Once Again the Incorrigible Nick Diamonds

We post the video of "Do They Know It's Halloween" every year for the good people who believe Samhain has a future. On the flip, our buddies at Street Carnage scooped the previously untold and celebrity-tinged tale of Nick's efforts to bring Halloween to the world's unfortunates. He may be no Bob Geldoff but he is Islands.

Samhain I Am

Still trying to think of a Halloween costume? How about a pirate—not the old Johnny Depp kind but the newer, edgier Somali variety. Offshore banditry is all the rage these days and the Somali Pirate look is easily to mimic, just chain smoke some Marlboros, turban up and demand ransom. The Horn of Africa is today a gansta land of greed and vice replete with hookers, gin joints and khat pedlars. All the trappings of a Warren Zevon song with ocean front property to boot! From the New York Times:

"Flush with cash, the pirates drive the biggest cars, run many of the town's businesses—like hotels—and throw the best parties, residents say. Fatuma Abdul Kadir said she went to a pirate wedding in July that lasted two days, with nonstop dancing and goat meat, and a band flown in from neighboring Djibouti. 'It was wonderful,' said Ms. Fatuma, 21. 'I'm now dating a pirate.'

Sounds like a blast plus the khat (qat) is fresh everyday.

video courtesy of mondeas media

Another Reason To Hate The Taliban

The verb "to bogart" was born of hippies dangling joints from their mouths like half-baked Humphery Bogarts. More specifically "bogarting" or "hogging" refers to the forgetfulness/selfishness of being slow to pass the joint along to others. Pot smoking, you see, is collectivist by nature.


Now I hear the Taliban have adopted this stoner affliction and are bogarting opium for chrissakes. Despite the pre-historic garb and theological handicapping these crafty bastards are working the markets of capitalism like Wharton School grads. By gathering all the poppies and hording the opium they are manipulating supply and demand while simultaneously attacking us at our core values. A hatred of our fun-loving, devil may care lifestyle is the root of the Taliban's distinctly and ironically anti-American, American behavior. In turning our own economic weapons against us vis-à-vis market manipulation they're infringing upon our god given right to illegal drugs at a fair price. So yet another reason to hate the Taliban - they're free market capitalists!

Heroin is a nightmare but opium makes for a nice rainy day lounge about, so if you're a generation DIYer head down to the Chelsea Flower Market and buy some poppies before the price blows through the roof. Hint

Related Posts~
UPDATE: And Another Reason To Hate The Taliban
Jacked To The Gills: Mumbai Terrorists on LSD & Coke
A Drug For Every Age
Don't Go There
Iraq: Life & Death in Hell
How To Beat The Khalid Sheikh Mohammed Blues
Opiate is the Religion of the Bastards

Share The Wealth: the Best Political Blogging

The linked compendium of election year hi-jinx brilliantly crafted by BlogMaster Jon Swift is a gold mine in a sea of crackpipes and shit crocks. Conspiracy scavenger hunts and artless subterfuge are gifts of the internet gods and while the event horizon points to a temporary cessation of this magical journalism, I wouldn't worry yourself. Regardless of election results my fellow mischief makers and I will spin the outcome to our advantage and next Tuesday we'll find an America either preparing for a coronation or in the throes of martial law. So stay tuned.

Kentucky Fried Hero Worship

Just in time for Christmas, the Guitar Hero Fully Loaded Box Meal is upon us. Dietary constraints and a preference for Rock Band aside, this all-american marketing ploy was tugging at my heart valves until Michael McWhertor took one for the cardiovascular team. The Guitar Hero World Tour is a themed box of crap with 59 grams of fat and 1210 calories and that's before the quart of non-alcoholic corn syrup. While alcohol's blood thinning properties would surely help balance serum cholesterol levels, drinking in dingy KFC's might have a net negative influence on customer life expectancy.

