Month: April 2009

Got any money left that you didn’t send to the IRS? Obviously you spent it on comics. Which ones and what did you think?

APD

Barack Obama got it done. It has been reported that he was the one who ordered the surgical strike that took down three pirates and freed that captured Captain.

Those who are desperate to see Obama fail must not be too happy. My guess is that they’re spinning it every which way they can, from declaring that, “Yeah, but he waited three days to do it” to “The liberal press is blowing Obama’s involvement out of proportion.”

The difference between liberals and conservatives is that in a time of crisis, liberals lined up behind Bush as much as conservatives did. The approval of the initial military actions was across the board.  It took serious ineptitude by Bush and company to fritter away such universal support.  My guess is that you will never, ever see that sort of reciprocity from conservatives at such times.  In their world, if you didn’t support Bush against terrorists, you were unpatriotic.  But if you do support Obama against terrorists, you’re an idiot.  Funny how that works.

PAD

I saw Lana Clarkson the day before she was murdered (yes, I get to say that term legally now). She was walking around the Los Angeles comic convention I was attending, convivial, pleasant, chatting with everyone, sweet as anything, unaware that some sick bášŧárd was going to kill her that night and try to weasel out of it because, hey, in Los Angeles, celebrities are never convicted.

Not this time.

I hope Phil Spector rots in prison.

PAD

So a papar…a papparr…one of those idiot photographers keeps trying to take photographs of Woody Harrelson and his daughter, coming home through an airport, after Harrelson tells him to back off. The idiot photographer than chases Harrelson into the parking lot, whereupon Harrelson–fed up–comes after the guy and smashes his camera as the guy…who pursued Harrelson after being warned off, mind you…yells that Harrelson is chasing HIM. He bleated that Harrelson has “anger management issues” because he has a history of lashing out at obnoxious photographers. No. Photographers have Woody Harrelson management issues. If they could just manage not to get in his face taking photographs, he wouldn’t be smashing their cameras.

But that’s not the best part.

The best part is that Harrelson, in a statement, declared that because he’d just wrapped a film called “Zombieland” in which he was being pursued by the animated dead, he therefore had zombies on the brain and “understandably” mistook the photographer for a zombie.

That is hilarious. That is bloody brilliant. Celeb stalkers characterized as the undead seeking brains. I think celebrities, every time they have photographers bearing down on them, should start screaming, “Run! They want to eat our brains!” Why not? The publications they service rot your brains well enough.

Trust Woody Harrelson to produce an actual statement that would have made a perfect headline for “The Onion.” Read it in full here:

Zombies!

PAD

…it would be just like this.

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You know the drill.

 

PAD

Ariel and I saw “Wicked” last night (great show, by the way) and we had dinner at Ellen’s Stardust, as we often do if we’re in the city. Now the way many tables are arranged at Ellen’s is that there are long single banks of cushioned seats along the middle with single tables pushed up to them and single chairs opposite. So basically it’s a whole row of tables for two. Ariel and I were seated on the end of one row and there was a young mom with her fourteen month old son who seemed fascinated by the singing wait staff.

Then he spotted me. Instantly he pulled out of his mother’s grasp and tried to get to me. She pulled him back but he just kept trying to slip away to get to me. “Don’t worry about it,” I said and she let him go. He scooted down the seat, clambered directly into my lap and started pulling with great interest at my beard.

“Does Dada have a beard?” I asked. Mom nodded. I asked where Dada was, figuring he was going to be meeting them there.

“He’s overseas,” she said. “He’s a military infantryman stationed in Iraq.” That, of course, explained it. The child’s dad was a fleeting figure in his life, and at such a young age, children will fixate on a distinctive facial feature and get confused as to people’s identity.

Turned out that mom was a teacher from Florida and, having spring break, decided to come up to New York on an adventure with son Bruce. Since Bruce seemed happily ensconced on my lap, mom slid over and joined Ariel and me. (I assume Ariel’s presence established my cred as a dad rather than just some creepy guy.) Mom seemed to be bearing up well as effectively a single mother considering the circumstances. We chatted about a variety of things, including things she could do in NY with Bruce over the next few days. Bruce, meantime, sat quietly, interested in the world around him and watching the conversation, but otherwise silent. “Is he talking much?” I said.

“He says ‘Up,'” she said. “He doesn’t say Mama or Dada yet. I’d love for him to say that.”

Fortunately I’d ordered a sandwich, so I could eat with one hand while Mom, who had ordered chicken parm, gratefully was able to eat without having to wrangle her child. Then I served as a human high chair (Ellen’s didn’t have any normal high chairs available) while she fed him spaghetti.

Then, as we were preparing to leave, I made ready to hand Bruce back to Mom. And this child looked up at me, looked me right in the eyes, stroked my beard again, and said clear as a bell, “Dada.” And again, “Dada.” Then he patted my face and said a third time, “Dada.”

And I have no idea how to feel about that. Melancholy, I suppose. That this boy’s father was thousands of miles away, missing his son saying his name for the first time, and he was saying it to a stranger. Mom told me that Dada would be home on leave for a short time in a couple of weeks and would hopefully be rotated home in September.

Here’s hoping.

PAD