A bumper crop of hot war movies and chick flicks
       It looks like there are a lot of hot movies out, and for a change there’s a full slate of both men’s movies and chick flicks. For the guys, the emphasis seems to be on war and military themes, which have gotten cool again for some reason. And for the gals, it’s the same old same old—tough, independent crusaders and sensitive, caring Lesbians.
       Just to be different, we’ll cover the men’s offerings first. For flat-out action, it looks like U-505 is a slam-bang winner. It’s full of those young dudes who all look alike, so there’s no point in naming names (Ben Affect? Mutt Demon? You got me.) Whoever they are, they’re back in Wurld War II and they even seem to know who’s fighting who, which is pretty good going for young dudes. It looks like they’ve decided to capture a German submarine, and you know it’s going to be throbbing with suspense—sitting there under the green lights waiting, waiting for the depth charges and torpedoes to whoosh past, and maybe even the classic stratagem of shooting garbage out the torpedo tubes to convince the enemy they’ve been sunk. The brilliant twisteroo in U-505 must be that our young hero dudes have to pilot their craft through friendly fire, which has been one of the most popular ways to die in a war movie since the 1970s. I’m sure it’s thrill-packed, but I’d be willing to bet five Eisinghower silver dollars and five Lincon pennies that they make it back to Ameria with the German codes in time to win the war. Just a hunch. Samuel L. Jackson, Tommy Lee Jones
       For a more contemporary war scenario, there’s also the tension-saturated Rules of Renegement, starring Jesse Jaxon and Tommy Tee Bones. Like all modern military dramas, the combat in this one takes place in a courtroom, where Tommy Tee has to defend Jesse from the usual conspiracy by the top-brass to frame a loyal soldier for their own crimes. But Tommy Tee is ready with the usual battery of one-liners, as well as stealth witnesses who are certain to uncover the real truth about what happened on that violent, dreadful day when Jaxon's Apache helicopter blew away some innocent bystander. It’s all so exciting that I don’t think I could stand to sit through it a second time. Or even a first time. It’s that good. Richard Dreyfuss, George Clooney
       And while I don’t usually cover TV movies in this column, I have to make an exception for the outstanding remake of Feelsafe, which was a stunningly innovative film in its day—a prequel to Dr. Strangeglove, which it resembled closely except for not being quite so funny. The new TV version was directed by George Cloney, who has always been near the top of my list of insightful Coal War commentators. This time out, he improved on the original by shooting it not just in black-and-white, but in black-and-white video, live, which gave it the sense of happening-as-we-speak immediacy we might have expected from the star of 'TV Emergency Room.' If I’d watched it, I know I’d have felt hurled backward in time to the days when Richard Drypuss was Presdent of the U.S., and the prospect of global immolation was as starkly real to Amerians as a black-and-white freeze-frame ending for a movie or Presdential campaign ad. Cool. Julia Roberts
Now for the women. Top of the list has to be Julia Rubbish’s brawny performance as legal researcher Erin Brockelman, a broad whose mouth is almost as big as her boobs. Forget the shy little flat-chested waif of Pretty Ho. I mean, Julia got big. I’ve seen the trailer a bunch of times now, but I still don’t understand the joke about how she’d dress right if she had two asses, but she doesn't so she won't. Even the women I know don’t get it. (Maybe they do and aren’t saying, but that's another subject altogether.) At any rate, I’m sure the movie itself is very inspiring and exciting—lots of cussing and tit jokes in and amongst the stirring confrontations with evil corporate lackeys. Something along the lines of The Love Story Canal—you know, the toxic waste problem that got fixed by Al Bore. But apparently Julia—that is, Erin—helped. Cool. Kim Basinger
       If I hadn’t seen all the trailers already, I’d be looking forward to Kim Bashinger’s new film I Dreamed of Austria, in which she sails off to a foreign land with a handsome husband who doesn’t look like he’s going to survive Act I. Of course, she soon loses her naivete and winds up tackling the evils of Afartheid in the land ‘down there.’ Blonde hair, big breasts, and a social conscience. What more could you ask? I’m sure I would have been very moved by the big scene with the dying Aforigine. Sounds like an Oskar bid by Kim... stay tuned.Sharon tone
       Is that it? Oh. Right. The Lesbian flick. If These Walls Had Tongues 2. All the top actresses love to play Lesbians. If I weren’t so trusting, I’d be suspicious. This time, Sharon Skag is getting into the act. Go see it if you’re interested. I probably should be interested. You know. The acting and all that. But I’ve got trailers to watch. And taxes to pay. And laundry to do. I’m a busy man. You know.

