Sunday Errata 12/10: the week that wasn’t
And what a mind-numbing week it was, spent holed-up in civil court. We’re due back on Monday to render a verdict, but I can say this much now: when you find yourself pacing the narrow confines of the gas chamber — yes, you, Rollo Tomasi — wondering just who did you in? It was me — Juror #3. That’s right, you murdering bastard! I hope you die like a fucking animal!
(No, just kidding — the case regards a fairly minor medical dispute, and New York state doesn’t even practice the death penalty. But I have learned that being “almost septic” is akin to being “almost pregnant.” Riveting stuff, I tell you. Almost riveting.)
While forced to endure the trial’s daily starts and stops, I had plenty of time to read, and the following bullet points represent some stories in the news that I might’ve spent more time discussing, had I the time. Who knows? If this post gets any kind of response, maybe I’ll make a week’s worth of errata a fairly regular occurrence.
• Iran to host Holocaust symposium
Seriously — how could I possibly, in a million years, make this up? I don’t know if it’s getting much mention (I read a relatively brief article in the Times), but the president of Iran, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, is hosting an international symposium on — I shit you not — whether or not the Holocaust actually transpired.
Yes, that Holocaust.
Because, really, there’s any dispute among the great, anti-Semitic minds of our century? It’s illegal in Europe to dispute the Holocaust’s veracity (which raises some interesting questions about free speech, though I doubt anyone’s going to swallow that hook), so Ahmadinejad is mum on whom he’s invited, lest their respective countries deny them entry. Sadly, I didn’t make the list; probably because I wrote that open letter to Ahmadinejad in Hamshahri, Tehran’s most widely circulated newspaper, calling him a boob.
• Senate bill to anesthetize an aborted fetus
Again, I could make this up?
The bill failed — I mean, it was demonstrably voted down — but it proposed that doctors should inform women that a fetus can feel pain, and to further encourage them to anesthetize the unwanted clump of cells. Just disgusting; Republicans pandering to their base before the locks got changed. Might I suggest that those who voted in favor of the bill — and, thus, lost — forego anesthesia during any necessary surgical procedure until the next election cycle? Seems fair: you bet on the wrong pony, you eat pony meat.
• Husband and father dies of hypothermia in Oregon
Everyone’s heard this story by now, and I’m not quick to make jokes. Actually, it broke my heart: while trying to find help for his family — stuck in the snow, out in the middle of nowhere, at night — he managed to walk seven miles before finally succumbing to hypothermia. Seven miles. That’s a dad.
On CNN this morning, some fucking retard reporter was filmed wandering around the woods, trying to recreate the experience. After stating that a person can survive three hours in the cold before the body starts shutting-down, he lasted an hour before retreating to his Acura. I was really hoping his keys would be locked inside. And the crew would leave him there. And then, you know, he could expound some more on what it felt like to be cold and alone. Asshole.
• Andy Pettitte returns to the Yankees
Hooray! Now if we could only get Clemens back. And lure O’Neill, Brosius, Martinez, Cone, and the rest of that graduating class out of retirement — then we’d have a real shot at winning in 1998!
No, I’m pleased; when Pettitte was run out of New York in 2003, I was just one of many sad fans. (His contract negotiations that year consisted of Pettitte saying, “Name a price,” and Steinbrenner replying, “You’ll cost too much.” “Well — name a price.” “Nope, even that would cost too much.”) Sure, he’s not the pitcher he was back then, but it’ll be nice to see him retire in pinstripes.
Also, inexplicably, Lis has had a crush on Andy since her college days. I couldn’t guess what she finds attractive about that Bible-thumping hillbilly — and it certainly hasn’t inspired any concurrent love for my Bronx Bombers — but there’s no accounting for taste. Back in high school, I dated a girl who had a huge crush on former Knick, John Starks. Couldn’t get enough of that lisping stock boy (who cost us Game 6 of the 1994 championship, lest anyone forget). No accounting for taste.
And finally …
• Don’t ever write a novella
My advice to any young writers out there, free of charge. Sure, it’s a great form — sure, you dispense of needless subplot, and follow in the tradition of countless, hallowed authors. And, hell, the designation “novella” is pretty much arbitrary, since word-count is entirely lost on a reader, after you account for font size and the width of the margins. But good luck trying to sell a publisher; you’d have a better chance convincing a priest to do a keg-stand.
Okay, folks — I finish jury doody on Monday, then back to the normal routine on Tuesday. Since I haven’t been posting long enough — nor do I boast enough of a readership — for the concept of a “normal routine” to have any particular meaning, I’ll just leave you scratching your heads. But look for some upcoming improvements to the site in days to come …
(Hint: scratch-and-sniff.)
