Monthly Archives: December 2010

LIONEL AUDIO PODCAST: Remembering When We Were A Country With Guts – When Lawn Darts Were Recalled, So Went The M-80, So Went Our Souls

This is Ed Rendell, the ballsy, hard-nosed, tough-as-nails 45th governor of the keystone state. Ed also is the subject of many a homoerotic paean from MSNBC’s Hardballer Chris Matthews, whose man love for Ed is, frankly, emesis-inducing. Ed’s rubbing it in to those pantywaist twirps who are responsible for the wussification of our great country. Eddie, I’m with you 100%. What would Lombardi think now after having braved the frozen tundra of Lambeau Field after the “Ice Bowl” in 1967? Many a player that day later admitted their testicles actually froze and fell off during that horrid game. Kinda.

We went nuts over the snow this week. Especially in New York City. Folks are calling for Mayor Bloomberg’s head. It’s not his fault, though he didn’t help matters by basically chiding his subjects for being babies and complaining too much. Mike wouldn’t make the best grief counselor, if you know what I mean.

Ed spoke most critically over the NFL’s decision to postpone an Eagles-Vikings game due to snow.

[T]o call off this game because of snow is further evidence of the “wussification” of America. We seem to have lost our boldness, our courage, our sense of adventure and that frontier spirit that made this country the greatest nation in the world. A little snow, a potential traffic tie-up, a long trip home caused us to cancel a football game?

In my lifetime, I trace our impuissance and the wussification of our once intrepid country to December 19, 1988, the day the Consumer Product Safety Commission permanently banned the lawn dart or Jarts from public consumption and commerce. I grew up in a day when our toys were dangerous and our fun was manly. Where you wouldn’t think twice of playing with a toy that couldn’t scald, blind, maim or cripple. I provided this tribute to the great fireworks of my you. Pellet guns, M-80’s. Name it. Somehow we all made it.

I even dedicated my own tribute to the toys of yore in a PIX 11 commentary. It’s all connected. We’ve lost any sense of adventure. We’re now denizens of a low-fat, salt and gluten free, vanilla, bicycle-helmeted, knee-padded scaredy cat world. Rendell’s right.

LIONEL AUDIO: Stupid & Inane Snow Coverage, Whither Global Warming & The Birthers Are Restless

It’s cold. Real cold in New York. Twenty-six degrees as I write this. We’ve been deluged for the past two days. Not with snow. Nah, that was easy. We’ve been deluged by and with the most vapid and insipid media coverage over said snow imaginable. Interminable, mindless and vacuous coverage, each more inhumanely mind-numbing than the next. Sadistic news directors sent anchors to the outskirts of hell to plunge yardsticks into snow banks and warn citizens to stay home and not venture forth into the gelid world of the snowblind — as the anchor has indeed done! B-roll of Walmart and Home Depot shoppers looking now for a snow shovel. Cars careening out of control and spinning out perilously to the delight of demented news personnel who scream the sickeningly shrill “See! See, I told you!”

While I’m on the subject of weather. The idea of anthropogenic global warming causation models has never been clearly and accurately explicated by anyone. Leftie environmentaloids are being attacked by right-wing climate ignoramuses who, knowing nothing about microclimates, swear that this snow is a refutation of global warming and/or climate change. Leftie greenfolk hem and haw and flip through their playbooks in search of a valid riposte. Look, this is called winter.  Followed by spring. It’s called “the seasons.” Cue Vivaldi.

And I prepare to make a visit to MSNBC to discuss the insane plans of newly-minted Democrat Hawaiian Governor Neil Abercrombie, a friend of Obama and his parents. Get this, he vows to end the birther controversy — which, frankly, had been all but forgotten in our torpid media — surrounding President Obama’s true nationality and prove once and for all that Obama was born in Hawaii. What a schmuck. Here’s what CNN reports.

