Monthly Archives: September 2010

Rat Fink, Rat Fink

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What a donkey.
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Last night when I got home from school, I was dead-dog tired. Had a slight headache, too, so I took some aspirin and sat down to check email and Facebook, and respond to yesterday’s blog comments (I hug you all). Since Facebook servers were barfing, I decided to fix some dead links that my Broken Link Checker plugin notified me about over the last week.
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I ended up revisiting some old posts (there were 18 broken links in the queue), some of which I don’t even remember writing. I wonder if real writers — people who actually get paid to write, like RtB fiend Ross — ever experience that amnesia. Anyway, I’d read a sentence and think, Did I really say that? Sheesh, what an ultramaroon. Some made me smile; others made me shake my head at what a snarky wonk I can be. I am a complete dork, but I’m having an awfully good time.
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So here, for your own head-shaking/scratching enjoyment (or boredom), I submit…
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The Wurst of Rat Fink

Spastic rant about Boston University (one of several, actually)
Yammering diatribe about Al Sharpton
Extolling Rousseau’s virtues (the dog’s, not the philosopher’s)
Things that make us nuts (lots of good responses)
Deranged tirade about the Hyatt (I really need to lay off the caffeine)
50 Trivial Things (nobody took the challenge, boo)
I totally called the Joaquin deal last year (and so did many of you)
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I looked at several more, but in the event you’ve made it this far, I don’t want to push it. It’s been a fun 873 posts, and I don’t see an end in sight right now. I hope you don’t, either. Happy Finkday.

RNF XLI

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Random Neuron Firings

For the forty-first time since February of 2008, I wonder about stuff. Between RNFs and the “Various & Sundry” category (27 posts there), I conclude that I think far too much about random things. Somewhere, someone’s done a study, the results of which indicate that random daydreaming prolongs life, removes bunions, reduces fever, replaces bone calcium, and reverses the effects of male pattern baldness.

Somewhere.

A few days ago, I was honored with a request from our guidance counselor to be a featured speaker on Career Day at the high school in December. I will address a group of 8th-10th graders who have expressed an interest in writing. First thing I will tell them: don’t wait until you’re 48 years old to start blogging every day to hone your skills.

The egg guy testified in court yesterday, assuring the panel that his company would make “sweeping biosecurity and food safety changes” following the massive recall. Nice, but does this include improving the living conditions for the poor hens? If not, I reject you. I declare you excommunicate and anathema.

We just might pull this show together in 43 days.

Do you have random thoughts to share? I covet them. Take a moment and let your fingers do the talking. I will respond with something equally bizarre.

It is now 6 a.m., and I haven’t showered or made my lunch yet. Do I care? Nope. But my boss might, so ….

Fink out.

Plus ça change

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The more things change…

So I’m sure you immediately thought of my May 2008 yammerings when you read about Jesse Jackson, Jr. and his latest alleged unpleasantness. Notice the title of the NPR article series: It’s All Politics. Ain’t that the truth? For the past 30 years, it’s the same thing: while the world around us changes, some things are bedrock — like the press deep-diving their body cavity probes and not stopping until the sharp ends come out the other side. It wasn’t always that way, but the scandalous pictures weren’t so high in demand back then. Discretion ruled the day, whether the subject loved women (or men) too much, or tipped tee many martoonis for lunch. It was largely viewed as immaterial to the politician’s performance. Or at least the reporters didn’t want to get the guy in trouble with his wife.

The recent stupidity surrounding the inane “don’t ask, don’t tell” law drives home the point that society in general is after the supreme dirt-dish — or that one’s sexual preference is A) anyone’s business, or B) a factor in his/her job performance. I must tell you that I tire of it. And all political parties, divisions of the media, and most individuals stand accused today.

I told my high school choir yesterday that I admitted to feeling a bit of schadenfreude after reading about Braylon Edwards’s DUI arrest. I was bitter about him quitting on the Browns, then badmouthing them to anyone who would listen. Did Cleveland need anymore shame heaped on? Guilty as charged — I locked step with the fingerpointing masses.

Speaking of Cleveland shame…I’m listening to Jimmy Dimora’s yammering at the moment. I wish people wouldn’t say “interpet.” Here — I’ll give you an extra “R.” No charge.

Yikes, this post, um, meandered a bit. I apologize. I’ve been up since 1:50 and I’m already jonesin’ for a lil nappy. Not happening today, unfortunately. But hey, it’s Wemsday — week’s half over! :-)

Review: Boardwalk Empire

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HBO’s much-anticipated replacement, of sorts, for The Sopranos premiered Sunday night, and the Thriller and I watched it. Interesting!

The story revolves around City Treasurer Enoch “Nucky” Thompson and his gang of Atlantic City thugs-in-training, beginning on the night before the 18th Amendment to the US Constitution took effect, banning the manufacture, sale and consumption of alcoholic beverages in America. (A blind fool could have seen what was going to happen afterwards. Have no idea what Congress was thinking.) And boy does it make for a juicy tale.

Seeing as how the series begins in 1920, the people we’d think of as powerful gangsters of yesteryear were in fact still just kids. One such flunky, making small-time deals and running errands for the big wise guys in hopes of getting in on some action was none other than a wide-eyed, 21-year-old Al Capone.

The series is based on a real person and real events. Enoch “Nucky” Johnson was a politician in Atlantic City at the time of Prohibition, and racketeered the gin joints, bordellos and casinos as a way to keep tourism coming to the city during the off-season months — as well as to get really, really, filthy rich. He personified what became known in political circles as “bossism.” He almost singlehandedly ran the city, and was treated like royalty.

In 2002, Nucky’s exploits were meticulously chronicled by judge and historian Nelson Johnson (no relation) in a book. A few years later, producer/director Martin Scorsese came calling, along with co-producer Mark Wahlberg. (Yes, that Mark Wahlberg.) They both thought the “story had legs,” so they procured the rights and started the journey.

The pilot episode was full of what Nucky said every man wanted: booze, women, and slot machines. Along for the ride, of course, comes intrigue, brutal violence and murder — and these were in no short supply in the premiere. The side characters are interesting as well, but the real star is erstwhile supporting actor Steve Buscemi (I loved him in The Big Lebowski, Con Air and Fargo), who plays Nucky with just the right combination of humor, geekiness, compassion and cruelty. It’s a good mix.

Boardwalk Empire airs on Sunday nights at 9, replacing True Blood, which is now on hiatus. It would be cool if they could continue swapping seasons.

Even though it’s not a movie, per se, I will cheese it. On the Rat-O-Meter scale of five cheeses, I give Boardwalk Empire:

Image credits: Home Box Office Inc.; The Heston Collection, Atlantic City Public Library