Read all about it --and turn up the sound!!! If you read any of the MWB posts, it's easy to see I'm never, ever short on words or slicing commentary. However, a quick visit to Barry Williams' website (aka "Greg Brady") has rendered me completely speechless. Comments on the rap, the photo ops, anyone? This site nearly qualifies Barry for a 'win' in the "Movie Star P-Fer" category, but MWB decided against it; he seems like a nice guy and all, and harmless, pitiful, even. We're reserving "Movie Star P-Fer" awards for pigs like Hanoi Jane and Mike Pig Fucker Farrell. Dear Barry is simply a handsome version of our TV friend Al Bundy, always relishing in one great high school football pass since all adult endeavors have been flops. For example, Barry wrote a book where he revealed he boinked Mrs. Brady; eew! It was a visual none of us wanted and definitely we didn't want to read. Anyway Barry, MWB truly wishes you the best. I think, however, were there competition for a seat in the a-list restaurant described in a previous post, I might even win that seat from you.

Read all about it Enough about the poor slaughtered bulls. I have not seen anything as funny as the website above (www.uglydress.com) since the online magazine Blairmag.com did a feature called "Gay or Eurotrash." The commentary on the dresses alone is enough to give you an ab workout you couldn't get on a medicine ball with a trainer named Helga. And if you also look at the dresses, you're gonna get a sideache that's akin to appendicitis. Unbelievably, "Gay or Eurotrash" is still out there! Here you go... http://www.blairmag.com/blair3/gaydar/euro.html

This picture depicts a bullfighter taunting a bull with three swords jutting out of his flesh, his life's blood gushing down to his feat, his demise imminent. It is hard for me to imagine how a human being could have no pity, no empathy, no compassion for another living creature who has the capability of experiencing excruciating pain and fear. Human beings must demonstrate by their actions that they are higher forms of life. To torture an innocent animal in this way is hardly different from throwing two people in a den of lions and watching as the lions tear them to shreds. While I in no way make an equal comparison between the loss of human life and the loss of bovine life, I firmly believe that the person who is capable of the one is a pinky finger away from being capable of the other. A few years ago I watched a very good documentary made by a camera hidden in the burka of a woman journalist in Afghanistan during the Taliban rule. The oppressive nature of the clothing made concealment of a camera possible, even though still dangerous. The film showed a soccer game patrolled by Taliban bullies with whips in their hands. If a spectator clapped or cheered, they could be whipped (or worse). It struck me at that moment how easy it would be to find such bullies in any society; angry, power-hungry, cruel, and bitter people are everywhere. Bullfighting epitomizes this reality; in a supposedly highly civilized society, a bully (pardon this pun), a power-hunger and cruel 'person' exacts an unimaginable cruelty upon a sentient creature so that the sentient creature can enjoy some sort of elevated afterlife (this is what Spaniards believe)... it's the same philosphy that drives homicide bombers and lets them mentally check out as they walk into a crowded street and proceed to blow other human beings--women, children, men, boys, and themselves--into bits with nary a second thought.

Read all about it Last night three friends and I went to the Duran Duran concert at Staples Center in Downtown Los Angeles. This review is pretty darn close to our experience, except that it does not accurately capture the essence of our total rapture. Henry, Marla, Roxie, and Michela (moi) went headlong into the dreaded DT Los Angeles for a night of our lives, and unlike the unfortunate Floridian reviewers in this article (from Broward County no less...) who were only treated to 70 minutes (unless those crazy chad counters just couldn't watch a clock correctly), we writhed and gawked to over 2 hours of pure boy toy joy. Us and everyone around us and behind us and to the side of us could scarcely take our eyes off the dream boy band to whom we had secretly listened since grade school, nor could we bring ourselves to sit even for a second. The party was on; the closet Duran fans were out; the music was alive. There is nothing quite like hearing 19,000 people sing "Hungry like a Wolf", "Girls on Film", "Planet Earth", in damn good unison. Nothing like three girlfriends arm-in-arm swaying to "Save a Prayer" and singing with the crowd, near tears. There's nothing like holding hands with 2 gay men you have never met while belting out "Her name is Rio and she dances in the sand / just like that river flowing through a dusty land / and when she shines she really shows you all she can..." while dancing your heart out, knowing the concert is drawing to an end. There's nothing like a flash of light from special effects illuminating 38,000 arms up in the air as the 19,000 bodies to which they are attached bounce in near-brainwashed synchronous waves. We were, those 19,000 of us, bonded as we couldn't imagine possible. Just as Marla points out, they were the first boy-toy band in the history of music and they sang their own songs, played real instruments (although what Nick Rhodes really does up there is subject to debate), wrote their own songs, virtually invented the live-or-die by MTV phenomenon, and reinvent any cover they do and make it their own. They belted out a screamin', rockin', hip hoppin' version of "White Lines" that really puts the treasured original in a dark shadow. I always loved their version of "Fame"; I favor that one over David Bowie's as well, I'm sorry to say (though not performed Saturday night). I think I will always remember this show, from the fantabulous dinner at The Clubhouse, the fantabulous company, the fantabulous parking spot (we're not tellin' where it was, either!), our two new friends in front of us, shakin' their fannies and groovin' with us like there's no tomorrow, being stricken by an incurable dance fever, the dazed and confused pill popper Jenny who repeatedly tried to correctly frame the question, "Who is your fave Duranie?", I wouldn't live without one second of this night. We all had so little psychological build-up to this concert; we nearly sold our very good seats on eBay for triple the money, and then we were so blown away it's a night none of us will ever forget. Whodda thunk the boy band all grown up (along with their grown-up fans) would be able to captivate us so. Whodda thunk a band so techno-poppish and synthetic could be so outrageously good live. And whodda thunk we'd find it so cool one day to be right there, waving and screaming and boogeying and hugging as though it were 1984. Oh baby!

