It's Always Friday

I Am Fucked No More

2012-02-04T14:21:00.000-08:00

A little FRIDAY REWIND.

A reissue of my final column for a soon-to-be deceased internet venue. Please follow the link to the beautiful, new Expats Post, the new home of Friday On Friday, and a whole lineup of talented writers.

For now, here is "I Am Fucked No More".

Epiphany in my time of greatest need

that the shit on which I feed no longer satisfies my empty beggars gut

as it once did

I am whole within myself

and no sorry-ass opinion of my well-chronicled condition

matters now or in the future

as it once did

like before

I’m telling all

from now on

broken gone

I am fucked no more.

Guarantee of time is a cruel lie

a hate crime against the stupid and the desperate

against me

against yourself

There is now and there is now

yesterday is dead

tomorrow deader

move or be consumed

buried and exhumed and killed again

like before

I’m holding nothing back

from now on

broken gone

I am fucked no more.

To see my end as a beginning

like the blind see darkness clearer in the gray

never once did

till today

No peace no tears no closure

no release from guilt or shame

only what is built on bones that stand

and do not crumble

like before

I’m letting go

from now on

broken gone

I am fucked no more.

Story done and over but unfinished

most or more than that

left unsaid

as it should be

till accounts are closed

till I’m dead

Till then unsatisfied

my fulfillment never closer

never clearer

one day said

Victory won

from now on

broken gone

I am fucked no more.

Out of a Crowd

2012-02-01T12:58:00.000-08:00

I wouldn’t choose you today if I had to.

Out of a crowd, or all alone.

this makes me want to die

Maybe only to save you from some something.

Not for the old, not for the new if I had to.

this teaches me to lie

It’s sad and it’s true.

Good for a chronicle or two.

but only to get by

Because there’s not much else to do.

no more asking why

With you.

Amicus

2012-01-21T14:07:00.000-08:00

I have seen the way I see you, forever.

In the now and then, the same

Never worse, only better,

In honesty, not shame…

I have seen the way I see you, forever.

Not your lover, not your brother, in name.

Without end, or beginning,

Only right now today…

As I see you.

You should see the way I see you, forever.

In the shadow and the light, unchanged

Nothing will come between you and me,

Only the truth on display...

You should see the way I see you, forever.

In the mirror, and my eyes, the same

You will know in your heart

What I know in mine...

Like I see you.

Will you see the way I see you, forever?

Not my only, just my best friend, to stay

Never knowing if you’ll know

I’ll remain, as I feel…

Will you see the way I see you, forever?

At the end of your doubt and disdain

Receiving unending acceptance

No other manner, just in this way...

I now see you.

I will love the way I love you, forever.

With nothing to lose or gain

Lacking in understanding

Or capacity to explain…

I will love the way I love you, forever.

Till the end of my life to say

Dearest friend you are true

For the rest of my days…

As I see you.

Article originally appeared in Expats Post.

SOPA (and PIPA)

2012-01-18T12:17:00.000-08:00

Coffee Mandatory

2011-12-25T12:02:00.000-08:00

A small example of the stuff that was Friday On Friday (old school). Originally published on a website that shall not be named, here are a few thoughts on coffee, writing, and (if you have a dirty mind) sex. Follow the link buried in the headline to find the coolest new writer's site on the interwebz...

The Screenplay Diary: "Between Love and Orgasms"... How to Write a Movie in 21 Days

2011-12-15T22:17:00.000-08:00

“The you who started the script is different from the you who finishes it.”

Viki King

While I’m not in favor of gimmicks, I am in favor of the idea of freeing my mind from the things that slow me down in the creative process... like thinking. If I’ve already done my thinking... and on this story, I have... then maybe just letting go, like author Ray Bradbury often suggested, so the characters can do the talking, is the exact, right thing to do.

So when I found screen story writer Vicki King’s book, “How to Write a Movie in 21 Days: The Inner Movie Method”, in a stack of um... lightly read... paperbacks, I decided to give it another look. The essence of the author’s instruction is simple.

Don’t over think.

And since I’m still closer to the beginning of this (Lord, I hate the word) journey, I figured it wasn’t too late for a little light, and often profound, reading along the way.

One of the recurring themes in the story of “Between Love and Orgasms” is that of perception of everyday racism. Not the kind that you see in the black and white photography of the early 1960’s; of white-hooded men marching in parades, or of water cannons fired into crowds of the civilly disobedient. Rather, the misconception of what is, and what is not racially motivated. Having said that, I will do what will be a regular part of these entries, a portion of the script in progress. This is an exchange between a Filipino named Buddy, and his white, racially-sensitive co-worker, Robbie.

ROBBIE

That’s fucking racist.

BUDDY

You get used to it.

ROBBIE

You do?

BUDDY

We are all Asians.

ROBBIE

I’m not.

BUDDY

Sure you are. You are Cauc-Asian.

ROBBIE

Fuck.

Till next time.

Copyright © 2011 Bill Friday

The Screenplay Diary: "Between Love and Orgasms"

2011-12-01T14:38:00.000-08:00

This is a new feature, and for me, a new project.

After a very intense creative period this past spring and summer, writing a regular weekly column on a website I had written for since January of 2007... and having left that long-term situation rather suddenly... I found my writing, and my blog, absolutely dead in the water. My greatest creative outlet had dwindled to participating in comment threads on Facebook, and starting and stopping maybe three dozen failed "somethings" of a page or less... in a lot of cases much less... in a folder on my laptop.

One idea would come, and another would crowd it out just as fast, and nothing worth posting or publishing. And sometimes, the best thing that can happen to a writer is writer's block.

So here I am.

About a year back, I had an idea for a screen story. One that, after kicking the main ideas around with a few friends, seemed to get the most positive feedback... and the sternest warnings that there could be a genuine shit storm of unrest caused by the story's implications regarding the nature of love... and other things (after all, you did see the working title at the top of this page... right?). Oh, and it had to be funny. Yeah, good luck with that. Then the real bright idea that came along with wanting to revisit this project... the idea that, since I only seem to thrive under pressure... and nothing says pressure like telling people what you're writing while you're writing it.

So here I am... with you.

I have no idea how often I'll post these Screenplay Diary updates, anymore than I have any idea if I'll even finish this screen story. But one thing I do know is that, at the end of every update, I will leave you with a portion of the script as I've written it. And since you know the one of the implications of the story, the first quote I'm leaving you with should make sense. I don't know who is going to be saying it yet, or to whom, or even when in the story... but it will be there. Here you go,

"...and there's even going to come a day when I won't be able to be friends with *you* anymore. Because one day, I'm going to wake up, knowing that I'm in love with you. And everything, from that moment on, will be ruined. Because of me."

Wish me luck, and see you next time.

Copyright © 2011 Bill Friday

The Claw Crane

2011-11-24T11:53:00.000-08:00

A guest post on It's Always Friday from the writer/poet who goes by the name Taking Off The Mask. All copyrights belong to the author.

The Devil slid a dollar into the claw crane, giving you permission to capture your prey. I felt your ‘hand’ hug me, while it lifted me towards you, ever so gently rescuing me from the pile of strange faces, identified as my family. Instantly your hand tightened its grip around me. I felt the cold metal of your fingers squeeze my body. My eyes caught a glimpse at what I thought was your hand but discovered it was a claw that held me. As if being woken by a dream, reality hit me slowly. I was not being rescued but rather captured.

When our lives intertwined I was approaching my 20th birthday. You would constantly declare me an adult, yet we both knew I was nothing more than a child, trapped in an aging body. Time had been cruel to me, leaving me young and broken. My heart and intellectual innocence was that of a fifteen year old. I knew the cruelty of the world, yet I trusted strangers as some do friends. You knew my weaknesses and my needs instantly, so you built (a false sense of) stability for me and announced yourself my savior. I trusted every word you spoke for you stamped it with the reassurance of white hair and experience. I was brainwashed with your plans of my future, you always made yourself the number one factor in it. I had misinterpreted the manipulation and declared it as love, and consequently allowed myself to be misguided by it. I began to drown and confused it with elevation. You had me contemplating leaving my current life behind and moving in with you, as your wife. You always made sly comments about your wealth and how I would inherit it when you draw your last breath. You would tempt me with the promise of traveling the world and visiting all the places that I marked on the map with my red ballpoint pen. You reassured me that with you around I would always be safe and no harm would find me. I assumed I had hit the jackpot and was the luckiest girl in the world. How spoiled I felt with all the (empty) promises whirling around my head.

As your claw carried me towards the slot, (only a matter of time until I would be dropped into your confinement and forever be your trophy of victory) God loosened your misused strength, allowing me to escape. I jumped out of your claw and into the hands of God himself.

BlogCatalog Owners Silencing Writers With Threats Of Lawsuits

2011-11-18T17:41:00.000-08:00

An article to be read and re-posted, written by former Broowaha writer Garry Crystal.

Click on the title at the top of this post to go to read the full article.

I Am Fucked No More

2011-10-31T11:18:00.000-07:00

Epiphany in my time of greatest need

that the shit on which I feed no longer satisfies my empty beggars gut

as it once did

I am whole within myself

and no sorry-ass opinion of my well-chronicled condition
matters now or in the future

as it once did

like before

I’m telling all

from now on

broken gone

I am fucked no more.

Guarantee of time is a cruel lie

a hate crime against the stupid and the desperate

against me

against yourself

There is now and there is now

yesterday is dead

tomorrow deader

move or be consumed

buried and exhumed and killed again

like before

I’m holding nothing back

from now on

broken gone

I am fucked no more.

To see my end as a beginning

like the blind see darkness clearer in the gray

never once did

till today

No peace no tears no closure

no release from guilt or shame

only what is built on bones that stand

and do not crumble

like before

I’m letting go

from now on

broken gone

I am fucked no more.

Story done and over but unfinished

most or more than that

left unsaid

as it should be

till accounts are closed

till I’m dead

Till then unsatisfied

my fulfillment never closer

never clearer

one day said

Victory won

from now on

broken gone

I am fucked no more.

Friday On Friday - "Friday Rewind"

2011-09-24T21:14:00.000-07:00

Celebrity Deathmatch... Viacom/MTV 2

Friday On Friday recounts the humble beginings of a historical Broowaha landmark (and a whole lot of inside jokes).

One last blast from Friday’s past, this one the recounting of the classic Broowaha Deathmatch competition of 2008. Follow the links to find the buried treasure of what all us old writers talk about from our rocking chairs on the front porch of the Broo Café.

Next week, part three of the series within a series, “Year Zero”.

Overcoming impossible odds, superior talent, and a roster of incomparable competition, Bill Friday takes the 2008 Broowawa Deathmatch crown.

(Gets handshake from Quentin Tarantino... A lingering hug from Jessica Biel)

"I'd like to thank the Academy... Katrina and Rob, my Starbucks' managers... the California Department of Unemployment..."

(CUE MUSIC)

"... If I forgot anyone... I... um... uh..."

(CUE PETER COYOTE)

(Holds trophy aloft)

"Thank you!"

AND COMMERCIAL IN THREE... TWO... ONE...

Wait... wait for it...

Right there. My dream moment. After three weeks of blood, sweat, toil and tears, the ultimate prize. Victory in the first-annual Broowaha Brackets Deathmatch. Short of winning Jim Rome's annual Smack-Off http://www.smackoff.net/, nothing can compare to the glory, the honor, the swag, that comes with winning the Broo in 2008.

As a student of history, I understand the significance of the underdog overcoming all odds to win the big one - Jimmy Chitwood's Hickory Huskers, Villanova over Georgetown, the Duchy of Grand Fenwick over the United States - all touching in their own special way. But nothing could have made this championship run any sweeter than defeating who I believe is the finest pure writer in all of Broowaha, the legend, El G., who summed up his experience in this competition with these now-famous words:

“The only thing that could make this moment better is my impending, well-earned bowel movement.”

And the only thing that could make this moment better for me is to share it with my friends. So, I would like to thank:

Glenn T, whose idea this Deathmatch was (wait, the idea for the Deathmatch was... mine. Sorry...). Oh, and our amazingly similar good taste in women, including the jaw-droppingly inspirational Connie Britton.
Joe Mael, who skillfully played both ends of friendship against the middle and bet the Bill Friday money line, raking in countless tens of dollars at the expense of his friendship with the G.
Ariel Vardi and Digidave Cohn, for allowing this competition to continue in spite of their better journalistic judgment. Guys, I tip Oscar Madison's cap to both of you.
El G, for not caving into the horrible pressures of this competition, never compromising your beliefs for the quick brown-nose, and always, always knowing in your writers' heart that when you win that Academy Award for Best Original Screenplay, you will justifiably, completely snub all Broo staff (or at best tell the watching world, "This is for all the Douche-bags...you know who you are!").

and finally,

and Jen and Tonic, friend, competitor, muse, the only woman I know who could ever use the words, "Donkey Punch", "Dutch Oven" or "Shocker" in a sentence, and still sound like a lady.

Now we can all get back to the serious business of running a first-class Citizen Newspaper. And I can repair all the damage to my own website after turning it into a Clipper blog for the past three weeks. It's PURPLE AND GOLD from here on in baby!

And to all the competitors who made the last year of Broowaha so special, Steven Lane, Ed Attanasio, V, D.E.C., Chris Jones, Morgana, D.L., and the rest of my 153 friends (you know who you are)...

See you next year.

(original content April 9, 2008)

Friday On Friday - "John Edwards: The Fool Waha Interview"

2011-09-16T15:25:00.000-07:00

The former Democratic Presidential candidate did not, under any circumstances, not even for a moment, sit down for this exclusive interview with BrooWaha's Bill Friday.

(The following is a reprint of an article published on August 11, 2008. A post-script follows at the end of the article)

John Edwards, so glad you could be here today.

For the moment, let me say thank you for having me here today. I am here right now, aren’t I?

Not as far as I know. First, let me tell you how much I’ve enjoyed the tour of your home. Just how many square feet is it?

28,200 on 102 acres.

Wow. I guess it’s true what they say about the size of a man’s carbon footprint.

It even has a 600 square foot guest bedroom over the guest garage.

You don’t say?

Yeah, well… lately I do.

Right, so… first question…

If you don’t mind Mr. Friday, before we begin, I’d like to read from a prepared statement if I may?

Well, I can’t say I was prepared for that but…

(Edwards clears his throat… whispers to Bill Friday)

Do I have time to fix my hair?

There are no cameras sir.

Hmm. Alright then. Here we go. It is inadequate to say to the people who believed in me that I am sorry, as it is inadequate to say to the people who love me that I am…

Senator?

…sorry. In the course of several campaigns, I started to believe that I was special and became increasingly egocentric and narcissistic…

Senator Edwards!

If you want to beat me up - feel free…

I’m thinking about it…

Mr. Friday, you cannot beat me up more than I have already beaten up myself.

Have you ever considered witness protection?

More and more every day.

Getting back to the questions… Mr. Edwards, in light of recent events… the allegations about this affair, your wife’s cancer… how do you respond to statements like this from your former campaign manager, David Bonior, who told the Associated Press that your supporters had, “been betrayed by [your] action[s].”

Mostly by ignoring them, Bill.

(laughs)

Seriously Bill, what I’ve found recently is that the best way to move forward is to never look back, because someone might be gaining on you.

Wasn’t that Satchel Paige?

Of course it was, of course it was! I’m glad you noticed that. Thank you, Bill.

Mr. Edwards, let’s get to the reason for this interview… on July 21st you were in Los Angeles for a press conference with L.A. Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa. At 2:40 the next morning, a reporter and staff photographer from the National Enquirer identified you coming out of a room at the Beverly Hills Hotel…

Aw c’mon now, Bill…

…who followed you into a restroom where, according to reports, you waited for fifteen minutes in one of the stalls until hotel security came and escorted you out of the hotel. What exactly were you doing in a public restroom for fifteen minutes?

I was on a conference call with Senator Larry Craig. It took a bit longer than I expected.

It seems as though you and the Mayor Villaraigosa have much in common. During your stay in L.A., did the Mayor have any words of advice for you in your time of personal disclosure?

He said, “Do your best to keep your mother-in-law away from the media.”

Mr. Edwards, you told ABC News that you personally never paid Rielle Hunter, yet Fred Baron, your former finance chairman, admitted on Friday that he made "regular payments" to Rielle Hunter, and that though unemployed, she lives in a $3 million home in Santa Barbara.

Like I have told everyone who will listen, I have never knowingly compensated this woman for anything, nor will I ever knowingly admit to such.

But you do admit to paying $114,000 to Ms. Hunter for her work on various campaign videos?

No, I do not! That’s just another Tabloid accusation, Bill. If Ms. Hunter was paid for services rendered to my campaign I will continue to maintain that I have no recollection of that until proven otherwise.

The question of a paternity test has been the subject of much speculation. Has a date been set yet for any such paternity test?

August, sometime between the 25th and the 28th.

During the Democratic National Convention?

I'm afraid so.

Is that a factor in why you’ll not be attending the convention?

That, and the Cabinet post I'll be receiving in exchange for my non-participation. The test is set for the Cayman Islands. Andrew Young and I had already made plans to be there at that time anyway… company time share, already booked. My people say if I don’t go, we’ll have to forfeit the deposit, you know. Anyway, I’m sure I’ll be able to make good use of the situation.

Staying on the subject of paternity, the birth certificate of the child…

Frances.

Right, um… Frances. The birth certificate lists no name for the father. Mr. Edwards, do you know who the father is?

Not yet.

Given the age of the child…

Frances.

Given the age of Frances, it would appear that you and Mr. Young were seeing Rielle Hunter at about the same time.

Bill, were you ever in a… fraternity?

But couldn’t you…

Mirthala Salinas was busy.

Senator…

Bill, please… call me “John.”

Alright then… John, doctors now say that your wife Elizabeth’s cancer is terminal - she is dying. Mr. Edwards…

John…

John… your wife is dying. What do you think her dying thought of you will be?

(silence).

Bill, may I finish reading from my prepared statement?

Sure.

“… I have been stripped bare and will now work with everything I have to help my family and others who need my help.”

(crumples paper)

John Edwards… thank you.

(Post-script: On December 7, 2010, Elizabeth Edwards died from the effects of cancer, at the age of 61. She was surrounded by her family and friends, but not her husband. On June 3, 2011, John Edwards was indicted on six Federal charges, including collecting illegal campaign contributions and conspiracy. Trial is set for early 2012. Rielle Hunter and daughter Frances currently reside in North Carolina. And as always, don't mess with the National Enquirer)

Look for more "Fool Waha Interviews" coming in the very near future with Friday On Friday.

Friday On Friday - "Friendly Friday"

2011-09-09T14:43:00.000-07:00

When by their silence, they scream... “Please, just leave me alone!!!”

A "through the looking-glass" reply to the article The White Paint Chronicles (#0002), "Friday Friendlies".

