BREAKING NEWS: MISSING AIRPLANE EDITION

The investigation into the disappearance of Malaysian Airlines Flight 370 took a dramatic turn as investigators announced they were zeroing in a new suspect.

FBI spokesman Brad Lanes told reporters that previous theories, including terrorists hijacking the plane, catastrophic failure or the pilots deliberately going off-course for unknown reasons, have come to naught. "We have to ask ourselves who benefits most from this tragedy. And after eliminating all the usual suspects, only one person remains: Jeff Zucker."

When asked for clarification, Lanes said, "Look at the evidence. Since Zucker took over CNN, both he and the network have become the laughingstock of the industry. He's thrown everything at it but the Muppets to see

what will stick. And still -- nothing. But in the last week, CNN has been 'Airplane Mystery' 24/7. Turn it on any time of day or night and that's all you see. Even a serious Washington correspondent like Wolf Blitzer is engaging in useless speculation with so-called experts. And people are eating it up -- to the point where Anderson Cooper is getting better ratings than Bill O'Reilly. I mean -- what the...?"

Lanes then made the shocking announcement that FBI agents raiding Zucker's home found supporting evidence. "There in his rumpus room was a flight simulator identical to the one used by Malaysian Air's Capt. Zaharie Ahmad Shah, along with a notepad with 'Don't forget the transponder' and '45,000 feet is the sweet spot' written in Mr. Zucker's handwriting."

Agents, Lanes explained, found further, seemingly unrelated clues including a pressure cooker and backpack similar to those used in the Boston Marathon bombing; chemicals used in cloud seeding that may have something to do with the stormy weather this winter; and even a map detailing Russian troop movements in Crimea and Ukraine. All of these news events, Lanes pointed out, boosted CNN's ratings temporarily. 

"It is therefore the FBI's belief," Lanes told stunned reporters, "that Jeff Zucker is behind every major 'breaking news' story of the last year, and will not rest until his network is number one permanently. We have to stop him before he keeps the world in an endless cycle of violence and, worse, tries to revive Katie Couric's television career once again."

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UPPER UBER HIP

A newly-minted Upper East Sider
looking for ethically-sourced
coffee served with goat milk.

I can't remember when I was last accused of being hip -- probably because it's never happened -- but that's all about to change. The New York Times reports that the young hipsters are finding domiciles in the Lower East Side out of their reach, and have been forced to migrate to my area, the Upper East Side.  

Ha! After years of looking askance at me during my infrequent visits below 14th Street, suddenly they have no choice but to pack their belongings in their Whole Foods bags and, for the first time in their lives, take the #4 train uptown. In geopolitical terms, they're Crimeans who have been forced to live in Ukraine while yearning to be invaded by the Motherland -- in their case, Brooklyn.
   
The hipsters are already complaining about mothers pushing strollers in grocery stores and how their Lower East Side friends refuse to visit. As to the former, I remind them that this a family neighborhood, which means there are families. And as for the latter -- thank God. I don't want my pleasantly dull neighborhood being overrun by people in Warby Parker glasses, skinny jeans and porkpie hats while smoking Lucky Strikes and arguing over the merits of Infinite Jest vis-à-vis It's Kind of a Funny Story. 

These are the people who wait six hours in line to see the latest Wes Anderson release, gladly drop 40 bucks for high-grade vinyl LCD Soundsystem albums and secretly want to either date or be Zooey Deschanel. Guess what, kids -- we get studio releases up our way, our last record store closed about 15 years ago and Zooey Deschanel only plays a hipster on TV.

No. And don't call me "neighbor."

Then there's their ironic taste in beer. For a while, Pabst Blue Ribbon was all the rage. But recently, Narragansett has been giving it a run for its money. As a native Rhode Islander, I can assure you that Narragansett (or 'Gansett, as the locals called it) was what you bought when you couldn't afford panther piss like Schaefer. 

I never even tried it until last summer when I was given a sample at a bar. It can best be described watered-down water, possessing the kick of a one-legged mule with polio. If Narragansett Beer was a color, it would be "clear." If it was a movie, it would have been declared missing by the American Film Institute. A bottle of Sam Adams would probably put these people in a coma.