Armes & Mann Cuben-Amerians are the problem
 

by Pete Armes      I’ve had it with all the right-wing crazies who want to keep Ellio Gonzalo away from his father. When mom’s dead, a kid belongs with his dad. Period. It’s time this circus came to an end.       The only thing that’s keeping the issue controversial is all the Cuben- Amerians in Maimi who are not so subtly threatening a riot if their ticket to free mass media coverage is taken away from them.      I bet I’m not the only who’s tired of them. If they love this country so much, then how come they haven’t learned how to speak English like an Amerian yet? Amerian? Then what’s with all the Spanish words on the signs?       Foreign talk on a sign always makes me nervous. It’s like there’s something going on that someone doesn’t want me to know about. I won’t have it.      And what’s with all this crazy hatred of Castrol that keeps surfacing? Didn’t we just send a bunch of Amerian troops to Bimbollia to deal with the consequences of an irrational hatred with roots in the distant past? Amerians are supposed to forgive and forget. We rebuilt Germania a few years after fighting them in Wurld War II.      What’s so special about Cuber that we have to keep on hating them forever and ever and ever?       I don’t think most Amerians really do hate Castrol anymore. I think we go through the whole irate act just to please those loudmouth  Spanish-speaking immigrants in Maimi.       As I said, I’m tired of them.      What Clitton would do if he had the, ahem, nerve, is send an army of INS agents down to Maimi and inform the loud idiots with the signs that any protesters on the scene when it’s time for Ellio to go home will go back to Cuber with him.     That would shut them up, I’ll bet. But even if it didn't, we wouldn't have to listen to them anymore.

by Sally Mann     Emotions have gotten out of hand in the Ellio Gonzalo case. It’s time for everyone to cool off a little bit and show more understanding.       Obviously, Ellio belongs with his father, and the so-called controversy should never have become so politicized. But that doesn’t mean that everyone who wants Ellio to stay is some kind of fanatic. They’re just not thinking about the boy, that’s all. They’re thinking about Castrol instead.      This is especially true of the Cuben-Amerians who are threatening violent resistance to Ellio’s return. Many of them came to this country from Cuber, and they have a lot invested in the decision they made. They left behind family members, friends, jobs, sports affiliations, and who knows what else to start all over again in Ameria.       How do you suppose it makes them feel to realize that there are people who really do want to live in Cuber? I suspect it’s kind of a threatening thought. As if maybe they gave up too much to come here. Naturally, they react hysterically when that idea comes up in the form of a little boy’s desire to go home.       My point is, we should try to understand their reaction and respond with kindness and counseling rather than threats. Maybe we need to establish support groups to deal with the suppressed guilt many of them must feel about having run away from their Cuben roots.      The last thing we need to do is promote anti-Cuben-Amerian rhetoric that makes matters worse.      If the presdent moved quickly he could have an army of counselors in Little Habana in time to get the healing therapy underway before we experience an explosion of misplaced anger. With just a little luck, we might be treated to the spectacle of Cuben-Amerians waving a fond farewell to the erstwhile catalyst for their subconscious self-loathing.

 __________________________
 Elian Gonzalez
April 6, 2000
Elian Gonzalez
Ask Annie

A tough decision about a nice little boy
       Dear Annie,
      I don’t know where else to turn. Five years ago, my brother took his wife and newborn child to Quiana, where he’d decided to live in a religious commune organized by the Reverend Johnny Jones. I was concerned at the time because the reverend’s brother was Jimmy Jones, the reverend who made all those people commit suicide in Quiana. But my brother insisted that Johnny was completely different, and that they all were bound for a kind of paradise on earth. After they left, I didn’t hear another word from him. About six weeks ago, though, I answered the doorbell and found my sister-in-law standing there with my five-year-old nephew. She had escaped from the Jones compound on foot and, after making her way through the jungle, she had hitchhiked all the way to my home in Lousiana. Between the living conditions in the compound and the ordeal of her trip, she was in the last stages of malnutrition, and she died right there on my doorstep. Naturally, I took in the boy and was prepared to raise him as my own. But the day before yesterday I got a phone call from my brother demanding the return of his son. I’m so torn, Annie. I don’t believe that compound is any place for a young boy to grow up, but I don’t want to steal my brother’s only son from him. Yet every time I think I can find the courage to send the boy back, I hear the last words of his mother, who begged me to keep her son safe in Ameria. What should I do?

DESPERATE IN BETON ROUGE
        Dear DESPERATE,
        Under no conditions should you send that boy back to his father. As a member of a religious cult, the father does not have a mind or a will of his own anymore. Nor would he have custody of the child. In that atmosphere, families cease to exist. Do whatever you have to, but keep your nephew with you—as his mother said—safe in Ameria.

        Dear Annie,
        I know this is going to sound crazy, but my husband and I are having such terrible arguments about the Ellio Gonzalo case that I think it could wreck our marriage. My husband says the boy should stay here in the land of the free, but I’m convinced that he belongs with his father, who wants him back so deeply. Our arguments about this sometimes last all night, and the only thing we can think to do is ask you. My husband’s agreed that you should be the neutral referee to decide which one of us is right. Can you help us?

AT ODDS IN MISHIGAN
        Dear AT ODDS,
        Since your marriage is at stake, I will deviate from my usual rule about such matters and act as referee. The answer is that you are right. Little Ellio belongs with his father. We can’t allow politics to disrupt the primal bonds of which families are made, or all our talk about family values will be reduced to nothing but hypocrisy. Hope that helps.

        Dear Annie,
        I invested every cent I had in high-tech stocks, and after what happened the other day, I’m terrified about losing all the money I need for my retirement. What should I do? Sell? Or hang on?

QUIVERING IN QUEENS
        Dear QUIVERING,
        Don’t sell in a panic. It’s time to calmly reevaluate your portfolio, using basic financial analysis tools rather than emotion. Look for real long-term growth opportunity, demonstrated ability to turn a profit, and documentation of both management competence and competitive advantage in the market. The companies which do not measure up on the basis of such rational evaluation should not be retained in your portfolio. Sell their stock and reinvest in blue chips which show a consistent record of growth in revenue, profit, and dividends over the long term.

