The Teary Confesssion

Just like Randy "Duke" Cunningham, I too made a teary confession once.


I was about eight years old, with a raging addiction to sugar whose craven demands much outpaced my ability to cover for them. While home alone, I had opened a brand-new bag of powdered sugar, dumped it onto a dinner plate, and proceeded to spoon-feed myself into an oblivion of glazed pleasure. Then I heard the front door open. I dashed for the dining room, struggled with the liquor cabinet--I'd hide it in there! No one ever looked!--but I couldn't get it open. So I crouched and shoved, and pushed the plate of powder underneath the sideboard.

And then I forgot about it. Until my mother found it a few days later and confronted me. And this was very bad, mind you, since my attraction-slash-addiction was already well-known and had been much deplored. Of course I said that it wasn't me, it was my little friend Carrie from down the street who'd done it. Duh. A few days later, after being much glowered upon and disapproved of by mom and dad, I came down late one night and made a confession. Tearily. Even at the time it struck me as odd that I was crying. After all, I was guilty; it was a gross infraction of rules; I had lied; another gross infraction of rules; and it was a preposterous lie. What was I crying about? It was all my fault, I should have known way better. Was I feeling sorry for myself? The audacity of it.

All these years later, I feel validated that Duke also had the unbelievable audacity to actually cry while confessing to corruption so outrageous it is shocking to believe he could have been--that anyone in public office could have been--so phenomenally greedy and stupid. Cunningham took at least $2.4 million in bribes from defense contractors who were rewarded with Pentagon contracts. He bought houses, a yacht that he discreetly named "The Dukester," a Rolls Royce, antiques, Oriental carpets, jewelry.


And then he cried as he confessed and said, tearily, that he's, um, sorry. He broke the law. Snivel, sniff. He's sorry for what exactly? For the outrageousness? For the preposterousness? For himself? It's a strange instinct, but I understand it. It's so hard to be bad, because you just end up feeling so damn bad about being bad. Duke, I understand, I'm crying with you.

Now quit snivelling you brazen parasite, because it makes me gag.

Date at Your Own Risk

Yes, yes, yes, I know some people have had remarkably good luck with the whole online dating experience. And I'm sure that my own 72-hour foray into the dating-dot-com world might have been unusually horrific (unless you, too, got the response from some dashing casanova whose subject line read: "I love eating pussy!!!")But I must confess, I'm still amazed, amused and have nothing but respect for those who go out in search of cyber-love because it strikes me you're as likely to yield a winner as one of Willy Wonka's golden tickets (though I have little doubt you could probably yield something golden from someone's willy.)


See, having written and shaded my own profile, I'm *a bit* skeptical of the credentials others present when writing their own personal ads. Call me jaded, everyone else does. But I mean when I read any ad--like apartment listings for example--and I see the words "charming & sunny" I immediately go to the "tiny" "17th floor walk-up" place. So when I see a personal add advertising a "charming & sunny" penis, well, you get the point.

Needless to say, when I saw this story today, a story that finally justifies the bitter skeptic in me, the coal miner who operates my heart did a little "told ya so" jig. It turns out, Robert Wells of Walnut Creek, TX, was not just a semiretired physician who enjoys wine tasting, "The Sopranos" and reading science fiction, as he advertised himself on his profile. Nope. Robert was forced to give up his medical license because he's also a convicted sex offender! Hocking his cock on True.com (I shit you not), Wells was eventually kicked off that site and others (Hello, Eharmony! Hiya Match.com!), when a woman with whom he was corresponding eventually realized there was something "creepy" about the doctor.

So what does this woman do? Does she block his address from her email box? Does she immediately report him to the dating service? "I kept writing because I wanted to see if there was something wrong with him," she told the Kansas City Star. Well, I think she proved there was something wrong with at least one part of the equation.

But lest you think the cyber outlets aren't on to these predators, the sites specifically warn people to "to date at their own risk." And the CEO of True.com, Herb Vest, says this: "I make a promise to my members. If you are clever enough to get around our site securities, I'm going to prosecute." That's right, if you're clever enough to hit the "I'm not a sex offender" button when you really are one, well look out, big guy cause you might just get a spanking from a man named Vest.

We Want Pre-nup!

Continuing in the series of Mystifying Stories About Celebs Who Can't Seem to Not Get Married After Dating For Barely Thirty Seconds is an update today on Nick and Jess.