“And [Job’s comforters] sat with him on the ground seven days and seven nights, and no one spoke a word to him, for they saw that his suffering was very great.” (The Book of Job, Chapter 2, verse 13 - English Standard Version)

What do you do when someone you care about is in pain? When by their silence, they scream... “Please, just leave me alone!!!”

Without a word, they send a message so loud it knocks you down. It removes all reason. It makes you want to walk away, want to forget, want to remember the past without the present. But the present is where the pain is... and they don’t want to share, even if there’s plenty to go around. So instead of just sitting in the dirt, surrounded by fools like some post-modern Job, they hide themselves from fools, and the words of comforters. They hide themselves... from you.

What do you do when their pain becomes your pain? When in your silence, you scream... “Please, just let me in!!!”

Without a word, you send a message so loud it sits you down. It gives you a reason not to walk away, not to forget, needing to remember the past in the present. Because the past is really where the pain is, and you’ve been there, but they won’t let you share... because they are smarter than that. Smart enough to not give you the chance to speak, for fear that your words, no matter how wise, might just make the pain hurt worse. Because that’s what words... the stupid, best-intentioned words of comforters, most often do... they hurt.

But because of the past that they live in the present, they can’t hear, in your silence, that all you want to do is sit with them... in the dirt.

In the silence.

Friday On Friday - "Insanity"

2011-09-02T14:28:00.000-07:00

It’s gone... rooting and digging through the dust encrusted piles of pressed paper, like a shaking addict’s fingers through his own vomit, hoping to find one last undigested pill.

It’s lost... pretty, flowing words. A last living connection with dead memories, buried in the collapse of time.

It’s over... searching where there is no finding, again and again, repeating the insanity of what does not change.

It’s complete... unacceptable acceptance at the loss... of words, of control, of hope. Yesterday is gone. Today is over. Tomorrow never promised.

So I write.

Friday On Friday - "Year Zero... Part 2"

2011-08-26T16:38:00.000-07:00

It's the last Friday of the month... and with it, the second installment of "a feature within a feature".

A semi-personal reflection on the present...

Part 2 of a “feature within a feature”.

Time runs out

No matter how much of it you have, no matter how hard you try to give it structure and order and meaning, time runs out. However cluttered or empty your to do list, how early or late you start, eventually... time calls you a fucking idiot.

It’s not that time waits for no man, it’s that time mocks man. For the atheist, time is God... a deity without pleasing... taking from him everything until that day when either God or time, depending on your view, takes from you that last, most precious thing... the rest of your time. For the true believer, time is the Devil... the adversary of their souls... opposing every righteous plan until that day when time or God, depending on your view, takes from you that last, most precious thing... the rest of your time.

But in the end, the atheist and the true believer are left to lie down in the same dirt together, each ultimately sharing the other’s fate. Because in the end, and having been both... I know that they, whether they accept it or not... are both the same.

Looking forward

Who wants more than the man with nothing? Yeah, a real Zen riddle. Who wants more? Maybe it’s the man with everything.

The man with little tends to see only what’s in front of him... next meal, next beer, next crap. His desires are as simple as his needs... a place to live, food to eat, and the means with which to have them. It’s only when he has the options of choice that things complicate, and the clutter of his own mind begins to slow his ability to respond to the most rudimentary questions, like, “Do I wear the black shirt or the white?” and, "Do I have sausage or bacon with my toast and jam?” Screw the real questions that could be asked and answered with all the energy wasted on thoughts of Cheerios vs. Frosted Flakes, Chevron vs. Shell, or Twitter vs. Facebook. Life is graded pass/fail for no other reason than so few of its students could afford the tuition, so most of us just drop out with the hope to one day get our GED.

The man with everything, having everything to lose, can’t afford the one luxury of the one thing he cannot buy... the time for looking back. Because to maintain all that he has acquired, the man with everything can only move forward, always... like the shark he has become. To “…swim, and eat, and make little sharks” is the limit of his life. And the irony that attached itself to him like the remora on the shark’s back is that if he stops moving forward, like the shark, he will die.

Looking back

The man with nothing, changes. Not the nothing of living in a cardboard box and eating used burgers from a dumpster... but the nothing of a bled-out soul. As in a, “…the only way to find true happiness is to risk being completely cut open” kind of nothing. Unable to look forward, because you’re not yet done being emptied of the sludge that passes for blood in your veins... Unable to look back, because that part of your life is dead, and has begun to smell like three-day road kill in the breakdown lane of the I-5 between Bakersfield and Fresno.

And because of this, you wait… with your eyes fixed on the wounds that you pray will free you from the putrefaction of the only thing you can remember doing for so long, that you can know nothing else...

Looking back.

If past is prologue, then what the fuck is this?

Friday On Friday - "At A Loss For Words"

2011-08-12T15:03:00.000-07:00

“Where have you been all my life?”

I always wanted to ask you that question. For so long I was afraid... afraid of your reaction, afraid of your words, afraid if I asked you would just send me away... alone. Every word inside me wanting to blurt out at once without benefit of punctuation or breath... every thought, ill-formed and badly defined, needing expression, but lacking the capacity.

Because I am at a loss for words.

“Come closer, I need to see your face.”

I waited so long for this moment to arrive... the childish reasons, the stupid hesitation... now eyes grown dim with the passing of time. I knew your face once, when I was much younger... every lineless curve, not yet aged with the character of years, so full of promise... and I left you behind. And while I was distracted by every passing urgent need, you never forgot.

And now, I am at a loss for words.

“What was I even thinking?”

Going my way... playing at being a man, making decisions like a child... and questioning every one. Thinking didn't help... never could. What you could have shown me. Thinking what was distant and unseen would be better than what was right in front of me. More than youth is wasted on the young... sometimes it’s the wasted future, and the dreams, the fucking dreams... all dry to the touch and dusty with the years, and ready to blow away. Wishing that the past was now, and I had just followed my heart when it was all so temporarily clear,
and I was temporarily insane.

Would you forgive me if I am at a loss for words?

“Tell me it’s not too late.”

How often I would have asked that question, but you weren’t there because I sent you away. You said you understood, and I was glad at the time. The sooner I could be forgotten by you, the better it would be for me. I had unimportant things to do, and had to be about them and soon... because you had expectations and commitment is never for the young... until you’re old, and it’s too late. Reality called, and it wants my life back.

And it reminds me that I am at a loss for words.

“I was wrong.”

There, I said it. I want you back and I had to say it, finally, like you needed it... like I wanted you to know back when there was only us. But you moved on, and the words were gone.

And I am at a loss.

Friday On Friday - "Side Effects May Include..."

2011-08-05T12:21:00.000-07:00

Are you taking prescription medications? If you are, you may want to read this article as soon as possible. Your life may depend on it.

Bill Friday is on vacation. Please enjoy this blast from Friday past.

No one likes to feel stupid. That's probably why the furniture with the funny names from Ikea comes with assembly instructions in 47 different languages. Probably why, if you've ever stood in line at the pharmacy inside Kaiser-Permanente, you know that the most thoroughly explained part of your managed care experience is the two minutes you spent listening to the pharmacist tell you what to do - and not do - with your prescription. If Heath Ledger had spent two minutes with the pharmacist at Kaiser instead of several private physicians spread out over three continents, he might still be with us today.

As cautious drinkers know not to mix the grape with the grain, and post-Belushi nug smugglers know not to combine heroin and cocaine, so now every actor from Manhattan to Manhattan Beach knows OxyContin and Vicodin, Valium and Xanax, Restoril and Unisom don't mix.

And don't think you're safe just because you haven't formed the habit of mixing your meds. A whole slew of "safe when used as directed", FDA approved medications - target-marketed toward YOU - are being sold and sold and sold again through incredibly innovative radio and television ad campaigns. You've seen them. You've sung along to them.

Catchy, sure. But maybe also a little misleading.

What follow is a little "advertising between-the-lines". The things you won't hear when Side Effects May Include...

(cue music intro)
"We're not gonna take it... NO!, we ain't gonna take it!... We're not gonna take it... ANYMORE!"

(up-beat female announcer)

"Introducing YAZ, the first birth control pill marketed exclusively for the viewers of the mindless reality programs Jersey Shore and Keeping Up With The Kardassians. YAZ contains the same hormones as regular birth control pills, but with MORE of the exciting reality generation side effects than any other oral contraceptive.

"Use YAZ according to directions and you too may experience... symptoms of a MASSIVE HEART ATTACK... symptoms of FUGU POISONING... symptoms of a STROKE... symptoms of BOWEL and LIVER CANCER... and, of course, symptoms of CLINICAL DEPRESSION!

"Ask your doctor if sudden numbness or weakness, especially on one side of the body; sudden headache, confusion, pain behind the eyes, problems with vision, speech or balance is right for you. If stomach pain, chest pain spreading to the arm or shoulder, breast pain, loss of scalp hair, vaginal itching or discharge is right for you, then YAZ is right for you. Check it out for yourself at www.drugs.com/yaz.html or ask someone who's nearly died from it."

(cue music outro)

"We're not gonna take it... NO!, we ain't gonna take it!... We're not gonna..."

(celebrity voice impersonation of Michael Clarke Duncan)

"Men, you've tried match.com, craigslist, J-Date, even E-Harmony, but still haven't found... the woman of your dreams. With increased competition on Internet dating sites, and the growing Federal restrictions making on-line purchases of Rohypnol more and more difficult, we at the Flunitrazepam Advocacy Group believe it's time to take chemical romance in a whole new direction.

"Introducing... ROPINIROLE. Once used exclusively to treat the symptoms of Restless Leg Syndrome, ROPINIROLE is the only FDA approved medication proven to cause increased sexual urges in double-blind, clinical trials. Women taking ROPINIROLE have been shown to regularly engage in obsessive/compulsive high risk behaviors such as A PATHOLOGICAL URGE TO GAMBLE... INCREASED SEXUAL URGES... HYPERSEXUALITY... other UNUSUAL URGES AND BEHAVIORS.

"With more and more clinical evidence becoming available daily, we at the Flunitrazepam Advocacy Group believe that ROPINIROLE, when used as directed, has the potential to become the Roofie of the new millennium.

"If you want to know if ROPINIROLE is right for you or your partner, or if you would like information on how to become a distributor of ROPINIROLE in your area, log on to www.ropinirole.com to find out more.

"ROPINIROLE. Much more than medicine... it's a new way of life."

Finally, the mother of all Side Effects May Include... warnings, courtesy of NOZULLA.

(voice-over)

"At Gene Enterprises, we've harnessed the power of the human gene so you can say good-bye to your allergies forever with new NOZULLA. NOZULLA may cause the following symptoms:

"Itchy rashes... Full body hair loss... Projectile vomiting... Gigantic eyeball... The condition known as "hot dog fingers"... Children born with the head of a golden retriever... Seeing the dead... Bone liquefication... Possession by the Prince of Darkness... Tail growth... Elderly pregnancy...

Now enjoy the video one (okay, fifty) more time(s).

Friday On Friday - "Year Zero"

2011-07-29T13:12:00.000-07:00

It’s the last “Friday” of the month... and with it, a “feature within a feature”.

Past is Prologue.

He was gone the year before he left, packing a bag of necessary things that grew lighter as he waited... always wondering when and where he was to go. With each passing day, the clock in his head ticked louder, while in his mind, his feet seemed to grow heavy as his resolve seemed to grow light. The one thing he still knew for sure was that the day of his departure was imminent, and any and all plans that he made leading up to the accomplishment of it all were at best ill-conceived, and at worst utterly useless.

He understood now that the factors which contributed to his pending unexpected departure had been stripped of all meaning, much like the plans that went with them. That... and what had once been a well-reasoned sequence of solid grounds for action on his part, were now reduced to little more than feelings or sense-motivations, much like those of a mouse in a maze, seeking cheese. And his words, once one of his better friends, had lately failed him... and he found himself reduced to simply moving forward through his days on impulse or worse yet, mere repetition... like some badly acted, George Romero zombie.

Thoughts that once seemed most wise now held no wisdom at all. They were stupid, and long-winded, and reeked of the need to explain themselves, and lately he noticed that the passing of these thoughts was no longer measured in days or weeks, but with the death of former Presidents. Years were now decades, and the things that had made the most sense once, not only made no sense, but had lost all need to be discussed in the company of those whose futures were most dependent on the outcome of their consideration.

And he knew that it was all up to him...

Friday On Friday - "Broken Bone"

2011-07-22T14:24:00.000-07:00

I limp, slower than my liking… A broken bone healed wrong, in the shape of those who came before. No pain. Joints out of place... Poems that don’t rhyme for shit... fans on high and walls to hit. Prose covered in Prozac (I wish)... to calm myself and make sense of it.

Night goes... Credits roll and words don’t show, late for their own party... again. I kill the lights, climbing stairs in the dark... blank pages behind me. Day comes too soon... and another chance to make creative... with an excuse.

A ramble, a rant... random thoughts, out of order, plain... saying nothing much to no one in particular. Time and creativity measured in a ten-day beard. Numb, without pain. Nothing to give... every day the same as the last... and the next.

Nothing to give... taking made legitimate. Self isn’t selfish when it’s only you. Legs up, give it up... all for the process, all for me... irresponsibility. Leave it all behind, because there’s nothing left to take.

Where does it go? And where does it all come from?

Mine is gone.

Friday On Friday - "Carmageddon"

2011-07-15T21:57:00.000-07:00

Tonight, when mothers sing lullabies to babies and the children of a simpler time long for days gone by, not even a pale horse will ride the 405 over the Sepulveda Pass. Just as a prophecy foretold of a time when life as we knew it would cease, during a time that will be known as... Carmageddon.

According to the LA Weekly, this short stretch of road between the Santa Monica and Ventura freeways plays travel host to upwards of 281,000 vehicles a day. And, beginning with scheduled on-ramp closures at 7 pm, followed by off-ramp closures at 10, the heart of the busiest road in the United States will be ripped, still beating, from the chest of the West Coast’s largest city like faster than Mola Ram in the Temple of Doom.

On a wacky, coincidental note, for the Getty Museum, located right in the middle of the closure zone, and destination for 1.2 million visitors annually, July 15–17 is the busiest weekend of the year. Or at least it was... until Carmageddon.

And of course, with the freeway closure, comes the unavoidable ancillary surface street gridlock and alternate route spill-over to other freeways, expected to extend as far north and east and south as 30 miles.

But hey, this isn’t just a news article, it’s a celebration of the precursor to the next great moment on the apocalyptic calendar... 2012. It also serves as a reminder of other attempts by Hollywood (right in the heart of the newly drawn thirty-mile-zone that is Carmageddon) to scare the living crap out of the rest of the world with other lame attempts at the End of the World genre.

And as a member of the working Transportation community, I will be at work beginning precisely at the time that the first of the closures takes place. And for those of you who want to know exactly what is taking place at ground zero of Carmageddon, you can all follow my special Friday night tweets in real-time from LAX at twitter.com/FridayOnFriday. And who knows, as a public service, maybe my tweets will serve an even greater purpose than this article... at least it should.

So remember... this weekend, if you live in Los Angeles, and you’re reading this article before it’s too late, get your MREs and your Netflix Online and hunker in bunker till 5 o’clock Monday morning. Unless the city planners were wrong about all this, and the Sunset Blvd demolition takes a few months longer than previously thought.

In which case, “... a prophecy foretold of a time when life as we knew it would cease, during a time that will be known as... Carmageddon.”

[a special thank you to Broowaha columnist Shari Alyse for the idea of the video clip used in this article]

Friday On Friday - "Unlicensed... Poetic"

2011-07-08T12:17:00.000-07:00

The bloody awful poet is back.

LOVE overcomes the changes we make

The wrongs that we do

And the chances we take

The wind and the rain and the hearts that we break

In the silence... of our voices.

HATE underscores the hits that we take

The fights that we lose

And the faith we forsake

The grey rolling fog through the souls that we take

In the silence... of our choices.

HOPE overrides the lines that we fake

The people we use

And then leave in our wake

The good that we don’t and the bad that we do

In the silence...

Friday On Friday - "Toleration Day"

2011-07-01T11:37:00.000-07:00

“I’m a mess... a great big, contradictory pile of shit and bones. I don’t want to be loved. At best, I just want to be tolerated.”

Unnamed character in the unpublished story, “Day Sleeper”, by Bill Friday

Sarcasm: A sharp and often satirical or ironic utterance designed to cut or give pain. A mode of satirical wit depending for its effect on bitter, caustic, and often ironic language that is usually directed against an individual.

Free Merriam-Webster Dictionary

I’ve gotten a lot of feedback lately on my recent progress as a writer. All positive, which is funny, because when I began this literary adventure five years ago, a few glaring differences between the me that was... and the me that is today... are obvious. And while I could waste your time and mine on all the tiny details of why reading me today is better than reading me in 2007, the most apparent difference is summed up in this,

Now... I’m cool.

Ask anyone, “Who’s cool around here?” Chances are, your answer will be, “That Friday guy. He’s cool.” So now you’re probably wondering, “How can I be considered ‘cool like Friday’?” I’m glad you asked.

Never disagree with anyone in public. In my experience, backstabbing is the way to go. On this site over the last four-and-a-half years, I have received 170 anonymous “you suck” (one-star) ratings for my 101 articles. This alone uniquely qualifies me to comment on such matters.

Never write about anything that matters. Content that matters tends to polarize... and polarization leads to hatred by at least 50 percent of potential readers. Writing about things like “feelings” (which, by the way, also works great on a first date), not controversial or trending topics, will ensure that while your readership may be suffer diminished numbers, those few who do read you regularly will love you all the more because each reader will know that every word you write is written directly to them.

Don’t write too often. People will get tired of you and marginalize you, then sick of you and you altogether. I wrote 40 articles in 2007 and 39 in 2008. By 2009, I was down to 6, and my popularity grew more in my unexplained absence, proving the made-up right now by me adage, “Between prolific and witness protection... lies the legend.” And when the legend becomes fact, print the legend.

Make friends with the cool people. Cool people are just that, “cool”. And cool people tell other people who the cool people really are... they move the needle. Make friends with them, and you go from writer to trending topic. Say things on the comment board that the cool people agree with, even when you have nothing to say. Nothing says cool like saying nothing.

Just ask Joaquin Phoenix.

Make friends with the un-cool people. There are more un-cool people in this world than cool people, and unlike cool people, un-cool actually read. Reading headlines is for cool people... reading whole articles is a job for the un-cool. By dropping literary cookies into your articles that resonate with the un-cool masses (like references to LARPers Weekly or the G-4 Network), not only can you guarantee pageviews up front, but also when the un-cool use nerd tools like the keyword search box because you thought in advance to include hash tags like #baseball, or #scott boras, or #el g.

(regarding comments) Stay cryptic. Fans don’t want to be told what you mean, when they already know what you mean... because you were “speaking directly to them” (see Never write anything that matters, above). While being cryptic in the comment threads of others can get you accused of being an internet Troll, being cryptic in your own threads get’s you accused of being obfuscatively original.