Read all about it Just as the research has proved for many years, the feminist claims that women make 80 cents on the dollar are anywhere from slanted to patently false. In fact, so much of the available research (helloooo femmes, that's 'r-e-s-e-a-r-c-h' as in 'scientific' as in 'method' as in 'back up your fathead claims with facts')indicates that women earn more than men in some fields. If it was truly so much cheaper to employ women, no firm in business to make money would do anything but employ women. That's an obvious fact. Few misogynists will care more about their sexist views than their wallets. In fact, I've found that pig and cheapskate seem to go hand in hand. The femmes completely ignore (it's so convenient to do so) the glaring fact that women in droves avoid high-stress, high-travel, high-danger jobs. I know not a single woman who would be a plumber even if her life depended on it. They won't work 100 feet up on electricity line poles as a repairwoman, or as Alaskan king crab fisherwomen, or as longshorewomen. Additionally, I can attest to an area patently missing women as well; the computer sciences. Just a few years back, long after the burned bra ashes had blown away, I found myself getting a BS in computer science. There were four women in the starting class of 80, and two left at the end of our program, including moi. Of course plenty of the guys dropped out too, but with only a starting number of four, there's no room for dropouts and still maintaining percentages. Forget trying to explain my little anecdote away with "girls just aren't encouraged to go into the sciences"... Yah, and a lot of guys have fathers telling them they are worthless and can't do shit either. Don't these poor guys get a pass for not having been nutured to achieve their wildest dreams and maximizing their potentials? NO? Pourquoi pas? That's because as grown-ups in a frequently harsh world, we must pick up our bootstraps, and get the job done. We must make the choice to be manicurists, receptionists, electricians, or computer scientists. We must not expect the world to bend over backwards, to create our opportunities; we must create them for ourselves and seize them when they materialize. The world will disappoint us the more we expect and demand from it without putting effort into it. With abdication of personal responsibility, how can we expect to be respected for our choices. The femmes shove big white posters of coat hangers in my face and demand freedom of choice, simultaneously they say women are too incompetent to make choices when they have the freedom to do so because some bad daddy in the past didn't help them go farther in life. So Gloria Steinham, Susan Falucci, Barbara Boxer, Diane ConFeinstein, are we responsible for our destinties, or not? Which is it?

Read all about it It first sounds like an odd proclamation; do not allow schools to proactively prepare for terror attacks. But just a passing moment's reflection on the concept shows why. First, by any standard US students score far behind their counterparts. Either we're all stupid or we're all lazy or we're poorly educated. None of these scenarios will be much helped by terror attack preparation. Second, we must fear a government who has the power to instill fear in small children; fear of terrorists and terrorism, fear of bad people, fear of jews. Fear so easily morphs to hatred. No arachnophobe feels anything less for those daddy long legs they happily drown in the shower. The likelihood that any individual school anywhere will be attacked is so microscopically small, any diversion into terrorism prevention, reaction, whatever, is a complete waste. It's nothing short of a money and power grab by some wing, whether left- or right-wing. If this proposition had any sincerity behind it, they would start by advocating the arming of all teachers with guns, as in Israel. It's been quite effective; no Israeli school has ever been attacked. Given that their schools must be the most terror-targeted in the entire world, it seems Isreal's apporach would be the most effective place to start. It might keep a few thugs home as well so the kids could really learn, which would be one solution to problem A presented above.