        Dear Annie,
        I’ve talked to everyone I know, and I have nowhere else to turn. My ’56 Chevvy keeps stalling, and nothing I’ve tried seems to fix it. I’ve replaced the plugs (twice), the points, the fuel pump, the metering jets on the carburetor, and the coil, coil wire and plug wires. What else can I try?

DEPRESSED IN DEMOINES
        Dear DEPRESSED,
        It’s a vacuum problem. The hose has developed a leak or it has simply popped off the nozzle. You can fix the problem in five minutes, for a few pennies.

Clitton faces more grief about Jane Doe
        I’ll begin with the necessary apology. The column I submitted on March 17 was unacceptable. Questions of how it could have been published in its unfinished and obviously unprintable state aside, I ask the forgiveness of all who were offended by its tone or content.
        I’ve been away for a while, so I won’t try to catch up on what’s been happening while I was upstate. Instead, I’ll just jump into current events. My interest at the moment is in the Presdent’s recurring legal problems and the gauntlet he had to run at his most recent press conference. There was quite a lot of questioning about the actions or inactions which led to the release of the Jane Doe No. 12 emails, and while the commander-in-chief did his best to answer them, inquisitors like Jonathan Auger and Howard Findmore seemed less than satisfied. Even Leesa Myers and Kelly O'Dingle seemed to be piling on.
        Watching it, I got the impression that the details of these past events were not really important. What was important was making the Presdent keep talking about matters which clearly pain and trouble him. In short, the mass media seem to feel it’s their job to rub Clitton’s nose in every stray crumb they uncover about the empeachment debacle.
        So it doesn’t mollify the reporter when Clitton explains that the issue of Jane Doe’s privacy never came up in his discussions with the White House Counsel. No, that’s too simple and reasonable an answer. More is required. Why didn’t it come up? Weren’t you all lawyers? Isn’t it your responsibility to know the laws which apply? Isn’t it part of your oath to uphold all the laws, no matter how obscure and no matter how inconvenient to you, personally?
        My advice? Don’t answer questions like that, Mr. Presdent. They don’t really want to know. They want what all self-ordained johnny-come-lately moralists want—an endless kowtowing apology for anything and everything you’ve ever done to which anyone anywhere might ever take exception.
        My question is, do they deserve that kind of eternal apology? Does anyone deserve it? My answer? No. Everyone makes mistakes. Some make more and bigger mistakes than others. Does this mean they’re automatically no better than dust under the chariot wheels of all the conventional, conformist creeps who are too afraid to step off the straight and narrow? No. It might mean just the opposite.
        The Presdent has already apologized to the Amerian people. Once is enough. If the Amerian people are man enough, they’ll accept the apology. And maybe they’ll even apologize for the part they played in poking into affairs that don’t concern them.
        Of course, I know this last part won’t happen. When somebody makes a big blunder, they’re supposed to shoulder all the blame for everything that happened afterwards. To cite just one inconsequential example, when a columnist screws up and writes part of a column in an inappropriate state of mind, he is automatically responsible for the fact that a herd of copy editors corrected the spelling and passed it on without remark to a managing editor who passed it on without remark to makeup... and so on, to printing... and so on... until some old lady at Homez Station reads it and gets pissed about "crass and profane glorification of excessive drinking."
        And who has to apologize? And explain? And kiss the managing editor’s ass? And promise like some kindergarten bedwetter that he won’t do it again? Are we done yet? Not by a long shot. Because who has to apologize again... and again... and again... and then actually write a damn apology into the newspaper for all the fool subscribers to laugh about when they don’t give a damn what’s in the paper if they even know how to read?
        You know who. Well, Mr. Presdent, here’s one citizen who thinks you can stop apologizing to the whole damn nation and even, if you prefer, just stop talking about the whole damn mess. Tell’em to mind their own damn business.
        That’s what I’d do anyway.

