (a hit first thing in the morning)? Communication is key in every business.



3. I have a permanent work space. They must negotiate corner real estate with neighborhood thugs.



4. If I make a mistake, I can usually fix it by editing my work product. If they make a mistake, like sell someone flea powder (low quality heroin) or perp (fake cocaine made with baking soda and wax), they will likely suffer a nasty physical injury and perhaps never be heard from again.



5. So far, the scales (no pun intended) are tipped in favor of my job...now about the cream. I make about $270 a day. Not a bad haul. Then of course Uncle Sam takes his share. Juvenile gang members dealing cocaine daily can make about $1,000 a week , tax free, with an average of 30 sales and about 16 hours of work. I fall short on that one; I work about 45 hours a week.



6. I really don't turn anyone into an addict by analyzing crime trends, unless of course they're captured by my flair for drama and crave more, more, more. Dealers push to millions of kids and adults every day and night.

No, I haven't any future in narcotics sales. Snarkyness aside, I think dealers are the worst of the worst simply on the volume of people they enable. Drug abuse is directly linked to most major property crimes, many violent crimes and innumerable destruction of the family unit. The candy man, in this context, is nothing short of a horrible mutation of humanity gone wrong.

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Ingenious

My day is instantly kicked up a notch when I run across one of the "Axe" deodorant spray commercials, otherwise known as "Bomchicawahwahs". So righteously hilarious. Have you seen the newest one in the dentist's office? A condensed version is embedded here, along with another great one where a girl tracks the scent in the grocery store. Whew! Beneath the weight of Parisopoly and Bacagate, creativity lives on!

The Dumbing Down of Barbara

Remember when Barbara Walters was a serious journalist? The first female network evening news coanchor. Interviews with heads of state - Sadat and Begin, Margaret Thatcher, Hugo Chavez. What's happened to Barbara? Even beyond The View, the silly questions and comments, she's taken a turn for the worse lately.

Barbara really crossed over to the dark side with this latest update from Paris in the glamor slammer. It seems she has appointed herself Hilton family spokesperson - and found a clever way around that restriction on interviews from jail. Walters has twice relayed her personal phone conversations with Hilton's mother and Paris herself. Watching Barbara read her recollection off a piece of paper complete with dramatic pauses and an expression I can't quite interpret, was just flat out dumb. Man, so many proper social buttons pressed in one short phone call: God, the troops, cancer research, sick kids. Baby steps, Paris. First, get a job.

I think Barbara should have asked Paris how she feels about taking a space in the acute mental illness ward because of humiliation, a little claustrophobia and some dry skin. I want to hear about the mystery medication that she failed to disclose at intake...could it be perhaps ALCOHOL? I think everyone is jail is probably a little depressed, so that one doesn't even count.

Ahh! I've entered the Paris vortex again. Back to Barbara's new interpretation of journalism. Thinking folks everywhere, I beg you, hold the line! Resist the spin. And visit the recall Sheriff Baca website while you're at it.

Charmed by One Murderer, Disgusted by Another

Exhale! He survived...thank god. Through the years, I became quite fond of him. This murderer charmed me, while another we met this week makes me want to snap his neck. Edwin Hall, arrested for Kelsey Smith's killing, just looks like a bad man. I look at his mug shot and I see nothing I can relate to. Tony Soprano, on the other hand, why he's an old friend.

Don't worry, I know Tony Soprano didn't really kill anyone; he's fictional for heaven's sake. Just humor me for a moment. In theory, Tony was likable. His quirks and fallacies, worries and insecurities made him familiar. Is that the difference? Familiarity? I look at Hall's photo and I feel nothing but contempt. I think, how could he have a wife and young child? How could someone like that attract love?


Isn't that a common reaction when we see the faces belonging to those who offend horribly? You say, ugh, how could you live with someone like that? How could you not know? Well, everyone must have someone who relates to them, or to parts of them. I can't imagine being Hall's wife, trying to separate the husband from the murderer. The familiar from the unknown. Perhaps even good from bad.

Of course I have much more sympathy for Kelsey's family than Hall's wife. Just pondering the complexities of the human condition. Depending on your era of choice, wasn't it Manfred Mann or The Divinyls who said it's a fine line between pleasure and pain? A fine line, indeed.
Sopranos

Judge Baca

Whoa there Sheriff! Ignoring the judge's orders and arguing with him about picking the defendant up for appearance...dang what a cowboy. Last time I checked, the one with the robe trumps the one with the stars. In this case that would be the stars on the collar and the 'star' in handcuffs.

What a gust of fresh air from Judge Sauer. Proper procedure was not followed and he wasn't gonna have it today. No motion filed for the medically motivated reassignment. Paris intending to dial in to court on the blackberry. Kaboom! Back to the House of Orange.

I don't enjoy the pictures of Paris bawling in the back of the black and white. It's a sad photo. But guess what, sister? Sometimes life is hard. Just ask Martha Stewart. Speaking of, BIG PROPS to Martha. In the face of Paris' flame out in court, Martha's behavior from early check-in to zero display of whining speaks volumes about her pride and maturity. Could this really be the first time Paris hasn't gotten her way? Is that really possible at age 26? I distinctly remember when I first began to realize people do choose how they react. It was in the Barbie aisle of Toys R Us about 35 years ago. A fellow four-year-old was totally losing it at her mother who was making her choose between two dolls.

Maybe Paris always gets both Barbies.