Me, February 1984: I was a hipster before it
was hip, goddammit! Note the tres belle drapes
and the unidentified junk in the corner.

Pioneers like me paved the way for these zooey-come-latelys with their Arcade Fire tattoos. I lived on 1742 1st Avenue (between 89th & 90th), apartment 5S, from 1983 to 1989, when anything above 86th was less safe than Kabul is today. (When I told my mother that recording artist Marshall Crenshaw lived around the corner, she asked, "Don't his records sell?") 

The day my roommate and I moved in, the New York Times ran a front page article about our next-door bodega which doubled a marijuana sales outlet. Welcome to the neighborhood! One morning I went down for some orange juice when the cashier nervously told me the place was closed. Thinking that he meant he was out of weed, I said, "No, this is all I want." The burly gentleman next to me in front of the counter made the situation a little more clear by pulling back his jacket to reveal a holstered gun. Those "freelance graphic artists" moving to my neighborhood would pee in their Pendeltons if caught in a similar situation. For me, it was just another day at the office.

My old block, February 1985. The businesses have
been replaced by, among other things, a winebar,
an organic food store and a Peruvian chicken
restaurant. The gas station on the far right
is now a high-rise with a Starbucks on the
ground floor.

As for entertainment, there were no post-modern burlesque shows or online memes to pass the time. All my roomie and I could do was sit on the fire escape on a summer's evening and watch the dealers, hookers and local lowlifes plying their trades. Like the kids who were stealing fruit from the bodega across the street. The woman who ran the place angrily chased them away. One of the junior thieves showed his displeasure by smashing her on the face with a long fluorescent light. 

That was almost as much fun as when my roommate spent a hot summer afternoon watching a mad dog, barking incessantly with foam dripping from his mouth, run around the block until it presumably either dropped dead or was shot by the police. I don't think the Wilco fans moving to my neighborhood would have known what to make of such a thing. 

By the way, the rent for our two-bedroom railroad apartment was roughly 800 bucks. Included were the junkies, criminals and winos who hung out in the vestibule, the hallways and the roof (which was littered with syringes). Now it's a steal at $2,395, presumably minus those colorful extras.

Anyone who knew me then would be stunned to learn
that this is the way my old kitchen looks now.

Now the only drama you encounter in my neighborhood is trying to find a space during the alternate-side-of-the-street parking days. My daughter can walk back from the subway at one in the morning and feel perfectly safe. This is the kind of thing hipsters find repulsive. 

But maybe what all this will mean is that some day in the near future, the real estate values here will skyrocket and we can sell our place at a jumbo profit. Then the only people who will be able to move here will be bankers, investors and other assorted yuppies. And echoing from 79th to 96th, across Lexington to York Avenues, will be the hipsters plaintive wail, "Why don't they stay on the Lower East Side where they belong?"

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To read the original New York Times article regarding the bodega-cum-drug store where I lived, click here.

And just to prove that anyone is willing to do anything to make a buck, here's an old Narragansett Beer commercial featuring the voices of Mike Nichols & Elaine May:

 

TIME ON MY SHOULDERS

I think it was caused by
reading the Daily Mail.

Britain's Daily Mail isn't the first new site of choice if you're looking for, well, news. For every legitimate piece of journalism, there are about 50, er, questionable items, often involving the supernatural, weird science and celebrity gossip rejected by the National Enquirer.  Yet once in awhile there comes an article so fascinating that it demands to be read, if not respected. It's almost legally impossible to pass by a headline reading: Could we condemn criminals to suffer for hundreds of years? Biotechnology could let us extend convicts' lives 'indefinitely'.

The first warning sign of any headline is a the question mark. That's the Daily Mail's way of saying, "We're not saying it's true. Somebody's just saying it could be." They could write something like, say, "Was the Grand Canyon a landing strip for ancient aliens?" because some crackpot with internet access put up the theory on a website that happens to be 2,500 links away from the New York Times. (I just made up that headline, but someone's gonna make the claim sooner or later.) But the source the current Daily Mail question-of-the-week is impeccable: 

Sentencing a criminal to 1,000 years in an artificial hell may one day become a reality. At least, that is the claim of scientists at Oxford University who have been exploring controversial technologies that could extend human life.