A more practical suggestion to the marketing mavens at Guitar Hero: Please consider backmasking some "pro-kentucky fried" messages in the game to advance your obvious satanic purpose. It's a dovetailing win-win situation combining the danger of the rock & roll lifestyle with the threat of KFC to our health. "The Devil Made Me Do It" might prove an apropos slogan. Lordy, if Elvis were still kicking we'd be talking about a cross promotional match made in fat ass heaven. Rock hard, arteries!

Black Metal Commercial

Video Endlessly Kills Radio Stars

It was MTV with their fake moon landing who ruined music. Opening up their collection to the world was long overdue and yet the only video of the whole crap heap that still reminds of the promise of the future is this classic from the young Flaming Lips.
Christmas on Mars indeed.

Gun Business Blazing

In addition to looking to fortune cookies and Madame Blavatsky's Baboon for advice, terrified Americans are increasingly adding guns to their arsenal in a stand against the financial meltdown. While sales of consumer items across the board plummet, firearms sales are on the rise. Like the law & order mayhem of the Wild West, Americans apparently see the "peacemaker" as a weapon in stemming the tide of crime and civil unrest attending our worsening economy. Gun manufacturing shill the NRA points to the likelihood of an Obama presidency as the best inadvertent marketing campaign for gun sales since the Kennedy election. Here's to hoping the economy rebounds quickly.

Related Posts ~
Guns Don't Kill People, People With Guns Kill People

Watch Willie Nelson, Jesse Ventura & Alex Jones Live 10PM EST

In Austin, The Backyard is closing today and that's a sad reminder that as predicted the former Hill Country gem has turned into just another fucking city. To celebrate the shuttering, Willie Nelson is playing a show there this evening you can watch live on the interweb. While Willie strumming is alway a good time, special guests from beyond the fringe, Jesse Ventura and Alex Jones should make this one of the few times you'll feel safer watching from a distance, online from an unspecified location.

At 10PM EST grab a beer and Click. The gentle sounds of "high as a kite" country twang laced with bold faced conspiracy talk will lull you off to never-never-land like a handful of ryphnol in your favorite desert topping. Set two alarms.

And if you miss the live stream click yourself over into Alex Jones' world anyway. Though logging-in from a Kinko's or Public Library might be advisable.

When Truth is Stranger than Fiction with Apologies to James Ellroy

The Los Angeles Times series on "Noir Los Angeles" profiles the Gangster Squad, an extralegal group of LAPD officers formed in 1946 to fight organized crime off the record. These real life crime fighters are obviously the prototype for James Ellroy's characters, in particular those populating the nefarious L.A. Quartet of The Black Dahlia, The Big Nowhere, L.A. Confidential and White Jazz. Delving into this 1st of 7 parts, by Paul Lieberman, one espies the attitude that would spawn Ellroy's first pangs of unrequited policeman love.

Closer to home, The LA Gangster Squad was created to fight against "Hoodlum types from Rhode Island" something we in NYC know is a problem beyond even the bounds of the Demon Dog's crazed LA fiction.

My Principle of Uncertainty

The Many-Worlds Theory makes the simple conclusion that one probabilistic outcome is as real as any other and therefore predicting an immense surplus of many-worlds branching away from each moment of now. In other words there exists an infinite number of copies of our identical present, but in the next moment, in each copy there is one single particle that is in a slightly different position than all the others.

Imagine one hipster party in Williamsburg, Brooklyn sprouting another almost completely identical party and then another one and another and so on and so on. Charming, eh?

Take these two worlds, so similar yet not, but obviously both existing. Right?
The shit's heavy. In a unforeseen twist, Parallel Worlds, Parallel Lives follows E, the weird leader of the band EELS, across the country as he confronts the Many-Worlds Theory while unraveling the story of his possibly weirder father—iconoclastic quantum physicist Hugh Everett III. It's trip out right on your computer.

