Wipe the poker face, online gamblers have folded. Duped.
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Pages from a Magazine
Florida Republican Representative Mark Foley has (to use Oprah's description during a similar, later discussed situation) duped us all. When bland text and emails from Mr. Foley to one (or more?) male congressional page(s) from Louisiana were made public, Mr. Foley quickly resigned and claimed all kinds of conditions our mental health experts will undoubtedly devour and regurgitate empathetically. A decent approach? Hardly.
The fact that he served as a six-term congressman and co-chairman of the Missing and Exploited Children's Caucus (where was Dateline?) highlights pink the extent in which our leaders seemingly escape scrutiny...until election year (this is your big break Dems). If Mr. Foley were to be put under any mildly retarded microscope, it would become obvious that he hasn't really done anything wrong. Really? We shall see. The court of public opinion, as ordered by a gaudy gavel, tends to boil the bacteria out of otherwise safe stagnation. Interestingly (or not), Mr. Foley has been accused of same sexing for some time now. He denied and blamed filthy smear campaigns in the past, validating his own personal humiliation; slapping his own face. He either concerned himself with his constituency so much that he just couldn't hurt their soft, hardly heterosexual feelings, or he is a liar of Nixonian proportion. Choose Now!
The Representative's representative (a man's man?) reports that Mr. Foley is currently undergoing treatment for alcoholism and mental illness. And while most of us know that alcohol addiction is typically a symptom, not a cause (again, Oprah was duped), Foley insists that his "alcoholism" forced him to ponder pulchritudinous pages pruriently (wow!). Meanwhile, congressional Republicans in-the-know scramble around, fearful of a link to this political perv, with House Speaker Hastert's resignation request (he honestly claims ignorance) made by the Washington Times, an apparent conservative rag I have little knowledge of (in the shadow of the smothering Washington Post all publicational popularity is lost). I'm looking for an educational expose from the Washington Blade, DC's gayest gazette. Come on folks, this is your story. Banner Headline: Repressed Rep Texts TeenPage Twink in "When can we have dinner?" and "What do you want for Christmas?" Fantasy Sex Scandal.
Twenty-some-odd years ago, Reps Studs and Crane (God, I love the eighties) pulled the same stunt. The outcome was different however, with these birds of prey (chicken hawks?) consenting to House censure, made while plainly posed in the well, eyes moist with despair. The result was congressional renewal of faith in its own ability to yet again control human nature, man's desire to fuck, stating boldly that this sort of inappropriate behavior would never, never happen again. New rules put into place, the pink-pants pages were confined to a secure dormitory (complete with locker rooms and community showers?), free of the menacing rich, old white men who long for dinner and a movie. Turn the Page.
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Paradise Lost?
The recent school shootings, while nothing new in our fagged-out Federal Fife, have caused a slight stir in my otherwise bloated balance. The Amish? What in hell have they done to anybody? With the exception of making fine jellies, jams, quilts and rockers for English consumption ("and sell us this day our daily bread..."), the Amish tend to themselves, devoted to an undying belief in Father, Family, Farm and Futility. And Colorado? Didn't the rugged residents of greater Denver suffer enough at Columbine (not to mention another bloat, Michael Moore). And finally, Wisconsin? All that Milk? Cheese? It's sad I know, but I can't help but wonder about other things. Like, for example, how easy it is to manipulate mice.
To address the crisis, a national School Security Summit is planned under the leadership of Attorney General and White House gardener Alberto Gonzales, with the equally questionable participation of the FBI. The President announced his intentions just this morning, spitting sympathy in the eyes of all those who cry and cry and cry with no hope of respite until time takes the tragic memory and softens its sharp edges. Why? Who knows. The only certainty is that new legislation will be passed, schools reconstructed to resemble prisons (architectural digestive tract housing syndrome), and liberties once again lanced so that new criminals can be made so that new laws can be made so that new criminals...you get the idea.
I usually break it down like this. If a child is beaten bloody daily by a hateful parent, it would be no surprise to learn of the child, at, say, twenty, killing his parent. Agreed? Similarly, and perhaps more simplistically, if a dog is repeatedly kicked, that dog is likely to bite. There. Much better.
So, intentional bell banging and pellet placement by our lackadaisical leaders or front page pulp that gets 15 minutes to the round? I just don't know.
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General Edit
A Million Little Pieces by James Frey
I know that the controversy swirling around James Frey's mostly made-up memoir is nearing its final cycle and interest in the book (and apparently the author) is waning (as indicated by free copies placed on public beaches by Largo Public Library in Florida). However, after suffering through one of the best examples of full-on bullshit I've ever had the displeasure to read, I find myself going back to when said shit was first kicked up by the fine, if not self-righteous, folks over at The Smoking Gun, and nearly everyone involved in the production and distribution of the primer turned a blind, er, editorially challenged eye. Unable to cope with the lack of concern and Anchored down by the Doubleday double talk, TSG called their old friend, and fellow lie detector, HRH Oprah Winfrey. She was not pleased. Neither am I.
Her Morose Majesty declared a hearing, once the egg was cover-girl-cleansed from her fascinating face, and as is customary when dealing with royalty, Mr. Frey and his publisher Nan Talese (whose egg, if ever really there at all, had been removed through selective memory) conceded. The result was no more dignified than watching a nervous mother remind her feckless son and his favorite relative, the snobby, elitist sister-in-law, that she would decide where he would attend college and who he would marry. Hello!