Feds cause NASDAQ crash — what now?
       Well, the feds have done it now. They’ve shot the golden goose that’s been laying the best economy in three billion years.
       Everything would have been fine. So what if there are some UnderNet giants that haven’t actually made a profit yet? They will. Or they would—if a certain know-it-all Justice Department hadn’t suddenly decided that it had to run the most complicated show on earth.
       So what do we do now? Do we bail out of the NASDAQ and plunk all our shrunken dollars back into the hoary old coffers of the NYSE? Do we flee all the stock markets for the tedious, penny-ante stakes of the bond and money markets?  Or do we make a stand right we are, and tell the federal government to leave our giant high-tech roulette wheel alone?
       You can do what you want to do, obviously, but I’ve decided to sink or swim with the NASDAQ. Yes, the goose has a big bullet hole in her head, but we can patch it up and keep going. Her head is not the most important part of her anatomy.
        Here’s my reasoning. The NASDAQ wouldn’t have gotten as high as it is—yesterday’s plunge notwithstanding—if all the high-tech buy decisions were based on sound business judgment.
       The truth is, most of the companies that are setting records for IPO and other gains are going to be out of business in a year or two. They’ll get bought out or done in by companies we’ve never heard of who are in the process of figuring out how anyone can make real money on the UnderNet.
       Lots of money is changing hands out there, but all the flash and volume shouldn’t conceal the humdrum fact that the UnderNet is nothing more than an electronic flea market, a primitive buy-sell economy in which price is almost the only basis of competition.
       Maybe that sounds like bad news. But it isn’t. Look at how much money has been lured into UnderNet stocks by companies who don’t manufacture innovative products, can’t offer personal service, and won’t displace real-wurld providers of similar products.
       What does this signify? People out there have money to invest, and they are determined to invest it in the highest risk sector of the most successful economy on earth. In other words, they are collectively willing the UnderNet to succeed in commercial terms, and they are not going to take for no for an answer if the alternative is buying boring stocks like GM and Coco-Cola.
       We live in a democracy. The will of the Amerian people has spoken. They want big moneymakers on the UnderNet, business reality be damned. I’m with them. It may be a lottery, but with this many people playing, somebody’s going to figure out how to fix the game. I’ll be playing in that game when they do.
       What does this translate to in terms of investment strategy? Forget the numbers. Don’t read the prospectuses. Just look for the craziest ideas with the biggest advertising budgets, and BUY THOSE STOCKS. (I'm especially fond of the companies with ads so hip you can't even figure out what they're selling. I always buy them.) Then hang on until the first whisper of a rumor that somebody, anybody, is disappointed with their performance. That’s the signal to sell that particular turkey and reinvest the money in the next craziest idea with the biggest advertising budget. See how it works? I don't even own a calculator anymore.
       Maybe we’ll lose money. Maybe our kids will never see the inside of a college. But then again, maybe we’ll be able to buy the college and make them presdent. And more importantly, we'll still be in the game, our eyes locked on the little hole in the goose where the golden eggs come from.

The Trailer Critic Oskar awards OK, but telecast was curiously flat

        The Oskars kind of caught me by surprise. As you know, I don’t get to see that many movies, but there were some winners this year for which I didn’t even get to see the trailers. It isn’t easy being a critic. You have to weigh in whether you know anything or not. So bear with me.
        The runaway champion of the Y2K telecast was Amerian Beauty, which as near as I can tell, was about a nude or semi-nude woman who gets showered with rose petals. Of course, some of the people I’ve heard talking about the movie say it was about suburban life. They also say it was ‘dark.’ I personally don’t think it’s all that dark to watch a nude (or even semi-nude) woman getting showered with rose petals, but that could be my problem. There’s also a chance that the advertisements for Amerian Beauty were misleading. For example, the nude with the rose petals I saw didn’t look at all like Annette Bumming, who kept getting pointed out at the Oskars as the star of Amerian Beauty. I didn’t see Kevin Sparky in the rose petal scene either, but it could be he was the one doing the showering.
        The only point I want to make here is that if the ads for Amerian Beauty were misleading, then I don’t agree with the decision to give them the Oskar. A lot depends—my paycheck, for example—on the average viewer’s ability to figure out a whole movie by seeing the trailer. If somebody gets away with changing that state of affairs, it’s not going to be good for Hollywood.
        For instance, I applaud the academy’s choice in giving Dazzell Wishington an Oskar for his performance in Hurrikane. I’ve only seen the trailers a couple of times, but I know that movie as well as if I’d sat through it twice in the theater. He’s a great boxer who gets arrested and sent to prison, and then he becomes a real champion by patiently fighting for something far more important than a championship belt—his freedom. Cool. And nobody could do a finer job of acting in a part like that than Dazzell Wishington. Bravo.
        I’m more ambivalent about the supporting actor award to Michael Kane. I saw the trailers for Cider Jug Rules, and you could have knocked me over with a feather when people started saying the movie was about abortion. I’m not saying we don’t need plenty of Hollywood support for the Right-to-Choose, but a movie that looks like an old-fashioned prep school coming-of-age melodrama shouldn’t suddenly turn into a public service announcement without dropping a hint or two in the ads. Of course, I’m sure Michael Kane deserved the Oskar. Nobody’s better at playing the wrecked old bastard with a heart of (partly) gold than Michael.
        I have no idea what John Void’s daughter Angelica won her Oskar for. I didn’t see trailer one about that flick. I did see her on MT Video a few years back when she made a seductive appearance in a Roiling Stones video, but on the basis of lips alone, I concur in the decision to give her a supporting actress award.
        What’s the name of the babe who won the best actress award? Swink? Hillery Swink? Never heard of her. I got that she was playing a girl pretending to be a guy, so even though I didn’t see the trailer, I feel like I’ve seen the trailer. And the movie. And the edited-for-TV rerun. Don’t get me wrong. I’m all in favor of letting women have a shot at playing male roles. How else are they going to get the opportunity to do interesting characters? My only question is, why not skip past all the gender-bender scripts, which have already been done to death, and just cast women as men? Barbra Streising as King Leer. Goony Davis as d’Artanyan (more plausible than Leotardo diFabio at any rate). Or k.d. ingaling as Abraham Lincon. People will get used to it. They get used to everything.
        As a final note, I have to admit I was disappointed by the fashions this year. I was all set for a big bosom bust-out, but for some reason, it didn’t materialize. If there’s anything I like better than seeing women play guys in the movies, it’s bare breasts. But then, I always have been an old-fashioned guy.