When Times Get Tough, The Weak Turn Weird

When life gets chaotic, its natural to crave order. But as the global financial system spins out of control people should be aware that the craving for order can distract you. It was during the last Great Depression that tarot cards and newspaper horoscopes exploded into the mainstream. Hard times suppress common sense and people often turn to conspiracy theory and superstition for explanation, searching for patterns where none exist, and finding rosetta stones in every Alex Jones or George Noory broadcast.

The sound advice here is probably to stick with financial planners as opposed to crystal ball gazers or info-radio beacons. However, I have noticed, when comparing the forecasts of my weatherman to those of my astrologer, that 9 times out 10 the horoscope is a better predictor of things to come. Could just be me though, I was born under an auspicious sign.

A Dummy for Sushi

A funny article in the Wall Street Journal about Sushi Bullies reminded me of my own hard learned lessons. In short, sushi chefs are motherfuckers. Japanese food culture is hyper-rigid and these guys (sorry ladies) don't appreciate any wavering or derivation from the protocol. So if you're sitting at a sushi bar, and you should always sit at the bar, here are some tips to keep the Chef from going kamakaze. Do as I say, not as I did.

1. Only order sushi or sashimi. Rolls are the Big Mac of the sushi world. And while the Japanese adore McDonald's a California Roll will in no way endear you to the Chef. And you're at bar to suck up to the Chef.
2. Wasabi is only for sashimi! Because sashimi is fish unadorned, it's ok to stir wasabi into a little soy sauce for dipping. Sushi, however, will already have the "exact right amount' of wasabi between the rice and the fish. These guys are armed with eons of prejudice and very sharp knives so please don't be foolish.
3. In the same vein, when eating sushi, only dip the fish in soy sauce never the rice. I'm sorry but their sushi rice recipes are as revered as the mysteries of the Japanese Imperial Family's lineage and they don't like round eyes messing with either.
4. Always offer to buy the Chef a drink. This action will help to alleviate a multitude of sins and he'll be honored.
5. And finally, saké is ok with sashimi, and it's also ok before your sushi, but not with the sushi. Only beer or tea. Saké is made from rice and for whatever reason the Japanese are NOT down with eating rice and drinking rice at the same time.

These mistakes are the equivalent of salting your food before tasting in a French restaurant. But while the French are usually half in the bag or feeling up a skirt somewhere, the Japanese are watching for the slightest breach of etiquette and they never forget, in part probably, cuz fish is brain food. Just know the militarism of a tried and true Sushi Chef makes the frothing psychosis of a French Cook seem downright fun loving.

Good luck, dont' be foolish and next time we'll talk noodles. Your assignment is to watch the terrific Tampopo and get to slurping.

Watch the 30 Rock Season Premiere Here!

The Collapsing Log Cabin Fever of Matt Drudge

I really have no idea if Matt Drudge is a torch or not. I just continue to be amazed that this whole Bush admin generated national nightmare was caused by Drudge's loose lips on a measly consensual blow job. Who rats out blow jobs? Today, according to Eric Boehlert, The Drudge Report just might be loosing some of its shit stirring magic. And because what real red blooded American, ninny or otherwise, doesn't love Doris Day, I want to tell Matt, "Don't fret honey, Que Sera Sera"

Oct 31 - UPDATE: Does Drudge Matter Anymore?

Bloomsday in NYC?

Today the 51 members of the New York City Council will finally have to publicly pick sides over whether they, and Mayor Bloomberg, should be able to run for another four years in office. It's going to be tight and Bloomberg's squeezing of members and supporters into rushing this vote has been rubbing a lot of people the wrong way.

Our friends are divided on this, young Rachel Trachtenburg thinks Bloomberg is the worst Mayor ever while sexy New England surfer dude John James thinks Bloomy hung the moon. It's all perspective folks you should look into getting one.