Never, ever, tell the truth. Even if it’s really true. If other people suck, never tell them. If you suck, well… that’s just something to keep between yourself and yourself.

Always, always, remember where you came from. The past has a funny way of reminding us of two equal, yet opposite things. We really are worse than we think we are, and… we really are better than we think we are. No, you read that right. No one is as good, or as bad, as their press clippings… except maybe Carlos Mencia. To prove that bi-polar point, read this excerpt from January 9 ^th, 2007.

This just in: My popularity is 0. Zeeerohh! As if I needed proof. Thanks for the update. A clean slate by any other name, etc.

Oh well.

Guess it's better than entropy. Not "Entropy", the movie that almost killed the career of Phil Joanou, but "entropy", from which we get the nursery rhyme (for the sad children of rocket scientists), "We cannot win, we cannot tie, and in the end we're all gonna die".

(Warning! This is not a movie review, a SciTech article or a children's story. It's safe to keep reading - Ed.)

I know, this intro is probably going to keep my popularity at zeeerohh for the remaining years of my writing life which in this town is more like less than zero. Not "Less Than Zero", the movie that should have killed the career of Brad Pitt (really, Google it), but...

(Warning! Bill Friday has never been popular and therefore has never known when to shut up - Ed.)

The good news in all of this is that, if I've done the math right, I can never receive a rating that isn't at least a zeeerohh. A lot like the song, "Saved By Zero" by The Fixx that really did kill the careers of...

(Warning! Bill Friday will never write on the topics of physics, poetry, movies or music ever again - Ed.)

And there you have it people. Be tolerant of the newb you read today. You never know, one day, he may be really cool.

Friday On Friday - "Coffee Mandatory"

2011-06-24T02:22:00.000-07:00

Love is supposed to last a lifetime... until another comes along.

Just so you know, I never planned to fall in love.

It started out as nothing more than a relationship of convenience. Like sex for a green card, or the wash of a windshield for a couple of bucks at a stop light in Santa Monica. A fucking transaction. No emotion… no feelings. Just a need meeting another need. No romance, no flowers... just the glare of a naked bulb at sunrise, and the grunting of guilty pleasure heard on the other side of a thin kitchen wall.

After a while, like with any illegitimate relationship... and enough lying to yourself in the mirror... eventually you decide that maybe its okay to take next step... the public step. A coffee house. The thought was innocent enough in your head, “It’s just a cup of coffee. What could happen?”

Until you get there, and you wonder if this is how they feel in Amsterdam... ordering heroin... in a brothel.

At first, there’s that self-conscious thought that goes, "people don’t really do this in public... do they?” Followed by a second thought that you should just go finish your business in the restroom like the upstanding citizen your parents always thought you’d be. But you stay... you take your seat in the big room with all the other upstanding citizens... and you lose yourself to the overwhelming urge that brought you here in the first place. To take this private need to the next level. So you do. In front of God and everyone... if only God were watching.

I never planned to fall in love.

Years pass, and things go on like always. Public meetings, intimate rendezvous, long mornings after a bad night’s sleep. Every encounter making you sink deeper and deeper into what was such an innocent addiction. Days and nights became the same to you. Multiple jobs, endless hours... and only one thing remains the same. The need. The intense need, the unsatisfied need... the aching need.

Until another comes along.

As the glare of the naked bulb at sunrise still calls after you like a line out of a song by Mumford & Sons, the something new doesn’t call like a selfish bitch... it whispers softly in your ear, like the one that got away. It draws me to a softer place... a darker place, later and later in the night... after the glare of day, and all its distractions, goes away. And unlike the whorishly obvious coffee brothel, it is subtle and almost... caring. And the scars of years are replaced by tender strokes to a raw-rubbed ego. The only thing required in return was to think, and feel... and write. And whatever words came out were good... were accepted. I was accepted.

I never planned to fall in love. Not like this.

More years pass, and things change... drastically. The flutter and surge of my heart, gentle ego stroking, the sideways-smiles-turned-lustful... change. Flutters turn to questions. Surges to pain. The lying, sideways smiles, with their promise of fulfillment... turn to insistence. And whispers turn to ice at the harsh dawning of a new day, when I know it has become... the same.

I look up from the computer. I see the light of morning enter through the fog of early June. “When did this happen?” is all I can say, in a hushed voice, raw from not speaking. I turn my head the other way, toward the kitchen, to the glare of a naked bulb at sunrise...

...just so you know.

Friday On Friday - "Friday Turns 100"

2011-06-17T18:01:00.000-07:00

Words to live by.

I keep a notebook.

No, not a Mac Book, a notebook. The kind you write in. The paper kind. And a pen. I’ve been told I’m an old soul… fossil old.

And since I don’t even own an iPhone...

(choking gasp of horror over morning coffee)

Let me explain… no, there is too much… let me sum up.

Okay, whenever I get a random thought in my head... something that, for the merest moment of time, I like the sound of as it floats between my ears, I write it down. In the same notebook I use for work. Sideways, in the left-hand margin... so I won’t forget where I put it. Sometimes, these random thoughts end up in a story. Most times, they end up forgotten… tossed in a drawer, or worse yet (the horror…) under the bed (another column for another time). And sometimes, like bullets from a 9 mil in a drive-by, they get used all at once. And if you think you know me… and you will think you do, the longer you read me… then you know that these are (some) of my words to live by.

“I have no desire to be friends with my past.”

While, for many, the past can be looked back on fondly... first bike, first kiss, first car... for me, my past is looked back on for some other firsts… first stolen bike, first punch in the face, first death of a loved one. And while I would not trade any of the lessons learned from it, my past and I are not now, nor will we ever be, on good terms with each other. Every now and then, we pass each other on the street… and nod. And that’s enough. Because with every passing nod, another page in the notebook is filled.

“Talent doesn’t pay the bills, working does.”

Obviously not an original thought, but since when did a teacher like the past ever claim to be 100 percent original all the time? Still, this one is for the times (many) when the thought of sitting on my bony ass waiting for something better to come along became more than just a thought... and it took some kind of tragedy to shake me enough to start something, or stop something, that shoved a wrench into the gears of my creative machine. Hell, I hate working three jobs. But it beats starving. Yeah, and I’ll sleep when I’m published.

“Sometimes drunks tell the best version of the truth.”

So, after you finish reading this, have a few cold ones, read it again, and leave a comment… preferably on my blog, to reduce the chance of having me ask the publishers to take it down. When you do comment, please let me know exactly how many shots, pops, or rips you’ve had, so that I can rate your truthfulness by the volume of your consumption.

And remember, there are no wrong answers.

“Intimacy isn’t given… it’s earned.”

And people wonder why I don’t make many friends.

In a previous article, I covered the three kinds of “friendlies” every writer ought to know. This is the other side… the dark side… of that. For lack of a better term, they are, “the un-friendlies”. Part Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction, part Jim Carrey in The Cable Guy, “un-friendlies” are those Twitter followers or Facebook friends you wish you’d never clicked “okay” for. Sure you could block them, or just try to ignore them, but sooner or later they will always come back... with a bunny. As I enter into this phase of my writing life, I will try to remember to be polite to everyone, and always, always keep my head on a swivel… so it doesn’t end up somewhere else.

And finally...

“Handshakes are for people who can’t afford lawyers.”

This should be self-explanatory. It’s the California version of, “get it in writing”. California has always lead the way in defining how to put a price tag on friendship (community property, “palimony”), and on the number of lawyers per capita in the United States. I have one friend who is an attorney, and while I did not run number 5 by him before I submitted this column to the editor (something to do with “billable hours”… I really didn’t understand it all), I do know that he would have to agree with me on this one. Off the record.

Bonus thought...

I will conclude this first official effort by explaining that this article is my 100^thpublished article for Broowaha.com. In saying that, I want everyone who just made the effort to follow this one all the way to its conclusion to know that it is my wish that we all, as writers… as readers… get what we wish for ourselves in this creative venture comes true even wilder and better than we ever could have imagined. But be careful what you wish for, because...

“If wishes were Unicorns, they’d shit rainbows.”

The White Paint Chronicles (#0004)

2011-04-22T12:38:00.000-07:00

Full-Moon-Midnight

Midnight is the moment of both merger and separation, where two planes of existence come together, then depart, with all the passion and abandonment of two strangers in the bathroom of a 737 during a one-hour flight from L.A. to Vegas... when transparency and desperation reveal themselves to the few who stop to see it in the dark.

Midnight. The time when only bad shit happens to good people, and the motives of a man’s heart are most clearly revealed. The mystical time between times that most honest, hard-working, daytime folk never see... and most shady, lowlife, night-dwellers are too involved in their shufflings to notice. The time when the distance between worlds is at its least, and the visible and invisible almost touch.

And quiet voices from one side to the other are heard the clearest.

-------------

My last drop of the night. A drop just like any other, with just one little variation... time.

The time of night, and the time I would have to spend waiting in scratchy plastic chairs, worn smooth through the years by the fat bodies of truckers, squirming, for uncountable hours on end, waiting for their names to be called, and their cargo tendered. My job is ninety-nine percent High Priority parcels... fast in – faster out. But tonight, a cargo drop bound for Rio de Janeiro would force me to sit with the Low Priority crowd, in chairs... possibly all night. One drop, and the only thing separating me from a row of cold ones was the interest level of the lone clerk behind the counter. Now, after three hours and eleven minutes and thirty-seven games of Brick-Breaker on my Blackberry, I was second in line behind a cowboy trucker who had given in to the lulling hum of the forklifts in the warehouse, and closed his eyes for good beneath a yellowed, straw hat about an hour ago.

So close to the end of shift. The end of...

A sound... jagged nails across a half-acre of angry blackboard. The bitchy squeal of worn rubber, dug in hard on a smooth, paved floor, as if in protest against, against...

The cowboy jumped and landed on two feet, like a live man from his own grave. Slowly, I turned toward the sound.

Crumpled at one edge, tilted at an awkward, upward angle against a frame of supporting pine, lay a body clothed in cardboard, like ten cold reams of Banker’s Boxes, all in a row.

To be continued...

The White Paint Chronicles (#0003)

2011-04-15T22:16:00.000-07:00

The Body

You ever see a dead body? No, I don’t mean a corpse… I mean something that, as soon as you see it, the words, “dead body” pop into your head like the words, “flat tire” when you see a car on the side of the road or, “fucking tourist” when you see someone jay-walking at LAX.

Dead body.

Say it just right, and you feel like you swallowed an ice cube whole. Say it again, and the words burn cold and razor sharp, cutting your insides at that special place between the dry lump in your throat, and your fear-shrunken ball sack… because you’ve seen your future’s end, and read the last page of the unwritten story of your misspent life.

Is there really such a thing as “Indian Summer”? In L.A. the closest thing to it is something called the “Santa Ana’s”. Every fall, for a few days… okay, sometimes weeks… the cool breezes of the gray Pacific are swallowed up by a pissed-off furnace, blowing hot from the far north. It’s a time when Chamber of Commerce weather is kidnapped and forcibly replaced by highs in the upper-90’s and gusts above 50 miles an hour. During the days, dirt and smog blows against the grain from the mountains to the sea. Palm trees are bent backwards, and the sky for a hundred miles is turned to 1960’s postcard brown… like it was when Dodger Stadium was new, and Marilyn Monroe was still breathing. And the nights, tinted blue-black under a ghost-white moon streaked by blowing debris, glows with no life above the screaming of the wind.

And at full-moon-midnight, near the end of another shift, a dead body spoke.

To be continued...

The White Paint Chronicles (#0002)

2011-04-04T13:16:00.000-07:00

You never know where they’re going to come from. They start as total strangers, then become people, who one day – whether you admit it or not – you cannot do without.

They are… the “friendlies”.

This is a story about groupies.

That got your attention. Don’t lie to yourself, you know it did. Anyway, groupie stories are fun, and should just about write themselves… if you’re a writer without a soul. Even more, if you’re a writer without a soul… who writes online. Online, where disembodied voices whisper… saying things you want to hear… just as long as you say them back in just the right way. Whispers that are never to be trusted, let alone believed… not when you crave honesty more desperately than your next orgasm. Truth isn’t something you should have to pay for any more than you should have to pay for sex. It should be expected, offered spontaneously and mutually and freely given, between those who supposedly share the deepest of bonds that could exist between consenting adults. The mutual inadequacy… the fear... the greatest joy…

No, not sex you perv… writing. This one’s about a different kind of groupie… The “friendly”.

And this is the story of three.

Those Who Know You Best

The one who knows you the best is, most likely, the one who reads you the least. For them, it doesn’t matter how good… or how bad… a writer you are. For them, it’s enough to know that you making it as a writer is a foregone conclusion… a given. The thought that you won’t never crosses their mind, like a lot of things about your writing never do. They know you, and because they know you, they already know what you know… that you’re a writer, whatever anybody says to the contrary. Their lack of compliments, comments, critiques, random encouragements, or any other words outside the day-to-day reality that “this is who you are” and “this is what you do” is irrelevant. You know it, they know you… therefore it must be true. You wish they would, once in a while, take notice of what you do, but it’s been so long that you’ve decided it’s probably best just to let it go. No point in ruining a friendship because you are so damn needy.

“Ain’t no thang,” you tell yourself. One day, you’ll forget all this. You won’t even remember the way you felt the first time you heard Marcus Mumford sing the words, “…you desired my attention, but denied my affections…” And you’ll never remember how stupid you feel on those days you think this way… or how often.

Those Who Know You Least

“...You ARE and ALWAYS WILL BE a writer my friend. I see many people call themselves writers who barely write and don't even have a tenth of the talent that you have. You have mad skill. You have the disease!”

Portion of a comment at the end of the It’s Always Friday version of The White Paint Chronicles (#0001)

So says the friend I’ve never met.

I don’t include the quote to make me feel better. I include the quote to say that someone who knows me least, and only through a few words on a page… the “through a glass, darkly” kind of friend… can deliver this kind of unsolicited bump to a writer’s often bruised ego just when the desperate need of it is greatest. Doubt, swallowed without hope, is the writer’s poison. When swallowed together, they… the doubt and the hope… fill the writer’s soul with every emotion, every word, required to write again.

The existence of the post you’re reading (#0002) is proof of that.

Better still, that those words came from someone who would not know me if we stood next to each other in a ten-deep line at Starbucks, makes the impact of their words all the deeper. And more lasting.

Those Who Know You Not At All

“Blog like no one’s reading.”
Agnes’ Pages

The other side of the coin. The encouragement that comes from no one will know.

I “met” Agnes by accident one day, surfing, on a site called Blog Catalog. “Picking and clicking” I call it. My blog is listed there, with uncountable thousands of other blogs. I’ve picked up some pageviews by being active on the boards there, and every so often, I spend a little time “picking and clicking” blogs to read… mostly in the hope that others will pick and click mine. A few months ago, I ran into Agnes’ Pages. It was artistic and very finished looking… way more “polished and professional” than most of the BC blogs. On the surface, it looked like a journal about a woman’s obsession with coffee and travel… which it is. But after noticing just how many comments each entry was getting (and I mean dozens), I decided I had to find out what the traffic jam below each post was all about. Turns out, the little blog that started out as random posts about ugly shoes and Starbucks Via drinks, had morphed into a personal journal about a young woman whose husband was dying of cancer.

I finished the entire blog, comments and all, in one night.

In among all the happy and the heartbreak, the hope and the hopelessness, one quiet line from one tiny little entry ran me over like a truck does rabbits on the highway,

“Blog like no one’s reading.”

Best words I ever read about writing… spoken by a “friendly” I’ll never know. Life, like writing, should be that simple.

The White Paint Chronicles (#0001)

2011-02-26T14:36:00.000-08:00

“I’m a stop singing this song because I’m high (raise the ceiling baby)...

I’m singing this whole thing wrong, because I’m high (bring it back)…

And if I don’t sell one copy, I’ll know why (Why man? Yeah)…

Cause I’m high, cause I’m high, cause I’m high.”

"Because I Got High"
Music and Lyrics by Joseph A. Foreman
(aka "Afroman")

“Because a writer writes.”

I wrote that in the liner of a leather-bound journal, that I gave as a gift once. A birthday gift, to a guy I worked with, who called himself a writer. He used to make me read his stuff. Written long-hand, in a two inch, three-ring notebook on wide-ruled, 8 ½ by 11 paper. It sucked. At the time, I didn’t know if what I wrote in that journal was for his encouragement, or just a thinly veiled attempt at harsh sarcasm. It’s been years now, and I still don’t know which it was, and that isn’t even the point. The point I’m making is that this fuzzy, gray-white cloud of a memory most likely only popped into my head right now because of what I, a writer, just did for a fucking paycheck.

Yeah, it’s funny what a few well-mixed, federally regulated, industrial chemicals can do to rip a dead memory from the hard ground of a guy’s head like a cosmic backhoe, under the paint-stained bandanna, just the other side of the blood-brain barrier.

I started working semi-permanent, part-time jobs so I could spend the bulk of my thoughts (at least that’s what I told myself at the time) on what I told anyone who would listen was my next career… “Writer”. Now, when I’m honest (or drunk), I tell the world (or those in it who would listen) that I’m “a guy who works two part-time jobs… and blogs”.

Sort of.

And like the song clue at the top tells you (if this was a movie, it would have been playing in the background on a car radio), last week’s Libertarian drug flashback went and turned itself into its own bullshit crisis of conscience, artistic epiphany… all in the hour it took to paint a mildew stained, six-by-thirty, cinder block and drywall storage unit, deep inside an unventilated apartment garage.

God, how toxic primer can make you think, while it kills the handful of brain cells you have left.

In the week since what I now refer to as the Afroman Epiphany forced me to re-evaluate the choices I’ve made for becoming a handsomely-paid writer, it wasn’t till Day 6 that it came to me. Nobody who wants to get paid for thinking up cool new ways to use the same old words already used (but better) by other (dead) writers, should ever have to work in a Huffer’s Paradise of well-mixed, federally regulated, industrial chemicals… no matter how pretty they make a cinder block and drywall storage unit… not even if your name is Charles Fucking Bukowski.

And no amount of white paint on a dirty old bandanna can cover up whatever other repressed memories of why I really write.

GILLEAN SMITH: The BrooWaha Interview

2010-11-22T17:29:00.000-08:00

Gillean Smith with Helen Thomas (2010)

Broowaha.com writer and owner of GS Consulting, Gillean Smith shares her thoughts on life lived in the shadows of fame, and what it means to live in and out of the light.

A Bill Friday interview.

BILL FRIDAY: Just to let you know, I’ve spent quite a few days going over your decidedly intimidating family history.

GILLEAN SMITH: Funny. In school, no one knew of my family and who they were. I was just another student.