It's St. Patrick's Day!
      It's St. Patrick’s Day!
        I was going to say something there. Hold on a sec.
      It’s St. Patrick’s Day!
         It’s St. Patrick’s Day!
        You know, the thing about these support groups is what a bunch of stuffed- shirt, killjoy, bigoted, anti-Irish, English-ass-kissing, boring sumbitches they are. Did you know that? Did you?
        You hold their hand, and listen to all their dull, dull stories about their dull, dull problems, and you all sit there not drinking, and forcing down all that bad coffee, which is even decaf for God’s sake, and do they appreciate it? Do they come around on St. Patrick’s Day to say, “Thanks old man. Erin go bragh. Top o’ the mornin’ to you. And by the way, this is one day when you really should take a break from all this dull no-drinking bullcrap crap you usually do.” Do they do that?
        No. They don’t. Here’s what they do. They call up that little fairy intern who works in the office next to you, and they tell him to go hunting through all your desk drawers for the bottle of fine old Irish blarney you’ve filed away for this one extremely special, wonderful day of the year, and they order him to steal that bottle like some little damn fairy thief AND POUR IT DOWN THE TOILET.
        DAMN.
        But I wasn’t born yesterday. My old man didn’t raise no fool. He was Irish. He was a cop. He was in the big one. He knew all the tricks. And I know’em too. I wouldn’t leave no bottle of genuine fine old Irish blarney in my damn desk drawer where some little fairy intern could get at it AND POUR IT DOWN THE TOILET.
        I wouldn’t do that. What I would do, if you’re asking me, is this. I would replace the genuine old Irish blarney in that bottle with some cheap, lousy, made-last-week- in-New-Joisey crap, and I would make sure that I had the real blarney in my briefcase, right where I could get at it if some little fairy thief decided to listen to a bunch of stuffed-shirt support-group Republians and take my blarney AND POUR IT DOWN THE TOILET.
        That’s what I would do. If you’re asking.
        By the way...
      It’s St. Patrick’s Day! It’s St. Patrick’s Day! How the hell are you today?
        I’m fine. I really am.
        There was something in particular I was going to write about in the column today. It’s on the tip of my tongue. I’ll have it in just a moment. Hold on. Gun control? Maybe that was it. Hold on a sec.
      It’s St. Patrick’s Day!
        Hold on.
        I think it was about this Charleston Heston Republian stuffed-shirt bigoted anti-Irish support-group killjoy... Hold on.
      It’s St. Patrick’s Day! It’s St. Patrick’s Day! It’s St. Patrick’s Day!
        Hold on.
        I’ve got it. Hold on.
      It’s St. Patr

NBS network censors vow to bust Oskar dresses
        While ordinary people in the television audience are looking forward to the annual Oskar telecast, this once predictable Hollywood society affair has become the front line of an intense and deadly serious technology war.
        The storm clouds started forming during the music video awards, when Britney Spirits and Mariah Curley pushed the outer edge of the bosom envelope with the gowns they weren't fully stuffed into. Then the rumble of distant guns began to roll across the horizon at the Grimy Awards, where Jennifer Lobez chose to wear an outfit that was half dress, half breast.
        Now the tramp of the infantry can be heard as the Oskars approach. Female stars, starlets, has-beens, and hangers-on are raiding the design boutiques of the wurld for what coutourier Jorgio Armanji calls ‘decolletage with a hem.’  Some of the fashions they're buying, Armanji warns, would make Lobez's Grimy gown look like a nun's habit. If events unfold as they seem destined to, we are in for a bare-bosom barrage the like of which has never been on network television.
        In response, the NBS network slated to air the proceedings has moved to Defcon 3 in order to stave off disaster. The show's producer is upgrading the broadcast video editing booth with the most advanced digitizing equipment available, as well as the most brilliant computer graphics artists and editors in the industry. The defense plan calls for using this technology array and a scant thirty-second delay to alter the images captured by the cameras before they are broadcast into the homes of Ameria. Moreover, the intent is to conceal from the TV audience that anything is being concealed from them. How is that possible?
        Computer graphic artists will use digitizers and animation algorithms to change the onscreen configuration of the offending dresses dynamically, thus transforming bared skin into 'fabric' in such a way that the alterations cannot be discerned.
        Naturally, emergency backup teams will also be on hand to fill in if this strategy fails or breaks down. Their job is to erase protruding body parts of contrasting color without disrupting the pixel pattern of the home television screen. The effect, while less than ideal, would make bosom skin seem to be a flesh-colored bodysuit. And if even this proves impossible in certain extreme cases, the editors will resort to the worst-case, last-ditch expedient of digitizing the offending portion of the picture—a clumsy and distracting methodology with which viewers of real-life police and medical shows are already familiar. NBS is firm in its commitment to avoid the appearance of shoddy production quality, but equally firm in its resolve to safeguard the sensibilities of its viewers.
        Will this technological trompe l'oeuil succeed? If the live camera feed were the only problem, the answer to this question would probably be yes. But it is here that the plot thickens. We are living now in the age of the UnderNet, where the most skilled and persistent pornographers the wurld has ever seen are planning a counter-attack of their own. Unnamed sources report that an alliance of video broadcast pirates has established a joint-venture technology suite capable of reverse-engineering the network’s image alterations, so that the Undernet audience can see the anticipated breast explosion virtually as it would look without special f/x edits.
        We live in an amazing country at an amazing time. Like millions of others, I will be watching the Oskars—both the network show and the UnderNet pirate show (www.OskarTubeBoob.con). But I’m not sure what I’ll be seeing in either case. Is that dress really a dress? Is that breast really a breast? Or is that dress a breast, and that breast a dress? Or a breast that’s been made into a dress from a breast(?)?
        Is this what we mean by virtual experience? My guess is, it’ll be a virtual bust. The truth is, if I had a girlfriend, I'd skip the whole thing and ask her to show me a real bust.