They say billions are being invested in techniques that could mean the cruellest criminals will be kept alive indefinitely in condition befitting the crime.

Oxford, you say? The institution that gave us smartypants like Stephen Hawking and telescope guy Edwin Hubble? That's good enough for me, even if other grads do include Hugh Grant, Bobby Jindal and Richard Curtis, the screenwriter of Bridget Jones' Dairy, one of the most insufferable movies I've ever sat through.

Now living 1,000 years might not be your idea of fun, although Clint Eastwood seems to be doing OK. But how about experiencing it artificially? Scientist Rebecca Roache, believing some crimes are so heinous that 30 years in the pen isn't enough, says that a psychoactive drug could be developed that would make a prisoner feel he's served 1,000 years in only eight and a half hours. The same effect could be also be created, she says, by uploading the prisoner's mind into computer and running it a million times faster than normal.

The future official song of
Sing-Sing.

Don't ask me how you upload someone's mind to a computer. I have enough trouble attaching pictures to emails. However,  how does releasing murderers from prison after eight-and-a-half hours serve society? If you really really really wanted to punish someone, wouldn't you keep locked up for life with this super-duper Windows system and make it seem like they've been there a kabillion years? (That's not the exact number, but I just spent 20 minutes trying to figure it out on my laptop calculator and gave up in tears.)

Ethics aside -- and isn't that always the case? -- there are far easier, less expensive ways to feel like you've lived 1,000 years. Off the top of my head, I can suggest listening to John Kerry talk about Crimea or waiting for my teenaged daughter to get out of the shower. (That last one might be cheating, however, since I think it really does take her eight-and-a-half hours.) I have no problem giving heinous criminals what-for, so if making them feel like they've lived ten centuries is possible, I can't say I have any objections.

But once those Oxford geniuses have created their anti-wonder pill, would it be asking too much to spend billions on improving the lives of the rest of us?

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GET ALONG, LITTLE BOSSY

Get the bonfire ready!

Until yesterday, I had no idea that the word "bossy" was so foul that there was currently a movement out to ban its use. In fact, I don't think I've heard anyone use the word in about 40 years.

According to Facebook COO Sheryl Sandberg, "When a little boy asserts himself, he's called a 'leader'. Yet when a little girl does the same, she risks being branded 'bossy'." While she has a point, there's an irony in Ms. Sandberg -- a best-selling author -- encouraging the banning of words.

Ms. Sandberg's movement didn't really take off until this week, when Beyonce jumped aboard the "Ban Bossy" train. The words "strong" and "self-confident" are often used to describe Beyonce; "bossy," on the other hand, would be considered by her friends as completely out of line.

However, there are other words associated with Beyonce that could be banned.  "Singer," for one, since she's an unabashed lip-syncher, whether it's at President Obama's inaugural, the Grammy Awards or full-blown concerts. (This video is an excellent place to start, even if the person who posted it blames Beyonce's unborn child.) "Composer" is another word that Beyonce might want to reconsider, as this piece relates. And while we're at it, the New York Times believes "Choreographer" might be stretching things, too, as you can see here. But bossy? Never!

I'm not a believer in banning words because you never know where it's going to end. First they came for "bossy" and I said nothing. Then they came for "moron" and I said nothing. Finally they came for "wiseass," and there's was no one left to speak for me.

Now banning certain phrases from the news -- that's different. Since the Russian invasion of Crimea, "saber-rattling" has been getting way too much airplay. I don't think sabers have been rattled since the Franco-Prussian War. And unless you're doing a piece about plastic surgery, can we please put a stop to lazy reporters intoning "eyebrows were raised"? Not only is it a cliche, it sounds like the eyebrows were raised by somebody else, maybe with fishhooks. 

I'd have changed my name, too, if I had
written the most boring novel in
history.

Too, let's give parents a little leeway in choosing what words their kids are exposed to. My wife and I, for instance, have allowed our daughter to read countless words that have been banned by libraries and schools across America, like The Great Gatsby, The Catcher in the Rye, 1984, The Lord of the Flies, To Kill a Mockingbird and, currently, A Clockwork Orange.