Gillean’s famous relatives include her late father, Albert Merriman Smith, known to most as “Smitty,” who was Dean of the White House Press Corp, a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist for his written account of the death of President John F. Kennedy and the man who ended every press conference with, “Thank you, Mr. President.” Her step-brother also happens to be General Stanley A. McChrystal (ret.), the former Commander of U.S. forces in Afghanistan, until he was relieved of his command by President Barack Obama in July of this year.

FRIDAY: Before we go any further, is there anything else you’d like us to know about you?

GILLEAN: First you should know that I am directionally, technologically and mathematically challenged. I don't like needles. I don't do well at the sight of blood...

FRIDAY: Growing up, did anybody know about your family background?

GILLEAN: I suppose maybe a teacher knew who my father was. But truthfully, kids my age didn't care at all. Or, I suppose it wasn't a topic of conversation with girls I wanted as friends. Somehow, a Pulitzer Prize doesn't come across as cool, at least not at 13 or so.

I’m not quite sure the boys and girls knew in school. But like I said, by the time I was a high school student, I was just happy to be attending the same school for more than one year before moving.

We moved a great deal. I simply begged to be allowed to attend high school at the same school for all four years. I was able to do just that.

To listen to Gillean talk, the first impression you get is that her early life might have been like a fifty/fifty cross between the films “The Wedding Crashers” and “Gardens Of Stone”. As you listen further, you understand what you’re hearing isn’t that easily defined.

GILLEAN: Well, as I was three when he died, I truly have no memory of him. So, anything related to my father was of interest or intrigue to me. It makes such psychological sense to hold him in such high regard. I did not know the true man. So, I took who he was and the legend became my father. I learned from his tough style of reporting and asking questions others were afraid to ask.

FRIDAY: What did you learn from asking those questions?

GILLEAN: Well just this past year, I discovered that as an infant, I was born to be a cure, if you will, to someone fighting for his life. I was supposed to save my own father. And shouldn't anyone who has any sense know that a baby is not medicine but a human being...a new life? The truth and then the tragedy, lies and betrayal continue to be just another new discovery about my supposed role in my own family. There are still many more questions to ask. You just have to have the courage to ask them.

With new information, such as an entire box of letters, legal documents and much more, what I always thought to be true or had as my starting point in life, if you will, is nothing like I thought it was.

I have a hard time thinking it through. Imagine going through life knowing only what you can understand from a child’s perspective. You take what you know to be true. And you live that life because it’s all you know.

FRIDAY: How did that affect you later?

GILLEAN: Well, take what you have learned and walk back through your life with an adult's eyes. The betrayal, the lies, the secrets...and when my mother died when I was 16 years old, I uncovered another shocking blow. What does it feel like when the weight of a cement block hits your soul? If you can try to imagine, the day I went through boxes of our things and came across a little book that was a diary, well, it changed my life.

But the truth of it all was that my life had already been altered time and time again. When one is left without an adult who cares about your well-being, many things can happen. And in my case, many things did happen but not for my benefit. It was always to benefit someone else.

FRIDAY: You were 16?

GILLEAN: Yes. I was 16 when my mother died. We were not living together. She moved back to D.C. I stayed behind in North Carolina.

FRIDAY: Really...?

GILLEAN: The last memory I have of her is hearing her scream and cry bitterly as I made my way down to my plane. I looked back once. I was so embarrassed.

I found out she died about a year later after I visited her. I was so mean that last time. The phone rang and when I took the call, a doctor asked for me by name. He introduced himself as a doctor from George Washington Hospital. He said he was calling on behalf of my mother. I still remember saying, ‘what did she do now?’

I think the doctor was a little surprised by my answer. He went on to say that he regretted to inform me that my mother had died. I remember hearing the phone crash on the kitchen floor. I had no family. I was completely and utterly alone.

FRIDAY: Why did you stay behind?

GILLEAN: I thought I could escape the bad, which primarily was an alcoholic mother. Her fits of rage and what she did... it took me many years to forgive her.

FRIDAY: After the fact?

GILLEAN: Yes. I think I began to forgive her in college years after she had died and years after my black patent leather shoes sunk in the mud at Arlington National Cemetery where she was buried with my father.

I never knew what happened to those shoes.

FRIDAY: What can you tell me about the "reason" for your birth?

GILLEAN: As I said, I was supposed to help heal a broken man. I was born to make things better. I was brought in this world to help improve a man's life... my father's life. And then three short years later, I must not have done too well because before we were to go out to eat Chinese, he went into his bathroom with one of his guns from his gun collection and shot and killed himself.

Things don't always turn out the way you plan.

She asks me if what she’s told me is “too much” for me, and I tell her it’s not. I think maybe I lied. Then I ask her if she’s okay telling me. She smiles.

FRIDAY: You’ve written about your family on Broowaha, but your story isn’t just about famous relatives, is it?

GILLEAN: I have told people for years that my life story would make a great ABC miniseries. Of course, those aren't around anymore. Now, it would be more an HBO special. With the violence, language and sexual content, I doubt anyone else would touch it.

I will share something else with you. With all of the violence, both physical and emotional, I was never prepared for what happened after I decided to run away at age 12 to live with a family in the town where I went to school. I thought I had finally escaped the bad. But I had walked into the worst.

I really can't remember when it started. I only know that it didn't stop for a long time.

FRIDAY: So, that was 30 years ago. How did you move past that? Did you move past that? Can you?

She went on to talk of worse things than the loss of a parent, or the adolescent struggle to find one’s own identity. About bad things that can happen to a young girl, living with strangers. I make a note to leave that story for her to tell, at a time of her own choosing.

FRIDAY: A recurring theme I'm encountering when I interview women is the bad (early) circumstances made for bad choices later in life. Did that play a part for you?

GILLEAN: Yes. Unfortunately you can add me to that category.

I had always talked about sharing my story. So last year, I met with former Dean of the White House Press Corps, and family friend, Helen Thomas.

We discussed the idea of me writing a book over dinner one night. She gave me some ideas on how to begin and asked that I put a chapter together with an outline. Within three days, I had everything prepared for her review. I sent it her way and didn't hear back. The following week, I called her. Helen answered the phone and then asked me to wait a minute.

Helen Thomas, a woman who had covered 10 Presidential administrations in the White House put everything on hold for me so that she could read my first chapter and review my outline. I was so nervous. And the five to ten minutes it took for her to read every word seemed like a lifetime. A best-selling author, a national icon was reading my piddly first draft. I heard the phone move a bit.

And then she cleared her voice and said,

"Gillean, you should do this. It is well-written.”

So the book became a reality. It was no longer just a talking point or an afterthought. It was now a quest. And that is where you find me today.

Sometime during my interview with Gillean... I couldn’t decide exactly when... I found myself pulling for her… liking her… not for the amazing stories she told me of her childhood, but for just how normal she was, even after spending her life living through them.

GILLEAN: One day I asked my mother if she believed in God. She said that she believed in a higher power. She had been handed down a deck of tarot cards and wanted to pass them down to me.

I declined.

I remember praying to God that no matter what happened in my life, I didn't want riches but only safety and enough money to meet my needs to survive. I sense He planned to have me write this book so that others experiencing such senseless horrors would be able to stand up for themselves once and for all and be heard and take back their lives, their hopes and their dreams.

That's what I get from Gillean. I get the overall feeling that she's really okay... as okay as okay can be.

FRIDAY: And how is that different from other things you've done in the past?

GILLEAN: In high school, I would go to the back room where I was given a bed and turn on my radio and listen to music. I would find a song to relate to and cry it all out. Music was my emotional outlet. It cleansed my soul when all around me was confusion and chaos.

FRIDAY: And then...?

GILLEAN: When I left for college my freshman year to attend Johnson & Wales University, I swore I would not be called a 'Christian' or state anything of the sort until I truly believed in such a thing or person or whatever it was. My faith began to grow my freshman year and grew even more when I returned to NC to attend UNC Greensboro.

FRIDAY: So now that you've begun the process of writing "the book", how do you see yourself once you're done, and the story has been told?

GILLEAN: I can say that I feel wholeheartedly, that with this book comes the need to share my story and allow others to discover their voice. With the book complete, my hope is to share my story, share how I am beginning to introduce who I am to my own self and let my voice be heard...loud and clear so that others can find their own voices to resonate loud and clear above all of the monsters that can never take the essence of who they are as a person.

I want others to know they are not alone.

Copyright © 2010 Bill Friday

To Broo: a haiku

2010-10-06T13:30:00.000-07:00

broowaha.com cover January 28, 2008

In honor of Broowaha writer
Lynne DeSilva-Johnson,
and her “30 Days of Haiku”
project.
An offering, on the return of
Broowaha.com.

"Then in measured breaths...

I would read you everyday...

My heart beating, wild."

Copyright © 2010 Bill Friday

Pulp Poetry (1)

2010-08-26T17:17:00.000-07:00

Because sometimes, words look
better in PULP.

     I hate you
     I don't love you
     I tolerate you (because)
     I'm too lazy
     and too afraid
     to do what is right.

     I am pathetic.

Copyright © 2010 Bill Friday

Shari Alyse: America's Next Talk Show Host

2010-06-26T16:33:00.000-07:00

Meet Shari Alyse, Broowaha writer and contestant in the Oprah Winfrey Network's "America's Next Talk Show Host". A Bill Friday interview.

Shari, on a professional level, how would you describe yourself?

I’m an aspiring actress and TV talk show host and a writer for Broowaha.com.

So, if you had to make a choice?

Through the years, as I have gotten older and have been learning more about myself, I have come to find that I make a lot better "me" than I do playing someone else. That is why I have put forth a lot more effort in the recent years to pursue the hosting route. I find that we all have something to teach one another, and I want to be a part of being able to do something positive with my life.

Why a talk show host?

People have always opened up to me. Whether it’s on my first day of work and the manager starts spilling her life to me and ends up crying, or the person on the airplane that talks to me about their life the whole flight, or people who send me emails on my social media sites asking me for advice.

I bet that can get awfully tedious.

It's just always been a part of who I am and what I’m used to.

What made you decide to enter the contest?

I’ve been watching Oprah since her show started 25 years ago. I’ve always looked up to her because of her honesty and her ability to just be who she is and make no apologies for it. I find myself being the same way. I’ve never acted like I’m anyone else. I embrace all parts of me, good and bad, and I think that might be why people feel connected and open with me. I’m not afraid to be who I am and I encourage everyone to shine their lights and live in their truth.

You, building that connection with people… it’s taken on many forms, hasn’t it?

Over the last few years when social networking sites began, I found myself always leaving inspirational quotes, messages and comments every day, inspiring people to live their best lives. I then started taking the route of doing vlogs. I started getting regular subscribers who began asking for more vlogs. It was a chance for me to share what was in my heart, plus any other silly thing I wanted to talk about. After my brief stint as a co-host on Internet radio, I realized how much I truly enjoyed hosting, and how I wanted to pursue it even more. I also started my own website, where I was able to put everything I was passionate about on one site - my daily inspirations, thoughts, quotes, vlogs, blog, links to my acting work, etc...

And now you’re trying to take these connections, this passion, to the next level?

All this time I was constantly telling people I was going to be the next "Oprah but Shari". I even went as far as to say I was going to take over her job when she retired, or I at least was going to work for her. When she announced her retirement, all of my friends immediately contacted me and told me that my visualizing and manifesting was really working! I knew I had to work hard to get any sort of attention and experience since 2011 - her retirement - was quickly approaching. Then the announcement of this contest. I couldn’t believe it! My perfect opportunity! I had been praying everyday that a door would be opened for me and here it was. The Oprah Winfrey Network was looking for their next TV talk show host! This time everyone was contacting me and I just knew this was my time! I got my friend and my camera and we made my video and entered it into the competition.

How about giving the readers the details about the competition.

The contest runs until July 3rd, and you can vote as often and as many times as you like (laughing). Vote for me every day, all day.

That's good to know.

I’m not in the front runners of votes as I don’t have a huge social networking circle like these front runners do. But I believe in my concept, my ability as a host, and mainly I know this is what I am meant to do. I just need the support of others to help make my dream a reality. What I really need is one big celebrity to tweet about me and post my link and I think my votes could skyrocket!

So, tell everyone about your show? How do you see it?

My show would be a traditional talk show, but based on sharing positive things that are happening in this world. There are so many good people who are doing good things that we never hear about. I want to encourage, inspire and bring hope back to people's lives. We've forgotten to live in joy. Life is not that difficult, but we seem to focus on what we lack instead of the true beauty that exists in our lives. This was evident to me when I went to Haiti back in February to help with disaster relief after the earthquake.

Talk about your trip. Why did you go?

I went to help rebuild an orphanage and these children had no parents, had missing limbs, barely anything to eat, but they couldn’t stop smiling and laughing and singing. They truly know what living is about! Not once did they cry or complain. When I gave them toys or food, the first thing they did was try to share it. It’s amazing to me that whenever you see stories of people living in these third world countries, they always have this sparkle in their eyes and these huge smiles. They have figured out what is important in life, and I want to share stories like these. I want to remind people what is important. I want to show people how to see how truly blessed we are, and to start living our own truth and to shine our own lights. Of course I want the show to be fun, and it will be since I am a goofball. If I have celebrities on my show, I want to know what they are doing with their voices to help change the world.

But what about people, particularly people in the business, who say that what really drives ratings is “bad news”?

To the naysayers that say bad news sells, I will mention Susan Boyle, Faith the Dog, Juan Mann who started the Free Hugs Campaign, even Zach Anner who is the boy with cerebral palsy who is also in this competition. People want to be inspired. They want to feel good. People enjoy the bad news because it makes them feel better about their own lives. Well what if I did that for them without having to share negativity. People would be on their own path to greatness, that they wouldn’t have a need to hear the crap in this world because they'd be up and running in their own lives. Also, I want to start a kindness movement. I will have segments everyday about people paying it forward and doing for others without the expectation of getting it back. It will be a fun, joyful, and inspiring show, and I know people will love it!

What are you doing in the meantime to, you know, pay the bills?

I’m a waitress right now who has been doing it since I got out of college in pursuit of the "dream". In my twenties, I was all ego. I wanted to be famous because I wanted to be loved. Now in my thirties, I want to be famous because I want to give love. I know what I can use my voice for, and I want to do that on a grand scale!

Now we know what you being the Oprah Network’s next talk show host, but you believe this will have an impact on others as well.

Voting for me is voting for you. My show is OUR show. It’s not about the PhD’s as guests. You are my guests. I’m not any more enlightened, wiser, better, I just use my gifts that I was blessed with to help get people to open up and share, and share a little laughter. We're all on this journey together, with different paths to get there, and we all have something to teach through our own experiences. That is what my show will be about.

How easy is it for people to vote? I mean, it’s easy… isn’t it?

100 votes per day is approximately 5 minutes out of your day, to help make my dream a reality. Please pay it forward and help a girl out.

Shari Alyse... thank you.

*** Vote for Shari through July 3, 2010 by clicking on http://bit.ly/Vote4Shari, and get your updates from Shari on Twitter, or watch Shari's blogs and vlogs anytime at http://www.sharingwithshari.com/.

What Have You Done For Your Art?

2010-06-06T15:27:00.000-07:00

Jean-Michel Basquiat, "Boy and Dog in a Johnnypump"

Barista.

Janitor.

House painter.

Graveyard Courier.

Any of these jobs sound familiar? If you're a writer, I'd bet at least one. I'd also bet that, as a writer, you've said least one of the following lines to explain why.

"It's temporary." Or...

"I'm just working this gig to make contacts in the industry". And my personal favorite...

"It pays the bills and leaves me time to write."

Load of crap!

Art is never free, and someone always has to pay the bills.

Unless you're a young Quentin Tarantino sitting behind the counter at Video Archives in Manhattan Beach, working a near-minimum-wage job so you can make contacts is like the alcoholic bartender who drinks his mistakes to help him perfect his craft.

So I'll ask the question again. What have you done for your art? I'll tell you what I did for mine.

I quit.

First, I quit my low-pay, make-no-contacts night job. I traded it in for a real job. A day job.

I hated it. I got over it. I mean, even Bukowski had a real job. And I'm pretty sure he wasn't making industry contacts while sorting mail for the U.S. Postal Service.

Next, I quit my art. That’s if you count writing two unsold screenplays as art. Months passed. I forgot about writing. I moved on. The job was now my art. The job was now my life. It got to the point where not only did I believe that what I had done was right — I also began to believe it was good.

But like some of us know, writing is a lot like herpes. You can ignore it, but just when you think it's forgotten about you, WHAM! It's back, worse than ever. Something buried so deep inside you doesn't go away just because you lie to yourself, and say it isn't there.

Brendan Behan, the Irish playwright and poet, once explained that he was, "...a drinker with a writing problem". And he was right. I've never heard of a twelve-step program for writing.

Writing is hard. You have to be harder.

Since we're on a theme, years ago, a friend told me about someone close to her who was an alcoholic. He was also a Roman Catholic priest. Now at first glance you might think, "Okay, Isn't A.A. all about turning your addiction over to some Higher Power to get you clean and sober?" At least that's what I thought at first. Until my friend explained to me that, as a Roman Catholic priest, her friend was bound by vows to administer AND RECEIVE the Sacrament of Holy Communion.

With wine.

Every single day.

She explained that from his perspective, Holy Communion was the way he was brought into communion with God. It was a non-negotiable. Every day, sometimes several times a day, this man would submit himself to that which he believed could both kill him, and make him stronger.

Now, I wasn't a Roman Catholic or an alcoholic, but I think I got her point. How crazy do you have to be to willingly do something that you know you can't live with, and can't live without?

I'm writing again.

Copyright © 2010 Bill Friday

I'd Like To Report A Missing Person...

2010-04-22T13:33:00.000-07:00

In honor of the memory of what was, a blast from BrooWaha past. Firewalk with me down memory lane to a time when authors gave a crap, and their voice was heard.

It was Tuesday, September 4th. I drove north on Wilcox, my destination now in sight. I found a space in front of the building and parked. It was the only space left on the street. Was it fate, or just dumb luck?

For this job, I could use a little of both.

5:45 p.m. After a hard day at work the A/C inside was cool and inviting. Outside, the air was hot and wet, a lot like the pavement in a Whitesnake video featuring Tawney Kitaen. 100 degrees every day for... days, but that was another story.

1358 N. Wilcox. Hollywood Division. LAPD's Precinct of Broken Dreams. I stepped inside. A pale-legged tourist with black socks and an Iowa drivers' license sat next to a self-employed, freelance “actress" with six-inch heels and no permanent address. I noticed that, even in the late-summer heat, both of them were wearing wigs.

And just like the curls in their nylon hair, nothing about either of them seemed out of place.

At least not here.

I asked the one in the heels if this was where you go to file a report. She nodded like a regular. As I made my way to the window, a fat cop, dressed all in blue, sat on a stool behind bullet-proof glass, staring at me. Suddenly, I felt dirty. He was looking me up and down like I was a... or maybe he was looking at the "actress". From where I stood, it was hard to tell.