The reviews that were raved prior to the O's wedding crasher were cockamamie at worst. The Los Angeles Times Book Review declared Mr. Frey's work "Gripping...A great story...You can't help but cheer his victory." The New York Times Book Review missed the point when they said that "Frey's book sets itself apart...spare, deadpan language belies the horror of what he's describing--a meltdown dispatched in telegrams." And perhaps most disappointing, the San Francisco Chronicle declared "James Frey's staggering recovery memoir could well be seen as the final word on the topic." The final word? Given the magnitude of his lies, not to mention his sophomoric Instant Messenger Manuscript style, how could these notable periodicals (sorry Mr. Vidal, I had to--what other choice do I have) have built this flimsy fabrication into a major work of literary genius? Easy. Money.
When Mrs. Talese (Auntie Nan) received the manuscript for A Million Little Lies, er, Pieces (damn you TSG), she immediately turned it down. Said it wasn't really good enough. She didn't abandon the effort, just made Mr. Frey work a little harder; wanted to see if he was ready for the ride of his life. She's not unlike his mother after all. She sent the script back to Mr. Frey for revision. "Get rid of all the lies..." she perhaps said, followed by a possible "and make it a bit more believable so we can sell it as a memoir...its not good enough to be purchased as fiction." Mr. Frey obeyed, as any nephew with his eye on the family trust fund that Auntie now controls would. He shortened here, added there. Filled much white space with more white space. Making more crap up. He's feeling good about it; inventing a whole new way of writing. "They will trumpet my efforts, sound my [swan] song!" he may have shouted at Starbucks, gulping a Caramel Macchiato and rereading with startling precision Gay Talese's semi-autobiographical biography, A Writer's Life, finishing with "They will love me for the manly, metro-sexual, female loving, priest bashing, fist fighting, vomiting man I am!" Go Browns!
Mr. Frey dutifully edits his book, something lost on Nan's boutique imprint (vanity?) editors at Doubleday (a Random House of cards?) and his work is put out there for the likes of The Boston Globe to declare "The most lacerating tale of drug addiction since William S. Burroughs' Junky." I've read Junky. It's lacerating. Pieces is not. The reviews continued and Mr. Frey and Auntie Nan sat back and laughed all the way to the bank. Then something strange but wonderful happened.
Mr. Frey was nominated and subsequently selected to spotlight status in Oprah's Book Club. His estranged mother had called him in from the cold, slimy fingers of Auntie and declared him the winner of all the praise she could ever offer. All the candy he could eat. And the catch? He must declare himself loyal to her and leave the literary set behind. His Auntie Nan was a stiff neck smarty pants. She was educated. She was cut from the whitest of white bread. She must be rewritten.
Praise, praise and more praise. "Everything she said came true," he may have confided..."All of it." Mr. Frey was the literary darling of the nation. Bold, daring and brave. Edifying. People resounded "Anyone who has ever felt broken and wished for a better life will find inspiration in Frey's story." Ma Oprah was pleased, Auntie Nan was pleased, both whimsically whispering the Yiddish Proverb "With money in your pocket you are wise, you are handsome..." Mr. Frey was pleased. "All this for nothing" he may have giggled, drunk and alone.
But as houses go up, they also go down. The lies from the original manuscript, the overwhelming amount of crap printed on the empty pages and the disingenuous approach of Mr. Frey finally caught up. It all started to fall apart, into so many other millions of pieces. What to do? "Call mom" he may have revealed, adding in surprise, "wait, she called me three times yesterday...oh shit, she knows!" Then a possible "I know, I'll apologize for the whole thing, pass the buck to Auntie Nan, get her to go along with the ruse and fool the fool." "Yeah." A meeting was scheduled, with the whole world watching, and Hello! they pulled it off. Names were cleared, apologies made, anger vented, embarrassment noted and eggs kept dozened, nestled safely in cartons of steel. Ma Oprah gets to punish, Auntie Nan balances her check book (a million little zeros) and Mr. Frey dupes the whole world (now where have I heard that before?). The sum is not greater than...
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It's So Outrageous!
Anna Nicole Smith's son was murdered? Maybe. By whom? Howard Stern? Really? The DJ? Oh. Why? To ensure millions in settlement from Anna Nicole's former in-laws? Nah! Really? I guess losing a son to a methadone "overdose," having a baby and heading back to court in a few months could mean sympathy from a judge who might otherwise dismiss the whole thing and finally put an end to one of the greatest dupes since Nicole Kidman married Tom Cruise for red hot, hollywood hunk sex. Don't know, but the scandal sheets don't lie. They don't? Really? Nah!
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dickcarter, much a[dupe] about nothing (theme?)
update: dateline 10/20/2006: mr foley is now naming names. he will tell the whole world who his childhood molester was. he will show pictures of his face. he will fill in all the gory (gasp!) details. he will redirect all the unnecessary attention to his sexual preference. he will make all the world understand that he finds normal, healthy, physically fit, attractive, flirtatious, young males sexually satisfying because he was molested by a man. he will make me vomit.
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