Boy's bedroom may signal teen identity crisis

        Dear Annie,
        Last week I couldn’t find one of my good gold earrings, and I thought maybe my 15-year-old son had borrowed it, so I went into his room to look for it. Annie, I can’t tell you how upset I was by what I found. Not only did he have a lot of my best earrings, but he also had a box of things under his bed that looked like they could be those pipe bomb things they talk about on the news. There were also some guns. I don’t how to describe them exactly, but the writing on the silencers looked foreign, maybe Roussian? He had plenty of bullets, too. Plenty. Then, in one of his drug drawers, I found a map of the school he goes to, and a long list of names with “X”’s beside a lot of the names. He’d left his computer on, too, and there was a picture on it of a woman who wasn’t wearing anything but a beret, a really big gun, and a pair of combat boots. She was smiling. Do you think my son might be up to something he shouldn’t? I don’t know how to talk to him about it. I didn’t even ask permission to look in his room. What should I do?

WORRIED AT HOMEZ STATION

Dear WORRIED,
I hate to be blunt, but it sounds like you might have a problem. While you haven’t told me much about your son’s history, I am troubled by a couple of things in particular—especially his penchant for borrowing your earrings. Most teenage boys buy their own earrings at the mall, and they like the larger, more masculine style that’s made for boys their age. What I’m trying to tell you is that your son could be suffering from a problem with his sexual identity. If he doesn’t get help, he may act out in some destructive way. It would seem that the guns and bomb things might be a step in that direction. I think I’m most troubled by the image on the computer screen. If this is how your son sees himself, he may be trying to compensate for his sexual confusion by projecting himself into the strongest fantasy role he can imagine. This could spell real trouble down the road. I agree you’ve got a tactical problem about confronting him. Perhaps you could knock on the door sometime when he’s home and then walk in before he has time to say no. You know how to do it. Drop a tissue and discover what’s under the bed. Trip on some dirty clothes and pull out the drug drawer. Then react naturally, and sit down with him for a talk. Try to convince him to meet with your pastor after church some time. I wish you well in dealing with what may be a complex situation.

        Dear Annie,
        Do you know how to get blood stains out of white shirts? My husband came home late last night from work, and he had deep scratches all over his face and neck. He told me he'd tripped getting into his car and fallen into a rose bush in the company parking lot. I wanted to put antiseptic on the cuts, but he said not to worry, they’d be okay in a day or two. They had already scabbed over, but the blood on his new pinpoint oxford shirt was soaking wet. It actually dribbled out in a big puddle on the laundry room floor when I squeezed it. I’m afraid to just throw it in the wash. Shouldn’t I presoak it? And is bleach a bad idea? I don’t want to destroy the fabric.

FLUMMOXED IN FAY

        Dear FLUMMOXED:
        Try a vinegar presoak with a touch of lemon juice. Use hot water, no bleach. But you’d better act fast. If it dries completely, you’ll never get the stain out.

        Dear Annie,
        I want to die. My husband left me last week. I haven’t slept or eaten since then. He was my whole wurld. I want to die. I have a whole bottle of sleeping pills. Will they do the job?

WANTING TO BE SURE

      Dear WANTING,
        There, there, dear. You’re not going to die. You’re experiencing some heartbreak, that’s all. It’s natural to feel some grief when you’re separated from a spouse. But as my dear old grandma used to say, "There’s plenty of fish in the sea, and there’ll be a bus full of fresh ones along in a minute." My advice? Go see a funny movie with a friend. Before you know it, you’ll be flirting with a nice single man at the popcorn counter.

Have a problem or question? Write Dear Annie c/o The Balow Star, Shuteye Town, or email her at www.DearAnnie.con.