Before I reach the counter, the fat cop spoke.

"How can I help you?"

I'd like to report a missing person." I paused. "Make that… well, there’s a lot of them."

I reached into the manila folder I carried under one arm, and pulled out a list. As I slid the list under the glass, I saw the box. Pink cardboard with white paper sticking out of it. The box looked like it had been worked over good.

And the cop looked full.

"What's this?"

"They're all missing," I said.

The cop wiped his hands on a near-by napkin, then grabbed the list.

"These are... names? What kind of names are these?" He picked up a pair of reading glasses from on top of the pink box, and hung them on the end of his nose. He read the names out loud.

"V? What does that stand for? El G? Mora Uman? Steven Lane? You mean that Steven Lane? Tumerica? Joseph M? Merijoe?"

"Oh, sorry... I'm pretty sure that's not really her in the picture." Suddenly, I felt foolish, but I pressed on. "Next to the names are the dates anybody last heard from them." I must have looked anxious. The cop looked at me as much as he did the list. He finished reading the names and looked at me over the top of his glasses, as if to make sure I meant business.

"Crowbar? Vundula? Savage Lettuce... Are these for real?"

"Of course they're for real!"

"What are you, some kind of private detective?

"I'm a writer."

"Figures." He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "And these are friends of yours?"

"Kinda. They're other writers."

"And they're missing?"

The cop looked at his watch. As he did, I noticed the clock on the wall behind him. It was five minutes to six. I guessed that Officer Pink Box was almost done with his shift.

"You got anything else?"

I reached into the folder once more. I pulled out five sheets and shoved them all under the glass. Each one had the writer's profile printed on it.

"Those are the last-know whereabouts for each of them. Plus some personal information. I thought it might help."

He flipped through the pages, randomly reading from each one.

"... common-law wife named Oksana... formerly homeless with three AKAs... a bicycle named Mathilda?" He picked up the napkin again. He wiped the corners of his mouth, then tossed the napkin into a distant trash can. Probably the only exercise he ever got. Then he leaned forward... closer... as close as he could get without touching his nose on the window. As he did, he stifled a silent burp.

I thanked God for bullet-proof glass.

"This is everything?"

"Yeah." Instinctively, I pulled back. As if the smell of coffee and donuts might make it's way to my side of the window.

In one motion the cop shoved all the papers back under the glass in my direction. As he did, the clock on the wall behind him struck six.

Then I'm afraid you're on your own."

"But they're..."

"Missing. Yeah, I got that. You seem like a bright guy Mr... uh,"

"Friday," he laughed to himself. I thought I heard him muttered the words, "Like that's your real name."

"Excuse me?"

"Mr. Friday..." He stood up to leave. "They'll turn up. They always do."

They always do... They always do...

"So what kind of story is that?"

"Huh? What do you mean?"

"What genre?"

"Noir."

The thirteen-year-old boy looked up from the computer screen. He shook his head. The words "gimme a break" were written all over his face.

"It's stupid."

"Why?"

"Because they're not really missing."

"It's a metaphor," I argued. Never argue with a thirteen-year-old.

"A metaphor for for what?"

I hesitated. A metaphor for what? "Well, they haven't written in a long time."

"Neither have you."

I thought before I spoke... this time. He had me.

"Okay. Then it's... a metaphor for my own futility as a writer?"

"So you're the one who's really missing?" Brown eyes stared back at me. My son wasn't buying any of it.

"You're right," I said. "It is stupid."

"And the first step to recovery is admitting that you have a problem."

"Don't you have homework to do?"

"Why? It's stupid."

He turned and headed up the stairs.

"And don't forget to say good night when you're done." And he was gone.

"I suppose I could just email them," I said to no one.

A voice answered from the other room.

"Are you talking to yourself, again?"

Silence.

CONSTRUCTION AGAIN

2010-04-13T20:06:00.000-07:00

I'M WORKING ON IT!!!

All the cool kids are doing it, so here goes. It won't take that long (because I'm not that smart). Until then, read something from the archives of It's Always Friday.

I've pre-selected a few for your enjoyment. In the mean time, follow me on Twitter.

Your menu:

#Broowaha stuff...
#L.A. stuff...

#Sports stuff...

#Real News stuff...

#Funny stuff...

See you soon with some new stuff.

If 40 Is The New 30, Are Women The New Men?

2010-04-06T15:57:00.000-07:00

by Sanjana Kumar.

Another article from another friend (hey, writers' block can have its advantages). Straight from her blog, This is Sanjana, this post is also her most read article published on the website Broowaha.com.

Read this, and I'll buy you a beer at a Dodger game... as long as you can pay for the tickets... and parking.

The Erin O'Brien Owner's Manual for Human Beings: Leaving Las Vegas: Rearview

2010-03-27T16:54:00.000-07:00

by Erin O'Brien

Follow the story link to Erin's blog for more stories from the writer (and sister of John O'Brien). The final third of the It's Always Friday article "With This Muse, You Lose" is based on John's experiences leading up to his death in 1994, just three weeks before the release of the film Leaving Las Vegas, from John's novel of the same name.

With This Muse, You Lose

2010-03-23T14:12:00.000-07:00

The following piece is a "do-over" that made its first appearance in the Citizen News Journal BrooWaha in 2007. It was reissued for what is now an entirely new readership in the same Journal on Monday, March 22, 2010. And now, it is reissued here.

Writers are freaks.

Capable of reaching deep into the creative void, searching for light, and, as if from nowhere they, seemingly, can pull entire worlds out whole. And sometimes in their search they, along with the worlds they've drawn from the darkness, bring back the very darkness itself.

And sometimes, writers are bullies.

A few days ago, I got an email from another writer inside the Los Angeles Edition. In the note were concerns about criticisms expressed in the comments section at the end of our articles for BrooWaha. One thought in particular stood out,

"I appreciate the fact that people can give feedback and constructive criticism, but I don't think it should be condescending and pointlessly mean." (emphasis mine).

After a few words from me (which I'm sure didn't help), I got to thinking about these two sides of the writer, and about the fragile nature of each. Because even the schoolyard bully is just one good ass-beating away from having to embrace his own inner freak. What is it about staring deep into that empty, dark place where ideas take shape and then draw breath, which brings out the best, and worst, in the writer? I thought a little more, and my thoughts turned, well... dark.

Really dark.

In the film Wonder Boys, James, the budding, brilliant writer (played by Tobey Maguire), recites a list of celebrity suicides he's memorized, in alphabetical order no less. At a very young age, James is a freak who gets it. He already sees what comes with the literary territory. It's morbid. Funny morbid. But when the lights come up again in the theater, James is just a character in a movie. He isn't real. Movies aren't real.

Real is what happens between kids (the freaks and the bullies) on any playground, any day, between lunch and the 5th period bell. Real is what happens in the comments section at the end of the articles in BrooWaha, where the writer plays critic, and the rules of the playground still apply.

Writers search for light in the darkness of their own soul. And when that light can't be found, other writers write about it.

Literary history is the story of writers - freaks - so damaged from staring into the black hole of their own inspiration, that they can no longer cope with what's real.

The world loves a winner, and everyone loves a story about a thick-skinned writer. But in a world that's real, thick skin is just a cover for the freak that lives inside. And only in a business where the workers must daily look into the void of darkness in their own souls, is insanity accepted as an occupational hazard.

Real.

"Paint me an angel, with wings, and a trumpet, to trumpet my name over the world." - Thomas Chatterton.

Thomas Chatterton was real.

Born in England in 1752, Thomas Chatterton was a freak. Withdrawn as a young child, some thought he might even be mentally handicapped. Before the age of six, Thomas lived as a recluse in the home of his parents, sitting alone for hours and, at times, crying without a reason. When not staring into space or crying, he would tell family members of his desire to be famous.

By age eight, if given the chance, he would read and write all day. By age eleven, he was a published author.

However, during the next six years, Chatterton, while writing for various journals in England, also perpetrated an elaborate and ill-conceived series of "forgeries". He claimed the documents were original poems by the 15th century writer Thomas Rowley. They were original poems, alright. Originally written by Chatterton on two-hundred-year-old parchment scraps he had taken from a chest inside his local parish church.

After the fall-out over the Rowley poems, Chatterton began writing political satire under various pen names, selling little and sinking deeper into depression. Finally, in 1770, at the age of seventeen, Thomas Chatterton wrote a rambling "Last Will and Testament" and moved on to the big city - London.

Two months later, unemployed, hungry and disgraced, Chatterton tore up any writings he had in his possession, drank arsenic, and died.

"Dance no more at holiday, like a running river be; My love is dead, gone to his death bed, all under the willow tree.” - TC.

Real.

"I must now prove that I even exist." - Jerzy Kosinski.

Jerzy Kosinski was real.

An acclaimed author, Kosinski, was the survivor of a childhood spent hiding his Jewish identity from the Nazis who occupied his native Poland during World War II. As an adult, this period of his life was recounted in the 1965 novel The Painted Bird. Though Kosinski never claimed the book was a "biography" as such, he did say that the story was both a representation of his life at the time, as well as a retelling of a Polish folk tale about the dangers of non-conformity. Later in his career, Kosinski also wrote the 1972 novel Being There, and co-authored the screenplay for the 1979 film version starring Peter Sellers.

However, as early as 1969, with the publishing of the book Steps, whispers within the writing community began to be heard about possible plagiarism in the stories of Kosinski. Over the next dozen years, countless accusations, newspaper articles and broadcast stories pointed to the same thing.

Finally, in early May, 1991, ostracized by the literary world that had made him famous, Jerzy Kosinski, 58, committed suicide in his New York apartment.

"I need an internal light, as not to fall prey to the things which cause my spirits to sag. This is true water from the heavens." - JK.

Real.

"That's nice talk, Ben - keep drinking. Between the 101-proof breath and the occasional bits of drool, some interesting words come out." - Sera to Ben in Leaving Las Vegas, from the novel by John O'Brien.

John O'Brien was real.

A Midwestern kid from a stable, two-parent home, John O'Brien was married just a year after graduating high school. Three years later John, and his wife Lisa, moved to Los Angeles. During the next few years, John wrote and worked various jobs around L.A.

According to his sister Erin, John became a heavy drinker in his mid-twenties when, she said,

"John's drinking problem started as soon as he started drinking. By the time he was 20, he was taking a clandestine flask to work. By the time he was 26, he was chugging vodka directly from the bottle at morning's first light in order to stave off the shakes. I know. I saw him do it."

By 1990, O'Brien's first novel, Leaving Las Vegas, was published. The next four years saw O'Brien complete just one more work, Stripper Lessons, and begin one other, The Assault on Tony's.

In 1994, in the wake of the controversy surrounding the true origin of the Sheryl Crow song Leaving Las Vegas (a song Crow co-wrote with O'Brien's friend, David Baerwald), O'Brien sank to the deepest depths of alcoholic depression.

On March 21, 1994 Crow appeared on The Late Show with David Letterman, performing the song and answering questions about its origin. During the course of the interview, Crow took biographical credit for the lyrics.

A week after the Crow appearance, production began on the movie version of LLV, starring Nicolas Cage and Elisabeth Shue. Two weeks later, on April 10th, O'Brien was still upset about the Crow interview, complaining to his literary agent in a phone conversation.

Later that day, John O'Brien put a shot gun to his head and killed himself. Later, his father said that the novel, Leaving Las Vegas, was John's suicide note.

The final paragraph of John O'Brien's unfinished manuscript of The Assault on Tony's summed up his life.

"For the first time in his life Rudd found himself wishing for death, hoping (praying?) that the walls came down before the liquor ran out, that they were stormed, bombed or shot in some truculent surprise attack, some irresistible force, divine intervention.” - J.O.

Writers are freaks.

And if you're reading this, you're probably a writer.

Real...

Copyright © 2010 Bill Friday

LAX CONFIDENTIAL: "I Forget... I Remember... I Forget"

2010-02-18T14:29:00.000-08:00

A study of benign hopelessness... in three little acts.

The third in a series.

Act 1: "I Forget..."

Quiet. It’s the sound that swallows every sound that surrounds it. It’s the noise that makes void the voice of every thought.

I don’t remember the last time I drove without the radio on in the car. Okay, that’s a lie... I do remember. It’s that I choose to forget. It was the day my Dad had his last heart attack. I was driving for a living (what else is new), and I remember that on that day when my radio fizzled and cut out for good, I actually prayed that it would work again, just so I wouldn’t have to be alone in an empty car with my own thoughts. Amazingly, mystically, the radio came back to life. An unexplainable resurrection from the dead.

About an hour later, I got the phone call that my Dad had “died” on his front porch, and was being breathed for on a ventilator at Gardena Memorial.

In the years since, driving with noise has become for me a second voice. The sane equivalent of the never ending dialogue of the schizophrenic.

In the aftermath of the miracle of the car radio, I heard a story — an airport story — of two cars, three men, and one question.

The story went like this...

After picking up man number one at the airport, man number two sees a third man in the car next to them — windows down, car radio blasting — the music louder than he could derive enjoyment from. Man number two, being the kind of man who bitches before he thinks, rolled up his window against the noise and complained to the second man,

“What is that guy’s problem? He’s gonna go deaf and take the rest of us
with him. Can’t he hear?!!!”

“He can hear,” the second man said. “What I want to know is, what is it
he hears that he’s trying so hard not to?”

Quiet. I tap the front of the radio, my fingers loud in the unaccustomed silence of my car.

LAX CONFIDENTIAL: "Living Room"

2010-01-20T21:32:00.000-08:00

Unseen, but not unnoticed.

The second in a series.

July, 2005

(1:42 a.m.)...

Lot 7 is quiet. The cue of black Towne Cars that once lined the far wall has been replaced by a shiny strew of Smarte Carts, empty and tossed at odd angles, abandoned. Each one is a lingering reminder of the last cheap, black suit who used it — a three dollar rental dripping with the three dollar stench of salt air and palm sweat and Drakkar Noir.

I park, head in, against the same concrete foundation, a few short steps from the tower of stairs that looms over United Airlines. Inside the Terminal, one last lost parcel waits for me, invisible, even in the face of so many pairs of searching eyes.

I lock my car against the closeness of the moist night air. Against the dark reminder that these walls house more than cars, just as the ground on which they stand is more than just the lines painted upon it. The unmistakable smell — the sweet-hot smell of Type-1 diabetic urine — rising to my nose from the dark patch of soft asphalt underneath my tire, reminds me that I am merely a guest in another man’s home — a tourist, just passing through some unseen someone’s dirty mansion — on my way to somewhere else.

(1:48 a.m.)...

That was easy.

Tucked against the “over-sized” luggage belt was my missing parcel — alone, and obvious, in the empty halls of the Terminal. As I grab my phone to call it in I think,

“How many people didn’t see this here?”

How many...?

Back outside, distant in the quiet of another silent night, a sound — familiar as it echoes in the fog of another graveyard run. The wobbling, scrapping sound of a single shopping cart, fading as it pushes east toward Sepulveda, out of sight — but not out of mind.

I pass through his living room on the way to my car.

LAX CONFIDENTIAL: "Fog and Darkness"

2010-01-07T01:06:00.000-08:00

Is the future just an echo of your past?

The first in a series.

Today...

(90277)

Fog and darkness arrive together, the setting sun hid by dripping, pale gray air. And with it, the one-way, bump-and-go of ten thousand cars, marks the end of another day. I float the other way, free. Free like a dead fish downstream toward gathering rapids, speeding without thought.

Artesia... Rosecrans... Imperial...

Planes descend before me like giants falling from the sky. My windows down, I turn to face them. Overhead they scream — every day the same.

The city, shut tight against the penetrating shroud of encroaching night. A million souls, and more, wrapped in a cold blanket of hope — all settled till the morning.

Except for me.

At times like these, I feel I’ve done this all my life.
Until the whole landscape of your existence shifts, then crumbles, then sinks out of sight; cherished memories become washed out ghosts, fading in and out, as you make your way along once-familiar paths.

I’m sure I lived another life before the one I’m living now. Far away; a recurring childhood dream that, with the passing of years, no longer controls the night—where time and place sparks a brief remembrance of what once was.

Only to forget.

Whatever I was, I am that no longer. And whatever I’ve become, I know will fade as quick in the minds of those whose eyes catch mine, like the faded markers of a life that’s passed are come and gone.

As they are for me, I will become for them — the shadow of their passage through this place, where memory fades and belief gives way to the certainty of doubt.

397 days earlier...

(90045)

8:23... The smell of burning diesel is fresh in the air. One car, at war with a yard full of fifty-three foot monsters. Horns blare — monster versus monster — angry voices challenge for their place in the hierarchy of the night. I fly under the radar of give-a-shit, wanting only to be left alone. Just do my job, then quickly fade away.

8:29... Cargo fully loaded. Clock ticking. Deadline now. I weave between the monsters, each one oddly staggered like a meth cook’s teeth, all in a crooked row. Through the rattling iron gate, onto the waiting street.

And green lights, as far as the eye can see.

8:34... One minute to go. Lock-out in 59... 58... 57. No cops. Hard right. Swerve. Roll the stop... down the ramp... pop the lid. Throw, throw, throw — three bags, four bags, five. Stack ’em. One skid, two.

33... 32... 31.

Up the ladder, running.

The office — no line.

12... 11... 10.

The counter.

05... 04... 03... Call it in — POD.

Reload.

Seventy-two minutes later...

(90045)

9:47... Terminal 7. I walk beneath the canopy of signs and speakers. Floating above me, the voice of Peter Coyote informs the collective unconscious of weary travelers,

“The white curb is for loading and unloading
of passengers only. No
parking; No waiting.
Unattended vehicles will be sighted and
towed.”

9:49... I check with United SPD about the status of flight 715 out of Denver.

Delayed.

9:52... I stand just outside the crush of Carousel #1, killing time, waiting for my parcel to drop. Off in the distance, at the bottom of the descending escalator, stands a grove of out-of-work actors in cheap, black suits — now existing as limo drivers with faces in need of more Botox, all still hoping for their one big break. They hold hand-scrawled signs with names drawn awkwardly in Magic Marker — none famous — just another bad tipper with heavy bags and noisy kids.

Waiting.

10:01... All at once, without warning — somewhere between Carousel #1 and the back door — a surprise encounter. It begins with a glance, a one-way flash of recognition, of the famous by the anonymous. And with it, a single, unvarnished truth that transcends all my two-dimensional memories of the 1990’s right in front of me.

Rail thin, with a face too pale to have just gotten off a plane from Maui. Power-walking, acne scarred TV royalty, ten strides ahead of husband, and nanny, and child.

And I am left with only one thought, screaming in my brain,

“Courteney Cox looks like hell!”

To be continued...

FIGHT gONe!

2009-11-15T15:46:00.000-08:00

Some stunning commentary in the wake of USC's worst home loss ever.

Los Angeles (ground zero).

