My Favorite Headline Today

It’s from Croatia’s Vecernji List

Kraj sage o desnoj dojci Janet Jackson?

Translation:

Could The Saga of Janet Jackson’s Right Breast Be Over?

Nipplegate? Over? Never!

Janet's Moment in the Sun

I <3 The Scorpions

Woohoo! With Dolly officially a Hurricane, I’m ready to kick off cable news’ favorite season with one of my favorite songs.

And apparently Dolly could be a sequel to the one that happened a few years ago. Katarina? Korrine? Damn, I forgot its name.

Coastal officials worried today that Hurricane Dolly may bring so much rain that flooding could break through the levees holding back the Rio Grande.

The Rio Grande? I wonder if that’ll bring in a flood of illegal immigrants too? Let’s enlist this guy to hold ‘em back:

Here’s to levees, makeshift plywood window covers, high winds, flooding, exploding glass, sinking cars and weather reporters making asses of themselves!

Vietnam - The War That Keeps Giving

Turns out Fannie Mae was a government agency for 30 years, until it finally went private in 1968. Why?

The main reason for the change was surprisingly mundane: accounting. At the time, Lyndon Johnson was concerned about the effect of the Vietnam War on the federal budget. Making Fannie Mae private moved its liabilities off the government’s books, even if, as the recent crisis made clear, the U.S. was still responsible for those debts.

Ahh, Communism. It has been unwittingly destroying us since 1991.

Emailing Barack (Raj)

Talk of the Town profiles a dude called Guru Raj who chose “barackobama” as his Gmail username back in 2004 - before everyone used Gmail to send each other messages about Barack Obama.

“I just thought it would be kind of funny to create an e-mail address based on a random senator whose name no one could spell.”

Hilarity ensues.

I’m a bit suspect that Raj’s reasoning could be so simple. It requires so much naivete as to be a moron. Then again, I’ve met humans, so yeah… he’s probably telling the truth.

Indecision v2.0

Yes, I’m back. Maybe one day we can catch up. But right now I’m really busy. Once again, I’m leaving my weekly subject to you. Now give me something to write about dammit!

Looking for Bon Jovi Naked? Top Google Searches

Here are my favorite search engine terms that brought you here:

bon jovi naked
why facebook is pleasure and fun
ohio armpit of america
death chicken
pleasure on bottom of ocean
power smoking
smoke cat shit
little girls fuck

Wait? Little girls fuck? What sort of depraved whackos are out there?

Hey, here’s an idea! Whoever searched for “little girls fuck” should turn themselves into the cops immediately and let the lonely boys over in cell block D take care of him.

Home and Nazi Sympathy

In the interest of full disclosure and transparency (a big deal these days) let me preface this post by saying I’m a first generation immigrant from Croatia. I’ve been there almost every summer since my birth. It’s the first language I ever spoke and also the first and only culture I abide by. It’s also the only place I truly consider home, and I despise the day my father decided to leave there.

Here’s a glib article from the NY Times equating Croatia with Naziism because of a concert. As in past articles, the Times gives a heavy-handed report that essentially paints Croatian youth as a gang of Arian drones insensitive to the past wrongs of their ancestry.

Some of the fans were wearing the black caps of Croatia’s infamous Nazi puppet Ustashe government, which was responsible for sending tens of thousands of Serbs, Gypsies and Jews to their deaths in concentration camps.

The exchange with the audience is a routine part of Mr. Perkovic’s act, and the gesture seemed to lack any conscious political overtones. The audience — most of whom appeared to be in their teens and early 20s — just seemed to be having a good time. But Mr. Perkovic’s recent success among a new generation — many of them apparently oblivious to the history of the Holocaust — has prompted concern and condemnation from Jewish groups abroad and minority groups in Croatia.

Seeing as how most of my friends/cousins in Croatia are members of this age group, let me clarify. Not all Croats were members of the Ustasha movement. This is much more detail than I’m willing to supply right now, but it gets to the point.

While the majority of the Croatian people favored an independent Croatian state, many did not support the Ustase regime. ‘When the war broke out there were fewer than twelve thousand members of the movement representing less than one per cent of the Croatian population. At its height in 1942, there were only sixty thousand Ustase.

My grandfather, along with others, was part of the Partisan movement often credited to the Serbs.

None of this of course forgives anything, but to use a nationalist rock star as the poster boy for Croatia’s skin heads is a bit much. But there will always be the dunces out there.

