Let them eat shit

Boy, there sure isn’t a lot of ink about the more than 800,000 people whose unemployment checks will go poof next week because the Senate hasn’t got the stones to extend their benefits. At least Marie Antoinette is said to have mentioned something about cake.

You will recall what happened to her. This lesson is clearly lost on our current aristocracy.

I wonder how many of these empty suits has been laid off, stuck between gigs for more than 26 weeks, watching their savings shrink like a spider on a hotplate. I got laid off once, back in the Eighties, and those unemployment checks — plus the patience and generosity of friends and family — kept me from robbing liquor stores. (Hey, I already owned a gun and kept it loaded. Still do, and it still is.)

Finding another newspaper job was not easy. My résumé looked like a bus schedule, and it documented a few questionable career decisions that always make a managing editor go, “Mmm, hmm, one of those guys.” I came this close to getting a copy-desk job at the Ventura Star-Free Press, where a friend was already on staff, but you know what they say about close.

Finally, just as my unemployment was about to run out, I got lucky at The New Mexican. Some 24 weeks after being shown the door at a weekly chain in Denver, I was a taxpayer again, at a daily in Santa Fe. Definitely a trade up, for a while. I liked it so much I made it my last newspaper job.

Now, I won’t say that I didn’t enjoy some of my enforced vacation. I rode my bike a ton, and I didn’t have to write columns, draw cartoons, edit copy and photos for three papers, lay out pages and oversee (and sometimes take part in) the papers’ pasteup. And I never had to look at that fat-ass publisher again, though I would meet others.

But I was a 30-something single man with a dog, a paid-off pickup and few other encumbrances. No kids complaining about soup-kitchen Thanksgivings and toyless Christmases; no exasperated wife hunting loopholes in the marriage vows; no lenders repo’ing house, car and home-theater system (though I did get sideways with American Express over a late payment involving the purchase of proper job-hunting clothing).

Dude like that can couch-surf for quite a while unless he’s an outlandish asshole. Which I was, and am, but like I said, my people were patient and generous.

Somehow I think there are a few families among those 800,000 who will lose their benefits next week, and among the 1.2 million who will join them by the end of December. And these miserable pricks in DeeCee couldn’t give a rat’s ass about any of them, you, or me.

Hope? Yeah, right. Hope in one hand, shit in the other, and see which one fills up faster.

The white and gold

Whiskey on the ... snow?
Whack for the daddy-o, there's whiskey in the jar.

Well, we knew it was coming, but that didn’t mean we were ready for it — our first snow of the 2010 multiple-car-pileup season.

Naturally, I seized on last night’s weather event as the perfect excuse for a beaker of Gaelic brain eraser to forestall croup, pneumonia and whooping cough. Herself even had a wee drop.

That was the fun part. The sucky bits commenced this morning, when we had to take Herself’s 2002 Subie to one mechanic and my 1983 Toyota truck to another on roads that were glazed like a copper’s donut. For my trip I dumped six tubes of traction sand in the bed, locked the hubs, slammed it into 4WD and stayed in second gear the whole way.

The good thing about having a 27-year-old rust-bucket like this, of course, is that people in nice cars get the hell out of your way. It fairly screams, “What makes you think I won’t hit you?” And “Hell, no, I ain’t got no god-damn insurance.” Possibly “I’m still half-hammered from the whiskey I was guzzling last night.”

Anyway, it works. Everybody waited to tailgate me until I was behind the wheel of my Forester, inching home from the Toyota mechanic. Some mighty small hat sizes here in Bibleburg, and the body shops love ’em.

I’ll be back (maybe not)

Sweetheart, give me rewrite ... and an oil change.

Are you ready for a little … robojournalism?

Brace yourselves, sports fans, for The Rise of the Robotic Sportswriters.

The New York Times reports that a North Carolina company is devising software that will turn stats into stories without any input from the annoying meatware, which is always getting in the way with its whiskey, cigarettes and endless trips to the toilet.

Says StatSheet founder Robbie Allen: “My goal was that 80 percent of readers wouldn’t question that the content was written by a human, and now that we’ve launched, I think the percentage is higher.”

No surprises there, Robbie old scout. Most “readers” can’t tell fact from fiction, as the recent midterm elections made all too apparent. And having been an editor since 1980, I can assure you that a sizable percentage of human-generated journalism — especially sportswriting — could be replaced by a TRS-80 crosswired to a Hoover canister model with a direct pipeline to a ConAgra feedlot.

But still, damn. Do I need to buy a paper hat and add a masters in Fryolator to my B.A. in journalism? At my age?

Black Friday reds

Cowgirl up
No, Herself did not just win the Kentucky Derby astride a midget horse. We paid for the wreath and got the photo op' for nothin'.

OK, so we finally surrendered to the Dark Side, taking a huge gulp of the Konsumerist Kool-Aid intoxicating millions of our fellow citizens as chronicled by The New York Times and The Washington Post.

Californian Derrick Love was clearly under the influence of something. He and lifelong pal David Martinez spent nearly two days camped outside an Oakland Best Buy so he could get a $600 Toshiba laptop for $349.

“We’re on a huge adventure,” Mr. Love told The Times. “One day I’m going to tell my grandkids about this, how we were the first.”

Ai, Chihuahua. If only John Steinbeck were still alive to chronicle this epic tale. Call it, “Toshiba Flat.”

Alas, we proved no more resistant to the siren song of shopping. At the crack of noon Herself and I ventured out to a local nursery, where we ordered up a Canadian red cherry tree to replace the defunct apple trees in our now-treeless back yard. In an orgy of extravagance we added a holiday wreath to the tab. Then Herself posed for a photo with a horse that someone had apparently washed and then popped into an overly hot dryer for an alarming period of time.

We overextended ourselves further by purchasing a couple sandwiches from a downtown eatery and taking them home for a gourmet lunch, after which Herself toddled off to the Humane Society to help a few fuzzy little faces find new homes for the holidays.

As for me, I Vespa’d down to the grog shop for a couple jugs of brain eraser and then spent the afternoon plinking away at the keyboard, composing a hymn to capitalism, American style. Dirty work, but someone has to do it.

Black Friday blues

Equal time for dogs
My sister's dogs, Maggie and Riley. Hey, we can't have cats on the site all the time, y'know. The joint's called Mad Dog Media, after all.

I camped out all night in my bed and when I arose this morning there was free coffee in the kitchen. Talk about your Black Friday bargains!

There was toast, too, but I had to make that myself. Ditto the eggs. And come to think of it, I had to pay for the eggs, bread and the coffee. Full retail, too, as I recall.

Damn. I think I’ve been screwed by The Man yet again. And without so much as a good-morning kiss.

Herself and I drove to Fort Fun and back for Turkey Day, served up by my sis’ and bro’-in-law, and a delicious meal it was, too. Turkey with all the usual suspects, including Brussels sprouts with bacon and a glass of one of my favorite rosés, Mas de la Dames Rosé du Mas 2009.

En route we missed “Alice’s Restaurant” on KRCC, but caught up with Arlo on KUNC out of Greeley, then followed that up with some “Sam Kinison: Live From Hell” (yeah, we have some odd holiday traditions).

As is traditional, the trip also served up a few contenders for the annual Darwin Awards, including an eight-car smashup near Larkspur, in broad daylight and on dry roads; a pickup driver with his lights off after sunset; and my personal fave, some dipshit fool in dark clothing astride a motorcycle sans taillight speeding in the left lane through Bibleburg as we approached Chez Dog at dark-thirty.

Ride on, brother. Hell ain’t half full, and I hear Sammy throws a swell party.