A Shoe on the Freeway

Anybody else wondering why the world is upside down?

Violent protests over cartoons depicting the prophet Mohammed continue in the Middle East where 21st Century mores have run headlong into a 15th Century response. Yesterday Iran — now there’s a peace loving government — joined with Islamic moderates to urge the wild-eyed to go home.

As a sidebar, a portion of blogosphere and a number of writers were white hot, accusing their favorite whipping boy, the mainstream media, of caving into the Islamic radicals because they did not reproduce the cartoons.
I thought it curious that some people here could not believe the response to the cartoons.

Hello? Where have we been? Of course the toons were a stick in the cage. What did we expect? These radicals may chatter on the Internet, but at least some of their leaders live in caves.

Measuring the industrial strength, over the top response from that cultural milieu against our democratic sensibilities and free speech simply states the obvious. Media outlets constantly have to make choices. Most refer to this as editing and not censorship. Of course if you already believe somebody is a piece of spineless vermin, accusing them of caving is a short walk.

Speaking of free speech — or lack thereof — I wonder how the world will see British historian David Irving, who, since the mid-1970s has trafficked in the disgusting universe that denies the Holocaust ever took place. However odious and lacking in fact his thinking, we would say the guy has a right to say it, wouldn’t we? We might even defend his right to say it.

He might need us to. An Austrian court has sentenced Irving to three years in prison for his publicized denial.

Speaking of odious, Fred Phelps, whose crusade against gays and lesbians has been well-documented, has reached a new low, down from evil to a place where words would not do it justice. Phelps and his church followers, mostly family, now regularly picket and protest the funerals of fallen U.S. soldiers. They disrupt ceremonies during a family’s darkest hour.

Phelps claims U.S. deaths in Iraq are God’s vengeance on America because we harbor homosexuals. As I said, odious, but other words surely are better.

Finally, Harry Whittington, shot by Dick Cheney, was released from the hospital Sunday. Before he went home to tend to the buckshot holes in his body, he apologized for causing problems for vice president.

As I said, upside down.

Posted by George Ayoub at 10:37 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

State Basketball tournaments begin soon and I will be blogging and podcasting courtside. There will also be a live chatroom where I'll be hanging out talking about the game so join me courtside during the State Basketball Tournaments.

Posted by George Ayoub at 11:35 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

For you music fans, I just want you to know that Nasal Ranger did not sing “Sister Christian.” Nor were Kemosabe and Tonto involved.

It was Night Ranger.

Nasal Ranger is the name of a device Grand Island spent $1,500 on to determine if pockets of our fair burg smell.

Hell, I’d do it for half that. With a schnozzola my size I can locate and determine odors quite well. It’s a gift.

And a curse. But that’s another post.

The Nasal Ranger is the city’s latest effort to stanch the stink that makes parts of G.I. barely breathable. Of course, when you pile poop high and deep, you can’t expect a bed of roses. The compost pile at the Wasterwater Treatment Plant has been shoveled into trucks and sent to the landfill.

The city wants to try a new process that aerates the sludge and then captures the odor in tubes.

Ergo, the Nasal Ranger to see if the experiment is working.

I’m telling you, this is technology where man has already tread … and gagged.

Here’s my question: Can you imagine a group of well-paid people sitting in a room trying to come up with a name for this smellometer?

And if Nasal Ranger was the winner, what were the names that didn’t make the cut: The Earl of Effluvium? The Sultan Of Stench? Nose Daddy? Proboscis Patroller? Beak Police? Whiffer Warrior? Nostril Narc? Olfactory Officer? Snot SWAT? Adenoid Bobby? The Long Sinus Cavity of the Law?

Posted by George Ayoub at 12:48 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Was it me or was there a large sucking sound coming from Detroit Sunday night? The Super Bowl was won by the team that ended up with the fewest errors in skill and judgment. The ads were average at best. And the Stones were, well, let’s face it — older than dirt.

Gazillions still watched, a portion of whom drank themselves into a knee-walking stupor or ate themselves into a assorted cardiopulmonary emergencies.

All those “This is America and this is what we do during the year’s biggest football game” were Hallmarkish enough, but the entertainment/sports value of the event was not that great. And I was rooting for the Steelers.

Big question: Where was Motown? A Super Bowl in Detroit and we get the world’s greatest rock and roll band — from England, where they play soccer and rugby and darts. Why did “I’ve got sunshine on a cloudy day” keep drifting through my mind when Jagger was prancing the prance of a 62-year old still looking for some “Satisfaction.” Hey, Mick, at that age, lots of folks call it Viagra or an afternoon nap or the ability to figure out a prescription drug plan.

Hey, I’m from the Stones’ generation. I know a Jumpin’ Jack from a Flash. I know I can’t always get what I want, too, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I want somebody older than me (and beginning to look like it) to play at the biggest sporting event of the year.

Chances are really good, too, that next year, regardless of this year’s game or half-time or creatively-challenged ads, more of us will watch again, talk about the commercials, drink ourselves stupid, eat like Caligula, and have a super Sunday.

Hey, it is what we do, regardless of the quality of the game, the show, or the sales pitches. See you in Miami.

Posted by George Ayoub at 11:39 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)