Our kid has turned out OK -- strong, smart, confident. In high school, I was forced to read Silas Marner, Siddhartha and something or other by Jane Austen. Look how I turned out.

No, instead of "Ban Bossy," why not "Encourage Strength"? It isn't as punchy -- certainly nowhere near as alliterative -- but it puts a positive spin on the idea without censorship.

Anyway, there are worse things to be called than "bossy." I bet $100 that, in private moments, Ms. Sandberg and all the women on her "Ban Bossy" team have used the word "bitch" to describe women who are equally competitive. You know, the same way powerful men refer to each other "assholes." Frankly, I'd rather be called "bossy."

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CABLE NETWORK OF THE DAMNED

Over the weekend, TCM ran Village of the Damned, a classic, black & white British thriller starring George Sanders. It tells the story of the little village of Midwich where, one day, all its living creatures suddenly drop unconscious for several hours. Two months later, every  Midwich woman of childbearing age, including virgins, are suddenly pregnant. Eventually, all give birth simultaneously to children who soon prove themselves to be super-intelligent telepaths, possessing glowing eyes that control the villagers' minds. It's never made quite clear how these children were created, but their true parentage is definitely not of this world.

It's a fine, creepy movie, all the better for its get-in-and-get-out 78-minute running time. But it was only later that evening, while pondering the deeper meaning of the story, I suddenly got a chill down my spine. One of these kids is among us today, using the same despicable powers. And his name is... Ronan Farrow!

It's all there for anyone to discover. The blonde hair and pale skin. The all-too perfect human facial features. The flat, emotionless voice. The inhuman gaze. No, friends, this so-called Ronan Farrow (and, remember, that isn't even his real name) is not of this earth. Probably not even of this galaxy. 

I'm mad, you say? Then consider this:

• At age 11, Ronan Farrow enters Bard College at Simon's Rock. That means he skipped seven grades.
• Upon graduation, he enters Yale Law and becomes a speechwriter for diplomat Richard Holbrooke. At 15. Just an ordinary human, hunh? Whatever you say, boss.
• Farrow becomes a Rhodes scholar at 23. Most 23 year-olds can't even spell "scholar."
• Twenty minutes after meeting him, MSNBC president Phil Griffin, offers Farrow -- a television neophyte -- a daily one-hour news program. Two days after the debut of said program, Farrow is presented the Cronkite Award for Exploration and Journalism. You really think there isn't any mind control going on here?
• Nobody knows who his father really is.
• Those eyes. Those eyes! Make it stop!
  

 

Like the tongue-twisting tagline on the poster says, BEWARE THE STARE THAT WILL PARALYZE THE WILL OF THE WORLD. One day, we were going about our business -- making ham sandwiches, Swiffering the floor, avoiding phone calls from relatives. Then suddenly we fell asleep and awoke to find ourselves looking at this Ronan Farrow creature in every newspaper and webpage in the world. Everybody started talking about him -- even though the day before we couldn't have picked him out of a police line-up. Unlike the guy on the left.

You'd think Ronan Farrow would be ashamed of such nakedly ambitious ladder-climbing. But as David -- the leader of the Village of the Damned children -- explains to George Sanders, the only thing that stops regular earthlings from becoming super-beings is their emotions. In other words, Ronan Farrow doesn't care what he does to anybody! Beware the stare that will paralyze the will of your television remote.

And yet there is hope for us. Learning that these terrifying kids can read the thoughts in the villagers' frontal lobes, George Sanders thinks of a brick wall as he readies their destruction... just as MSNBC boss Phil Griffin seems to believe that anybody immune to Master Farrow's ability to lodge himself in their brains must be a blockhead. 

That's the answer to this frightening turn of events. Whenever you come across Ronan Farrow on your TV, think of a brick wall. Or concrete slab, steel door, cement sidewalk. Five sheets of acrylic might even do the trick. But even if Farrow disappears from the airwaves tomorrow, be warned: there are more waiting to take his place. And they're the answer to Jeff Zucker's prayers.

This... is CNN.

                                               

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