One of the reasons I continue to be especially mystified by this phenom is my presumption that these inter-marriages between gazillionaire celebs must be logistically complicated, because what wealthy star is going to get married without a pre-nup? Both Renée and Kenny wore independently sick rich--and of course they were crazy in love, of course Renée had Kenny at "howdy!", of course they just knew it was gonna last forever, but of course they must have signed a pre-nup. Why? Because they are obscenely rich adults who, despite the whole silly getting married thing, surely understand that it's an important piece of paper that they really oughta have their lawyers draft. Until death do us part, to be sure, but you just never who's gay and straight in Hollywood anymore.

Take Kanye West, for example. In his song "Gold digger," he says he knows the girl's gonna get him roped into supporting her shorties, but he loves her anyway--despite the rumor that she's had babies by Busta, and that she mighta f*cked Usher. He ain't actually saying she's a gold digger, but he also says that she ain't messin' with no bro, yo, and he makes one clear, resounding demand: "We want pre-nup!" Smart boy, Kanye.

Which brings me to my point. We can all sigh a long sigh of relief for Nick. Yes, he will have to deal with the wrath of Papa Simpson, the continued explosive success of his super-hottie ex-wife, rumors in the media of sexual favors she always denied him ("Daddy said that's wrong, Nick!"), as well as the humiliating absence of anything he could call a career of his own. But guess what?

He's rich! He gets half! They didn't sign a pre-nup!

It appears that not only are young (and less young) celebs stupid enough to get engaged the second they realize they both love the burgers at Chateau Marmont and they've never met anyone who felt the same way, but they are also stupid enough to think it won't end faster than they can toss the burger bun. And they don't sign pre-nups.

Enjoy, Nicky. You'll never have to pretend to try to work again.

KGB Sunday

Just a quick post-T-Day post before I begin napping off the remaining Tryptophan still coursing through my body...

Assuming you're exhausted from family by Sunday night, desperate for an excursion to reassert your sense of self, and would like to get a few shots of hooch without having to hear anyone say, "haven't you had enough already?" come to KGB bar Sunday night at seven o'clock where you'll not only get to satisfy these cravings, you'll also get to hear four young writers collectively known as the "Best New American Voices" reading from their works. And if this alone weren't enough to entice you, how bout this: I'll be introducing them!

Here are the details as provided by the amazing Suzanne Dottino who normally runs the night:

November 27
Finish off the end of a long holiday weekend at KGB with readings from BBest New American Voices 2006 ­ guest editor Jane Smiley, series editors John Kulka and Natalie Danford hosted by the lovely Robin Epstein.

Authors:
Jessica Anthony reads from her story "The Rust Preventer"
Amber Dermot reads from her story "Lyndon"
Sian M. Jones reads from "Pilot"
Jennifer Shaff reads from "Leave of Absence"

"This book reminds us of the range of imagination and experience informing
fiction today." ­Chicago Tribune (editors choice)

To recap: that's Sunday, November 27th at 7 pm, KGB bar, 85 East 4th St (near 2nd Ave.) Hope to see you there!

I've Always Wanted a Pseudonym...

...Which is why Lara Zeises , aka Lola Douglas , a fellow writer in the GCC not only impresses but kinda fascinates me.


Lara and Lola EACH have a book that's come out this fall. Each people. Do you know what that means? That means this woman and her doppleganger are intensely prolific and popular people and one of them doesn't even really exist! So. Not. Fair.The book written by "Lara," ANYONE BUT YOU, is a YA novel with this kicky premise: Seattle and Critter have always been best friends. But what happens when they find themselves talking to anyone but each other? The book written by "Lola," TRUE CONFESSIONS OF A HOLLYWOOD STARLET, focuses on teen star Morgan Carter. Turn out Morgan's mom is trying to kill her! (That's gotta be a blow to one's self-esteem, that's all I'm saying...) Anyway, at least that's what Morgan thinks when she's sent to Ft.Wayne, Indiana after a near overdose outside LA's Viper Room. Morgan's going to recover out of the spotlight.Way out. She's given a major make-under, a new name, and a completely different identity. Morgan's plan? To write a tell-all book about her experience and stage a comeback. But when this LA girl finds love and a new life in Middle America, will she abandon it for another shot at superstardom?

But let's for a minute get to some of the praise that Anyone But You has received. Kirkus, which is well known for giving some of the bitchiest reviews this side of Curtis Sittenfeld, said it had “Pitch-perfect narration.” TEEN PEOPLE chose it as one of their Top 10 books, a 2006 Best Books for Young Adults Nominee. And as a writer of teen pop myself, I can tell you this makes me very jealous of this person who may or may not be real... Okay, no, Lara's the real one... or is it Lola? Well, my suggestion is that you pick up both of these books and decide for yourself which alter ego you like better and then go with that one.

And from this point forth, you may also think of me as Renee. Unless you've already been doing that, in which case call me Ishmael.