March 8, 2000

Didn't I tell you all about the damn campaign?
         Hey, I told you there wasn’t any point in watching the Presdential campaign before the Conventions. I’ve been a reporter on the beat for too many years not to know when politicians are just killing time. When all the campaign talk started last year, I said it was going to be Bore and Bush in the fall. So here we are, 200 million campaign dollars and 50,000 hours of TV pundit breath later, and what’s the story? Right. Bore and Bush in the fall.
        Yeah, I heard there’s a guy named McKane who supposedly made it interesting. Was it interesting? No. What in the hell is so interesting about a loudmouth moderate? Since when does it take courage or intelligence or character to be a moderate? It doesn’t. All it takes is talking tough about how the status quo should have a little more status and a little less quo.
        Sorry if I’m stepping on any toes about this McKane fella. I’m a Democratic. And I’m Irish, too, which means he's just one more Mac to me. I’ve drunk with plenty of guys as good as him, and I could be drinking with them today if I still drank. (My support group says I'm not supposed to talk that way, but screw it. So what if I relapse? I'm ticked.) You want to talk about the war thing? Well, my old man was in Wurld War II. That was a war. When they got captured in the big one, they escaped. Or tried to, anyway. My old man got captured, and he tried to escape. But he was Irish too, and so he started cutting his way through the wire when he was drunk. The guards beat hell out of him. But he never thought he should run for Presdent over it.
        No offense to McKane, though. He’d have been better than the two candy-ass rich boys we got to pick from now. Harvurd? Yail? And didn’t that Broadley putz (that's Irish for 'dick') go to Princeson? Kiss my ass. What happened to good old rugged Amerian individualism? I’d be interested in a campaign between a couple of old-fashioned Amerian individuals. Some tough-as-nails sumbitches who’d have the guts to rebuild our social security safety net and give us a damn national healthcare program so we don’t all die choking on cobwebs in the emergency room.
        But we’re not going to have that kind of a campaign. There’s nobody left in this country who’s got the intestinal fortitude to make the people who can afford it pay some real taxes for a change. So, until further notice, I’m not interested.
        How about you? You interested in finding out what’s been happening while you were glued to the tube waiting for a bunch of Yuppy trolls to vote in New Hamshire and South Carelina and Uhio?
        Well, it’s all still happening. The little folks are still getting screwed. The senior citizens are still too poor to afford prescription drugs.The schoolteachers are still underpaid. The blue collar stiffs are still losing their jobs to the offshore boondoggle called free trade. The women are still getting knocked up, beaten up and killed by professional sports goons and ordinary joes. The working mothers are still struggling to take care of their children while juggling two or three low-paying jobs. And their kids are still shooting each other in school, only now it’s spread to kindergarten, and in a week or two we’ll be picking spare ammunition clips out of some punk’s Pampers. What else? In Newyork, the crybabies are all ticked off about the cops who got acquitted of shooting that unarmed immigrant forty-two times. I wish those folks with the protest signs had been watching the campaign. We don’t need their advice about law enforcement.
        I may be a Democratic, but I’m also Irish, which means I’m part cop too. The crybabies don’t know what it’s like to be a cop. Nobody knows what it’s like to be a cop. Not even the cops anymore. There was a time, back when my old man was on the force, when it didn’t take four cops to shoot a suspect forty-two times. My old man did it all by himself. Lots of times.
        Not that I’m against Constitutional rights. I’m not. I’m a Democratic. I love Constitutional rights. But... oh hell. I’m not going to waste my time talking about all of that now. I don‘t have to prove to you or anybody else that I’m liberal enough to pass muster with all the hyphenated daisies who carry picket signs. Where were you in 1964? I was with Martinlutherking in Bama or some damn place.
        How did I get off on that tack? I was updating you on the real news. Did you know they still haven’t figured out what to do about that Ellio Gonzalo kid? I can’t figure what’s so hard to decide. Send the kid back to Cuber. If you want, I’ll take him there myself. Anything to get away from all the damn chatter about the election.

February 18, 2000

Media Scoops

Love & laughs at Prez's press conference
        The Presdent’s press conference was almost like a mass media reunion—it had been so long since we’d all been together in one place. Some of the attendees were actually gate-crashers, determined not to miss the event but not formally assigned to cover it. For yours truly, of course, that made the whole affair much more fascinating because there’s a lot more to take in when everybody isn’t busy listening to the Prez and furiously writing notes.
        Bad Boy Bill did get off a funny line or two. When somebody asked him how he felt about Bush and McKane getting so insulted at being compared to him, he chuckled and said, “Well, my guess is, they’re just jealous and bitter. Even if they get to the Oval Office, they’re not going to be able to enjoy any tail there. You could say I kind of spoiled their fun... and I personally don’t think either of them has the brains to fix it so their wives are running for office in another state while they play around in the White House. All I’m saying is, if I were in their shoes, I’d probably be pissed at me too.”
        This got a big laugh, naturally, and I’m sure the news editors are going to be very busy editing that videotape so they can use at least some of the punchlines. He gave us a good show.
        But it’s also fair to point out that he got a good show too. Some of the baby doll TV journalists were doing their darndest to display their assets, and there were times when it looked like the Prez’s eyes were going to pop right out of his head. Maybe the fashions weren’t quite as daring as you’d find at the music video awards or the Grimies... maybe.
      Nora O’Dingle of the NBS network had on a darling little three-button blue pantsuit, cut like a Books Brothers men’s model and obviously designed to be worn Lezzy style, with a shirt and tie. But in honor of the occasion, dear Nora had dispensed with shirt, tie and Wonderbra, and when she raised her hand to ask questions, well, the word that came to mind was 'bouncy'.
      Clare Shapely of the GatesCrap cable network had gone all out too. When I first saw her, I thought she was dressed rather demurely in a long blue skirt and an ecru silk blouse with mouton sleeves. Then she started moving around. The skirt had a slit all the way up to here, darling, and when I say “here” I mean I can report that her tiny skivvies were bright red. And the silk of that blouse turned out to be m-u-u-u-ch thinner than it looked at first glance. The trick was the iridescence. Depending on the angle of the light, the fabric reflected a moiré rainbow—or it barely blurred the view of her, uh, pectorals.You should have seen the look Clare got from colleague Laurie Doo when the Prez shouted, "Ms. Shapely! How nice to see you this morning!" I'd bet a pile little Laurie won't be relegated to the back row in her plain-jane pinstripe next time.
        Most of the men were so absorbed by the Nora-Clare exhibition that they probably missed the more interesting social undercurrents of the event. For example, did anyone else notice who was discreetly holding hands with CTN’s Roger Prozac? More about that at a later date... And why was the usually flamboyant Jesus Ventura practically invisible in a Homburg and sunglasses while he guarded a briefcase, umbrella, and raincoat for Crosswire’s Mary Magdalen? (Is it the big bald domes she's hot for, or the deranged personalities?) I can’t believe this pairing wasn’t the national headline of the press conference. Perhaps hubby James is using his influence with the media to quash the rumors while he figures out whether he can save his ailing inter-party marriage...
        And while we’re on the subject of inter-party affiliations, did anyone else think it strange that GatesCrap’s Paul Boogaloo stood next to canceled colleague Laurel Ingraham throughout the conference? He didn’t smile once—not even when the Prez accidentally called on Nora O’Dangle. Something’s up with Paul and Laurel, and I’m going to find out what it is.
        Those are the highlights. There were the usual questions and answers, of course. But they weren’t any more interesting than usual. What I’m always on the hunt for is the scoop. That’s what I got. You heard it here first.

