The Week That Was

Sorry I've been a little erratic with my postings lately. Schoolwork has been consuming my free time, but I've gotten over the hump for now.

• Roger Friedman of Fox News has again criticized Paul McCartney for performing "Helter Skelter." I didn't see it, but Sir Paul apparently sang it on the Grammy's the other night. I'm getting tired of repeating myself on this, but here we go: The song does not belong to Charles Manson. Only a spineless pussy would allow the song to go down in history as the anthem of Manson's insane race war ("Helter Skelter" is actually about an amusement park ride). McCartney has every right to sing it, and if you are so fragile that you have to hide under your bed in fear of Manson everytime you hear it, go right ahead, just remember not to ever come out. And no, I don't venerate Chuckie Manson as some sort of counter-culture hero. Nothing to admire about a man who engineers the stabbing death of an 8-months pregnant woman, among others. I'll piss on his grave if the scrawny little scumbag ever gets around to dying, and if I see any naive Manson-worshippers kneeling at his gravesite, I'll piss on them, too.
• Has anyone noticed that the book-blurbs (those little quotes on the book flap that tell you how great a book is) are getting a little silly? Here's a few I've noticed: "unadulteratedly terrifying," "page-turningly effective, "a hoot of a whodunit," and the most shopworn of them all, "unputdownable."
• Today I turn 35, and am now officially old enough to run for president. I'd appreciate your vote. Any policy questions, just ask.
  

It could happen . . .