Everything You Need to Know About Turkey I'm Gonna Tell You

That thing under its chin--the red jiggly part--is cool.

Butterball has a Turkey Talk-Line. That's funny. Except that 55,000 people actually called last year, presumably to talk about turkey.

"Butterball Turkey Talk-Line, how can we help you?" is how they answer the phone (although you could select the Spanish option, para informacion su como preparar su pavo). They don't ask how they can help me "with my turkey"--it's just "how can we help you?" which strikes me as a dangerously broad question coming from the turkey line. They could clean my bathroom for example. That would help me a lot.

One of the most frequently asked turkey questions is "where does the meat thermometer go?" which seems like a silly question to me, because obviously it goes in the turkey ass.

Another frequently asked question is "how do I know when the turkey is done?" which also strikes me as silly, because obviously the turkey is done when it bangs on the oven and tells you how fucking hot it is in there.

• That's everything you need to know about turkey.

The Games We Play

No, I'm not referring to the "he called me Friday noonish hoping to make plans for Friday night therefore I'll accept the date but won't sleep with him till Wednesday of the following week just to show him who he's playing with" game. (Even though that's one I like to think I play especially well...) I'm referring, of course, to the World Scrabble Championships that took place in London this past weekend.

Word-lubbers from around the globe gathered to test their ability to come up with as many words starting with the letter "q" that weren't necessarily followed by the letter "u" as they could. The scores of these pro-players reached well into the hundreds as they hung their "x's" and "z's" on triple word score boxes. Ultimately, the winner of the game, a 30 year old Canadian mathematician named Adam Logan beat out 30 year old Thai architect, Pakorn Nemitrmansuk, with a score of 465 to Pakorn's pathetic 426. But if I'd been a betting woman I would have chosen Pakorn as triumphant work geek since it appears the fiercest Scrabble competitors have names that predispose them to the game. Take last year's champ, Panupol Sujjayakorn. I mean that guy has two j's and a y in his surname alone!

Okay, now time for a bit of disclosure: my interest in this particular story has nothing to do with the fact that I enjoy a good game of Scrabble or that I think it's high time to celebrate gamesmen of the non-aggressive, one could even say anti-muscular variety. Rather, I was piqued by this subject because this summer I played Scrabble for the first time in years, and I'd been shocked by the result.

You see I talked a mean game before the tiles were set out. I tried to intimidate my competitors with my fierce knowledge of our goodly English language -- I might have even begun speaking in Middle English while doing so -- and I'm certain I alerted those sitting around me that I'd bee practicing SAT vocab since I was in fifth grade and hadn't stopped to to that very day. And yet... and yet I was trounced, routed, demolished, destroyed, annihilated, embarrassed and practically stripped of my diplomas at game's end. The only words I managed to set down on the board were not of the 25 cent "this is why I won a thesis prize"-type, they were penny-candy words at best. I came up with "pop" and "at" and "and." At the end of the game with a score of 23, I was put in the corner and officially pronounced a Scrabbletard. Oh, it smarted!

...But, like any cunning linguist, I've been looking for a way to exculpate my abject humiliation that hot July day ever since. And today, with this story, I have found it! You see, apparently even the best Scrabble players from Trinidad and Tobago to Zambia admit that Scrabble is not really a game for wordies, it's a game for MATH GEEKS. In fact the T&T's national champion admitted that "for the purose of the game, the meaning of the word is not important," and Panupol Sujjayakorn, though he had an encylcopedic memory apparently doesn't have a broad knowledge of English. How else could you explain the totally non-catchy slogan they sold to participants on T-shirts: "Funky not Geeky." That doesn't even rhyme, you lousy word-whores!

Ever since the day I lost face at my loss of language, I've been hesitant to get back in the game. But now at least I can explain why: in the words of my heroine Barbie, "Math is hard!" So hand me a slice of pie, because yes, Trivial Pursuits, that's what this Barbie girl is all about.

Breaking News! Starlet gets Engaged!

I'm still reeling from tingling disbelief as I report this news to you: Kimberly Stewart, the 26-year-old Paris Hilton BBF ho-bag daughter of Rod Stewart has just gotten engaged!

What a shocker, eh? Another talentless and job-less Hollywood heiress has just decided to tie the knot. And to a second-rate reality show star nonetheless--ooooh, the surprises never stop. Talan Torriero, from MTV's Laguna Beach, is a young man who should fire his manager for giving him a Mexican porn star name. But he is just a dewy 19 years old, so what does he know, the little cherub?