“We’ll do what we can as quickly as we can to make it inevitable that only those who wish the president ill, only the ones with a political agenda, will be the ones doing this kind of thing,” Abercrombie said. “The president is entitled to the respect of his office and he’s entitled to have his mother and father respected.”

POTUS is thinking, “That’s great. Thanks for nothing, Neil.” My point: I’m amazed that our great intelligence apparatus hasn’t forged whatever document(s) birthers insist have yet to be presented. Or, better, to produce that which is alleged to have been withheld. And, moreover, with Obama’s second year into office, don’t the doctrines of mootness or laches enter in? Does anyone even care? If it were revealed now, 124 years after his death, that Chester A. Arthur were born in Singapore, would anyone care? Obama was already elected in 2008. Granted, just two years ago, but what do you think could and should happen now if he was born in Kenya? And is it not amazing that his opponents, who would even sacrifice their young to oust Barry, have failed to seize upon this gem of invalidation. You know, as in “Hail to the Thief.” Sorry, this issue has no traction among voters. And even Fox News won’t touch it. So there.

LIONEL AUDIO: A Free Xmas Podcast (How I Almost Died On A Driveway), Rogers Eulogium, Pedophile Literature & A Disquisition Anent Foot Worship Inter Alia

  • Neil Rogers is dead. 68. Here’s a guy who came out when being gay was anything but accepted. “In 1976, when gay homophobia in South Florida was running rampant with the Orange Juice Queen, Anita Bryant, Neil came out on the air.” [Source] But I will remember him for being one of the sadly few talk radio hosts who reinvented the medium and defied description. Sui generis. Nonpareil. Talk radio today is stilted, homogenized and filled with angry white men trying to out-Rush Rush or a handful of clowns trying the progressive-lib label with equally horrid results. Start with talent, the audience will follow you. Not your label. What’s even more sad is that the climate that allowed a Neil to exist has been replaced by a Wall Street, number-crunching bottom-line world. Podcasting, the internet, broadband WiFi, maybe FM talk — that’s the future of spoken word.
  • The idiocy of ceremony, rite, celebrations and holidays. They’re all insane save the anniversary or birthday. That is unique. Collective contrived benevolence is madness.
  • Foot worship, Rex Ryan and the hyper-prude MSM. Get over it. How the local media got all over a man who loves his wife and possesses an imagination. How pathetically pathetic. Per usual.
  • No labels?! I’ve been advocating that for years. But slightly differently.
  • The year in Flawda as Santa how I almost died, bloodied on a driveway all for my sister. (Isn’t that a Johnny Cash song?)
  • Santa myths are critical in child neurological and brain development. Object permanence, Piaget. God without the crumbs.
  • Instruction manuals for pedophiles are protected by the First Amendment. It’s called a thought. It’s called an idea. This drives some folks crazy. (And that’s not a very long ride.)

And if that’s not enough. The WPIX Yule Log. PIX 11 News, the finest bunch of folks I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with. The Yule Log was created in 1966 by Fred M. Thrower, President and CEO of WPIX, Inc. and has been repeated for years by numerous stations. But it all started here. It remains today one of the greatest indicia of man’s genius next to the guitar string winder.

LIONEL AUDIO: The Podcast That Reinvents Critical Thinking. And This One Also.

Please think of the great Neil Rogers. If you pray, pray for him.I’ve slaughtered a pigeon in his honor. Santería, you know. Neil would understand.

In the pantheon of talk radio greats, he would have an entire section dedicated just to him. And pray for talk radio in general. It’s on life supports as we speak. (Should have executed a DNR.)

Are you ready for this one. It’s a beaut.

  • Why Xmas music makes me want to take a life.
  • The imaginary yet perennial war on Xmas. Next to NAMBLA, a conservative talk show host’s go-to topic.
  • DADT and how folks think it’s chosen. Sexuality, i.e.
  • Sexuality versus intimacy and the line that’s vaguely drawn at all.
  • Class warfare and “tax breaks for the rich.”
  • How we have been socialized to the notion of income tax and taxation in general.
  • A paean, panegyric and eulogium to Neil Rogers.