Others hope to introduce an amendment for a public referendum on whether Moneyberg should be allowed to lord ad infinitum. A vote by the citizenry to counter a blatant insider power grab seems fair(er) since term limits are a product of the people. See for instance venerable New York media dude Kurt Andersen's 2 Cents on the Term Limits Debate

...this is a developer story, err I mean... a developing story

Fatten Up Already

America is obsessed with miracle diets. The latest, a morning banana craze is sweeping across Japan and moving with tsunamic certainty towards the gullible food fadests of the Lower 48. Alaska has blubber and Hawaii has Wo Fat, so they get a pass on this plea to defeat dietary hucksterism at home. The rest of us seem to have no idea why fat is important. And after all, you really are what you eat. Jennifer McLagan and Michael Pollan both have written interestingly about food as history and how "diet book culture" has fogged over our memories and taste buds.

In the Beginning, people hunted animals, ate the fat of those animals and lo and behold their brains got bigger. That's the story. Our story. So don't monkey with the system people. Your body needs fat. It doesn't need tofu pups or food that has been "optimized for your health." Over processed foods are bullshit and imitation food is nonsense. Eat simple fresh things.

Now don't go overboard with bacon smoothies or bone marrow tacos, simply eat loads of fresh veggies as a counter balance. Meals with lard or butter or schmaltz are more satisfying and keep you from gorging on crap like Rice-A-Roni, the San Franciso Treat. A change in eating habits will have a greater health and economic impact on the nation than the cumulative impact of the next 20 wonder drugs.

And because the pharmaceutical giants are only in business to make money they will screw you. Better served to eat like a caveman: grab the pork butter to fry your turnip greens, braise some ox-tails and lather fresh butter on whole bread. Your life will be changed and your heart will be none the wiser because a barbecued brisket is assuredly less dangerous than a stray banana peel.

The Barack Hussein Obama Bin Laden Blues

Political Campaigns are about as exciting as crossword puzzles. For about 4 intense minutes you poke yourself in the head with a sharp pencil trying to decipher the game before realizing these people aren't using real words in the first place. So as the Campaigns are finally winding down we thought we'd take you back to our Unconventionally Yours versions of the Democrats and the Republicans clamoring for attention in 2008.

This, by the way is our good friend, Ralph Gean. He wrote The Barack Hussein Obama Bin Laden Blues with Hillary Clinton in mind but once she got shoved aside by Obama he changed the protagonist in the ditty to McCain. Lucky you John.

America's Funniest Team: The Dallas Cowboys

The gold plated turnip truck that brought Jerry Jones to Dallas seems to be suffering during this gasoline crunch. Besides the injury to Romo, TO's flakery and PacMan's boozy breakdown somebody is syphoning off the corn squeezins that traditionally fuel the Cowboy bandwagon. Unfortunately, this current spiral seems driven by a lack of old-school Irving, Texas mayhem. Can someone please put the funniest back in America's Team?

This humorless situation necessitates a reminder of the glory days when Dallas was synonmous with super shootingstars like Rafael Septien and Lance Rentzel. Or the manical Charles Haley constantly stroking himself. Of course, our all time favorite Cowboy move remains Thomas Henderson snorting cocaine during Super Bowl XIII. Digging your dope out of your sock on the sideline of a televised football game just nudges Michael Irvin showing up for court in a full length mink coat on charges with possession of coke in the company of hookers. We can all sympathize with escapism but what we won't tolerate is boring.

Today both the high flying good times and the proficient footballing are gone. Where have you gone Dandy Don? Or even Barry Switzer? PacMan Jones is just a poor excuse for a delinquent. And that's got to be somebody's fault. The best the Cowboys have today is a narcissitic health nut in TO, a quarterback so sweet he dates the dumbest girl in the room and an owner too crazy to actually be believed. Chutzpah? Anyone? Actually, Jerry Jones is a pretty entertaining freak show but for chrissakes, does anybody have Pete Gents number ?

