In other news, National Lampoon is still in business and somehow less relevant than “Saturday Night Live.”

But if I have their attention, if someone unworthy to even breathe the same air as The Mighty John Hughes and P.J. O’Rourke is reading this and has any kind of say in the film production side of their business, I’d like to offer a suggestion that might help with the credibility of their brand. Instead of naming your films, say, “National Lampoon’s Going the Distance”; title them this way: “Another Desperately Unfunny, Straight-to-Video Piece of Shit We’ve Called ‘Going the Distance.’”

You’ll sleep better. 

As a matter of fact, you might want to call your Twitter feed: “Another Desperately Unfunny Production from National Lampoon.” Really, this is the best you’ve got…?

Thanks for the Valentine’s Day love for Breitbart. Remember kids, the real laugh will come when he pays through the nose.

Andrew Breitbart’s motto: Truth, Justice, and the American way (except for blacks).

Dear Sirs: I am relevant and love the black peoples. — Andrew Breitbart

I will say this about your Twitter feed, though. I never thought I’d find one less funny than Eric Boehlert’s. But maybe that’s why a George Soros footstool has 3500 more followers than you.

*This is not a verified Twitter account, which means that either someone stole the National Lampoon handle and is seeking to denigrate the failing brand further or Twitter simply doesn’t consider the failing brand worth verifying.

A smart gambler would put his money on both.

Now, some gay groups want the ad pulled because they feel graphic warnings about unprotected sex “could further stigmatize.. gay and bisexual men.” And the chuckleheads at GLAAD, of course, says it “misses the mark in fairly and accurately representing what it’s like to live with HIV/AIDS.”

Which wasn’t the ad’s point, but check it out for yourselves.

—–

At first, this ad bugged me. I mean, shouldn’t the fear of AIDS be enough to keep you from practicing unsafe sex? Worse, are we now at a point where a disease that’s killed millions is treated like it’s no big deal?

But then I changed my mind. I realized that this commercial wasn’t just a scare tactic – but a tribute to drug companies and those who work for them.

Think about it: thanks to them, HIV is now a manageable illness, like diabetes and…well, diabetes.

And because it’s no longer a death sentence, people who ARE ALIVE, now need a reminder that there are other diseases that come with carelessness.

This is something to think about the next time you hear some d-bag railing against drug companies and their costly products. The fact is, drugs are expensive because so many of them fail, and even the highly successful ones may benefit only a few people. So without those evil drug companies – which are always demonized by trial lawyers and movies like Michael Clayton – there’d be no one alive hiring those trial lawyers or seeing movies like Michael Clayton.

Even an angry activist should appreciate that (but probably won’t).

And if you disagree with me, you’re a racist, homophobe.

Tonight’s guests! 

Larry Gatlin

Bernadette Pauley

Remi Spencer

—–

When I received a request by a priest to review a film, “The Human Experience,” I was less than enthused. As a columnist for the New York Sun, my mail box was always filled with similar requests which I seldom had time to address although those received from Moving Picture Institute in Tribeca proved quite interesting and I eventually wrote columns about their features. “Mine Your Own Business: The Dark Side of Environmentalism, “written and directed by Phelim McAleer was a favorite and McAleer became Al Gore’s public nemesis for challenging him at forums about global warming.

This being the start of the Christmas season, however, I was intrigued by the priest’s invite when he told me the documentary was made by young residents of St. Francis House, a group home for troubled youth founded by Father Benedict Groeschel. Grassroots Films began here at the home when producer Joe Campo had the residents take up the art of filmmaking. After a few successful short films, the young men decided to live on the streets of New York City to learn about the homeless community. From there the film developed with opportunities to visit areas around the world to discover how our humanity transcends our environment. One of these treks includes a visit to a leper colony in Ghana; another to dying AIDS victims in Africa.

Have you ever watched a film that you can’t get out of your mind? The image of the lepers smiling and telling the men that they are happy because they have come to visit them and they are not afraid to touch them is hard to forget.  Then too, I don’t think I will think of the homeless on the streets of New York in the same way I had before viewing this remarkable film.

One would think this would be a depressing experience but instead I found it to be inspiring and an affirmation of what binds all of us around the world-our humanity.