I would like to commend them, if not for originality, for doing everything right. They have been dating for about a week, so, as you can imagine--as Nicky Hilton, and Britney Spears, and Renee Zellwegger would all agree--it really was time to take it to the next level. Kimberly is a C-list starlet, who poses for sketchy men's magz and slaps publicists--she knew that she needed a D-list wannabe fiance if they didn't wanna be laughed out of the tabloids. And, finally, they announced their surprise engagement to friends at a party for Microsoft's Xbox yesterday in Los Angeles,because nothing says Lasting Marriage and Real love like a video game event in Hollywood. And the timing couldn't be better for either of them: Talan has an album coming out--because what reality TV star does that?--and Kimberly has nothing better to do.

Now if they just wait a few more minutes before they jet to the Hard Rock in Vegas for a quickie wedding, Kimberly will have time to get that tatto on her stomach changed from “Daddy’s Little Girl Loves Cisco”--her recent ex-fiance--to “Daddy’s Little Girl Loves Disco.”

Speaking of daddy, I bet she's made him proud--marrying younger just like him!

Keeping Up with the Kiddies

Yesterday Renee provided several excellent reasons why you people (and I say "you people" in the most loving way possible) should keep popping out those puppies, (my favorite, of course, being that the miracle of birth provides us well-entrenched single folk in cavair and champagne at the baby parties that inevitably precede or follow said miracle). And today, I follow with yet another reason why it's important to have those little ankle-biters around: they keep us rapidly aging oldies in the know.

Hard to believe, but at age 23 and two days, I was shocked (shocked!) to discover that I am now totally out of tune with youth culture. I just learned about a thing called SuDuko (sp?) that's apparently a HUMONGOUS trend, that a day ago I'd never even knew existed. What's more, this gap in my knowledge of all things "young'n'hip" has merely pulled one layer of onion skin away to reveal an entire universe of things I'm not aware of.

So okay, a test: How many of you out there know of Su Duko? How many of you have heard of My Space? Who's familiar with a Memory Stick? (and no, this neither refers to the 50 Cent song "Magic Stick," nor is it something you use to beat knowledge into another person.) Are you up on the DIY trend? Do you know what DIY stands for? (Nope, it's not Situation Normal All Fucked Up.)

Please, please tell me that I am not alone in my senior citizen ignorance... but if I am, I suppose the little comfort I have is in knowing that by tomorrow I'll have forgotten all about it.

Reasons to Have a Baby

Akshooally--that's not what I really mean. What I really mean is reasons to know people who are having babies, so you can freeload on the always well-catered and well-lubricated baby-related events.

While Robin just turned 23 yesterday, I have been 32 for a goodly number of months now. And as you and yours may have already discovered, this appears to be when people procreate. A lot.

I know all the right questions: how is the nausea, have you picked the stroller, that's okay, everyone gets the Bugaboo, I know there's just no comfortable position to sleep in, definitely go with the epidural, the Prada diaper bag is overrated, yes, pick the nanny with the green card, you're only waking up twice a night--that's great, I know--TV is so distracting when you're trying to breastfeed.

But it's all a big ingratiating act, just a series of over-broad smiles to earn admission to all the events: the boss-sponsored baby shower for the pregnanat ladies at work, with pomegranate margaraitas they can't drink but I sure can, and the 3-course catered lunch...the co-ed baby shower for the proto-hip parents to be, with the Magnum of Veuve Clicquot and that excellent babka the sister in law brings from Long Island. And don't get me started on the bris and the naming ceremonies, with the spongy-fresh blinis with real caviar and hard liquor at 11 in the morning.

It may be that no one tells you life will never be the same after the baby--but nor do they tell the friends just what a fabulous party it is for me! So keep mating, friends. Cheers!

On Good Press and Good Times

Okay, time for a little truth: Occasionally here at Chat with R&R you'll see us touting say, a book, that it's clear neither Renee nor I have read. And occasionally we'll give props to someone we don't really believe deserves them because what they've done is either fantastically silly, brazenly incompetent or potentially heroic (but most likely something that results in spectacular failure...), see, cause that's what you call "ironic" -- like complimenting Alannis Morissette for her command of vocabulary when it's so clear she wouldn't know if something were "ironic" if it smacked her across the... But I digress (as we're also want to do here.)

But what I want to do today, dear reader, is something slightly different. I want to talk about some genuinely happy occurrences and point you to some things I really think you will like because not only were they written by my friends and/or feature Renee and me, but because I think you'll appreciate them, too.

So first, you must must must check out this week's New York magazine. Not just because it's the Sex Issue. But because our great good friends Em & Lo have written the cover story. Also featured prominently in a different story in the mag is another friend, Rachel Kramer Bussel, who, in addition to having celebrated a big fabulous birthday on Nov. 10th, just wrote an excellent article on Media Bistro featuring Renee and me! And just last week, McSweeneys published another piece by our very sexy friend, Jay Dyckman, who wasn't in the sex issue, but probably because he was too busy getting busy to stop for the photoshoot.