Gossip as God

Something to consider next time you’re churning the rumor mill: Gossip is the 21st century, human equivalent of picking fleas off your friends. According to an article in this month’s Scientific American Mind, gossip is a mechanism for social bonding, functioning much like grooming among other primate species. Gossip encourages egalitarian behavior by punishing group members who don’t pull their weight or play by the rules. "Many social critics have bemoaned this explosion of popular culture as if it reflects some kind of collective character flaw," writes Frank McAndrew. But, “in a highly mobile, industrial society celebrities may be the only ‘friends’ we have in common with our neighbors and co-workers."

Who started all this idle talk and newsmongering about the affairs of others? Rona Barrett did, that's who.

Every Day is Like Sunday

We've made it clear our feeling that sport is soap opera for men, so when I caught an NFL commercial trying to tap into the sensitive/indie market this past Sunday, I burst with laughter. Tarnishing Morrissey by having the same ad guys who re-cut vocals for Dodge Truck commercials sing "Every Day is Like Sunday" as a way to sell us mainstreamers football has to be one of the worst advertising pairings in history. N'Sync for Chili's baby back ribs makes sense but Morrissey for American Football? It seems unlikely the publishing company was pitching this song as a cheap option, rather someone must've typed into the database: give me any song with 'Sunday' in the title. No other explanation could allow for this mismatched Ole Miss Frat Boys meet Mexican Angelenos conjoiner. It just doesn't jive with American Football, except of course, in a world where Sundays are laced with emotion and unlikely dramatic twists in an open ended romantic serial. Seriously, give that guy a raise, Morrissey.

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America's Funniest Team: The Dallas Cowboys
Better Hitting Through Chemistry
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Roger Goodell Won't Stop Dogin' Michael Vick
The VICE of Golf
The League of Ceiling Starers: Dopes on Bikes
Mr. Best, Where Did It All Go Wrong?
The Legendary Satchel Page

The Proverbial Turd Blossom

Growing up picking hallucinogenic mushrooms out of cow patties, we took to referring to them as turd blossums to keep Gram and Gramps from wising up to our early morning forages amongst the heifers. When Bush nicknamed Karl Rove his "Turd Blossom" it definitely ungilded our psychedelic lilly a bit. Dubya must have recognized Rove's potent magic out on the West Texas plain and bestowed a nickname capable of bending reality and conjuring every possible Presidential grandeur. It was a helluva trip. Rove is gone now from the President's dreams and radio silence is the only thing emanating from the White House. With typical cleverness our favorite old time Republican, John Batchelor recognized this loss of vigor and explains how not having Rove's merry pranksterism at hand has left the Bush Administration as boring and blunt as Carrie Nation's hatchet upon a barstool.

Still Showin' Through, Boysss

According to the critical darlings at the Austin Chronicle, the Scoot Inn can claim the Best Bar Interior in Austin. Describing the place as "gold rush funeral home meets Tamale House" is an intoxicating depiction of the Scoot.


This former mexican heroin bar on the wrong side of the tracks just so happens to be owned by one of our favorite madmen, the oft-mentioned Herr Stockbauer. A man whose history of election rigging and fraud makes Acorn look like the Glee Club. Regardless of over stuffed ballot boxes and influence peddling, the Chronicle's recognition of the Scoot Inn's magical interior is warranted. The antiquated trappings of victorian splendor haphazardly allied with weimar republican decadence make this place unlike any other watering hole north or south of the Mason-Dixon. But more than anything, it's the collection of nefarious jackals who call the Scoot Inn their 'Local," that's earned it the more accurate descriptor- "Paul Lynde's Head."

Just Like Heaven?

The story of Governor Sarah Pallin's Main Street USA is a real humdinger, yet the way the state government hands out welfare it could easily be the story of Main Street USSA. Albeit with churches awash in petro dollars poised to host the Last Days refugees. And moose (pl)

The Scrap Heap

Saturday's Vendy Awards in DUMBO are a culinary destination for those who love to waddle and nosh. I live a food quest and will eat anywhere, anytime, under most any circumstance. Therefore street food carts and their proprietors are a constant pique of my interest. The 5 finalists are vendors of varying shades who are competing for the Top Cart in NYC. You can have Project Runway's elitist designs, give me some street side collard greens or a taco in a napkin and i'll prance up and down the runway of life like Heidi Klum in gilded garters. It's an event designed to support street vendors while allowing us habitues the opportunity to eat and drink like Falstaff in Eastcheap. Once more into the breach, my friends, once more. And repeat.