 The DVD is on sale at www.grassrootsfilms.com and is a perfect Christmas gift for those on your list who need to be reminded of that message.

Snippets from the article below, but make sure to read the whole thing at the Daily Caller and return to Big Journalism early and often as we unpack the details that emerge and track the fallout from this seminal event in the history of left-wing media bias. It’s unclear exactly what the Daily Caller has, but there’s certainly no indication from this article they’ve already laid all their cards out on the table.

According to records obtained by The Daily Caller, at several points during the 2008 presidential campaign a group of liberal journalists took radical steps to protect their favored candidate. Employees of news organizations including Time, Politico, the Huffington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Guardian, Salon and the New Republic participated in outpourings of anger over how Obama had been treated in the media, and in some cases plotted to fix the damage.

In one instance, Spencer Ackerman of the Washington Independent urged his colleagues to deflect attention from Obama’s relationship with Wright by changing the subject. Pick one of Obama’s conservative critics, Ackerman wrote, “Fred Barnes, Karl Rove, who cares — and call them racists.”

***

Jeremiah Wright was back in the news after making a series of media appearances. At the National Press Club, Wright claimed Obama had only repudiated his beliefs for “political reasons.” Wright also reiterated his charge that the U.S. federal government had created AIDS as a means of committing genocide against African Americans.

It was another crisis, and members of Journolist again rose to help Obama.

Chris Hayes of the Nation posted on April 29, 2008, urging his colleagues to ignore Wright. Hayes directed his message to “particularly those in the ostensible mainstream media” who were members of the list…

…Katha Pollitt – Hayes’s colleague at the Nation – didn’t disagree on principle, though she did sound weary of the propaganda. “I hear you. but I am really tired of defending the indefensible. The people who attacked Clinton on Monica were prissy and ridiculous, but let me tell you it was no fun, as a feminist and a woman, waving aside as politically irrelevant and part of the vast rightwing conspiracy Paula, Monica, Kathleen, Juanita,” Pollitt said.

“Part of me doesn’t like this shit either,” agreed Spencer Ackerman, then of the Washington Independent. “But what I like less is being governed by racists and warmongers and criminals.”

Ackerman went on:

I do not endorse a Popular Front, nor do I think you need to. It’s not necessary to jump to Wright-qua-Wright’s defense. What is necessary is to raise the cost on the right of going after the left. In other words, find a rightwinger’s [sic] and smash it through a plate-glass window. Take a snapshot of the bleeding mess and send it out in a Christmas card to let the right know that it needs to live in a state of constant fear. Obviously I mean this rhetorically.

And I think this threads the needle. If the right forces us all to either defend Wright or tear him down, no matter what we choose, we lose the game they’ve put upon us. Instead, take one of them — Fred Barnes, Karl Rove, who cares — and call them racists. Ask: why do they have such a deep-seated problem with a black politician who unites the country? What lurks behind those problems? This makes *them* sputter with rage, which in turn leads to overreaction and self-destruction.

***

Read the full article at the Daily Caller.

As President Obama says, let’s be clear: that comical Copenhagen conference wasn’t about science, it was about wealth transfer. The gist: because of America’s “hyper-industrialization,” we need to pay off poor countries for all the harm we’ve caused in the world. That’s the real green in the green movement: It’s cash, not grass.

What’s this have to do with Christmas? Well, I think the world has forgotten that the biggest gift to this planet is America’s industry – and it’s time to remind them where they would be without it.

1. Whenever a horrible disaster hits, they would be dead. Be it an earthquake, a tsunami or a Madonna tour – we’re usually the first and biggest responders – saving the injured, and helping to rebuild. It is because of our tremendous capability to mobilize quickly that makes us a nation of superheroes. It also takes planes, trucks and tractors to do that stuff. Imagine that carbon footprint.

2. If they ever get sick, they would be dead. It’s true. While critical cretins like Chavez and Mugabe actually harm their own people, we save millions of strangers’ lives. Even that bozo called Bono admits it was George Bush who helped prevent the death of millions of Africans from AIDS. Yeah – I know what our critics will say: it’s easy for America to do this stuff. Well, it’s even easier not to do it.

