Olbermann: Still Too Good For Prime Time

MSNBC's Keith Olbermann continues to have a beautiful capacity for withering outrage, and if there's one thing Mr. Irresponsible appreciates, in a strictly professional sort of way, it's withering outrage. Enjoy it while you can; "Countdown," the sharpest nightly news broadcast that doesn't star a professional comedian, represents a pronounced trough in the cable network's ratings, hammocking dangerously between the blustery Chris Matthews and the bewildering Rita Cosby. Here's Olbermann on a very bad day for the Bush White House, including the president's disastrously stiff Q&A with military personnel in Iraq. (One of whom, I could swear, was that "I Kiss You!" guy.) It was, Olbermann observed in stunned disbelief, "like watching the Jesse Ventura show."

Get Tazed, Pal

eBay has announced plans to block the sale and shipment of stun guns to customers in New York. With all due respect to eBay, and to New York attorney general Eliot Spitzer, who brokered the deal, this is exactly backwards. Mr. Irresponsible has been saying it for years: There is only one sensible policy for the distribution of stun guns in New York, and that is to give one to every man, woman and child in the state.

Consider the stun gun -- compact, non-lethal, supremely unpleasant. Now consider New York. Or, for the sake of this argument, let's just say New York City -- the world capital of finance, communications, and rudeness. My plan would do little to curb the excesses of the financial community or address the failings of the media. But when it comes to rudeness, which Mr. Irresponsible has studied the way some men study the sports page, the universal distribution of stun guns would be a downright panacea. Let's say you climb into the fetid back seat of a New York City taxi and the driver is blasting bouzouki music through a cheap boom box at just-barely-subsonic levels.  You ask him to turn it down, he ignores you, and you seethe straight through the short, miserable duration of your ride uptown. Now let's postulate that both you and the driver are armed with stun guns -- say, the $400 "Air Taser" described in this AP story, which can deliver a 50,000-volt wake-up call with the mere pull of a trigger. Spitzer alertly warns that "You wouldn't want these used in either illegal activities or horseplay," which is just the sort of joyless, schoolmarmy pronouncement you expect from someone who spends all day thinking about the law. And it's true, as far as it goes. But what about a situation like the one described above, in which you have a manners-based grievance and no real way to make it stick? Wouldn't it be convenient to be able to draw down on the offending driver in a safely non-fatal fashion? Wouldn't that at least get his attention? Under my plan the driver would himself be armed, which creates an instant equality and commonality of interests: Although he wants to be able to continue shredding the linings of his inner ears and you want merely to get to the dentist in relative peace, it is much more pressingly true that neither one of you wants to end up writhing in the gutter like a gaffed sea turtle. Thus equlibrated, the two of you have a mutual interest in compromise.  Perhaps the driver will modulate the volume. Perhaps you will learn to appreciate some of the subtleties of Mediterranean folk music.

Now imagine this little drama acted out across the length and breadth of New York City, from the farthest reaches of the Bronx down to the grassy slopes of Staten Island, from the winding streets of lower Manhattan all the way out to the distant precincts of Queens. That sound you hear is the gears of society groaning, it's humankind itself adjusting to the strange new notion that other people are affected by how loudly we play our music, how inconsiderately we bore our neighbors on the bus with our cell phone conversations, how assertively we shove and maneuver for space on a rainy sidewalk. And if somebody accidentally ends up on the receiving end of an incapacitating jolt of electricity, isn't that a small price for us to pay to reclaim the livability of the most magnificent city on earth? It's a glorious prospect -- Stun guns for all, and for all, a mannerly new future!

(Oh, by the way: When I say "us" I don't literally mean to include myself. I moved out of that hellhole years ago.)

Ladies and Gentlemen, The Trees Have Officially Died

A little housekeeping, if I may...

Some of you have been kind enough to pre-order "Mr. Irresponsible's Bad Advice," and impatient enough to ask me where the hell it's been. There's one neighbor I've actually had to start avoiding when I'm out walking my Wolfhounds Hans and Betty, because he's started to get this look in his eye that suggests the whole listing-on-Amazon thing has been an elaborate scam to separate him from $10.36. This is absurd, of course, because $10.36 is a ludicrously small amount for even the most inept bunco artist to try to score from a mark. I mean, come on, $10.36... ? What's that, a couple of lattes and a New York Times? Holy cow, what a bargain this book is, anyway!

Oh, right. The point: Pre-orders should begin shipping from Amazon and other online booksellers next week. If bricks and mortar are your thing, please check your neighborhood bookstore, where copies should be available starting about a week after that. And thanks for your gullibility patience.

Scrub In, Bubbles, We're Shorthanded

My doctors and I have an arrangement: They don't give people advice about manners, and I don't tell people to cut out sugar and fats. I get sued quite enough, and also I happen to be fond of sugar and fats, not to mention good bourbon and grain-fed beef. Occasionally, though, I hear something which makes me break my personal gag rule on all things medical. Like this: A study at an Italian children's hospital suggests that there may be a therapeutic role for clowns in the operating room during pediatric surgery.