Speaking of birthdays, though, yet another friend, Jordan Roth celebrated his big day with his partner Richie Jackson (also having a birthday) at a very cool party this weekend where I found myself seated next to the irrepressible Judith Light! Yes, Angela Bower from TV's "Who's the Boss?" and late of Pro-Activ commercials. She didn't say one word to me all dinner, but I sensed she wanted to...

Finally, I suppose I should admit it's my birthday today, too. And I must confess, being 23 has never felt better! Oops, the genuine sentiment appears to have just left the building... so I'll sign off now and assume you're sending me unironic wishes for a happy beeday and a birthday check made payable to cash.

From the Washington Post:
TODAY'S BIRTHDAY (November 15). You have natural optimism this year and enjoy the simplest of tasks like anticipating that something wonderful will happen -- and so, it does. Singles meet love in the next 10 weeks. Couples renew their interest in one another in a big way with minor effort. By March, more money is coming in. Love signs are Gemini and Pisces. Your lucky numbers are: 40, 1, 38, 39 and 20.

America's Best Education

It is a sign of the blooming health of the free market in America that there is such a vast array of choice for almost any product you could imagine buying: cereal, sneakers, cars, porn, cellphone plans, professional escorts, an education.

I've always known there were thousands of colleges across America (even though the controlling powers tried hard during my formative years to make me believe that there was a monopoly on eduation production and only one place to go buy it and that even if it had ugly Halloween colors and a stuffy reputation well that was just too bad so I better damn well get in otherwise they'd exchange me at the same K-Mart where they bought me).

Places like Lynn University in Boca Raton, Florida, a former Catholic school for women turned liberal arts college, now home of the blue and white Fighting Knights. Places like The American College in Pennsylvania, the only educational institution in the United States dedicated exclusively to the financial services profession. Whatever that is.

What makes these schools unique is not that I haven't heard of them--I hadn't heard that there were any schools outside of the EST time zone until just now--and it's not that they'e so small and specialized and in such ridiculously delightful climates like Boca Raton that one wonders what the hell you're gonna learn on a campus that averages 81 degrees and is a 1/2 hour drive from Ft. Lauderdale. But whatever, I hear some people study better on the beach while drinking (see the view of Student Life at Lynn University, above, pulled straight from the virtual tour on their website).

What really makes these totally obscure, completely random schools unique is that their presidents make over a million dollars. Well over. To be precise, Donald Ross, former prez of Lynn University, made $5,042,315 last year. And Samuel Weese of The American College, despite his dorky last name, made $1,725,376. I don't know what Donald and Sam--who both sound like chaarcters from a Disney cartoon--were doing for their institutions, but if it was anything short of prostitution and gun-running, I am baffled as to what could make them worth so damn much.

Executive compensation, we're often told by directors of corporate communications and company spokespeople, is a complex alchemy of fuck knows what, but the long and the short of it is that their people are worth every marginal million dollar pay-out included in their compensation package, and if we only understood how it all worked, we wouldn't be griping that shareholders and college students are getting totally screwed.

What I do know is that if Lynn University's president is worth over five million dollars, think how good that education must be! The secret's out now though, so Fighting Knights beware of all the transfers from the chilly Northeast.

Robertson to Dover: Drop Dead

Pat Robertson hates to be the one to tell you, but if you fuck with God, he's gonna give you the big fuck you.

Rarely one to take a hard line, except in the case of communists (kill Chavez!) and feminists (they kill their children, practice witchcraft, destroy capitalism and are lesbians), Pat "America's Public Intellectual" Robertson got a little upset yesterday. In the town of Dover, Pennsylvania, where they were undoubtedly scared shitless by the burgeoning theocracy in Kansas, eight school board members were ousted after trying to introduce "intelligent design" into schools as an alternative to evolution.

Patty was as shocked as we were to see that in the reactionary nightmare that is American culture today, there are still a few brazen dissidents who not only remember, but are gonna fight for that dusty ideal sometimes called "modernity" or just "common sense."

But whereas we were shocked good, Patty was shocked bad--and he went straight to God and told Him all about it, and according to Pat, God is mad! "I'd like to say to the good citizens of Dover: If there is a disaster in your area, don't turn to God. You just rejected him from your city," Patty said, still panting after racing down the hill from the heavens.

Well, phooey, if the good citizens of Dover had known God was gonna get that mad, they sure would have let a handful of revisionist Christians undo a few centuries' worth of human progress, and take them back to the dark ages of mysticism and superstition. They're so dumb in Dover.