3. If their family is hungry, they would be dead. Let’s not forget Norman Borlaug, who invented disease resistant wheat, saving hundreds of millions of lives in India and Pakistan. You can only do that if you’re of an industrial mind – thinking about people, not polar bears.

4. If they’re under the thumb of fascism, they would be dead. We possess the greatest military technology in the world, and we’ve used it to end horrible wars. Our industry of annihilation gave new life to many countries.

In sum, the very people complaining about America would not be alive, if it weren’t for America. Which is why, I say to them: Merry Christmas.

It sure beats a pair of socks.

Tonight we have the lovely Remi Spencer, the delightful Mike Baker, the witty Steven Crowder, and the always awesome Dr. Michael Baden.

The man who would become one of the most popular movie stars of the last quarter century was born in 1936, the son of a small-town police chief in Florida. He grew up handsome and tough, randy and reckless — by fourteen, he had lost his virginity to a much older woman, and soon after knocked up the prom queen (his attempts to cajole her into marriage were rebuffed by the girl’s society-maven mother, who forced her daughter to abort the baby). Such antics were an early harbinger of both the charismatic charm and voracious, self-destructive appetites that would define (and sometimes decimate) his later career (a typical joke — Q: Why didn’t Burt Reynolds ever take Loni Anderson out to dinner? A: He made it a rule never to date married women.)

Like John Wayne thirty years earlier, an injury ended Reynolds’ budding college football career, and in 1955 he turned toward acting. Future stars like Joanne Woodward and Rip Torn were early friends during his New York salad days, and the connections he built there ultimately allowed him to journey west in the late Fifties to seek his fortune in Hollywood. At the time he bore an uncanny resemblance to superstar Marlon Brando, and along with new pals like Clint Eastwood he spent long, disheartening years scrambling between minor roles in various television shows such as Riverboat and Gunsmoke. He even served as a contestant on The Dating Game. “I spent a long time playing the third Indian from the left,” he says ruefully of those early jobs.

From the start of the “swingin’ Sixties,” he seldom felt at home among the young, self-important thespians who would eventually rule the industry. “I don’t belong in places like New York or Los Angeles,” he insisted when pressed. “I should be on a farm with a few cases of good beer.” Reynolds’ first marriage, to the English actress Judy Carne, disintegrated when he couldn’t bring himself to join the never-ending drug-infested parties she presided over with an assortment of heroin-addicted hippies and Charles Manson rejects.

While many of his friends tried to emulate the new hip stars of that decade and their space-cadet ways, Reynolds was drawn to a different world, one to which his pal Hal Needham provided the gateway. “One time,” Needham remembers, “[Burt] mentioned that he didn’t know much about motorcycles, so I suggested that he come over to my place and practice. I had motorcycles and a tree where we used to do high falls. Every weekend there were fifteen or twenty stunt guys practicing. Burt started coming around every weekend. He got along well with all of the guys.”

In that way, over a long period of association, Reynolds’ persona became more of a stuntman than an actor — and for the most part, that was fine by him. The rarefied careers of emotive twerps like Dustin Hoffman and Al Pacino didn’t interest him. “There are two or three young actors around,” he once said in his heyday, “I won’t mention any names — who if I see them painfully staring at the rug in one more picture, I’m gonna puke.” I imagine Reynolds shares that thought, then and now, with a vast swath of the nation’s movie-going public. The Needham/Reynolds friendship grew over the course of fifteen years, and Reynolds never forgot the way his pal shared his contacts and expertise.

By the end of the 1960s, Reynolds was an established television personality, but his early work had stereotyped him as a serious, angry, morose action star, a role that didn’t jive with his true nature. Something important was missing from the mix: humor. The venue Reynolds ultimately used to introduce his jocular side to the public was novel. “The beginning of almost everything good that ever happened to me,” he says, “was a result of my being on the Tonight Show.” His first appearances there were a revelation, creating a pop-culture electricity that today is hard to fathom. “The guy on Evening Shade [his successful early 1990s TV sitcom] is who I am and always was,” Reynolds feels. “The guy on the Tonight Show is who I was after seven vodka and tonics, which is generally what I had before I walked out.”