And speaking of DADT, let me explain my concept of “National Gay Out Day.”

LIONEL AUDIO: It Just Flows. Honest.

Let me explain this installment of my audio blog and use this image infra as an illustration of what it is exactly that I do. This man is cleaning a septic tank. I clean — or to be more precise, clear — my think tank. My thought(s) receptacle. My idea drainage sewer. An ideation sump pump. Beautiful imagery, if I may say so myself. I love starting at Point A and seeing where the journey leads me. Where I end up. That simple.

Now, the beauty of digital recording is that one can record various segments. Stop. And pick up seamlessly, at least audio-seamlessly. No clicks, pops. No indicia of editing or starting over. But the thought progression or transition may not be so seamless. To the listener, that is. It may even sound like a non sequitur, a tad desultory. I love that part, frankly. Sometimes the audio blog is a portrait, other times it’s a mosaic or a collage. The pastiche may or may not be continuous. Or some might argue, coherent.

This piece addresses inter alia oral feculence and the malodorous funk of bridgework. Insane wedding receptions and do-it-yourself local TV commercials. Bad southern accents and over-hyped films. It is simply I.

LIONEL AUDIO: This Nut In Flawda Will Give Gun Owners Yet Another (Unearned) Bad Rap. Thanks To The Feckless Media.

Let me give you the unadulterated truth as to how our impuissant media will yet again go after gone owners and advocates and moreover, how they’ll milk this teat dry

Well, the media will be going nuts over the story of this nut case, ex-con Clay Duke. With a penchant for bad movie imagery and a garbled sense of tax issues, this nut turned a Panama City School Board meeting into the O.K. Corral. He later “turned the gun on himself” — a stupid TV news cliché that I personally loathe. The case is about a nut who used a gun. Not that all gun owners or users are nuts.

Reminds me of a similar case. ‘Twas November of 2003 when a disgruntled client pressed a grievance against his lawyer in a most unique way. “You took my money, that’s what you get!” William Strier, 60, yelled at attorney Gerald E. Curry, 53, outside a Van Nuys California courthouse. And, as you can imagine, anti-gun folks went nuts right on time as the barking seals were instructed.

In France this week, a 17 year-old sword-wielding teenager was taken into custody after he took a nursery school hostage. french officials and media types called it right: He was a nut. The anti-sword contingent didn’t come out of the woodwork.

LIONEL AUDIO: (FREE! GRATIS!) Why I Abhor Xmas. Sorta.

Each year at exactly this time I marvel at how we American humans march in a robotized obeisance to the commercialized Xmas drumbeat. Without fail. Without so much as a thought, we get sucked into the maelstrom of rank commercialism that knows no bounds. And we dust off the perennial issues, e.g. the secularization of Xmas. That’s right, Xmas! So sue me. The usual mindless faux and contrived issues such as whether it’s “Merry Xmas” or “Seasons Greetings” or — Gawd forbid — “Happy Holidays.” The music starts earlier and earlier and I swear, nothing puts me in a bell tower mood more than hearing the same old tunes. If I hear Burl Ives demanding that I have a holly, jolly Xmas one more time, somebody’s going to pay!

And as far as Xmas tunes go, my favorite is Greg Lake’s 1975 hit “I Believe in Father Christmas” with lyrics by his King Crimson band mate Peter Sinfield. It says it all in my book.

Hallelujah Noel be it Heaven or Hell
The Christmas you get you deserve.

Finally, I discuss the absolutely insane idea espoused and promoted by No Labels. Look, the idea that rancor and incivility infecting political discourse with fire-breathing polemics should be avoided at all costs is a great idea. But let’s not forget, political discourse and comportment today look like a cotillion compared to that of our forebears. That being said, with a slovenly and torpid electorate, I fear anything encouraging more collective sedation. I marvel at the folks in Europe who when angry — and I certainly don’t countenance violence — actually get off their butts and march.