If a Blogger Falls in the Woods...

Like Puss in Boots and a rain slicker, last night I slogged through the streets of the Lower East Side to attend the book party for
Ron Hogan's "The Stewardess is Flying the Plane!" , a coffee table tome documenting American Films of the 1970s that Publisher's Weekly calls "one of the year's most fun."


Ron has been a good friend to R&R, frequently mentioning us in his highly regarded book blog, Beatrice, so naturally, anything we could do to support his book pleased us tremendously. In addition to turning up for an early peek at a book that looks to be a photo-orgasmic experience, I must say I was also curious to see who else would be at the party. Because in addition to running Beatrice, Ron has recently been hired to do the book news blog at Media Bistro's Galleycat, he is clearly one of the most influential book world bloggers. It struck me that the party would therefore be lousy with other famous bloggers, and as a ranter myself, I thought it would be cool to mingle with my peeps.

Well, I have to be honest: the party may well have been chock'a'block with litty bloggers, but I really have no freakin' clue. Since none was wearing a necklace or nametag spelling out his or her URL, I couldn't figure out who anyone was. And it forced me to come to the harsh conclusion that though these writers have achieved a certain superstar status in my mind* (*with notable exception to those who didn't mention SHAKING in their blogs despite repeated pitches, pleas and bribes and whom I now think of as "superassholes"), it was more like being in a room full of plain-clothed Peter Parkers.

This is not to suggest that they were all as ugly as Tobey Maguire (who looks to me like he suffers from a little bit of Downs), but rather that though bloggers have a goodly amount of influence within their circumscribed worlds, in the real world, they don't have that palpable shine that starlets do. It's weird, but when I was living in LA, I found I could identify who the up-and-coming actors were without having to be told. It was like those people just had a certain glow to them, like a spotlight was permanently trained on their faces. The bloggers... not so much.

Now certainly people who read and write about books seem worthier of celebrity to me than, say, a sister Hilton, but for some reason, I'm not convinced we'll ever see a copy of InStlye Magazine featuring an inky scribbler. That depressed me. However, if InStyle does choose to go in another direction, they should know that Renee and I are more than ready for our close-ups, and we'll even bring our own spotlights to add nuance.

Stupid Design

It's true that, lately, there have been more than a few good reasons to wonder--maybe a little horrified, maybe just numb with disbelief--whether what we're seeing is actually happening.

But don't worry, you're not crazy, it is actually happening! And yesterday it got even more surreal when the Kansas Board of Education voted to adopt new "science" standards that include a few of the following outstandingly scientific claims:

* that science is not limited exclusively to natural explanations.
Duh!

* that the new science curriculum--which has been purged of almost any mention of evolution--opens students' minds to alternative points of view.
I mean, how do YOU know God didn't make the dinosaurs out of Playdoh? Were YOU there?

*that requiring consideration of evolution's critics absolutely teaches more about science.
Just because YOU are a narrow-minded materialist, some anal-retentive, spiritually empty facsist, doesn't mean you should subject the children of Kansas to your point of view.

*that the inclusion of intelligent design theories will "make science education interesting to students rather than boring."
Seriously, what teenager gives two spitballs about fossils and the primordial soup? I mean...ewwww!

The only bad news about Kansas is that, except for the hundreds of illegal meth labs scattered in rural trailer parks all over the state, they are not on drugs.

Arrrrgh... Pirates!

On the one hand, it's not funny. On the other, it did make me laugh, so maybe it was just a wee bit amusing... I'm talking, of course, about the attempted pirate attack the other day on the "Spirit" cruise ship as it floated through the untroubled waters of Somalia.


Now the story may have made me snort because just last week I saw Pirates of the Carribean for the first time, and the notion of being attacked by Johnny Depp seems somehow attractive to me. Or maybe another reason for the "ha ha" was because I've long believed anyone who goes on a cruise ship a little bit gets what he deserves, be it a vomiting virus, pirates leaving rocket propelled grenades on board, or a Kathie Lee Gifford floor show. And let's not even talk about the elephant in the room--no, I don't mean probability that your "unsinkable ship" will hit an iceberg--I mean all that weight gain! Honestly, cruise ships are just like 24-hour-a-day floating buffets (as opposed to 24 hours a day of Phoebe Buffet -- enough with the "Friends" syndication already!)

But the fact that these gluttons are vacationing off the coast of Somalia, I mean doesn't that deserve some sort of retribution?