Whatever he drank, his stints on the program utterly transformed his persona in the eyes of the public. Instead of the usual actors taking themselves ultra-seriously, mumbling about how much effort and technique and skill they put into their roles, Reynolds would cheerfully call his latest film a flat-out turkey, poke fun at his lack of top-flight acting ambition, and shamelessly play the part of a rich, sexy, fun-loving Hollywood star who was enjoying the wild ride like no one else.

The following 1974 appearance on the Tonight Show, made while promoting The Longest Yard, gives the modern viewer an idea of the early swagger that he would later parlay into the films that made him the top box-office attraction of the late Seventies and early Eighties:

Soon the fairly unknown TV star was Johnny Carson’s hottest guest, to the point where Carson often had Reynolds guest host the show for him. The fame gained from these appearances rocketed him out of the Hollywood doldrums. For the first time, the name BURT REYNOLDS on a marquee opened movies all by itself, and he now had his choice of what kind of projects to do.

But crucially, rather than go the usual route of chasing Oscars, he opted for a more personal direction. “My friends all wear cowboy hats and have horse manure on their boots,” he said. “They ask me if I knew John Wayne, and I say ‘no,’ and that’s the end of the show business talk.” So with his new-found clout he began doing Southern “hick flicks,” many of which (Deliverance, White Lightning, The Longest Yard, Gator) became popular, making him a beloved figure throughout flyover country. Tellingly, these projects were spaced out with other, more mainstream roles, many of which weren’t popular at all. Reynolds was getting stereotyped again, but this time as a character America was warming to.

In the mid-Seventies, with Needham still living in Reynolds’ guest house after his divorce twelve years earlier, the chance finally came to pay back a karmic debt to his old friend. “One day,” Reynolds says, “[Needham] gave me a script he’d written. Titled Smokey and the Bandit, it was scrawled on a yellow legal pad in his own handwriting. Cheap bastard hadn’t even had it typed.” He read the script and was underwhelmed. “Now Hal and I had one of the tightest friendships in show business. He’d directed second-unit footage and coordinated stunts on six of my films. My God, we’d lived together longer than either of us had lived with any of the women to whom we’d been married. So it was hard to tell him I thought it was the worst script I’d read in my life.”

Nevertheless, he saw some potential in the tale — its outlaw, Robin Hood conceit might be greatly appealing, if the dialogue and scenes could be spruced up to match. Various agents and hangers-on told Reynolds he would be crazy to star in a madcap, low-budget screwball comedy. He needed more movies, they argued, like Deliverance — parts that could further his reputation as a serious actor. “Every single one of my advisers and friends,” Reynolds says, “went down on their hands and knees begging me with tears in their eyes not to make that film. Mind you, if you had read the original script, you’d probably have done the same.”

But beyond Reynolds affinity for the basic plot and the Southern atmosphere, he felt he owed his friend a good turn. Hal Needham was in his forties and nearing the end of his useful life as a stuntman, and Reynolds well knew of his desire to move into directing. So, when Needham tried and failed to get any of the studios interested in the picture, Reynolds made it known around town that he would be willing to star as the Bandit. Instantly, studio doors opened wide, and Needham found his previously derided script in demand. It was, Needham later admitted, “the biggest thing anyone has ever done for me in my life.”

If Reynolds had saved the script by putting his potent box-office muscle behind it, Needham himself added some necessary guts to the package. Reynolds remembers how

[film executive Mike] Medavoy wanted to make a movie with me — but not Smokey. Instead, he handed Hal the script of Convoy and said he could direct that one if I starred. Hal, who’d never directed, considered the bigger-budget offer and said, “No, it’s mine or nothing.” That’s the reason I love Hal. He’s a hell of a man.

It would have been easy for Needham to fold his hand, toss away his script, and try to make someone else’s movie. But he perceptively decided that Convoy had none of the charm, authenticity, or raw excitement that his own Smokey and the Bandit tale promised, and he held firm under withering studio pressure.

