Commentary Uncategorized

Brian Williams. Sigh.

My wife read last week’s post about Sabrina & her delightful punk on Julian Edelman, and while she agreed with my points that A) Guys have been taking sleeping pictures of girls they “bagged” in one night stands as long as there have been cameras, with little more than a collective “tsk, tsk, tsk” among the juvenile chortles of their cohorts and this is a happy brian-williamsreversal of the standard and B) Even out of context, it’s funny–think of the ingredients: hubris, infidelity, takes two to tango, etc.  Nevertheless, Mrs. Junk took me to task for writing about bar chicks and slatternly wide receivers  when Brian Williams not-so-wild helicopter ride was ripping through the headlines.

So, some random observations:

The frenzy: Journalists eat their own.  As far as I can tell, everyone with a public forum (even me, look!) is loving the hell out of this story.

The sympathy.  Brian Williams was hilarious in his 30 Rock cameos.  And he raps like Genghis Khan.

The damage: One thing I don’t get is the outrage and, what I hear the most, the damage to Williams’ reputation.  He went off script and lied.  I get that.  He told a tall tale–but what was the context?  Did he do it on the evening news?  Let’s keep this in perspective.

brian-williams-untrustworthy-news-networks-funny-ecard-qvWThe simple fact is that Williams stopped being a journalist a long time ago, when he became a News Reader.  Oh, we can look at the network, BIG TELEVISION from which precisely 27 Americans still glean their understanding of the world, and  understand how they might not want the face of their network to be a story teller–but in no way, shape, or form does Anchorman translate to Journalist.  He may have been a Journalist once–the way I used to be an Airborne Commando who parachuted into rural communist Bolgrovia with cans of spam for the hungry and copies of John Stuart Mills’ “On Liberty” in my rucksack in the days leading up to the fall of the Iron Curtain–but now he’s got a script.

That’s the guy–or gal– I’d worry about being a liar: the one who writes the scripts and loads the teleprompter (those papers the anchors shuffle around on their desks are props, in case you didn’t know).

So, yeah–there’s my stance on Brian Williams.  I couldn’t give a rat’s ass as long as the SOB can read and speak coherently.  The truth is, I didn’t even realize he was Brian Williams for years.  I thought Peter Jennings just got a face lift.

Am I right? They’ve got a mold somewhere.

And it could have been worse.  It could have been Brian Wilson who lied.  What if he’d never been on that boat at all.  What if all it was was a poor, pathetic bar brag?  That wouldn’ve shaken me to the core.



Edelman vs. Sabrina = Feminist Coup? Plus More Post-Superbowl

Ah, the Superbowl.  The lights, the commericals, the hubris…

Screen-shot-2015-02-04-at-12.07.41-PM1Richard Sherman, Doug Baldwin, the worst play call in the history of the Superbowl notwithstanding, the best story line is “Sabrina’s” priceless sleeping Julian Edelman photo: I think it’s crass and inappropriate and immature and disrespectful and indicative of much that’s wrong in our culture today but also totally fantastic because this is the kind of shit guys pull all the time and everybody chuckles and wags their fingers and grins about what a bad boy (nudge nudge, wink wink) he is.

I know that’s a run-on.  It’s supposed to be.

I’m not sure if post-coital internet posts (and I’m so damned old I don’t even know what the hell Tinder is*) following a drunken celebrity-bagging safari is a feminist gesture, but it sure seems like this young lady was taking control of and owning her sexuality. From that perspective, she’s almost heroic.


I mean, if they’d had digital cameras a back when dodo birds roamed the world and I was sleeping with all sorts of famous women…

Ah, the twisted. delusional ramblings of a dirty old man.

Other Post-Bowl Comments:

In the wake of Superbowl 49, let’s ditch the Roman numerals–no one learns latin anymore: they’d be better off putting Superbowl titles in Cyrillic: Cуперкубок 49

Or Chinese: 超級碗49

Or even arabic:  الفناء تسعة وأربعين

All equally effective to Superbowl XLIX.  Sounds like the name of a rapping porn star.  X-licks?  Phooey!

This never gets old.
This never gets old.

And how about Seattle’s bonehead play to serve up the Superbowl to the crux of evil Patriots? Any good Steelers fan who was alive in 1994 will tell you NEVER PASS DOWN THE MIDDLE ON SHORT AND GOAL AT THE END OF THE FOURTH QUARTER WITH THE GAME ON THE LINE.  It’s ironic, because so many Seahawk faithful still whine about the Steelers beating them back in Superbowl XL (now that’s a Roman Numeral…Xtra Freaking LARGE, mofo.

So many good Asshats to right about right now:   let’s not fail to mention (it’s what he wants, anyway) Seattle’s “Baldwin Squat” touchdown celebration.  From this point forward he’ll be known as Shithead–not the only guy in the NFL with that nickname, but the most deserving.  I’m pretty certain he’s the first guy in NFL history to be disciplined for simulated defecation.

He used to be just a run of the mill douchebag–but now he’s a infamously juvenile “deucebag.”

This is turning out to be a fun post, and I’m realizing one thing that didn’t occur to me while the two teams I despise most were butting heads.  You see, I’d been thinking that it was lamentable that one of these teams would win, but what I should have been thinking about was that one of them was just as certain to lose.

Is that my own sour grapes talking?  Absolutely, but it’s okay as long as I’m self-aware enough to realize it.  The truth of the matter is that it was a very interesting, exciting game, unlike last year’s debacle (thanks, Peyton) so, ultimately, it could have been worse.

*Oh, I have an idea what Tinder is, and I know that I could look it up and find out in about twenty seconds, but I’d like the idea of living in a world where I’m totally ignorant of such things.  A happier, less complicated world….