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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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?