Detroit = A Broken Toilet

Charlie LeDuff is a Pulitzer prize winning former reporter for the NY Times, now working as a Fox News TV journalist in Detroit. His new book on the city, and subtitled “An American Autopsy,” is a riot. Actually, if there was a mass riot in Detroit the city might operate better than it does now, pre-riot. Nobody cares. A firehouse caught fire, and nobody called it in. Then the firemen couldn’t put the fire out because their firetruck had been decommissioned to save on costs. One policeman had to take a bus to a crime scene. They regularly under-count homicides in order to look better on the books. One case of a man beaten to death was called “an accident.” A man knifed to death was called “a suicide.” Covering the incident, LeDuff returned to his car to find his tires slashed. German and Japanese car CEOs regularly come to town on vacation to gloat on winning the trade war, even as thousands of Motown workers are laid off (and while Detroit’s own CEOs award themselves bonuses.) Bribery and graft are as common as in Greece. LeDuff compares Detroit to a broken toilet that nobody wants to flush. A bomb goes off in Boston, and the entire world is Johnny-on-the-spot. In Motown, even local rappers consider factory workers to be losers, and so Homeland Security has no million dollar office there. Not even a thousand dollar office. This is a town that used to be the heart of American industry, but now the work done by the automakers is mostly farmed out to companies out of state and out of country. What remains is a shell, a husk. Very rich and very poor. LeDuff drinks a lot now, and confesses to once smearing a pizza in his wife’s face. He’s pissed. He’s angry. Because since everyone cares more about following the Tigers or the Red Wings, his city is populated by lemmings and zombies who may still be alive, but are barely kicking.

Shocking Look INSIDE the Bush Library

“Psssttt…”

The George W. Bush Presidential Library was unveiled today, and included many speeches written by speechwriters and screenwriters. But the shocking truth was revealed when the building’s skeleton key finally opened the doors. Inside, visible in the dim light, were thousands of fake books, pages blank (except for picture books, and the collected works of Dr. Seuss.) Bush wasn’t too happy, either, when Michelle Obama tried to get him to read to reporters from “The Cat in the Hat.” So some Dummies series books were quickly and quietly trucked in, and in the meantime Bush saved face by reading the book he’d read to kids when he’d last actually completed a book, on Sept. 11, 2001.

Manuscript Found by the NCAA

Paulo Coelho’s new book is “Manuscript Found in Accra.” It reads a lot like “The Prophet” by Kahlil Gibran. If Paulo can copy Gibran, why can’t we? (Of course The Matrix that is New York publishing might reject our version…)
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Manuscript Found by the NCAA
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It was in the Fall that Ired Dustafo, the great and wise seer, was discovered in a floe of ice in the Himalayas by a coach on vacation, and after sufficient time by the fire, was returned to the land of the living in his clothes. Long had been Ired’s years in a state of suspended animation, but soon his meditations and contemplations in the remote spaces of the wilderness resumed. At long last, when his conversations with the spirits of nature and God craved the confirmation of human listeners, he descended from the heights to a village below, and there rented a room for barter of his knowledge and his sweat.  
    Then the teacher became a pupil of the times which had passed, and indeed he learned what had transpired during his absence through the recollections of those he met. Moreover, Ired discovered the present state of man through the television in his lodging, and so alarmed was he by all he saw and heard that he set sail at once aboard a freighter bound for California, and once arrived there was received as a visiting dignitary at USC, where he spoke and wrote, and was soon considered by the students to be “the coolest dude on campus.”   
    Yet despite his popularity among the co-eds, the professors quickly came to dismiss his ruminations on the follies of man, particularly tenure, the tax code, and March Madness. Still, the Master persisted, such was his resolve, and prior to being ejected from campus by campus police, he, Ired the wise, gave one final audience in front of the campus library. Here, as he bid adieu to the exhilarating impertinence of youth, agents closed in…

And a new student asked, “Are you against belonging to a house like TTT, oh great one?”
    And the Master said, “Do you mean Theta Theta Theta or Testosterone, Testosterone, Testosterone? Your traditions are good, Trojans, but see that they be not mocked. I know not of the house you speak, but no matter what Greek letters emblazon the portals of your fraternity row, no house should, ere the rising sun, become a school for Greek love and toga parties. Or if they are, then should the whereabouts of those prior brothers or sisters be tracked to see which old members still flip patties and attend AA meetings. And do you know what AA means?”
        