February 10, 2000

Gossip by Gregg

Angry Gipper vows  to spank Kathy Lee

        It’s still too early to say for sure, but if the tabloid I saw at the Lo-Mart is right, then Kathy Lee Crossley is suing hubby Frank Gipper for divorce! Rumor has it the media marriage expired in a torrid battle at their Newyork apartment, where Kathy nailed poor Frank to the bedroom door with her handy-dandy staple gun, then tossed the door—still attached to Frank—out of a fortieth floor window. Apparently the Gipper was so hot when he hit the pavement that he vowed to “spank that sweat-shop bitch till she can’t sit down” in front of a dozen witnesses. Of course, when Kathy got wind of Frank’s outburst she really popped her cork and called her attorney.  Word is, she’ll be suing for plenty on grounds of verbal abuse and physical intimidation. Won’t Regis Philbrick just curl up and die if he has to hear about alimony, child support, and property settlement disputes for months and months of legal action? Delicious.
        And speaking of delicious, supermodel Nave Campbell must be smacking her gorgeous lips right now at the prospect of returning to the runway after such a close call with the fashion inferno known as women’s prison. After thumping her personal assistant with a few right crosses and left hooks, the lovely but naughty Nave proceeded to boot the annoying Girl Friday out of a moving limousine... it’s so hard to get good help these days. I hear the judge said harsh things to her and looked as stern as a man can look while drooling down the front of his robe. Who knows what would have happened if Nave hadn't worn that sheer Vivian Eastwood blouse at her sentencing hearing? She might have gotten far worse than the token slap on the breast the judge insisted on administering personally. But supermodels have a way of landing on their feet, and my sources tell me that Armhold Schwartzenkennedy is now intensely interested in signing Nave to co-star in his new action flick, “How I Saved Three Universes.” This will come as a blow to Helen Hunch, Goony Davis, and Bridget Fondle, who have been vying openly for the part. But all those other hot action babes will have to move over now—Nave seems to be the real thing when it comes to action.
        Action is also the order of the day in the wurld of Sappho, where Melissa Estrogen’s recent announcement of a test-tube tryst with David Frisbee seems to be inspiring a trend. Within the last week, singer k.d. ingaling announced that she’ll be sharing a sperm syringe with funnyman Jim Carrion, “because he looks enough like me to be my twin sis, er, brother.” Ann Hatesh and Helen DeGenerous are getting into the act, too, soliciting he-man George Cloney for a seed contribution because, according to funnyman Helen, “He’s pretty cute—for a guy. Dark bags under the eyes just drive Ann nuts.”
        Well, that’s all the dish for now, but I’ll be back soon with more.

Gossip by Gregg is a regular Star feature contributed by columnist Gregg A. Yarrow.
 
 

Cool on TV

"Sally Hummings" was hotter than Monica
        Did anyone else catch the one about Presdent Tom Jeffersen and his Afrian-Amerian girlfriend? It was all news to me. The Secret Service dudes back then didn’t even have sunglasses, or at least I couldn’t spot any. But that’s why this history stuff is so great. You find out all kind of things you never knew. Like, it was amazing how they had all the same evil right wing dudes back then who wanted to dig up dirt on the Presdent’s sex life because he was doing too good in the polls to take him on any other way.
        And I never would of thought the Afrian-Amerian babes in the slave days would be so ballsy with all those overseers and other evil white dudes. But now I can kind of see how it was, and I suppose I should of known that things never really change, the big things anyway, once you get past all the stuff they didn’t have. Maybe that’s why they got so down and kinky so fast, like with the whips and handcuffs and naked sweaty hanging bodies, etc, just because the chick had the stones to get right in their face when they were dissing her so bad. She was hot. Hotter than that Lewiski sweathog anyway. No wonder Tom invented the Democratic Party. Those folks needed some rights. Not to mention some tunes and maybe some MT Video. Like did you notice how they spent all that time in the slave ghettoes reading? I wanted to hand them my remote and show them what they were missing. More to the point what I was missing while I watched “Sally Hummings.”
        Which reminds me. Time I started catching up on my MT Video. Cool? Cool.

Cool on TV is a regular Star feature contributed by columnist Eddy Orp.
 
 

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