Okay, no: no one "deserves" to get attacked by pirates (unless it's some sort of sex fantasy, in which case "Arrrgh, matey, unbatton thy hatches.") And I suppose the notion of "shipjacking" is a lot less glamorous if it doesn't involve my crush from Jump Street. But if Leon Klinghoffer taught us anything, it's that even if you're on Disney's Big Red Boat, you may be floating in the Happiest Place on Earth, but you're still a sitting duck. (Arrrrgh, that was in bad taste, and I apologize a little.)

Jacques Le Greasy Frenchie

As a rule, I usually prefer not to dicuss the fatuous exploits of my social and sentimental life, because, Number One, who cares? And Number Two, as the vaguely forgotten pop star Ben Lee once sang, a lot goes on but nothing ever happens.

Still, a lot does go on. And sometimes it's too absurd for words, too cliche to believe that it's actually happening to me, and yet so real that I have to begin to wonder who the fuck up there finds this all so funny.

I won't even mention Nicolas the juvenile Serbian architect whose best answer to anything was to smile broodingly and insult me...or Ricca the bubbly manager-slash-artist who treated me to dessert...or John, the earnest artist who thinks there should be more good news--awww--in the world...or even Jean-Pierre, shirt designer-slash-project manager-slash-Ecuadorian-Colombian-Francophile who kept me from physically assaulting Nicolas.

No, let's jump straight ahead to the end of the evening, and to Jacques. A few weeks ago you may have read a story in the New York Times, in the magazine's new funny pages, about a filmmaker named Jacques who accosted the story's author on an F-train home to Brooklyn, flattered her Frenchily, asked for her number, took her to the movies at the Anjelika, and then let out with a passive-aggressive anti-semitic screed directed at the author whose most defining feature was, apparently, looking semitic.

Guess who still rides the F train to Brooklyn? Jackie!

But Jacques didn't even flatter me Frenchily. He just followed me out of the subway and said, deadpan, without even an introduction: "Kin I 'ave yohr nohm-bear?" Jacques was under-dressed and greasy. Jacques was too greasy-looking even for a Godard movie. And Jacques had to be fucking kidding. First of all, I'd read about the anti-semitic dickwad in the friggin' New York Times. Second of all, Jacques, you must have been smoking a friggin' crack pipe on the F train home, because you are going to have say at least one really really nice thing about me before I'll even tell you my name. LET ALONE MY NUMBER, YOU GREASY VICHY COLLABORATOR.

Maybe Jacques and Nicolas should have a drink, not that assholes and antisemites have anything in common.

Slander and Super Glue: The Testicle Wars

Generally, we here at Chat with R&R tend to avoid discussing our own personal relationship issues and romantic escapades in our blog rants because for one, these things are none of your beeswax, and for two, see number one. But invariably our adoring readership will ask us questions like "Hey, R&R, how would you behave in such&such a romantic situation?" and "Hey ladies, how is it possible that gorgeous girls like you aren't you married yet?" And though we aren't relationship experts, per se (or, say, at all) occasionally we can't help but proffer advice on matters of the heart that we have had some experience with.

To wit, today's subject: What's an appropriate way to behave after a break up?

Well, as it turns out, there are two cases in the news that I'll discuss, then give my "expert" opinion on how I might have acted differently. The first involves NJ Senate candidate and milllllllionnnnnaire Jon Corzine and his scorned wife, Joanne. The second involves a woman who super-glued her ex boyf's penis to his stomach, glued his testicle to his leg and glued the cheeks of his buttocks together.

But first to the Senator: Apparently, Joanne Corzine, the woman who got thrown over for a labor leader that wasn't even Charlize Theron, is pissed. (Rightly so.) But instead of going all Ivana Trump on his fat bank account, Joanne issued a public statement in Tuesday's NYT, to the effect of, my husband's a cheating bastard and a fuckwad. Well, sure enough, Corzine's competition, Doug Forrester decided to pick up on her statement and turned it into a TV ad called "Quote," blasting this message on TV.

When I saw the campaign ad where Andrea Forrester said, 'Doug never let his family down and he won't let New Jersey down,' all I could think was that Jon did let his family down, and he'll probably let New Jersey down, too.

Hmmm, I gotta say, Joanne, that's not cool. I know you think your husband is a cheating sack of shit, and there's no defense for his actions, but this is not good break up etiquette. It makes you seem a lot less classy, it warns other men that you're a loose cannon, but more importantly, it makes you less sympathetic to the judge (probably male) who will be deciding your divorce settlement. So next time you have the urget to open your mouth, pop a Starlight mint in there instead because you'll smell all the sweeter for it.