    Then a junior without a major said:  “What about partying, pop?”  
    And the Master said: “I have seen you prize action, and to disdain those who would spend their time at study. But I say to you, where is this action? You talk of tweets and posts, of music, and cavorting in pleasure and drunkenness. Is this what you mean? But is not the sparrow who builds a nest in a tree more active? Or the nerd at study? I think you mean a dulling of spirit. I think you mean to put out of thought all worries and fears, and your own insecurities. And I say to you, rather embrace them. Let them be your soul’s fuel and your body’s challenge. You are young, yes, but do not be foolish. Invite those nerds to your party, and gather around them to learn from them. Heed their words, and laugh not. For thoughts are the beginnings of actions. And ideas that change the world can get you hired by Google.”

    Then a music major asked, “What do you think about today’s lyrics?”
    And the Master replied, “It is a mystery. Certain song phrases seem to have meaning, but when they are linked into stanzas they lose all relation to sanity and reason. The philosophy expressed appears at first to be one of prizing anarchy and dissolution, but upon repetition it becomes clearer and clearer that the true motivation is a hedonistic nihilism propelled by lazy cliches, and a vapidity which cannot break even the surface tension of wisdom…much like pond scum. Yet if the words are mumbled, slurred, or otherwise covered sufficiently, I like it.”

    And a senior asked, “Is love for real?”
    And the Master responded, “The major problem with love is that because of your high divorce rates, you have come to realize that you can probably fall in love with just about anything and anybody. So now it has become harder to fall in love, even over a candlelight dinner. Unless, of course, it’s too dark to see what’s going on.”

    And an English Lit major asked:  “What do I do about the neighbors above me? They have parties even on weeknights, and play their Halestorm CDs until three in the morning. I can’t sleep or study. My grades are even suffering. Don’t tell me to call the police, either, ‘cause the girl next to me does that and they always manage to cut their stereo off just in time.”
    And the Master smiled and said, “Would that you had a stereo of your own, with Boze speakers and a two hundred amp powerplant. Then you could play some nice classical music for them in the morning. I think, after sunrise, you would not violate any laws, would you?  I would suggest a Beethoven Symphony, followed by Chopin’s Funeral March…and then maybe some polkas, a couple Swedish yodeling medleys, and a rendition of ‘Una Paloma Blanca’ by Slim Whitman. When the police come to your door you can make a contribution to the Policeman’s Benevolent Fund.”
    
    And a freshman asked, “Why is it I can’t concentrate in class?”
    And the Master replied, “You are unique because you have developed extremely short attention spans. Only a hummingbird’s is shorter. You will find that this is a direct result of the advent of the 30 second TV commercial. Searching the fossil records, you will also discover that prehistoric man may have taken as long as three months on a single cave drawing. Yet today you pride yourselves on how many subway cars you can vandalize in three minutes. Indeed, without the aid of music videos and special effects you become bored in exactly 64 seconds. I understand that last year it was 67 seconds. So I predict that when the countdown reaches zero someone will launch their missiles the moment their iPod battery dies. Luckily, that only happens about once a year, I’m told, with heavy use.”

    Then a psychology student asked:  “How will we find jobs?”
    And the Master replied, “I do not know. But all work is sacred if you do your best…even flipping hydrogenated fifty cow patties. So do not disparage whatever is given for you to do. And while you continue to seek employment in your realm of excellence, never assume a job is beneath you. For work is not a right but a sacrament.  It is not a drudgery but a duty to God and to your fellow man. Do you job, I say, exceeding that which is expected, and your strength will rise to meet your dream. Then your dream, like the eagle, will beat its wings in a freedom song, and will carry you all the way from McDonalds…to Dennys.”

    And a PH-D candidate said, “I’m trying to come up with a PH D thesis. Any advice?”
    And the Master responded, “How about explaining why some people circle your mall’s parking lot looking for the closest space to park while others are already inside and making their purchases?”

    And a criminal justice student asked:  “What about violence on the streets?”      
    And the Master said, “What of the rules for the street gangs, and the sport they play? Is not everything a game to them too? My children, think of it like this:  if you walk around a corner and you confronted by a punk with a gun, and he asks why he should not kill you, what do you say?  Do you say Because I’m a good person? Yet what is good? Do you know? …Or maybe you would say Because it’s wrong. But again, what is that? Who are you to determine what is right or wrong for anyone, especially if your parents never even taught you phonics? …Because God condemns it? What God?  Science? Science is just numbers. A billion billion dying suns in an infinite universe of incredible cold and distance. I predict you will all be faced soon by that kid—maybe even the same kid—and he will want to know how to live his life, and you will not be able to give him the answers I did! The gun will be pointing at your belly very soon, but you do not believe me because you are too busy thinking Who are you to judge me?  Here is the dilemma, for although saying something is wrong will offend those who are doing that wrong, not to say it is the same thing as saying nothing is right. …Right?”