Today marked the end of the Pete Carroll era in L.A.

Let me say that again. On Saturday, November 14, 2009, on the floor of the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum, The Pete Carroll Era is over.

Just a few observations in the wake of USC's 55-21 emasculation at the hands of the Stanford Cardinal.

OBSERVATION #1: There's a (bunch of) new bully(s) in town.

USC, the bully on the block of college football since 2002, just got ass-whupped by a group of young men for whom pocket protectors are a frat party fashion accessory. While parity in the NCAA has reared its ugly head more and more often in recent years (just ask Notre Dame), not since the year 2000 have the Trojans had to look themselves in the mirror and see Steve Urkel staring back at them.

Once feared - always respected - on this day, in the waning minutes of this precursor of the end of the Mayan calendar, Stanford defensive back Richard Sherman (Compton Dominguez HS) looked into a sideline camera and uttered, "Fight on USC, fight on... look at your crowd leaving..." as he and a teammate mockingly made the Trojan's "fight on" victory gesture.

On this day, the bully went home with two black eyes, and a locker room full of badly bruised egos.

And after "bad" losses to former PAC 10 doormats Washington and Stanford, and new conference power Oregon (with UCLA two weeks away), the tagging is already on the wall.

OBSERVATION #2: That hot chick you took to the prom may turn out to be Rupaul in disguise.

At the height of what was once The Pete Carroll Era, the coach used to ask a rhetorical question of anyone who would listen, a rhetorical question (more often than even a Stanford math major could count) that went something like this: "Why would I want to go to the NFL (more on that in OBSERVATION #3) when I can recruit first-round draft choices at every position?"

Those days are over.

Move over All-World tailback Joe McKnight. Meet Academic All-America tailback Toby Gerhart. In 2006, Gerhart (Norco HS) turned down an offer from USC to play outside linebacker for the two-time BCS Champion Trojans. At the time, USC had pedigreed ball carriers piled up at the entrance to Howard Jones Field almost as high as the number of Heisman statues it has piled up inside Heritage Hall. And everyone knows the world of college football is littered with 18-year-olds who never lived up to all their hometown high school hype.

So Toby Gerhart heads to conference doormat Stanford and the rest is (Trojan) history.

As of tonight, Gerhart is 3rd in the nation in rushing yards, and 1st in number of academic units carried this semester by a running back who just left cleat marks on the backs of what used to be the best defense in college football. This semester, the USC reject carried as many Big Brain Academy course units - 21 - as the Little Men of Troy scored against the enormous frontal lobes of the Cardinal defense. And he looked a lot better doing it than an SC offense that can now boast of more All-America Football impersonators than Marilyn Monroe impersonators at Hollywood and Highland.

Joe McKnight, Allen Bradford, and all the rest of the cast at tailback have been exposed for the frauds they are. And for that matter, the entire offensive playbook since the days when old coordinator Norm Chow and the head coach ended their manly pissing contest, and Chow left for Nashville.

And Pete Carroll and all the rest of his recruiting staff have been exposed for a consistent, glaring inability to pick the right date for the prom.

OBSERVATION #3: That wasn’t just a debacle Pete. That was your Golden Ticket.

Pete Carroll has been waiting for this moment his entire life.

Since being better known as the last coach the New England Patriots will ever fire (because Bill Belichick will be the head coach until that pesky Mayan calendar runs out), Carroll was only Athletic Director Mike Garrett's fifth choice for the vacant head coaching position. Two National Championships later and the flood of persistent rumors about The Prince of the City taking another shot at NFL immortality would not stop coming. Coach Carroll was said to have turned down offer after offer, year after year. Rumor had it that he was just waiting for that one perfect opportunity, that one Golden Ticket - autonomy, authority, the final say - all the power he's enjoyed around University Park, but on the biggest stage. The next big offer will always be there. I mean, he is PETE CARROLL. But the next big reason to take it sometimes only comes along once, and this is it. The whole world (Pete's world) has spent the last 5 years playing catch-up with the USC football program.

Mission accomplished.

Because when Stanford hands you lemons, you take that phone call from the San Diego Chargers.

And no one will remember that you, your team, your school, your fans, and all your living room recruiting cred were blasted all to hell on one sun splashed Saturday Homecoming in November.

Grab that Golden Ticket and make your way as fast as you can (after you lose to that other USC, the University of South Carolina) in the Florida Citrus Bowl) down the 5 Freeway to San Diego, or LAX for a flight to Tennessee, or Cleveland, or... oh, who am I kidding, the Chargers are going to hand you the keys to Sea World, Qualcomm Stadium, and most of La Jolla when the clock strikes midnight on January 2nd, 2010.

And what about the once-mighty USC football program? Maybe after Pete Carroll is out of the way, this town might actually get the one thing it truly needs most…

A real live, honest-to-goodness, bottom-feeding, 2-14, NFL expansion franchise to numb the pain of the fading memories of the glory that once was.

C’mon Pete. All you have to do is grab that Golden Ticket...

Whispers... Believed

2009-11-09T20:41:00.000-08:00

Lies... softly spoken. A poem... with disclaimer*.

Brains on the bathroom floor
Gloating
Consciousness above me
Floating
Despair at life unlived
Responsibility relieved
Bucket made of bone
A sieve
Whispers of all doubt
Believed.

This poem is a companion piece for the article "With This Muse You Lose", which first appeared on Broowaha.com on March 28, 2007. This poem was written on March 21, 2009. Obviously, for the author, March is not a very good month.

* DISCLAIMER: Bill Friday does not endorse suicide as a "solution" to the problems of this life. This disclaimer should be read, and strongly taken into consideration (possibly with the counsel of a mental health professional).

ROXANA SABERI: The Face Of Citizen Journalism

2009-04-22T15:07:00.000-07:00

Author's Note: The following article originally appeared on the website BrooWaha.com. Several references herein refer to work by writers on that site, and the idea that the content and mission of BrooWaha and its contributors is, or is closely linked to, the concept of what has been referred to as "Citizen Journalism".

All editorial license taken in this article with regard to the mission and content of BrooWaha is mine.

Roxana Saberi is a Citizen Journalist.

THE FACE OF CITIZEN JOURNALISM: What it is.

On April 18th it was announced that a court of law found Roxana Saberi guilty of spying on the Iranian government. Tried, convicted, and sentenced in a matter of minutes, Saberi has already begun serving an eight-year sentence in the famed Evin House of Detention, a squalid, overcrowded containment and execution facility on the northern outskirts of the capital city of Tehran. Originally detained January 31st on a preliminary charge involving the "illegal purchase" of a bottle of wine, Saberi was subsequently charged with, "spying for foreigners... for America."

Beginning in 2003, after several years of work in small-market, radio and television news, Saberi began reporting from Iran as a credentialed journalist, freelancing for news agencies as diverse as the BBC, National Public Radio, and Fox News. During this time Saberi, born in the U.S. and raised in North Dakota, the daughter of a Japanese mother and an Iranian father, became a well known presence on the streets of her father's home country. Recognized as both a reporter and videographer, Saberi was often seen filming and interviewing, all while wearing a traditional head covering so as not to be in violations of local customs, or interpretations of Islamic law. Maintaining dual U.S and Iranian citizenship, Saberi wanted to show the world the real face of the Iranian people, not only through her journalistic efforts, but also through a book she intended to write from her experiences there.

Then in 2006, shortly after the election of the new President Mahmood Ahmadinejad, Roxana Saberi's Iranian press credential was revoked. Lacking a recognized credential (one of the hallmarks of Citizen Journalism), yet choosing to remain in Iran without the official permission of the government, for the next two years Saberi continued to file stories periodically, interviewing and filming, becoming the very expression of a Citizen Journalist: See the news... report the news. Then, in January of this year, the original "wine bottle" detainment, and later the official "charges". In the words of the Iranian deputy public prosecutor Hassan Haddad,

"Without press credentials and under the name of being
a reporter, [Saberi] was carrying out espionage activities,"

Haddad informed the Iranian Students News Agency. The same Hassan Haddad who, according to the organization Reporters Without Borders, was a known torturer in Evin Prison as far back as the 1980's.

In a country where Journalism is at best tolerated, and Citizen Journalism is prosecuted as "espionage", Roxana Saberi has become a pawn in a hostile game over the international rights of free speech. As appeals are made to the government of Iran through official and unofficial means, including those of her parents, and even President Barack Obama, who on Sunday said, "I am gravely concerned with her safety and well-being." Despite all that, the fact remains that an American journalist sits in a third-world prison, widely known as a place where many of its inmates do not live long enough to see freedom at the end of their sentence.

At the time of this writing, whether intended or not, Roxana Saberi has become the face of Citizen Journalism in America, as well as the world.

THE FACE OF CITIZEN JOURNALISM: What it must not become.

I have a blog. That's no secret. I've had this blog for almost two years, and have published items on everything from news, sports and entertainment, to commentaries and humor pieces. Pretty much anything that crosses my mind.

My blog is not Citizen Journalism. Not even close.

Most of you reading this also have blogs, many of which I have read. And most of those, despite your protests to the contrary, are not Citizen Journalism. And, regardless of what you believe about the site on which you are first reading this article, much of what is seen here, including this article, is not Citizen Journalism.

Sorry.

And while the work of many who have written on this site should be proudly counted as Citizen Journalism and is often superior to what can be found on other similar sites (no author's names here - everyone already knows who you are), much of what wishes to be defined as such is neither journalism, or even blogging. It more closely resembles a written transcript of the talk radio caller, shouting a badly constructed, spontaneous opinion into a cell phone, only to be drowned out by the host, then forgotten just as quickly as the next badly constructed caller opinion.

A few tips.

1. Citizen Journalism is not "news" you gleaned (uploaded, downloaded, copied, cut, or pasted) from another news source. At best, that would make it commentary. At worst, plagiarism. Ranting another person's rant, with or without proper credit, is not journalism at all. In the old days, that form of distribution of information was reserved for telephone conversations between disaffected housewives after a few too many nips of the cooking sherry. It may have been news, but it wasn't journalism.

2. Citizen Journalism is not propaganda. Rephrasing what you heard shouted by O'Reilly, or sneered by Olbermann, or even lovingly smirked by Chelsea Handler last night sometime between dinner and dental floss, is not journalism either. It wasn't journalism when they said it and it isn't journalism when you repeat their opinions as your own. Parroting the talking of partisan heads, no matter how much "you couldn't agree more", is not Citizen Journalism. It's Citizen Sloppy Seconds. Or Thirds.

3. Finally, Citizen Journalism is not a popularity contest (remember Roxana Saberi). True journalism is not about having your "friends" vote for your stories to "make a name for yourself". In its purest form, Citizen Journalism is finding the story right in front of you, and telling it. Popularity and self-promotion are more closely related to Tila Tequila than to Roxana Saberi.

Roxana Saberi is a Citizen Journalist. Are you? Do you want to be?

Start now.
_________________________________________________________

Additional sources for this article include:

Roxana Saberi.com

VOA NEWS.com

Rod Blagojevich: The Fool Waha Interview

2009-02-03T02:38:00.000-08:00

As always, Bill Friday did not, under any circumstances, at any time, for any reason, sit down with current (at the time of this writing) Illinois Governor Milorad Blagojevich.

Somewhere in the Cayman Islands.

[The Interviewer and his Subject sit in high-back, cane chairs in an open, plantation-style terrace. Bright, hot studio lighting causes the Subject to sweat great drops from underneath the wide swath of hair covering his forehead. A camera crew makes preparations for the videotaped interview.]

Bill Friday: Governor, we’re on in one minute. Is there anything need before we begin?

Blagojevich: I’m a little parched. A Mojito would be nice.

[Bill Friday turns to his Personal Assistant...]

Friday: Evie, could you bring the Governor a Mojito... with lots and lots of ice?

Evie: Anything for you. You know that.

[The Assistant leaves, in search of a Mojito... with lots and lots of ice...]

Blagojevich: Do I have time to comb my hair?

Friday: Governor, John Edwards didn’t comb his hair for me...

[The Personal Assistant returns with the Governor’s Mojito. He tosses the straw away and drinks deeply...]

Blagojevich: [Gestures with his hair toward the Personal Assistant...] So are the two of you…?

Friday: Oh, Evie? Long story. Love your shirt, by the way.

Blagojevich: Tommy Bahama. My wife loves palm trees.

Friday: Would you like to run through my questions again? We still have time if...

Blagojevich: Nah!!! I’m fine!

Friday: Really? Okay.

[The Interviewer looks past the camera, toward his Line Producer...]

Friday (cont’d): Sharlene, we’re ready!

Sharlene: Sounds good. Alright people! Let’s roll! IN FIVE... IN FOUR... THREE...

[The Producer counts down the last two seconds with the fingers on her right hand. She points to the Interviewer, indicating ACTION!]

Friday: Governor Rod Blagojevich, thank you for sitting down with me today...

Blagojevich: Not a problem, Bill. Not a problem. Hey, is this really gonna to be your first segment on the Webshow?

Friday: That’s the idea.

Blagojevich: Outstanding!

[The Subject takes another long drink from his Mojito. The ice rattles in the bottom of the glass.]

Friday: So Governor, why the Cayman Islands?

Blagojevich: Again, I have to credit my wife. You know she’s had a lot of free time lately, so she suggested we hop on a plane and check out the withdrawal capacity of the ATMs in the beautiful Cayman Islands. Also, with the outcome of that Kangaroo Court back in Springfield still up in the air, we both thought it was a good time to redeem our remaining frequent flyer miles, ya know… just in case. We’re even meeting Diane Sawyer later for cocktails. If you’d like to stay, she mentioned that she needs a plus-one for dinner.

[The Subject leans close to Friday]

Blagojevich: (cont’d) If you ask me, I think Greenspan is about to kick. The two of you would make quite a power couple in D.C.

Friday: Isn’t Greenspan married to Andrea Mitchell? [Toward off camera.] Evie, could you get the Governor another Mojito? Speaking of Diane Sawyer Governor, in the week leading up to your hearing, you appeared on no fewer than 10 television interviews over the course of 3 days – in each of them, you maintained your seemed to skirt the issue of your guilt…

Blagojevich: [Interrupting] Alleged guilt.

Friday: Fair enough – alleged guilt.

[The Assistant returns with the next Mojito.]

Evie: Your Mojito Governor.

Blagojevich: That’s not necessa...

Friday: Oh, I insist.

Blagojevich: Wellp... [Shrugs] okaaay.

[Again the Subject tosses the straw, and downs his Mojito in one, long series of gulps.]

Friday: So Governor, before the cameras started rolling, you told me...

Blagojevich: [Startled] Cameras? Where are the cameras?

Friday: They’re everywhere, Governor.

[The Subject takes a handkerchief from the pocket of his Tommy Bahama shirt and carefully wipes the sweat underneath the hair on his forehead.]

Friday (cont’d): So... how long have you enjoyed poetry?

[The Subject’s eyes light up at the word.]

Blagojevich: You know I consider myself a lifelong student of poetry?

Friday: Really?

Blagojevich: In particular, I enjoy the political romance poetry of a man named Dean Walker.

Friday: [Toward off camera.] Evie! I think I could use one too.

[The Assistant smiles a slow, knowing smile at the Interviewer as she leaves the set.]

Friday (cont'd): Sir, just last week, the Illinois State Legislature voted unanimously to impeach you. Yet during the proceedings, you chose not to testify on your own behalf. Why was that?

Blagojevich: [Rattling the ice in the bottom of the glass] Didn’t need to. I prefer to share my testimony here with you.

Friday: This isn’t a court of law.

Blagojevich: It’s better! This is the court of public opinion! If my own State Legislature won’t let me tell the facts of this case as I want them to be told, then f*** em! [Content edited for transcript.]. F*** em all! I’ll just call witnesses here!

[Friday looks around... leans forward.]

Friday: What witnesses?

Blagojevich: [Leans forward... winks.] They’re everywhere Bill.

[The Assistant returns with the Interviewer’s Mojito.]

Blagojevich (cont’d): Hey, can I get another one of those?

Friday: Uhh... here. Take mine.

[The Subject runs the glass along his hair-obscured brow. He then cradles the drink in both hands as he fumbles with the straw. Finally, he sucks the drink through the straw, finishing his latest Mojito in a long, ice-rattling finish.]

Blagojevich: Ahhh! They just don’t make these like this where I come from. Should it be getting warmer? Are you warm? I’m warm. It’s getting warm. Bill, are you warm?

Friday: On a lighter note, last week the sale of the Chicago Cubs, to lifelong Cubs fan Tom Ricketts, was approved by Major League Baseball. Most Cubs fans seemed to have wanted the team to go to multi-billionaire Mark Cuban instead. What happened?

Blagojevich: I guess Cuban didn’t realize what it takes to play ball in the State of Illinois. A guy with that kind of money should understand what it takes.

Friday: Are you saying...?

Blagojevich: What I’m saying is, for a lousy couple of mil, his chances to buy the Cubs would have been f***ing golden. If Cuban didn’t understand that, then f*** him!

[The Subject leans forward in his chair, resting his head in his hands.]

Friday: Governor, are you alright? Do we need to stop?

Blagojevich: Hmmm? Oh, I’m good. I’m good... [Drifting.] I’m very good...

[Long pause.]

Blagojevich (cont'd): Bill, can I read you a poem? I found it on-line. I believe it sums up the political climate in this great country of ours. I believe... believe... Bill, what is it I believe?

Friday: You believe in poetry Governor.

Blagojevich: In poetry. In a poem that is more timely today, than it was on the day it was written...

[The Subject pulls a folded cocktail napkin from the same shirt pocket.]

Blagojevich (cont’d): May I, Bill?

Friday: By all means, go ahead.

[He tips the near-empty drink up, and lets a cube of ice tumble into his mouth. He crunches the ice cube as he gazes into the sweating glass.]

Blagojevich: [Slurring his words.] What kind of Ho-me-toe... Toe-me-toe... Ho-me-moe... This shuuure is grrrreat ice! What kind of ice is this?

Friday: The special kind, Governor. The special kind. Governor…?

Blagojevich: Hmmm?

Friday: Would you like to read that poem now?

Blagojevich: I would, but I can’t feel face... or my legs…

[The Subject falls from his chair, onto the plush carpeting of the terrace.]

Friday: Looks like he’s all yours boys!

[From off-camera four large men, dressed in camouflage fatigues and wearing red berets, approach the Subject. The bind his hands and feet with large, plastic cable ties, and raise him to his feet. As they do this, another man – wearing a black suit and tie and black aviator sunglasses – approaches the Interviewer.]

Man in Black: Mr. Friday...

Friday: Good to see you again, J.

Man in Black: I see you were able to acquire the Package?

Friday: I almost feel guilty for collecting my usual fee. This was a lot easier than I thought it would be.

Man in Black: The Agency will be happy to pay it nonetheless. We've been trying to bag this one for the last couple of weeks. Kept himself in the public eye the whole time, until now. The extradition is done. Gitmo is waiting. And you sir are a great American.