What is that Damned Thing Lurking in the Shadows?

Who is this mysterious Shadow Candidate for Shadow Senator of the District of Columbia that has Megan Kelly's, as well as Joe Lieberman's, panties in such a wad, if not a bartender masquerading as the reincarnation of Hagbard Celine? But is that really possible? Well, there are some clues....

Your Blazing Saviours

Do yourself a favour and hit up the Charleston in Williamsburg tonight. A metal show in that tiny venue is sure to blow the roof off the place and your head off your shoulders. Headlining are the incredible Saviours whose stonery metal brings back major 70's riffage and all around good headbanging vibes. Tthis is the only night you'll ever see them in a venue of less than a 100 people! Rounding out a terrific lineup are stalwarts Titan and Villains.

What I like about heavy metal is the sort of renaissance fair gone methhead vibe. There is danger but also some loveable gallantry. So get thee to the Charleston pleb where the night will be thankfully free of swing jazz. Sort of reminds me of that ELP song, Lucky Man what with the guitar mayhem and fair maidens by the score.

An Honest Debate Can Be Had: The Penguin v. The Batman

The McPenguin makes some pretty good points but the O'Bamaman's bondage hood and leotard are too intoxicating for this independent mind.

The Endless Dumbing Down of American Pies & Thighs

As the Debate between McCain and Obama slogs on tonight, ask yourself, "What Would Woody Guthrie Do?" This Land Is Your Land after all.

Jesus is Lard

Once upon a time I helped produce a venture for The Vice Guide to Travel that sent artist David Choe to the Congo in search of a dinosaur known as Mokele-mbembe. Choe is fearless and a believer in the possibility that a live dinosaur can be found. And soon I came to believe as well. The Congo is mad. It's perhaps the one last place in the world isolated enough and also free of dramatic climate change over the eons to have a habitat conducive to the survival of undetected dinosaurs. What can I say? I am a sucker for pipe dreams.

Such a tale is fascinating in the hands of Redmond O'Hanlon. In dizzying contrast to O'Hanlon's objective explorations however, are the most ardent hunters of dinosaurs, the most enthusiastic believers in living dragons: Creationists. We learned along the road that legions of Christian missionaries/crytopzoologists are prowling the ends of the earth to prove dinosaurs and humans existed side by side. Their quest is a crusade to debunk evolutionary theory. According to them, Jesus' triumphal entry into Jerusalem might not have been astride a mule after all but rather a lowly T-Rex. Way to burst my bubble.

BREAKING NEWS: Christopher Buckley Out at National Review over "Sorry, Dad, I'm Voting for Obama"

Chris Buckley's resignation over his temporary support of the opposition makes for a dark day at National Review. If conservatives can't deal with reasonably argued dissension within the tribe then the old war horse and Founder of National Review, William F. Buckley is indeed turning over in his grave tonight.

Read "Sorry, Dad, I'm Voting for Obama"

No No No, I Don't Sign It No More

Don't ask! Ringo is out

Ringo Starr has announced he will no longer be signing autographs. And who can blame him? Don't send him anything because he's over it, retiring his John Hancock to the annals of rock & roll history. His refusal to knuckle under to the knuckle heads reminds me of Mencken's take on fame,

A celebrity is one who is known to many persons he is glad he doesn't know

.
From afar, I've always dug his version of The No No Song and if he'd add a "don't sign it no more" verse and rerelease it, I venture he'd be back signing all the way to the bank in no time. Give Ringo a break, he's just the drummer dammit.