    And a science major asked:  “What do you think about the future?”
    And the Master answered, saying: “The future is only a dream which will never exist. Though it terrorize, confound, or distract you, it holds no power other than that which you give it. He who would be consumed by fears of the future is like the traveler who peers through a glass and so stumbles on the rocks at his feet.  But I say, be consumed with now, for the present moment is all you will ever have. And if you use your every moment to its fullest, then will your future moments be all the more pleasant…as you remember the good old days.”

    And a janitor asked, “How can I get outta here?”
    And the Master, taking pity, said, “Projecting yourself from your body is very difficult to achieve, as you may have suspected, especially if your name is Madonna. While many people hate their bodies, they have yet to master this skill. Simply loathing what you look like will not work in most instances.  You have to be able to do it with your eyes closed.  Once you learn to do this, however, all that remains is really despising where you are.”

    And a Humanities student asked, “Master, tell us of life’s meaning.”
    And the Master smiled and said, “The actual meaning I cannot tell you in words, else you go mad, shave your head, and attack the Pope.”

    And a physics student asked, “Have you ever heard of the Twins Paradox?”   
    And the Master nodded, saying,  “If two sets of identical twins are dating and one of them has amnesia, then not only won’t he know which twin he’s dating…he won’t know which twin he is.”

     And a librarian on break asked, “When Kim Jong-un finally launches a missile toward us, will we still be able to get sports scores on the evening news?”
    And the Master nodded, saying, “If it happens in March, for sure. Or on Superbowl Sunday.”

 

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Quentin Tarantino’s New Cookbook

“Wow, what a cool recipe!”

From Dusk to Dawn Sandwich
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Here’s Quentin’s twist on the Elvis Sandwich. It’s for zombies who for some insane reason known only to screenwriters refuse to eat anything but living humans (particularly scantily clad buxom females.) Quentin has promised that if you present this sandwich to any zombies you encounter, they will leave you alone. He’s also promised to test it on the show The Walking Dead but shooting himself in the head with a prop pistol. Someone please call his agent and make sure he doesn’t do this, as blanks can kill at close range…and we need to see Django Chained (the prequel.)  
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Ingredients:
3 Bananas
1 Italian Roll
1 Stick Butter
1/2 Lb. M&Ms
1 Cup Skippy (Smooth)
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Melt butter and marinate Italian roll in it from dusk to dawn. In the morning nuke bananas in their skins for four minutes on low. Next, mix M&Ms and peanut butter in a plastic bowl and nuke for five minutes on high. Peel bananas and slice lengthwise in half with a Katana, then nestle them in roll. Pour Skippy/M&M mixture over bananas. Bind roll with baking twine and sauté in pan until crisp. Remove roll and seal in plastic baggy. Bury in back yard. After three more dusks, dig up roll and nuke for three minutes on high. Bon appetit, zombies. Don’t leave the building without the mix tape we’ve created for you, including the songs Love Me Tender, A Little Less Conversation, Let Me Be Your Teddy Bear, Stuck on You, and Burning Love.

ARGO Sequel?

Several stars have cameo roles in the novel. Lady Gaga. George Clooney. Logline: A lottery winner engineers his own disappearance with the intent to reemerge a hero for financing a coup attempt against a corrupt Caribbean island dictator, extending his 15 minutes of fame into a lifetime. What’s the similarity to Argo? The main character, Jude Johnstone, must get into the good graces of Union Island governor Frolonzo by pretending to be a producer scouting locations for a movie and game show. And like Argo, there is a hostage situation. Interested? The novel is FAME ISLAND, an audiobook narrated by Emmy winning actor Kris Tabori, and directed by Grammy winner Yuri Rasovsky. In ebook format the title is THE INSTANT CELEBRITY. Jimmy Buffett also has a cameo in the offbeat adventure, which has satire and romance as part of the mix. Plus it’s based on a true story. The late John Caldwell once sailed around the world, bought Palm Island for a song on a 99 year lease from the government of St. Vincent (at $1 a year, plus 12%), and spent 20 years developing it into a paradise. Once he had to fight for it, too, when renegades came over from Union to take it…John and his boys fought them off with Enfield rifles. Then, during the Grenada invasion, he aided the Marines with a place to park their helicopters. I met John on Palm and wrote articles on him for Cruising World, Adventure Travel, and Real People magazines. He planted thousands of non-native palm trees all over the Grenadines, earning himself the nickname “Coconut Johnny,” and his tale inspired my novel. (Before he arrived the place was called “Prune Island,” a hellish place infested with mosquitoes. Later, he turned down millions for it. “Where could I go that’s better than this?” he asked me.) A former Disney producer said of the novel, “Very enjoyable, lots of twists and turns…would make a great film.” So I’m writing a script version to be called “The Fame Game.” Enjoy.