Mr. Perkovic’s patriotic — and sometimes violently nationalistic — songs first became popular here during the Balkan wars, when he fought in the Croatian Army. Most Croats know him better by his stage name, Thompson, given to him during the war, when he carried the British-made submachine gun of the same name. He, too, has recently sought to distance himself from the Ustashe association. In an interview, the soft-spoken singer said he had never raised his own arm to make a fascist salute. Nor, he said, did he encourage people to wear Ustashe uniforms. As for the Ustashe slogan he uses, he claims it is a traditional Croatian salute that predates World War II.

To put it simply, he’s the Croatian version of Toby Keith. (He’s just as bad too). Uber-patriotic to the point of stupidity. Most of my friends detest his nationalistic attitude.

Here’s a concert video give you an idea of what exactly this salute looks like, as well as how shitty the song is, as well has how bad a performer Thompson really is. Count the peace signs too (damn hippies). [Upon sitting through the video, I now suggest you mute your computer.]

Yes, there are a few bad apples in the busshel. But you’d imagine a nation of baby-Jew eating, Nazi-soluting creatures after reading this article.

On the flip side, I enjoy any bad publicity for the country. It will hopefully put a dent in the already overcrowded tourist season. I miss the days when people didn’t know Croatia existed. Now every yuppie, hipster and baby boomer wants to go there. So yes, if it keeps foreigners out, then all Croats are Nazis. Don’t go. They’ll kill you.

Woody Paige lives up to his name

The New York Post has an absolutely hilarious account of a suit filed by a former ESPN make up person/lady/whatever for sexual harassment. Even if you’ve never heard of Jay Crawford or Woody Paige, the details are a bit startling. They’re also oddly funny once you actually imagine Woody Paige pulling some of these stunts:

“Paige grabbed her butt so forcefully, Ragone, quite startled, was propelled forward and into the air,” says the suit [...]

Ragone claims she endured a daily barrage of vulgarity from the pair, who asked, “Wanna see what’s in my pants?” “Wanna f- - -?” and “Can you give me a h- - -job today?”

In October 2005, Paige loudly said, “Rita looks like she’s really good at giving b- - -jobs. Imagine that face between your legs,” according to the suit.

Paige routinely told Ragone “sit right here” while “tapping his hand on his lap near his genital area,” court papers state - and asked, “Do you think I have a big one because I’m a big guy?”

Clothing was not required at “Cold Pizza,” where Ragone once saw Paige without his pants standing in front of the open door to his office.

All that coming from a guy who choked on confetti.

“Sure sports writers are going to have fun. That’s what we do.” Oh dear.

The best five seconds on YouTube

AKA The Dramatic Chipmunk:

just got better:

Coffee and Powerbars - Life as a Journalistic Wench

I’m caught on that tipping point between dream job and living hell. I’m over at Downtown Express, a respectable weekly where reporters get a start (or die).

The ride has been fun - a bit droning - but fun nonetheless. I check in every morning, admittedly at my own leisure. My clock counts common sense, not seconds. So I’m in when I need to be, not supposed to be. And I do what I need to do - file my stories on time. Not want I’m supposed to do - look busy.

I’ve gotten some stories published that I’m proud of, and some I filed in my sleep. But I’ve realized the damn grind this job can be. I’ve always said manual labor is easier than the brain-frying hum of a laptop. It’s beyond numbing.

The standard classical music you hear when you’re “on hold.” Acting dumb with elected officials. “Will this show up in the newspaper?” Yes. “Don’t put that bit in.” Ok. “How’s the [blank] story coming along?” No idea, but it’ll miraculously happen somehow. “What’s your reaction to [blank]’s comment…” That doesn’t answer my question. “Well, that’s the best you’ll get out of me.” Swine.

If I’m lucky, I’ll mangle an assignment until it forces me to leave the office and interact with human beings. This is fun. Getting people to let their guard down and say something irrational and stupid is harder over the phone.

At 3pm, I’m a zombie. By then the Powerbars have tapered off and the 4th cup of coffee sounds right and awful. Cocaine and/or speed sound like reasonable options. It’s a warped, sick, and disgusting profession. I recommend it to everyone who has ever asked one question too many.

There are priceless moments. The tech guy tells you the wifi you’re stealing belongs to Russell Crowe. “I hope he doesn’t throw a telephone at you.” You get a thank you letter from a blind man you profiled, telling you how much he loved the picture of him and his seeing eye dog.

But it’s hard. Damn hard. But I’m lucky.

I’ve realized there isn’t one character in the office I wouldn’t spend a day with. They can be unsavory and a bit irrational. Sometimes strange, often whiny. But upstanding nonetheless. If these are the people that inhabit the journalism world, then I’m proud to be I’m among them. I’ve yet to meet someone here I wouldn’t have a beer with.

I have no idea where this will all lead to, other than having my name in ink several times. But I came here to get a start - not to die.