"Sorry, Dad, I'm Voting for Obama"

The son of William F. Buckley has decided shockingly to vote for a Democrat. Chris Buckley is a respected conservative and great wit, his fiction is marvelous, his essays prescient, and he comes with a quite extraordinary life story. Appearing on 60 Minutes while tripping on LSD for one thing.

So I was fascinated to read his declaration of support for Obama.


This interview with Buckley on Bloomberg TV is long but well worth the investment if you
like funny stuff and Wall Street has already
broken your heart.

Wanna get FuckedUp for 12 Hours tomorrow?

To celebrate the release of The Chemistry Of Common Life, Fucked Up will be playing live for a ridiculous twelve straight hours on Tuesday, October 14, from 2PM until 2 AM. The show is at the Rogan store on the corner of Bowery and Bond. Admission and alcohol are free. Blood is optional.

Depressions Be Dammed I'm Gonna Have Some Fun

The New York Daily News reports that prostitutes are banking while the rest of the world is getting fucked by the financial crises. It's a funny story without real legs though the thought of pouring over the 7 volumes of Remembrance of Things Past with Sienna, the English Literature graduate student and happy hooker (see article) certainly appeals to the modern man in me. Hello Odette, my name is Charles Swann, I'd love to hook up but we gotta make this quick.

Capitalist Shrugged

Ayn Rand Saw This Coming

Objectivist are a strange group, serving as minions to a personality cult all their own but in this crippling economic situation they may just have a valid point. As a quasi egalitarian, I personally don't find much buggaboo in socialist politics and am content to stop pretending free enterprise is always best. However, Bush's approach has been predictably half-assed and Ayn Rand would surely shout so from beyond the grave, if she believed in an after-life that is. So I'll make a point in her absence, if we as a country believe in free markets we need to embrace capitalism wholly. Let it carry the day with all of its faults and let people, and companies, pay the price for poor judgement, poor luck and poor timing. That's just the way the cookie crumbles.

As far as book reviews go, Atlas Shrugged is a damn fine yarn. Pick up a copy at your local fire sale.

Worst Week Ever?

The Dow Jones Industrial Average had its most volatile day ever Friday, oscillating more than 1,000 points before ending up 128 points down, capping the worst week in the Dow's 112-year history. The index lost 18.2 percent of its value between the opening bell Monday and closing bell Friday. Amid the panic, some very somber discussions are being held and all the papers lead with some kind of reaction to the bad news.

After the panic attack of reading about this subsided I turned to the sports page only be greeted by the nerve wracking proposition of todays Red River Shootout. The shootout is the greatest rivalry in sports and actually a college football game played the second weekend in October between Texas and Oklahoma. Texas is my team but ever since that maniac Bob Stoops' rolled into Norman I've been jumpier that a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Oklahoma has won 6 of the last 8 in part cuz Stoops is craftier than Mac Brown and now Oklahoma has Sam Bradford a magical Cherokee Indian at quarterback. Criminy!

They've been playing this game for over 100 years and because of the fanatical following of both schools and States, the game is played every year at a "neutral site" halfway between Austin and Norman. The roving bands of crazed supporters were too much for either little college town to handle so the game is held at the Cotton Bowl in Dallas, during the State Fair of Texas. The designated "home" team alternates from year to year, and ticket sales for the game are split 50–50 between the two schools, with the stadium divided along the 50 yard line. It's wild scene man cuz these people are crazed about beating each other and then there are carnival rides. This is not some Florida powder puff bullshit. The two programs have a combined 11 national championships since 1950 and this year a national title could again be on the line so expect total mayhem.

On the lighter my dad took me to the Texxas Jam in 1978 at the Cotton Bowl. And while perhaps not a highlight in the annals of responsible parenthood the video shot there of Aerosmith and the fairgrounds in '78 allows a brief respite from the worrys. Stop worrying, Texas Fight.

AND WE HAVE A WINNER