Friday: As you keep reminding me. And I thought Gitmo was closing. [The Interviewer pauses.] I don’t suppose I’ll be allowed to use this for the Webshow?

Man in Black: [Scoffs.] As for Gitmo, you just keep reporting that. As for the interview, don't worry about that either. We'll be taking everything... again. [Laughs.] Just like your interview with Art Bell.

Friday: Funny. It’s always funny with you people. You’re a million laughs.

[Evie walks onto the set, and stands next to a great American.]

Man in Black: We let you keep her, didn’t we?

Friday: That was The Vatican.

Man in Black: Tomato - tomahto. [To the Berets] Let’s get this one back to the States.
Blagojevich: But what about my poem!!!?

[The Berets drag the Subject away.]

Blagojevich (cont’d): My poem!!! My... Ahhhghhh!!!

Friday: What about his wife?

Man in Black: Witness protection.

Friday: And me?

Man in Black: It might be best if you and Evie stayed here for a while.

[The assistant looks at the Interviewer and smiles.]

Friday: The things I do for my country.

Scott Boras: The Fool Waha Interview

2008-11-10T15:50:00.000-08:00

DISCLAIMER: Under no circumstances did the following conversations take place. Legally speaking, we have to say that this is a work of highly imaginative fiction – nothing else. But if they had...

[Baseball super-agent Scott Boras and a tall, female assistant enter the opulent "Club 19" at the lavish St. Regis Hotel in Monarch Beach, California. At a secluded table, Boras sits with Bill Friday. The assistant greets Friday with a brief kiss and a shiny, Red Delicious Apple. The agent, dressed in a silk, red-on-red, Westmancott suit, smiles confidently.

After a long week at the Major League Baseball General Managers meetings in and around South Orange County, the mood of the participants spotted milling about the hotel was guarded, and the expressions on the faces of the teams' representatives, tight.

Standing at the agent's shoulder, the assistant looks with furtive hope in the journalist's direction. He carries a digital recorder in one hand, and a near-empty crystal glass of Tennessee Whisky and slowly melting ice in the other. The journalist sets both on the table in front of him. Pressing the "rec" button, he speaks.]

Bill Friday: If you have no objections?

[The agent tilts his head graciously.]

Friday: Scott Boras, thank you for your time.

Scott Boras: We'll see if you're thanking me when this is all over. You've met my assistant, Evie?

Friday: Yesterday... by the pool.

Boras: So she said. She's a huge fan of your work.

Friday: So it seemed.

[The journalist shifts nervously in his chair.]

Friday (cont'd): Anyway, the big news here at the meetings, as always, seems to surround you and your clients. This year, that buzz is being heard about one client in particular - the Dodger's Manny Ramirez.

Boras: Bill, I must correct you... Free Agent Manny Ramirez.

Friday: Sorry. I guess it's true you are in the details. Free Agent Manny Ramirez. According to the rules of Major League Baseball, Manny's most recent team, the Dodgers, have until November 14 to tender a contract offer, before he may pursue offers from other teams...

Boras: Already, I tire of this subject. The Manny deal is done. My minions in the Dodger's front office have shown Frank McCourt the error of his mendicant ways, and even now he is willing to fill our coffers with the overflow of his sacrificial love...

[Evie leans over the agent's shoulder, whispering something in his ear. The agent nods.]

Boras (cont'd): ...What I intended to say was that like any elite athlete in this sport, Manny's elite qualities will prove to pay for themselves. I believe both parties will come to a mutually beneficial agreement that will have the Dodgers in the World Series and Mr. Ramirez in the Hall-of-Fame before a single snowflake can descend upon my kingdom.

Friday: This off-season, the list of your clients numbers sixty...

Boras: Sixty-two.

Friday: ...with twenty of them...

Boras: Twenty-one.

Friday: ...with twenty-one having filed for free agency. So many...

[Friday hesitates. He looks up at the assistant. She twirls a lock of her long curls between her fingers while looking deeply into the eyes of the journalist.]

Boras: Do not cower. Ask your question, insolent one.

Friday: I'm curious. It's being said that, during the course of these negotiations with many General Managers that somehow, you've been seen in several different places simultaneously. Exactly how is that possible?

Boras: It's not. I merely convey the illusion of omnipresence. Much like the shortstop turning the "phantom double-play", I cannot, of course, be both on the bag and half-way down the right field line at one-and-the-same time, now can I? It's simply a matter of perception. And yet this little parlor trick also serves a dual purpose, as do all who serve me. That this belief gives my clients such great faith in my abilities, engenders a lifetime of unwavering loyalty, which is of great benefit to me during prolonged contract negotiations.

Friday: And the other?

Boras: It scares the holy bejeebers out of the GM's. I believe the world is a better place for those of us who learn to make fear our friend.

Friday: According to the available figures, as an agent, you receive upwards of $150 million annually in commissions alone from your sixty...

Boras: Sixty-two.

Friday: ...sixty-two clients. Now that you seem to have conquered Baseball, do you have any other plans?

Boras: Plans? Men plan... I laugh.

[The agent laughs.]

Boras (cont'd): In the past, Major League Baseball has done well to serve me, as it has my clients. Yet I am transcendent. Shortly, I shall move beyond the petty schemes of those who think themselves rich but are poor, into that for which I have prepared myself, lo these many years.

Friday: So, you'd like to be the next Commissioner of Baseball?

Boras: Blasphemy!!!

[Silence fills Club 19 after the echo of the agent's primal cry fades.]

Boras (cont'd): Forgive me. I... I don't know where that came from. Evie Dear, could you fetch me a Single Malt... you know the one. And something for Mr. Friday?

[The journalist lifts the near-empty, crystal glass, jiggling the ice cubes.]

Friday: I'm fine.

Boras: As with all men Bill, I have goal... aspirations. My vision is beyond the childish idylls of sports and entertainment. The administration of my vision will be the consummation of all that is called great in this world's realm.

Friday: Did Obama's people call you too?

Boras: I have never been one for politics, Mr. Friday. Politics is the playpen of grown men who have yet to see they still wear diapers. My vision is of a greater future for all who swear allegiance to my eternal...

Evie: Your Single Malt, Sir.

[The agent leans close to the journalist.]

Boras: She can be yours, you know?

Friday: What?

Boras: I'll give her to you. All you have to do is become my voice among...

Friday: Your voice?

Boras: Don't be coy, Bill. You knew that's why I invited you here. I can give you everything you ever desired. Fame... wealth... Evie... everything. And all you have to do is tell the world of my beneficent plan... beyond sports... beyond politics... for all humanity!

[The agent takes a drink of Single Malt.]

Boras: Ech! Evie, you know I take a little ice in my Scotch! I have a good mind to turn you over to A-Rod and Madonna for what you've done!

[The journalist holds up his glass. Smiling, he shakes the remaining ice at the bottom.]

Friday: Allow me?

[Boras smiles as Friday drops two cubes into the Single Malt. The agent swirls the drink in the glass, the melting ice becoming one with the Scotch. He drinks... deeply.]

Boras: With you and Evie at my right hand, no puny power on Earth will be able to stop... aghh! Will be able to stop... Aghhhhh!!!

[Gagging, the agent's eyes seem to bulge in his head. His face becomes as red as his Westmancott suit.]

Boras (cont'd): Deceiver!!! You have betrayed me!!!

[Smoke begins to rise from the agent's ears. The room appears to lose its light, growing darker as the face of the agent glows brighter. Quietly, Evie strokes the skin of the Red Delicious Apple with one long finger.]

Boras: How...?

Friday: It's the ice. Made from the finest, imported Italian Holy Water. Darren McGavin taught me that one... or was it Sarah Michelle Gellar? I forget.

Boras: Gellar?!!! She belongs to me!!!

Friday: Apparently not anymore.

Boras: But... my plans...

Friday: It's just like you said, "Men plan..."

[In the corner of the now empty room, the agent's body slumps to the table. His face is now a ghostly white above the red of his $100,000 suit.]

Evie: Am I free?

Friday: If that's what you want. Getting free is easy. Staying free...

[The assistant takes the Red Delicious Apple and shoves it into the mouth of what once was the agent. She looks with gratitude... and something more... at the journalist.]

Evie: Come with me?

Friday: I can't. I'm expecting a phone call.

Evie: You have my number.

[Evie leaves. From behind the journalist, a voice...]

Maitre' D': Mr. Friday? It's your call from Mr. McCourt. Will you take it here or...

Friday: I think I'll take it poolside. Is Mr. Ramirez at my table?

Maitre' D': He is, Sir.

[Friday rises from the table. He gestures toward the body of the agent.]

Friday: Take care of this, will you?

Maitre' D': As you wish, Sir. That was Third Base Field Boxes... correct?

Friday: That was our agreement. And complementary parking.

Maitre' D': Of course, Sir. It would be my pleasure.

Friday: And have someone keep an eye on the young lady. I don't want to lose track of her.

Maitre' D': Anything you say, Sir.

[Friday makes his way poolside. An athletic looking man with long, black dreadlocks gives him a wide, slow smile. He greets the journalist with a bear hug.]

Manny: Now about that contract for Rafael Furcal...

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

ONCE AGAIN: This work is FICTION!!! Under no circumstances did the above conversations take place!!!

[You would think that after this much time...]

October's Featured Contributor - Bill Friday

2008-10-06T18:29:00.000-07:00

(Believe it or not, and article written about me. David Cohn - Digidave - the editor in chief of the Citizen Newspaper Broowaha.com made me the "Featured Interview for October". Cool, huh?)

The thoughts and observations of Bill Friday. You know him from around the Broo - but who is the man behind the name (possibly one of the best names here on Broo! Check out October's featured writer.

Digidave: How does where you live influence who/what you write about and how you go about doing it?

Friday: I was born in Inglewood, childhood in Bev Hills, Torrance and Marina Del Rey (Yeah, imagine a ten-year-old kid cruising the streets of Venice/MDR alone all summer – that was me), a dozen years in Orange County, and now, the last six years in Redondo Beach. I work six days a week on my laptop and five nights at LAX. All of L.A. is my home. I wish I could say I wrote more local stories – it’s that first-person, hands-on perspective that should drive Citizen Journalism – but it’s also what makes Citizen Journalism such a difficult and vital form of expression. I wish I was that kind of writer.

Who is your favorite Broowaha writer (besides yourself)?

There are a few writers who, when they publish, I make it a point to read as quickly as possible. I love the film reviews of D.L. Ferguson. From his reviews I discovered his website, http://betterinthedark.podomatic.com/ where he gives longer, freakin’ hilarious reviews of all things movie and TV. Another obvious choice is the mayor of San Francisco Broo, Ed Attanasio. I love the POV reporting of the Girl-Next-Door (to Danny Trejo), V. She’s a lot like reading Hunter S. Thompson but without the paranoid delusions. And V’s a lot better looking. And alive. Whether or not it’s the popular thing to say, I still look forward to the articles of El G. But without a doubt, the one Broo author I would read every day is Jen and Tonic. Her combination of soul-searching honesty and slapstick commentary is rare in the Broo world. I’ve written this before… she’s the only writer I’ve ever read who can use the words “donkey punch”, “dutch oven”, or “shocker” in a sentence and still sound like a lady.

You've been part of Broowaha for a long time. What brings you back?

Broowaha was the first place since college where I received feedback on my writing that wasn’t from friends or family. And it’s the first place I received criticism as a writer. Apparently, college professors are a lot kinder than the general reading public. Admittedly, not everything I’ve written here is particularly worth reading – and some of it’s a lot worse than that – but Broo has been a place where I can try anything and not lose a job doing it. And this’ll sound weird, but I think it’s the one-star ratings that keep me coming back more than the five-star ratings. When what you want to do for the rest of your life is to write for a living, a few anonymous “F*** you!’s” does more to prepare you than a bunch of friendly compliments. But keep the compliments coming because a writer’s ego is a fragile thing.

What is the favorite story you ever written here at Broowaha and why?

It’s got to be the series of “Fool Waha Interviews”. Since there’s no way a real celebrity, politician or athlete is ever going to grant me an interview (the Lakers’ John Ireland notwithstanding), I decided the only way to do it was to make it up as I go. And the responses have been interesting. For my interview with Adnan Ghalib, apparently some people took me seriously and gave me a couple of one-star votes. Then I did pretty well in the popular vote with a sports theme. Finally, I interviewed the most-likely choice for the Democratic VP nominee (before the pictures) John Edwards, and got hammered for it. Politics is a funny business. Writing about it should be funny too. It’s amazing how much shrinkage a sense of humor goes through when it’s your political party taking the public ice bath.

I’m thinking of interviewing Sarah Palin just to get a boost in my ratings points before Election Day.

In the time you've been part of Broowaha, how have you grown as a writer or interviewer? Maybe you can tell us about your first article, your favorite article to write and your most recent.

You mean since most of my “interviews” have been fiction?

My first article, “Your Popularity Is 0”, was written at work (a former job) a couple of days after finding Broowaha on Craigslist. The feedback I got only reinforced what the title said about me as a new contributor. My favorite article is probably “With This Muse You Lose”. I was researching the idea of an article on “writer suicides” (seriously) when I got a message from another new contributor who wondered about the harshness she encountered in the comment thread of her first article. Two weeks later, “With This Muse…” was my response. To date, it’s the only piece I’ve ever written that has gotten feedback from people where they actually opened up (anonymously) and expressed the same feelings these dead writers felt before they ended it all.

Lately, the idea of a webcast just seemed like the next logical step for a career going nowhere. Exposure, exposure, exposure. And if other, more talented people want to jump on board with me, at least I won’t be the only one who sinks the ship… right?

If you could write about anyone or any situation, what would it be?

I don’t think I’ve encountered that person or situation yet. Maybe in not knowing, I’ll keep writing about what’s right in front of me, rather than chasing something that, when I finally do it, will leave me with nothing left to do. Then there’s that Fool Waha interview with you
I’ve been planning. And seriously, I’m developing a TV pilot. So what if nobody in Hollywood knows me. With 5,611 independent production companies in Greater Los Angeles, anything’s possible.

What artist (musician, author, painter etc) inspires you?

Jean-Michel Basquiat. Particularly Boy and Dog and later Ten Punching Bags (with Warhol). His unintentional example of expression through graffiti should be used as motivation in the world of Citizen Journalism. By taking a hated symbol of expression, forcing it into the everyday view of the 1980’s mainstream, and (ultimately) seeing it accepted as a legitimate voice should be an example of what Citizen Journalism can do through another hated symbol of expression – the blog. By our often blunt, sometimes blurred, but accurate presentation of the facts right in front of us, we will be viewed as a legitimate voice for today.

That and watching the artistry of Manny Ramirez keep his swing short and his bat long and level through the hitting zone as he makes National League pitchers look like rag-armed, thirteen-year-olds.

Art has many forms.

Of our topics (city life, night life, culture, sports, etc) what is your favorite? Is there a reason why you tend to write/read more articles in that section?

When I was little, I wanted to be the Dodgers’ center fielder, and replace Vin Scully when he retired. Now, all these years later, I’m not in broadcasting and Vin Scully still hasn’t retired. But I do still play slow-pitch softball. For me sports, like writing, is an addiction. And I keep coming back to it as a topic for the same reason I come back to writing. I’ve always had a love/addiction with the written word – and the spoken word – as delivered by Vin Scully. It was always equal parts reporting and poetry. Some kids are raised on comic books, some on the classics…I was raised on Vin Scully. Every writer is a product of a lifetime of experiences, and all of them, in some way, shape and inform what we write. Chris Carter was raised in Bellflower on baseball and Vin Scully and all he was able to make out of it was The X-Files. Quentin Tarantino worked in a video store in Manhattan Beach and all he could turn that into was Reservoir Dogs and Pulp Fiction. All we, as writers, should expect from ourselves is to write what we already are. That’s what lies at the core of Citizen Journalism. If you see it, write it.

And always remember to use the spell check.

The Alyssa Virus: Can It Be Stopped? Is There A Cure?

2008-10-02T18:12:00.000-07:00

As the Major League post-season begins, experts gather in Los Angeles, Boston, New York and San Francisco to put an end to the sport's most deadly virus.

Carl Pavano, Josh Beckett, Barry Zito, Brad Penny, Tom Glavine, Russell Martin. Between them you have a World Series MVP, 3 Cy Young Awards, 18 All Star Game appearances, and at least one future member of the Baseball Hall of Fame. Yet all of these pro athletes - these Major League Baseball players - have at least one more thing in common.

All have all contracted the Alyssa Virus.

In existence for only 36 years but seemingly only active for about the last 20, the Alyssa Virus has unleashed catastrophic destruction upon those who have come into close physical contact with it. Actors and musicians were the first to know first hand the result of unprotected contact with this unchecked destroyer of the American male. However, within the last 5 to 6 years, the Virus has spread to the last untouched outpost of the entertainment world - the world of professional sports, in particular the world of Major League baseball.

Ask any reputable cell/molecular biologist, The debilitating effects of the Alyssa Virus are undeniable, palpable, cutting men down in the prime of their professional lives, as the ravages of the disease bring about the sad, sudden end to the careers of these very public people, as they all are left to suffer their fates in silence.