I have lots of ex-Californian friends. Friends who've fled to Colorado, Washington, Arizona, Nevada, Virginia, even Ohio for God's sake (but she's back!). They all send me pix of their houses and tell me, Michela, my dear, why do you stay there. Look what you get here for so much less money. This is why. It can pour down rain for 24 hours straight, then sunny and warm enough the 25th hour to put the top down on the car, and to see this view from my balcony...

and to be geographically minutes from this, on any day in January...

I'm supposed to trade this for 1000 extra sqaure and 1000 times the humidity?

Read all about it Dr. David Graham, you are truly a vile person. Yet another pompous ivory tower know-it-all ready to dictate to all humanity that pain and pain medication are things that should remain strictly in the domains of pompous know-it-alls. Dr. Graham so easily dismisses the real pain endured by arthritis sufferers and says that the best medications they might have to control that pain are not worth the risk. Dear god Graham what planet are you living on. Start with the statistics; the worst estimates of the increased heart attacks for those using COX-2 inhibitors (such as Vioxx) is twice that the rate of everyone else. That means instead of two people out of a thousand having a heart attack, four people out of a thousand will. "Yeah but you'd hate to be one of the extra two..." Really? Not if I was in unbearable pain. Second, it is impossible for one person to categorically assert that someone else's pain is not worth the risks of those medications, never mind how small or not. Let's just say the risk is big. What kind of inhuman little Hitler (we know what free speech means too, University of Colorado) is willing to force people to suffer in pain because of risk; why are those people not allowed to assume the risk in pursuit of a better life. That's what motorcyclists do every day they ride one. What I do every day I drive a car, on US highways where over 40,000 people every single year perish. Where's the outcry there... Last, the FDA as gatekeeper to all medications is the most alarming of all. Once again, we're servile children to our big daddy government (something Republicans profess to despise) to protect us from us. They stranglehold the release of medications or cause the withdrawal of medications based on absurd increased risks. Why am I not allowed to assume those risks as an informed person?

Read all about it Jane Fonda goes blah blah blah about how her 35-year bout with bulimia is due to her desire to be the perfect wife, to be beautiful, blah blah about how all her dreams were destroyed when she became self-aware. While our friend in ultra Communist, ultra egalitarian Hollywood claims it was her desire for perfection that caused her to become bulimic, MWB knows the truth; it's communism that makes one upchuck one's food on a regular basis. After all, it really is enough to make you hack up your lunch, the very idea that anyone in the most class-based society on earth would spout off about esteem (translation: egalitarianism). If you've ever experienced the joys of Hollywoodland (for bloggers in the know, the original Hollywood sign read "Hollywoodland" but when "land" fell down, it was never replaced), you well know you are either an a-list, a b-list, a c-list, or a nobody. You either know somebody, or you should kill yourself. And you hang precariously in one category, always perched by one lost investment, bad movie, or invitation slight to fall one or more categories down. I was in a Hollywood restaurant a few weeks ago, and the humanity on display was enough to make me wanna barf. There was a group of 5 or 6 people in the corner, but the only talker was an animated 35-ish guy dropping names like tarnished pennies... "Dustin said it was the funniest script he'd ever seen!" His audience was rapt. The plebes grouped around this fruit and hung onto every word because he could say things like "Dustin" and "Hilary" and "Clint" and it meant something. Something really important. The waiter had to fawn over these idiots to make sure he did not alienate a FOD (Friend of Dustin). But clearly, he was annoyed. The tone of his voice was degrees more severe than simple sarcasm when he said, "Can I help you?" to the fawning crowd. Witnessing such a display one no longer wonders how Jim Jones came to be. Me, a real nobody, simply sits in the corner trying to enjoy a nice late-night meal after a fabulous trip to the Opera and observes this exchange with the interest of a psychology student. I was quite fortunate, since this was my only chance to be granted entrance to the inner sanctum--a premium a-list attended restaurant on Sunset Boulevard--it was 1 a.m. and the a-listers had moved on to a-list parties. During prime time, my only chance for a booth would be as a FOD (that earns you an automatic letter list designation). Alas, I am not; you recall, I'm a nobody. Knowing this, experiencing this, seeing this, knowing the a- list b-list c-list bullshit, Hanoi Jane makes us laugh when she pleads for young ladies to have self esteem and not to wolf up their lunches in the name of perfection. The world she promotes, the world she lives in, the very world she helped to create and continues to propagate shamelessly promotes stick figure looks and damnation to outsiders. Why would any of the girls at her little talk listen when the alluring twinkle of Follywood beckons?

Read all about it Those words are: single-engine, two-seat, homebuilt, and airplane Since the predictible next word-set is: lost, crash site, human remains, medical examiner. Just words to the wise.