Looking back, Burt Reynolds epitomizes not only the best but much of the worst that movie stardom has to offer. Stardom often went to his head, something he freely admits in his autobiography. He’s known for having a short fuse. All the womanizing left him a twice-divorced, 73-year-old lonely bachelor. Vanity led to cadaverous plastic surgery (compare Reynolds’ futile attempt to still look 40 to the gracefully aged visages of contemporaries like Sean Connery and Clint Eastwood). Many of his films are now derided as junk, projects he undertook even as he rejected such choice roles as James Bond, Trapper John in M*A*S*H, Han Solo in Star Wars, the (Oscar-winning) astronaut Garrett Breedlove in Terms of Endearment, John McClane in Die Hard, and many others.

In 1996, the former superstar’s spendthrift ways caught up to him, and he was forced to file bankruptcy with assets of $6.65 million against debts of $11.2 million — a pathetic pittance of an estate for a four-decade member of Hollywood royalty. Reynolds suffered his share of plain old bad luck as well: acute hypoglycemia in the Seventies, a horrible case of temporomandibular joint disorder in the Eighties. He once mused wryly that when life-threateningly ill, “you make a hundred bargains with God. But as soon as you feel better, you break them.”

But there’s another side to Burt Reynolds: the stand-up guy, full of graciousness and generosity to fans and friends. Note that he never has built his personal politics into a wall between himself and the public. One incident in particular hammers this home for me. Back in 1985, when AIDS was first entering the nation’s consciousness, the activist group AIDS Project Los Angeles asked Elizabeth Taylor (a close friend of the then-dying Rock Hudson) to organize a fundraiser that would help create mainstream awareness of this feared disease. Taylor called everyone she knew asking for help, but according to her virtually everyone balked. “The people in this town didn’t give a damn!” she remembered many years later. “That made me cynical about Hollywood. What a sad lesson. It’s a very sad comment on this town.”

Actually it’s par for the course — today many of those same people fly private jets while lecturing the rest of us about carbon emissions. But it says a lot that — with Rock Hudson having only weeks to live, and everyone else afraid to attend an AIDS fundraiser that might hurt their careers — Burt Reynolds was one of only a small handful of stars to say “yes” to Taylor’s request. Not only that, he took upon himself the most thankless task of the event: reading aloud the pledge of support that the hated Republican President, Ronald Reagan, had generously sent from Washington. Let it be noted for the record that, on September 19, 1985, actor Burt Reynolds stood up at Taylor’s event and read Reagan’s letter, while being roundly booed by a mass of angry activist attendees. That counts for something in my book.

(as an aside: at a similar event some time later, Reagan showed up in person to once again graciously pledge his support for AIDS research. The same classless ingrates from ACT UP who had booed Reynolds began doing the same thing to the President. To Elizabeth Taylor’s everlasting credit, she grabbed the mic and shut them all down, yelling, “I don’t care what your politics are, I don’t care how you feel about the President or what he’s not doing, he is still the President of the United States of America and you owe him some due respect, so shut the f*** up!” Properly chastised, the buffoons did shut up, and Reagan was able to give his speech.)

In light of all of this, I’ve got a question for you: do you know if Burt Reynolds is a Democrat? A Republican? An Independent?

No clue, right?

Good.

“Most of my friends are very political,” Reynolds admits, “and they were chagrined when I wasn’t active during the 1976 Presidential campaign.” He was making Smokey and the Bandit during that time, and could have joined the usual suspects in protesting and posturing and shrieking hate at ordinary Americans, all in an attempt to fit in with the Hollywood gang and grease the wheels of his career. Instead, he chose to “shut up and sing.” As conservatives and as movie lovers, we should give him due credit for that gift of silence.

Hal Needham dismisses those in Hollywood who think of Reynolds as a jerk, and reminds us that, “Without Burt, I’d never have had a chance. Burt has this capacity for loyalty and caring. He has made it and he doesn’t forget anyone he has ever cared for, man or woman.” That caring extends not only to friends like Needham, but to all the people who have enjoyed his films over the years. On September 24, 1981, at the height of his fame, Reynolds immortalized his hand and footprints in the famous forecourt of Grauman’s Chinese Theater in Hollywood. He took the opportunity to scratch a simple line into the moist cement, one that speaks for itself and that modern Hollywood would do well to emulate:

Next Saturday in For Conservative Movie Lovers: The Great One. ’Nuff said.

