As the date for my yearly holiday flight to New York approaches, I’ve been wondering: By which method will I choose to have my privates persecuted? Will I elect to be fondled by a highly trained genitalia inspector, or allow agents to take a radioactive close-up of all the cysts that have emerged in my rectum since I first got in the security-checkpoint line?

I recently read that two-thirds of the population favors the new full-body scanners. Even I will admit that the caveman cowering in the subterrain of my brain feels an iota safer about flying now that we have them. So, I don’t begrudge the public’s support of the new measures. I do, however, begrudge some of the ignorant, reactionary arguments used to justify that support—such as the oft-repeated position that it’s better to tolerate a little indignity than be killed by terrorists.

“If you don’t want to die on the plane,” remarked a caller on Sean Hannity’s radio show recently, “you should be saying, ‘Scan, baby, scan!’”

And BusinessInsider.com blogger Henry Blodget titled his article about the subject, “Sorry, Folks, We’d Rather Be Body-Scanned than Blown Up In Mid-Air.”

What horseshit. The choice is not between getting scanned and being “blown up in mid air.” It’s a choice between scanning and the minute possibility of being blown up. Actually, since no security scheme is foolproof, the choice is between the minute possibility of dying in the air by terrorism and a slightly higher possibility of dying in the air by terrorism.

So, the questions are: How much higher is that possibility? Is it mitigated by the new security measures? And is the difference sizeable enough to justify the myriad physical, emotional, financial, chronological and libertarian costs of it? (more…)

I’m having an afternoon meal with a small group of female friends, enjoying a lighthearted conversation about such lunch-appropriate topics as celebrity marriages, gardening tips and organic pet food, when the discussion takes a perilous turn toward a lunch-inappropriate topic: abortion.

At first, things are going smoothly, and it actually seems as though we’re going to discuss it without ruining any friendships or appetites—until, I make the mistake of revealing my position on the issue. (more…)

I have to admit, I enjoy surfing all those kooky fan pages and groups on Facebook. Some are hokey, like the “Powerful Blood of Jesus Christ” group (which displays a picture of a dove whose wings have been dipped in Christ’s blood). Some are hokie, like the “Happy Muslim Husband and Wife” fan page . And some are just plain stupid, like “Can This Goat Get More Fans than Barack Obama?”

The types of groups and pages are wide-ranging, but one thing they all have in common is that they crack me the hell up, usually unintentionally. Take the hilarious, “Dear Lord, Kill Obama” page. The real title is much longer and more laughable, but, yes, there actually is a Facebook page that prays for God to kill President Obama, and it has 1,185,299 fans—my sister being one of them! Well, I shouldn’t be surprised. During the campaign, she totally bought into all that “Obama the America-hating, Muslim, socialist, grandmother-murdering, turban-wearing Kenyan” business. Ah, don’t sweat it, Sis. It’s not your fault Mom accidentally put you in the microwave when you were a baby. (more…)

Well, it happened again. I went out and spent 55 bucks on three new CD’s — and got screwed! I bought the new Stereolab CD called Margerine Eclipse because they are usually great. I bought Best of Iggy Pop CD to sate a nagging Stooges Jones I’ve been having lately. And I also procured Get Born, the debut album by Jet, because “Are You Gonna Be My Girl,” is a kick-ass rock song.

I was very excited. The minute I got home, inserted the Get Born disc into the player, turned up the volume, was all ready to rock out with my socks out . . .  only to be slammed in the face with the Pickaxe of Mediocrity.

Ditto Stereolab. Ditto Iggy.

You know what irks me most about being an audiophile? Music CD’s are the only product I know of which you can’t return when they’re broken. Now, by “broken” I don’t mean if it skips or something. Of course they let you return CD’s for that.  I mean the other definition of broken.

If you’re like me, you buy new music CDs because you’re looking for that certain, special feeling when you listen to them. An internal response that is greater than the sum of its musical parts. Such as the first time you heard Zach De La Rocha blaring, “Fuck you I won’t do what you tell me!” and you felt like you just got whacked in the head with a bat so hard that blood ran under your fingernails and every cell, every vein, every single pore in your body shut down causing you to fall on your back and gasp and convulse on the living room floor as foam spewed from your maw. That’s what a new music CD is supposed to do and if it doesn’t, then as far as I’m concerned, it’s broken.

55 bucks and not one of these CD’s worked properly. Not the Stereolab (which was stale as a Bill Clinton zipper joke). Not the Stooges (which was obviously mixed and mastered by a team of lobotomized baboons). And certainly not the Jet album (which was just brutally average rock music). Nothing against Jet I suppose. Being average is what most of us are anyway; but then – I’m not paying 20 bucks for averageness. Nor am I paying 20 bucks for cover art, or liner notes, or shrink wrap, or crappy plastic jewel cases.

I’m paying 20 bucks to be stabbed in the stomach and left for dead.

So I decided it was time to fight the power. The next day I went back to the music store, walked right up to the cashier, set the disc and receipt on the counter, and said, “I’d like to return this CD please.”

“What’s wrong with it,” asked the clerk

“It’s broken,” I said.

“You mean it skips?”

“No, I mean, it doesn’t work.”

“It doesn’t work how?” he asked.

“Ok, well, you know when you first play a new rock and roll CD, and this guitar thing starts grinding out your speakers, and the bass thunders in, and the drummer goes slam bang boom-bang, then out of nowhere some ghoul from the bowels of hell starts shrieking — and the whole thing is rocking so hard you have no choice but to carve the heart right out of your chest and swing it by the aorta over your head grunting like an aboriginal in a sacrificial ritual? Well this CD doesn’t do that.”

“You mean you don’t like it?” he snipped.

“No, I like it just fine,” I said. “But I didn’t pay 20 bucks to like it.”

“I can’t help you sir,” he said.

You know how the rest goes: Harsh words were exchanged, and once again my dignified insurgence against the powers that be was mistaken for a psychosis of some sort and was escorted off the premises by the manager’s gentle hand on my elbow, saying in his contemptible, patronizing, shitty-little-record-store-manager’s tone, “Yes sir, we understand your frustration, but this is an issue you have to take up with the record company,” and me snapping back, “But you lie in the same grub-infested bed as them!” as he gently closed door in my face and waved goodbye through the plate glass windows which, too my shame, I considered putting a bench through.

Where are you Chuck D. when I need you most!?

You know, I don’t think the record companies take into account the buyer’s risk when they price music CD’s. If they are selling their product “as is” then the price needs to drop considerably. Maybe, if the record companies hadn’t sold out their customer’s interests for the bottomless bottom line, they might not be losing their asses right now. Because not only did they not nurture us as customers — we who paid for their palaces and Hummers — but they blatantly gouged us, and short-changed us, and when things weren’t going so well for them, they even sued our broke asses.

Anyway, I came home and placed my 3 new discs into The Stack. The Stack is a pile of unlistenable CD’s that I have set aside to resell. When The Stack is big enough, say twenty CD’s or so, I’ll bring them to Cow Records on Newport Ave. The clerk will thumb through to see which ones he wants to purchase and, if I’m lucky, I’ll make enough money to buy this pack of gum I’ve had my eyes on for awhile. Or maybe, I’ll buy a handkerchief for all the tears I’m about to shed for the poor, ravaged record industry.