Happy Whatever, one and all.

LIONEL AUDIO: Hanging, Hung? The Interstices Of Death & The Mechanics Of Hopeful Spirituality

Here’s a delightful topic: dying. Hanging, strangulation, drowning. What’s the worst way to go? Since I can remember, the subject of death has fascinated me. Not a preoccupation, mind you. But a fascination over the process of death. The steps to the hereafter. In the book that changed my life, Sherwin Nuland deconstructs death and makes the mechanics of nevermore palatable and, moreover, he demystifies one of the simplest concepts. I admit, I used to say, “If I die … .” Can you imagine that? If. I heard years later someone say, “Remember, you too will die.” What a beautifully poetic appreciation for the inevitable. Surgically precise. Beautiful, really.

It seems that this past Saturday Bernie Madoff’s eldest, the dauphin, hanged himself from, with and by a dog’s leash. I’m sure this is some cosmic justice of sorts to the victim of Bernie père. Just deserts. It’s a tragedy no matter how you cut it. Back to death, I used to think that hanging had to be beyond horrible: a slow, awful, eye-bulging gagging trip to wherever.

But it turns out that hanging might be a very easy — as suicides go — death. You might be thinking why in the name of Zeus would this interest me. Because it does. Michael Baden, the famed forensic pathologist who was CSI before it was cool, has written eloquently on the subject of death and how it tells us how it happened. Death can come in one of four ways: natural, suicide, homicide or accidental. Even that fact, the compartmentalization of mortality possibilities, speaks to the fact that death makes sense, it’s natural.

And you too will die.

LIONEL AUDIO: You Know What Makes Me Sick? Everything.

There are days when I want to scream or take a life. When I’d give anything for a bell tower to climb and — not kill, mind you — merely make my presence known. I’ve had it with blowhards, bloviators, windbags, phonies of all stripes, and bull Shi’ite artists who seem to be replicating at frightening clips. I know more than ever that if each person were to be allowed to be that who they are and no one else, the world would be better. Much better.

I’m serious, presented herein is a mélange of bitches, grousings and complaints from me — an indictment of and against every person and institution who gets on my nerves. It’s a marvelous journey starting with a paean to Oprah, a genius pure and simple. A genius in that she forged ahead with her own imagine, plan and a determination to be Oprah and no one else. This disquisition veers and merges thereafter.

But first, let me pay tribute to a man whose career changed my life drastically. Le Pétomane. His inspiration and courage comprise the essence of who I am.

Enjoy and good day.

LIONEL AUDIO: Pond Scum John Edwards, The Man-Child Satyr & The Object Of My Ire. Plus Stuff.

The name. This thing of ours. Morte Alla Francia, Italia Anela!

I swear, they’re all crazy. And viewers. Ah, the price of fame. I’ve nailed down the ambulatory schizophrenic crowd and welcome them to my personality constituency. I explain.

Sleazebucket. And I’m disgusted with and by John Edwards: slimy, sleazy and sordid. Not to be confused with John Edward, the charlatan and fraud who talks to dead people and dupes bereaved family members that he’s talking to Uncle Ed. (There must be something about that name. Or variations thereof.)

To think that this rube might have been the Democratic Nominee for POTUS. That, if nominated and then found out, John McCain and Sarah Palin could have won. Mr. Potter as Prez, who is closer actuarially to death than most candidates, and Sister Sarah, the proverbial heartbeat away. They could have won. And while I’m no Dem or Republi-con — a registered Independent, to be frank — the thought of Sarah Palin sitting across from Putin causes me to shudder.

Systematic Approximation. And then there’s Big Sister Janet and the latest installment of her handiwork: If You See Something, Say Something. Not to be confused with “If You Love Somebody Set Them Free.” Ah, that Gordon Sumner, what a sage.