Previous posts in the series “Hal Needham, Burt Reynolds and Smokey and the Bandit”:

Part 1

FURTHER READING and VIEWING

If you ever find yourself in the Miami/Fort Lauderdale/West Palm Beach area, you might consider taking a detour to Jupiter, Florida to visit the Burt Reynolds Roadside Museum, located in an old bank building and filled with memorabilia, autographed pictures, awards, and other items.

After making such a point about Reynolds’ laudable decision to keep his politics to himself, I should mention that NewsMeat: America’s Most Popular Campaign Donor Search Engine lists a mere two political contributions from Burt Reynolds: one to Florida Senator Bob Graham way back in 1986, and one to Bill Clinton during his first run in 1992. Both Democrats, but also Southerners who Reynolds might have known and felt obligated to help on grounds other than raw politics.

To balance the scales, the entry for Smokey and the Bandit director Hal Needham lists three donations, one for the Dems and two for the GOP. Poke around the site and examine their celebrity donation lists — you might be surprised to find out how many of your favorite stars are closet Republicans.

Reynolds’ My Life is one of the better celebrity autobiographies out there. Like all such volumes it is more than a bit self-serving, but overall it lays bare the ups and downs, and gives some crucial insights into the blessing/curse of fame. If you haven’t seen Reynolds’ excellent four-hour-long one-man show An Evening with Burt Reynolds (alas, it’s not available on DVD, and who knows how many more times the seventy-three-year-old Reynolds is going to perform it live), reading this book is the next-best thing.

Like Barbara Walters’ painfully inane TV specials, Inside the Actor’s Studio has long been a safe place for actors and directors to preen like peacocks, cry like children, and indulge in the fantasy of being a thoughtful intellectual. Nevertheless, excepting perennially vacuous questions like “What sound or noise do you love” and “What is your favorite curse word,” this Bravo TV show occasionally teases enough insight and anecdotage out of its subjects to make it worthwhile. Here are four YouTube videos (part 2 has been deleted by YouTube, probably because of the Smokey clips) showing Reynolds braving host James Lipton’s Lamb’s Den.

Part 1 | Part 2 (missing) | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

In this episode, “NewsBusted” covers: President Obama, George W. Bush, CNN poll, Unemployment, William Jefferson, Lost Lottery Tickets, Rupert Murdoch, New York Times, Michelle Obama, Vanity Fair Magazine, AIDS, and Brad Garrett.

Straight sex, gay, bi, group, it doesn’t matter to the sexually omnivorous Susan whose libido knows no bounds. In her most asinine encounter, which becomes key to “world peace,” Susan pulls a train of skinhead Nazis who quickly see the light, accept their “bi-curious” strains and copulate with her and one another. Thereafter, anyone who views her sex tape becomes one with the world and all living things. And “Kumbaya” was heard in the land.  

La Muse intends to be a serious look at the consequences of absolute power but views the world through a politically-correct lens that sets your teeth on edge. People naturally fear and hate her. After one of numerous assassination attempts, La Muse’s Boswell, her sister Libby, writes, “It was another bunch of zealots trying to kill her. Jihadists, anti-abortionists, anti-gay activists (though she’s not gay), intelligent design fanatics, the KKK, Neo-Nazis, you name it, they want her dead.”  

Who’s missing from the above laundry list of traditional liberal bugaboos? That’s right.  Liberals. No liberal ever wants anyone dead (unless it’s Rush Limbaugh or Clarence Thomas.) 

Libby’s an agent for a big shot talent agency. Naturally La Muse becomes an international celebrity and cover model. There’s a lot of inside industry talk. La Muse does interviews.  Someone asks if she believes in God. “Really, I just don’t believe there’s a guy in the sky with a beard who hates gays.” At least not since the last time the Ayatollah Khomeni took an airplane. Chapter 2 is called “Enter the Haters.” 