Sure, a title like "The Effectiveness of Clown Intervention in Reducing Preoperative Anxiety in Children and Parents" promises a light, zippy read, and how can you resist the phrase "Clown Intervention"? And once again, for the record, Mr. Irresponsible is not a physician. But I don't believe you have to be a medical person to find this, as an informal survey of my own doctors did, "a terrible, terrible idea."  Why?

1. Clowns are terrifying.
2. Clowns' big inflatable shoes represent a tripping hazard in the close quarters of the OR. (The Reuters story on the study acknowledges this in passing, noting that the test clown apparently "annoyed doctors and nurses.")
3. Clowns are evil.
4. Clowns have a tendency to honk their noses at stressful times, the sound of which mimics the alarm raised by a flat-lining heart rate monitor.
5. Clowns are notorious attention hogs. I want my anesthesiologist watching my respiration, thank you, not looking on in fascination as a clown makes a quarter appear from out of my surgeon's nose.
6. Clowns are barely a step up from carnies. Operating rooms are filled with narcotics. Do the math.
7. Clowns are desperate for laughs. Once again, if it's me on the table I don't want some Korean War vet named Happy flop-sweating pancake makeup into my chest cavity, shouting "Dontcha get it?" and blowing a bicycle horn in my surgeon's ear.
8. Clowns are evil and terrifying.

I understand that the psychological benefit under study applies to kids, not adults. But let me go on the record here and now in case this thing gets some traction and spreads: If the last thing I see before I go under for prostate surgery is a mop of frizzy scarlet hair and red, crazily drawn-on lips, it better be Debra Messing.

Great Moments in Blame-Shifting

In case you missed it, let's use a card-playing analogy to describe former FEMA director Michael Brown's astonishing performance before Congress yesterday:

Say you're playing poker. Michael Brown is sitting across the felt from you. "I have a royal flush," you tell him in a loud, clear voice, and then you show him your cards to prove it. Without an instant's hesitation Brown, who is holding a deuce, a seven and a nine, all of different suits, and rounding out his hand with an old laundry ticket and a slice of bologna, pushes his one remaining chip to the center of the table. "I'm all in," he announces. "Now go f**k yourself."

Do you see what I'm saying? There's hubris, and then there's something so far beyond hubris that it could be called metahubris, or über-hubris (which is, in addition to being descriptive, a kick to say).  Summoned to Capitol Hill to "sit there like a block of wood and take whatever we feel like dishing up on your sorry, disgraced ass," as the Congressional summons put it, Brown chose instead to fight back. Unfortunately, his self-defense was mounted in more or less the same slipshod manner as FEMA's initial response to Katrina. Brown apparently didn't get the memo about operating under the high scrutiny afforded a presidential appointee, and so didn't seem to take into account the following matters of public record (helpfully provided by the American Progress Action Fund):

Brown to Congress: "Over the past few years [FEMA] has lost a lot of manpower."
Brown to CNN, September 2004: "... we have all the manpower and resources we need."

Brown to Congress: "FEMA doesn't evacuate communities."
Brown to CNN immediately post-Katrina: FEMA was conducting "rescue missions" and would "continue to evacuate all the hospitals."

Brown to Congress: He coordinated the evacuation of New Orleans by "urging the governor and the mayor to order the mandatory evacuation." Pressed by Rep. Chris Shays (R-CT) as to why he didn't do more, Brown snapped: "What would you like for me to do, Congressman?"
President Bush's disaster declaration, August 27:  FEMA was authorized to "identify, mobilize, and provide at its discretion, equipment and resources necessary to alleviate the impacts of the emergency."

So, you know... Oops.

Maybe it's expecting too much for a guy who field-promoted himself from "Assistant to the City Manager" to "Assistant City Manager," like Gareth in "The Office," to keep track of slippery little things like details. But Mr. Irresponsible is always on the lookout for lessons to be drawn in the quest for appropriate public behavior. So let's concentrate on the moral of Brown's historic hissy fit, which is this: It may be true that, as the adage goes, if you can't sing, you should sing loud. Just try not to do it in a room full of pitch pipes.

I Invite You To Bow Down Before Me

Say, here's a tip we can all use to make our dealings with retail establishments more satisfying and productive.  If you and a group of friends find yourselves in the vestibule of a high-priced boutique at, say, one minute to six in the evening, just as the underpaid employees are wearily preparing to close the store and return to their drab little apartments after spending eight hours on their feet catering to the whims of over-entitled crybabies such as yourself, and the employees take a moment to discuss the relative merits of allowing a large entourage to enter the store within seconds of its posted closing time -- make an international stink. Cry, bitch, moan and caterwaul. Use your nationally-syndicated talk show to rake the company over the coals. And just when the thing seems about to die down, "invite" the outfit's president onto said show to crawl sixteen feet across the brightly-lit studio floor and kiss the toes of your Jimmy Choo shoes. (Note: The "invitation" to beg for mercy in this fashion is analogous to the "invitation" convicted killers are extended to walk the Green Mile.) Remember to insist that it is you and you alone who is being singled out for unfair treatment. Use locutions that would be identified as insane in a person less famous, powerful and feared, like: "That's what was embarrassing... I know the difference between a store being closed and a store being closed to me." See? It's simple! And if all else fails, buy your audience's love with bread machines and baskets of soaps, for which the manufacturers have, in the great American tradition, received promotional consideration.