Well, it's not good karma to end on a bitter note. I don't want unreasonable punishment for Paris or anyone else. Let's do remember though that drunk driving is the best tolerated violent crime in this country. Eighteen thousand killed by drunk drivers in 2006 alone. That's one every 30 minutes. Here is a link to some very graphic photos of what a lethal weapon a vehicle can be. At least Paris and her Bentley won't be swerving around the town for the next 40..I mean two or three days.

Lady Justice Sucker-Punched

Okay, one more pathetic Paris post. First, I request the work days on my time card be calculated on Paris' Five for Three plan. Credit for 120 hours with only 76 on the books. Sweet! Also in the Paris Prison Package for Delicate Guests: visits from private psychologist, reversing judge's order for no house arrest and the very best feature, precedent for prison stress warranting release! Any takers on that one? I'm guessing a few hundred thousand. (Yes, yes, I know - she wasn't released. She was reassigned. And Andrew Speaker just has a chest cold.)

A plea to newscasters and 'investigative reporters' everywhere: Please, no more speculation on whether this experience of doing time has changed Paris or not. Paris is not going to be an advocate for stressed out inmates, donate millions to MADD or stop making money for just being. Paris is chilling at home eating cupcakes. Yes, that's hot! It's a steaming bag of pile.

Paris' Parallel Universe

Yes, I know, enough Paris Hilton already. I'm with you my friends, but I just can't resist commenting on today's 'top story' (as it was billed on about every newscast I flipped through). It seems Paris was traumatized by 'jail' to the point of a medical situation that warranted her reassignment to home with a ankle bracelet. Boo hoo.

Am I the only one who sees the similarities between Paris' posh home life and the House of Orange? Let's see...

• "People" open her mail for her at home - Check. People do that for you in jail, too.


• People do her laundry at home - Another Check.


• People cook for her at home - Checkeroo.


• Visitors/fans have to pass through a security gauntlet to see Paris at home - Checkaleckabingbom.


• In the past, Paris has been video taped for observation at home - Check.o.rama.

That's a lot of familiarity with the House of Orange! What gives? Well, best wishes for a speedy recovery, Paris. Thousands of young girls are waiting to be influenced by your next mistake. (I'm filing this one under crime because it fits on so many levels.)

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Snatched

The snatching of Kansas teen, Kelsey Smith, from a Target lot at dusk was obscene. Taking someone by force from a public parking lot in front of a popular store in daylight? That is serious adrenaline in very evil form. In fact, it reminds me of a movie I saw last weekend, "Mr. Brooks".

If you haven't seen it yet, "Brooks" portrays a serial killer who gets a spectacular rush from murdering strangers with the help of his very logical and cunning alter ego, Marshall. Long story short, there are scenes of Mr. Brooks teaching a serial killer trainee how to do the job. In particular, they drive around town looking at people coming out of shops, restaurants, walking down the street, intent on choosing one to kill. The scene is surreal and dangerously entertaining precisely because it conveys that rush of excitement you feel when you're on the hunt to find the very best whatever at a big sale.

But this hunt for people, for murdering people, could it really happen that way? That...casually? What disturbed me most about the movie was not the graphic scenes, but the notion that someone somewhere is watching. They are watching from a detached perspective with dark intentions.

I'm a crime analyst by trade and read plenty of police reports about people behaving badly. I know Kelsey's kidnapping is not the first time someone has been taken this way; children all over the world are snatched under our noses every day. This one is just especially vile to me. Maybe the coincidence of "Mr. Brooks" having opened the day before is too unsettling. Or maybe it's because another murderer has proven with their actions how powerful the God-given gift of free will really is.

Rosie Nation? "YES or NO"

I've slept on it and taken my best shot at objectivity. The verdict is in: Rosie O'Donnell is the playground bully. Leave political opinions and moral judgements out of it and think about demeanor. Rosie does not discuss. She does not speak in turn and allow the others to explain their viewpoints. Rosie says, "YES or NO!" Rosie barks and blasts her thoughts and does not relent until the receiver is too rattled to respond sensibly, reactions she likes to peddle as cowardice, defeat or unawareness. No. It is simply recovery time. A lapse taken to adapt to someone breaking an assumption of civility, just like the bully who shoves you out of line for the monkey bars. It becomes all about the shove. You fall down, you startle, maybe you push back, maybe not. While you're processing what's just happened, the bully is laughing. They are loving your disorientation and they are rallying others to ridicule your hesitation. And what about those damn monkey bars? The bully never tries to make it across. You do, but it no longer matters. It's all about the shove.

No monkey bars in grown-up land. Now we have issues to decide upon. We line up behind them and wait our turn to share what we think. And the bully's still here, shoving us out of line with a yap gone wild. Humans should give a basic level of respect to each other. Shouting opinions down someone's eustachian tubes is obnoxious and suspicious. (Remember when Rosie said 9/11 was the first time fire melted steel? Um, I believe that's how steel is made.) But it makes great TV. What does that say about us?

So which are you? The bully or the startled kid? Honestly, I think I'm both. Maybe that's normal. I know that whenever I've bullied, I have felt a little sick afterwards. I know it's not right, it's not civil. When I've done it, I've just wanted to be right. It's not important that I am or not, it's just important that I win. But I can say that in my adulthood, bullying is rare. Over the years it has been dwarfed by reason, facts and a genuine curiosity to explore ideas. What? Is that maturity speaking?