La Muse goes on the lecture tour. “Let’s get rid of predatory capitalism, not capitalism per se. There hasn’t been a free market for decades! The corporations have been fixing it!  Decapitalization is the way to go! Rewrite capitalism so it works properly! Wealth gets redistributed by the market!” Once again a deep thinker betrays a lack of understanding about basic economics. It’s easy to rail against evil corporations-and so fresh! But where is the understanding that all modern blessings, the miracle drugs that prolong life, air-conditioning, television, the Internet, cars that allow us to cross continents in a few days, the wealth that permits government social programs, are all generated by the private sector? Has our culture become so debased that young people automatically absorb the smarmy assumptions of the liberal sea in which they are forced to swim?    

I believe writer Adi Tantimedh is English, so I don’t hold him responsible for his lousy education. England seems to have gone the way of the Dodo bird. Tantimedh does have some good ideas and some good lines. La Muse’s decision to declare herself an independent country inspires thousands of others. That would be great if the focus were on individual rights and liberties, but La Muse only addresses tribes. Her parents show up and turn out to be inscrutably evil aliens.  

Susan has only two speeds: full-bore overbearing alpha, and sob-sister. Neither personality is particularly appealing. The key to compelling fiction is to create sympathetic characters with whom the audience can identify.  

Artist Hugo Petrus is a mixed bag, good with faces and often quite engaging, as in the full page spread of La Muse stopping a charging taxi on page 33. Elsewhere he fails to provide establishing shots and many of the characters begin to look alike. 

Remarkably, the publisher and editor, Big Head Press (they are also my publisher,) are committed Libertarians! Editor Scott Bieser admits he anticipated a conservative backlash to the book, but that should not dissuade readers from seeking out their other publications, including The Probability Broach and Roswell, Texas by L. Neil Smith and Scott Bieser (who is a terrific artist,) and The Architect by yours truly.

Yet I was willing to give him some credit for working with former President Bush on a cause they both believed in – AIDS and poverty in Africa – even though he disagreed with Bush’s stance on Iraq. I honestly don’t think throwing all the money in the world at Africa will change anything there unless the tin pot dictators on that continent are all tossed out on their hineys – and I believe fellow rock star philanthropist Bob Geldof said something similar - but that’s beside the point. I might think even more of Bono if he were to give all of his own massive fortune to the needy in Africa before he lectures the rest of us about our “responsibility,” but I doubt even his philanthropic tendencies go that far. If he did, how could he afford to do things that only rich folks can do, like have his favorite hat flown from the UK to Italy because he forgot it? 

But cool rock stars have their limits. Apparently the B Man reached his when Bush tried to give him a hug at a prayer breakfast a couple of years ago. Adroitly dodging the president by scooting behind the podium, he shook his hand instead. Apparently Bush was good for soaking for taxpayer money for Bono’s cause, but that didn’t merit a hug.

Surprisingly, the media failed to pick up on that little maneuver until this week, when Bono admitted to the dodge in a BBC interview. Why mention it now? Apparently he felt bad about it, but since no one noticed it, why point it out publicly and humiliate someone who is no longer in the public eye? He could have just written Bush a private note saying “sorry, dude.” But I’m a little more cynical – I’m thinking he knew about the buzz of publicity that would accompany his little admission. See, with Bush out of office and criticizing Obama being verboten in the media, even new evidence of old Bush-bashing would immediately be picked up on and go viral. When a world tour is looming, any publicity will work in a pinch.

But someone did notice Bono hiding behind the podium that day – then-Sen. Barack Obama, who reportedly said to Bono afterward, “Nice work with the hug dodge.” This is a man who knows all about the sneaky insult. Remember the middle-finger nose scratch? Both Hillary Clinton and John McCain were recipients of that bit. How about his “lipstick on a pig” zinger, which many thought was aimed at Sarah Palin? More class than you can serve with Wagyu steak.

One of the commenters on the Yahoo post linked above makes a good point (emphasis mine):

It’s really convenient that the news media has found an excuse for everything we see that might put Pres Barry in a bad light. They never came close to trying to make Bush look good. Even now, this story coming out makes it look like the two “cool” kids in school had an inside joke behind the reject’s back. The only reason Bush was a reject, the only reason anyone is a reject in the public eye is based on media stance. If they love you, you’re a rock star. If they don’t, you’re Adolf Hitler.

Yep. Bono and Obama – part of the clique of their own creation. Only not everyone is as impressed with them as they are with themselves.

Here’s a hint: not all the money in the world can buy you class.