Irresponsible On The Road

Mr. Irresponsible's on the road this week, traveling the country, gathering fresh outrages for your consideration. Back next week.

Maybe Not So Much For You With The Talking

Admiring kudos to former First Lady Barbara Bush for pointing out one of the week's less well-covered verities: The people driven from their homes in New Orleans and sheltered in Texas are probably better off. It's simple economics: "So many of the people in the arena here, you know, were underprivileged anyway," Mrs. Bush told reporters on a walking tour of the Astrodome. "So this is working very well for them." (Hear it for yourself.)

Well, sure, as anybody who's seen TV this week can attest. It's just self-evident that the terrified displaced citizens of Louisiana would rather be living in a cavernous arena, eating MREs and longing desperately for homes to which they most likely can never return, than in the communities where they built lives, raised kids and put down roots... because they're poor, you see. I think anybody who's seen the video of people housed in the gaping, yawning emptiness of the Astrodome, their hollow eyes still registering the shock of what they saw as they ran for their lives, recognizes that it's a pretty sweet deal. I'm just glad somebody had the character to say it out loud, and the moral clarity to characterize the prospect that many of the displaced may stay in Texas as "scary."

In a totally unrelated story, Satan had his slavering minions prepare a chintz-covered four-poster bed and put some pretty little things around. "I can wait," he told reporters.

I'm Going Out For The Evening. Dart Me Like a Rhino, Please.

Mr. Irresponsible may not be as well-versed on recreational drugs as some folks; my favorite central nervous system depressant is still a stiff shot of decent Kentucky bourbon, although in a pinch even bad Kentucky bourbon is pretty good. So maybe I'm coming late to the news that club-goers in the UK are snarfing down Ketamine at an increasing rate. If the name "Ketamine" rings a bell, you may have spent some time tranquilizing large animals. (Perhaps professionally, perhaps just as a hobbyist... it's all the same to me. I make no judgments about what a person does with his spare time.) Yes, we're talking about that Ketamine -- a drug so strong it can literally knock out a horse. According to the International Veterinary Information Service, Ketamine is one of several drugs used "both for induction of anesthesia and during maintenance of anesthesia for procedures (e.g., laceration repair, castration, etc.) lasting up to 1 hour."

So let's put this in perspective, because Mr. Irresponsible is all about the perspective. You're a 23-year-old club kid in London and you're out for a night on the town. You're dancing and drinking and laughing it up with your mates, when all of a sudden it occurs to you that the thundering techno music and migraine-inducing lights and general air of apocalyptic dislocation there in the club leave you a wee bit... I don't know. Blasé, let's say. What to do, what to do... Hey, I know! Let's all take a drug that was used as a battlefield anesthetic in Vietnam, where they knew something about apocalyptic dislocation, and which is strong enough to RENDER A FULL-GROWN HORSE UNCONSCIOUS FOR UP TO ONE HOUR WHILE A GUY IN A SMOCK CUTS OFF HIS TESTICLES.

Just a question: How starved for sensation do you have to be before this seems like a good idea? Me, I'd rather hit myself in the head with a hammer and watch "Rita Cosby: Live and Direct," which has more or less the same effect. But that's just me.

Science For The People, By The People

If, like me, you've had it up to here with scientists and their starchy white lab coats and their insufferable know-it-all attitudes, you might be interested in a new scientific study which maintains that a majority of all scientific studies are hogwash. (Which may or may not mean that the study itself is all wet. You pays your grant money and you takes your chances.) From the invaluable New Scientist, the Web's number one site for pseudo-news about demi-science:

John Ioannidis, an epidemiologist at the University of Ioannina School of Medicine in Greece, says that small sample sizes, poor study design, researcher bias, and selective reporting and other problems combine to make most research findings false.

Putting aside the delightful sound of the guy's name (it's like a Michigan State researcher being called George Michiganstatesky), this really is excellent news. It allows lay readers what they've always needed: official sanction to ignore most of the inevitably conflicting research that gets put before them. Confused by a Tuesday study that maintains coffee extends life and a Thursday study that says caffeine is poison?  Flummoxed by two papers issued the same day on opposite sides of the world, one holding that obesity is a death sentence, the other claiming that humans may weigh up to six hundred pounds without sustaining any ill effects? Just pick the one you like! This plucks the review process out of the closeted ranks of researchers' so-called "peers" and places it squarely where it belongs -- with the average citizens who are science's ultimate victims or beneficiaries.  Why, it's downright democratic! And who knows: Freed from the strictures of peer review, science might even shift its attention to something useful, Like, say, turning dark meat into white meat. You gotta live the dream.