Now onto the other interesting story of the day, and let me just reiterate the offense: A Pennsylvania woman, so angry with her ex, glued his penis to his stomach, glued his testicle to his leg and glued the cheeks of his buttocks together while he was sleeping. She evidently did such a bang up job with the glue, that nurses had to peel his dick off. You really should read the story for yourself--oh, and be sure to watch the video. But as it turns out, the woman didn't just stop there. After she did her bit with the glue, she went on to pour nail polish on his hair.

Here's my advice to the lady: Sweetheart, the nail polish was completely unnecessary. Overkill. In the sitcom world it's known as "a joke on a joke." You detract from the main event when you try to embellish it with nail lacquer. Next time just "stick" to the basics!

Hope this helps...

Of Birds and Praise

It's the rare book that both enchants you and educates you, but the latest book from the the GCC circuit does just that. In Gayle Brandeis's The Book of Dead Birds, the story is frought and rich: a young woman, Ava, turns 20, leaves home and comes to terms with a past unlike anyone elses's...Helen, her mother, as a young girl in Korea, was drawn into prostitution on a segregated American army base. Several brutal years passed before a young white American soldier married her and brought her to California. When she gave birth to a black baby--Ava--her new husband quickly abandoned her, and she was left to fend for herself and her daughter in a foreign country.

The story is gripping and beautiful, and a few writers who you might have heard of sing its praises:

Lyrical, imaginative, beautifully crafted, and deeply intelligent. Before anything else, its characters take you by the heart.
--Barbara Kingsolver

The Book of Dead Birds has an edgy beauty that enhances perfectly the seriousness of its contents.
--Toni Morrison

The Book of Dead Birds won Barbara Kingsolver's Bellwether Prize for Fiction. Kingsolver created the award to advocate serious literary fiction that addresses issues of social justice, and the impact of culture and politics on human relationships. Toni Morrison and Maxine Hong Kingston were the judges who, in addition to Kingsolver, selected The Book of Dead Birds.

I'm Not Blaming My Parents...

Well, not entirely. But I do think there must be some correlation between me growing up a cable TV-deprived child at the dawn of the "I Want My MTV" era, and the fact I was up till 2:30 last night watching the music television. As a young (annoying yet adorable) child, I'd relentlessly campaigned for premium TV, only to be rebuffed time and time again by parents who told me I didn't need to watch any more TV than the 6 hours a day I was already logging. They explained cable was an "unnecessary evil," that would rot my brain -- which only made it that much more appealing to me. Naturally as soon as I was out of my parents' home I got the whole cable set up, and, much to my chagrin, so did they. Apparently the desire for brain rot is genetic.

In fairness to my parents, even if I had had my MTV as a child, I probably still would have been bewitched by the young residents of Laguna Beach last night (those kids are foxy!). But my bizarre fascination/total lack of understanding/perspective on things I didn't have as a kid is troubling. And I know I'm not alone in this. In fact, every time I see a grown person flinging himself down the street on a Razor scooter, I think to myself, "now there's a kid whose mother never let him ride a bike without a helmet or swing too high on the swing set." I also think to myself, "someone should push that loser off that silly thing." Really, it's incredibly undignified.


But I am perplexed by the phenomenon and am curious what obsessions others have these days that they think resulted from restrictive parenting. So please spill.

Don't worry, I promise this will be a supportive forum and you'll only be mocked for your mania if you're a spammer wanting me to bookmark your dating site or if you're obsessed by something really stupid, you know, totally unlike MTV, Big League Chew (the gum designed to look like chewing tobacco) or glitter-based make up products. Cause those things are just cool.

Sick Joke Dept.

In the Department of Primal Fears, Sub-category Please God Never Ever Let This Happen to Me, Division of B-list Horror Movie Stunts--with the caveat that this actually happened: a 3-year-old Bronx girl was standing in the shower when a rat crawled through a broken tile, pounced on her back and sank its teeth into her flesh. As she wiggled furiously trying to make it let go--which it wouldn't--she slipped and hit her head on the faucet. Two years later, she now suffers from seizure disorder, rat phobia and panic disorder.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!

This kind of thing is never supposed to happen. It's against the rules. It's supposed to be a sick vision when you see a rat on the subway tracks and you imagine it jumping up in one bionic leap and sinking its sharp rat teeth into the vulnerable flesh of your jugular.

It's supposed to be an irrational panic that overtakes you as you're standing in the shower with your eyes closed, rinsing shampoo from your hair, and you're suddenly sure there's a huge, wet rat about to scurry up your leg. But it's not supposed to be real.

Exept this was a very real rat, who probably spawned lots of fearless rat babies who grew into ugly super-size rats, who are scurrying through air ducts and heat vents right now, as you read this, finding ratty ways into your building, your floor, your shower...