The following is a chronicle of the lives of these men, and a timeline of the cautionary consequences of their ignorant involvement with the Alyssa Virus.
Fall, 2003: Florida Marlins pitcher Carl Pavano (Patient Zero) become the first known Major Leaguer to come in contact the Alyssa Virus at an unnamed club in New York City. His close contact continued until June of the following year when, inexplicably, the Virus disengaged with the pitcher in the spring of 2004.
Spring, 2004: The Virus is isolated in Central and South Florida, predominantly in the Marlin's spring training camp. Josh Beckett (The Carrier), Carl Pavano's teammate, who at the time was known to be dating lingerie model Leeann Tweeden, was infected when he came into close contact with the Virus while it was believed to be dormant. Unfortunately for Beckett (and for Tweeden, who's career went south at about the same time), the Virus flared, and the unsuspecting Beckett and Tweeden became its next casualties.
Summer, 2004: Dormant again for the first 50 games of the '04 season, the Virus flared again, this time in Hollywood, in Oakland A's left-hander Barry Zito. Reports indicate that The Virus remained active through late fall when, on the sidelines of a USC (Zito's alma mater) football game, only the quick thinking and brilliant second half adjustments made by Trojans coach Pete Carroll kept an outbreak from overtaking the entire team (including possible high-profile infectees Reggie Bush and Matt Leinart), and spared all of Southern California its devastating effects.
Because of the actions of Carroll, the Virus was temporarily arrested, and USC went on to an overwhelming victory in the BCS Championship game over Oklahoma, 55-19. The long-term physical and financial effects on Pavano, Beckett and Zito (now called The Lab Rat by most Major League players) from their exposure to Alyssa Virus will be discussed at the end of this report.
Spring, 2005: After an unexplained winter hibernation, the Virus once again became active, resurfacing in Los Angeles near where it had in 2004. This time, it was another former Florida Marlins pitcher, the Dodgers' Brad Penny. The 6'3" 260 lb. Penny (labelled The Unwitting Victim in reports) seemed physically strong enough to withstand an attack of the Virus, yet was also unable to fight its effects. After almost three years of battling the Virus - and its debilitating symptoms which include "tired arm", weakening and tearing of various tendons and ligaments, and mysterious, random Auto Accidents - during which Penny was place on the Dodgers disabled list 6 times until he was finally able to expel the Virus half way through the '07 season.
Sadly, after battling the Virus longer than any other Major League player, Penny now finds himself on the team's 60-day disabled list, and left off of the 2008 play-off roster.
Mid-Summer, 2007: On a bright , sunny Monday afternoon in San Francisco, the Alyssa Virus again re-surfaced, this time for the Major League Baseball All-Star Game. It was there that a less-virulent strain of the Virus seemed to infect its first, and only, non-pitcher. Playing in his first All-Star Game, Penny's Dodger teammate, catcher Russell Martin came in contact with this particular strain while repeatedly text-messaging the Virus during the two day All-Star festivities. (This is the first incident where indirect contact with the Virus, however slight, caused an outbreak of this less-virulent variety).
Though contact was brief and maintained at a great distance, Martin would experience unexplained intermittent slumps at the plate and an ever-increasing wildness while throwing to second and third base (possibly a mutation of "tired arm", known as "wild arm"). To date, this is the only time a player, having contracted the Alyssa Virus, has not come into a full-blown case of late-stage Alyssa, called by some, "The end of my f****** career".

August, 2007: Flushing, New York. This is the site of the last known outbreak of the Virus , and possibly the most devastating. Mets pitcher Tom Glavine, 41, came face to face with the Virus in the Shea Stadium dugout on a Saturday afternoon, two hours before the team would take the field.
The Mets were a team on its way to the National League Playoffs, a strong team led by rising stars Jose Reyes and David Wright, and veterans Carlos Delgado and Pedro Martinez. The Virus, in just a few weeks of casual contact with Glavine, embedded itself within the very infrastructure of the team. Possibly made more adaptive due to Glavine's advanced age (the Alyssa Virus usually attaches itself to late males in their mid-20's), and also from the long weakening of Glavine from his then 21-years of Big League ball. Whatever the case, the Mets held a 7 1/2 game lead over second-place Philadelphia with just 17 games left to play. By late afternoon on September 30th, the entire Mets team had suffered a total collapse, young and old alike, losing their lead, and their season, to the Phillies.
The team failed to make the post-season in one of the worst mass-failures in the history of the game. Glavine himself was the losing pitcher in the final game, giving up 7 runs in the first inning while retiring only one batter.
The Aftermath:
In the five years (2003-2007) that the Alyssa Virus was active in Major League Baseball, the careers of six Major League ball players went from the penthouse to the outhouse within a matter of months. All six saw their once-superior abilities diminish rapidly. Only one, Russell Martin, retained any semblance of their previous status as stars in the sport they loved.
In December of 2004 Carl Pavano signed a four-year, $40 million contract with the New York Yankees. In the four seasons, Pavano won only 9 games. He spent all of 2006 on the disabled list, suffered two broken ribs in a side-impact car crash, and was force to undergo season ending Tommy John surgery after the Virus took control of his weakened right arm.
On September 26, 2008, the club declined an option for 2009 - worth $13 million - and waived him, effectively making him an unemployed free agent.
On Thanksgiving Day, 2005, Josh Beckett was traded to the Boston Red Sox. Since that time Beckett has experienced both the highs (a 2007 World Series MVP with the World Champion Red Sox) and the lows (on the disabled list three times so far in 2008), and he enters the post-season in questionable health. His brush with the Alyssa Virus was so brief that the Virus even denies coming into contact with Beckett. Only time will tell if the effects of this limited exposure will have any long-term effects.
As an aside, Beckett's contract with the Red Sox paid the pitcher 6 million, 666 thousand, 666 dollars in 2006. Coincidence?
In 2002, Barry Zito won the American League Cy Young Award. In late 2006, after a full year in remission, Zito signed a seven-year contract with the San Francisco Giants worth $126 million, with a club option for an eighth season worth $18 million more. But it was too late. Zito's reccord before signing with the Giants was 102 wins, 63 losses. In his two seasons in San Francisco, 22 wins, 30 losses with a combined earned run average of almost 5.00.

For a time this season, Zito was even demoted to the bullpen to keep him from losing 20 games. In the two years Zito was in full-time, daily contact with the Virus, he lost 5-10 mph off of his fastball and was no longer able to throw his once-devastating 12-6 curveball for strikes. According to reports, Zito even considered switching political parties in an attempt to ward off the effects of the Virus.

Zito is a registered Republican.

The Dodgers' Brad Penny lost his battle with the Virus on July 11, 2006. That day, Penny was the starting pitcher for the 2006 National League All-Star team. In the top of the first, Penny struck out all three American League hitters (Ichiro Suzuki, Derek Jeter and David Ortiz). By the top of the second, he was gone. After giving up a home run to the Angels' Vlad Guerrero, Penny left the game at the end of the second inning.

Except for a brief remission in 2007, since that All-Star start, Brad Penny has won only 18 games. In late September, Penny was on the disabled list four times in 2008, was placed on the 60-day DL before the start of the '08 post-season.

Tom Glavine's career ended that fateful day in New York when he first contracted the Virus in the Mets dugout. After the season-ending loss to the Florida Marlins, New York chose not to sign the 42-year-old left-hander, attempting to purge their roster off any possible lingering medical or emotional effects the Virus may have had on the team. Unfortunately, while Glavine toiled in relative anonymity in Atlanta in 2008, the Virus continued to hold the Mets in its grip. With 8 games left in the season, and holding onto a late-season lead over the Phillies for the division and the Milwaukee Brewers for the NL Wild Card, the Mets faded sharply in the last two weeks of the season, failing to make the play-offs for the second time in the Alyssa Virus era.

Russell Martin is truly the one ray of hope Major League Baseball has in combating the Virus in the future. Martin, the Dodger captain and emotional leader of the team, seems to have developed a resistance to the acute symptoms the Virus has had on all other players who have come in contact. Experts have several theories as to why the twenty-five-year-old catcher has been able to fight off several periods of visible outbreak over the last two seasons.

1) The possibility that the Virus has no immunity to technology. Martin's initial contact with the Virus was through text messaging, not through other more traditional forms of contact (clubbing, publicity photo-ops, etc.) as with Pavano, Penny and the rest.

2) The fact that Martin is Canadian may show clues into a possible Geo-immune barrier not available to the others suffering from the Virus. It should also be pointed out that Martin spent almost three years living in France with his mother prior to returning to Canada for good at the age of 11.

The possibility that some form of immuno-enhancement experienced while living in Europe may be the reason for Martin's as yet unexplainable ability to fight off the worst of the Virus' debilitating effects.

And there you have it. Major League Baseball has no official statement on the Alyssa Virus. No sources deep inside the Commissioner's office will comment on it - on or off the record. It is as if none of the incidents in this report ever happened.

As for the Alyssa Virus, according to a Major League Baseball blog, the Virus is no longer in contact with Major League Baseball players, and has remained out of the spotlight since the resistant Russell Martin incident of 2007-08.

With an uncertain future for America's Pastime, and the men who call it their livelihood, the future is yet to be written. And what about the Virus? Word is that PETA, in support of the Alyssa Virus, may bring protests against any Major League team that attempts to eradicate the Virus, reminiscent of those against the Atlanta Falcons at the height of the Michael Vick dog killing controversy.

The possible financial losses by Major League teams in the face of these protests could climb into the billions.

Now what about you. Are you safe from the Alyssa Virus? Did you ever watch Who's The Boss as a child and say to yourself, "What are my chances of contracting the Alyssa Virus?" And what about a whole new generation of children, guiltily watching Charmed, wondering... or all those ballplayers on those long road trips, with nothing to do with themselves but read old hotel copies of FHM, and watch all those episodes of My Name Is Earl on DVD and Blu Ray. Wondering... wondering...

So now, it's up to you. What will you do when the Virus knocks on your door? What will you do to protect your friends and loved ones from this unseen killer of careers now that it has mutated into a line of professional team sports apparel for women, sold on the Internet, with the full approval of the mighty MajorLeagueBaseball.com?

Are you safe? Is Baseball safe? Is America safe?

Copyright © 2008 Bill Friday

Coming To The World Wide Web... It's Always Friday: The Show

2008-09-27T01:52:00.000-07:00

Just in time for 2009... It's Always Friday: THE SHOW!

In the works (as if the stories of Bill Friday weren't enough) It's Always Friday is going LIVE!

Coming in 2009, tune into the live, weekly Web Cast of It's Always Friday: THE SHOW. Keep looking at It's Always Friday and BrooWaha.com for updates and air times.

Best guess, look for It's Always Friday: THE SHOW on the first Friday of Spring, '09!

And while we're on the subject, It's Always Friday: THE SHOW is looking for contributors, correspondents (anyone recently fired by Harvey Levin), pretty much... YOU. All the fun of citizen journalism, but with considerably more face time.

You all know where to find me.

Trojans Win Highly Hyped Home Opener Over Ohio St. 35-3

2008-09-13T21:12:00.000-07:00

Hype is always overrated. On a day when USC dispels more doubts about the legitimacy of their National Championship plans, the Trojans put down a challenge from back-to-back runner-up Ohio State.

Hype is so overrated.

Everyone from talking heads on TV with large opinions, fueled by likely facts and figures told the story to butter-fed fans of Midwestern, smash-mouth football found reasons to believe that their team could overcome on the West Coast.

Hoping to become only the second team in the last seven years - the other being Stanford, just last year - to defeat a Pete Carroll team on the floor of the Coliseum, Jim Tressel's team took the field in the late afternoon, Saturday sun.

And then came the coin toss.

Stanford won their coin toss. Ohio State didn't.

They should have seen it coming.

From then on, in a game that only lived up to the hype from Heritage Hall, the #1 ranked USC Trojans methodically dismantled the #5 Ohio State Buckeyes 35 to 3.

In the first quarter, the Buckeyes mixed in two distinctly different looks on offense, alternating Senior quarterback Todd Boeckman and true Freshman Terrelle Pryor, sometimes every other play. For almost the entire quarter, the Trojans were held scoreless just by being kept off the field.

After the first 10 minutes, USC had only run three plays from scrimmage, and Ohio St. held a 3-0 lead. Three minutes later, the route was on.

Fullback Stanley Havili scored on a 35 yard touchdown pass from Mark Sanchez on a wheel route - a hold over from the days of Norm Chow. Then, after a quick change of possession in which Boeckman looked like a quarterback looking over his shoulder at his 18-year-old replacement, failed to move the ball. Another change of possession and quickly it was 14-3 USC.

Then, with just inside three minutes left in the first half, a Boeckman interception, thrown right into the hands of linebacker Rey Maualuga resulted in a 48-yard return for touchdown.

And on, and on, and on it went.

About the only interesting story in this highly-hyped blow-out was the scratch of Ohio State's pre-season Heisman Trophy candidate, injured running back Chris "Beanie" Wells. Unable to play courtesy of a sore toe, hurt in a non-contact play in the team's opening game, coach Jim Tressel decided against any last-minute emotional heroics. Put simply, no Beanie - no chance.

Despite the score, the Trojans' execution on offense was spectacularly sporadic. For every Joe McKnight run or Damian Williams touchdown catch, there were as many sloppy moments, as Sanchez ended the first half by throwing an end zone interception.

On the other side of the ball, the SC defense was as overwhelming as advertised, getting five quarterback sacks and, after allowing the first score of the game, nothing else.

Oh yeah... almost forgot... the hype.

For a game that most of the country believed would have been the match-up for last year's BCS Championship - if Stanford hadn't gotten in the way - this game had nothing to offer. Nothing except the same kind of speed-over-slow-motion, big-game, open-up-the-can-and-let-the-whuppin' begin that THE Ohio State University has had to deal with in the final game of each of the last two seasons.

For USC, this game only served to motivate them to remain focused on the last thing that can stop them from rolling into a BCS Championship of their own... themselves.

By the numbers, the only statistical victory for the Buckeyes was found in Time of Possession (32 minutes to 28 for USC). The Trojans out-gained Ohio State in total yards 348 to 207, and by game's end Mark Sanchez was being touted by ABC/ESPN heads as the next big Heisman pick after his 4-touchdown performance.

As for Tressel's Buckeyes, they play next week at home against Troy (maybe that name alone will cause flashbacks) University, while the Men of Troy (not Troy University... more hype, remember) are at Oregon State in two weeks.

And if you've learned nothing from today's game, remember this. Hype, like Ohio State, is overrated.

Ocho Cinco Changes His Name To... Ocho Cinco

2008-09-04T17:52:00.000-07:00

Has Chad Johnson, the Cincinnati Bengals Pro Bowl wide receiver and NFL fine magnet, made the ultimate end run against the pro football establishment... or joined it?

In 2006, Chad Johnson was fined $5,000 by then NFL commissioner Paul Tagliabue for violating the League's uniform dress code when he took the field in pre-game warm-ups with his legal name, "JOHNSON" covered up with his self-designated nickname, "OCHO CINCO". It should also be noted that, later in the same season, Johnson was fined $10,ooo by Tagliabue for holding up a sing during a game that read,

"Please don't fine me NFL".

In a sport so tightly governed, where every player must conform to the point where even accidental deviation from the League standard for sock length is met with a fine, Chad Johnson has become the standard-bearer for (staged) non-conformity. As the days till the start of the 2008 season became fewer and fewer, the sports world wondered if there was anything left in Johnson's creative repertoire.

Until today.

This afternoon, the National Football League was informed by Johnson through his attorney that Chad Johnson was no more. Today, #85 is legally to be referred to as...

Chad Javon OCHO CINCO.

But has Chad Ocho Cinco just taken the next step in his development as the ultimate football free spirit, or is this merely the first step in the mainstreaming of Chad Johnson, taking him from raw, unfiltered odd-man, and turning him into something as predictable as homogenized whole milk?

Obviously, with the legal name change, the NFL will have to find another ATM when it needs a quick five grand late on a Sunday afternoon. Maybe the competition committee could look into developing alternative revenue streams by doing something about Jessica Simpson's pink Tony Romo replica jersey she likes to wear at Texas Stadium. Maybe they could levy heavier fines against coaches like the Patriots Bill Belichick whenever he's in the mood to butcher another gray hoodie. Or how about dropping a solid $100K penalty whenever Melissa Stark, Erin Andrews or - God forbid - Michelle Tafoya, shows some cleavage during any interviews.

Ocho Cinco's coach, Marvin Lewis, who has repeatedly referred to the player as "Ocho Psycho" during interviews, may have seen this one coming. In a Q & A with an Associated Press reporter, when asked if the name change may have come about from Johnson being mentored by Baltimore Ravens linebacker and one-time football bad boy Ray Lewis, Marvin Lewis responded,

"That's a very good question," he said. "We're going to figure Chad out now?"

Till now, no one, not the Bengals, his coach, teammates, the press or the NFL, has been able to figure out Chad Johns... err, Ocho Cinco. And now they won't have to.

Please don't fine me!!!

Please!

With all the marketing options that will become immediately available to him in the wake off today's news, Ocho Cinco will be able to pay any and every fine that may come his way.

All because now, Ocho Cinco is one of them.

Obama, McCain All Even - Let The Real Games Begin

2008-08-21T11:42:00.001-07:00

Enough with the Olympics already! Michael Phelps is speechless (just ask him), China can't count to 16, and Kobe is more popular than Mao. BORING! This Monday, let the real games begin.

This is America.

Yet for two weeks, every four years, a small group of network executives sitting in a glass tower in the middle of Rockefeller Plaza, believes that we as a nation will choose to lose sleep over tape-delayed coverage of doubles table tennis on the Oxygen Network.

Stop avoiding me, Donaghy!

What America really wants for two weeks, every four years, is what we as a nation all embrace as The Real Games of summer. Live, in prime-time, and lacking any sign of gymnasts with baby teeth smiling for a panel of judges so their own government won't take their family's house away.

After the latest Reuters/Zogby poll, Barack Obama and John McCain are (plus or minus 3 percentage points) in a virtual dead heat.

At last, let The Real Games begin!

According to Zogby, McCain, who as recently as last month seemed as out of the race as the U.S. men's 4 x 100 relay did before Jason Lezak hit the water, now holds a 5 percentage point lead over Obama.

Of course as everyone knows, this being a game, leads are subject to change. And with Obama's highly anticipated "e-nouncement" of his Vice Presidential running-mate only days away, any perceived lead change in McCain's favor could be short-lived.

And with the NBC family of networks freed-up from the tyranny of covering women's freestyle trampoline, men's BMX, and mixed tens, team ultimate paint ball (yeah, and baseball got dropped from the program for 2012 - go figure), it looks like The Real Games will pull the real ratings a Jack Donaghy could only dream of.

And should Ralph Nader require equal time at any time during the two weeks of The Real Games, the NBC owned Sci Fi Channel has cleared space in it's schedule for televised rebuttals.

So for the remainder of this week, as you're watching Telemundo's coverage of the men's 30 kilometer walk, a vignette of Mary Carillo eating grilled scorpions on-a-stick while lying on an Accupunturist's table, or the phenomenally beautiful CGI enhanced closing ceremonies, remember...

The Real Games of Summer are almost here.

Jeff Kent Shoots His Mouth Off Once Too Often

2008-08-18T17:45:00.000-07:00

In an interview with the L.A. Times T.J. Simers, Dodger second baseman Jeff Kent says the unthinkable. Will his words become career suicide in Los Angeles?

"Vin Scully talks too much."

Five simple words from the mouth of future hall-of-famer, Los Angeles Dodger second baseman Jeff Kent. Five words that, even if he wanted to, he will never get back. Let them echo in your mind one more time.

"Vin Scully talks too much."

The reason for Jeff Kent telling Simers - and anyone else who will listen - why Vin Scully, hall-of-fame broadcaster and play-by-play voice of the team since 1950, talks too much?

Well, since the 40-year-old became the lucky Dodger to hit 3rd in a line-up that has newest superstar Manny Ramirez batting 4th, Kent has seen his offensive statistics magically return to his pre-Dodger glory days when, as a member of the San Francisco Giants, Kent experienced the same good fortune batting next to Barry Bonds in the Giants' order.

Coincidence? Don't tell that to Jeff Kent.

"Kent's batting average has increased by more than 20 points in the past 10 days since hitting third," Simers said in his column of August 17. "Manny being Manny has rejuvenated Kent [and] it's so much fun telling him that."

Kent's response was classic red-ass.

"It's so pathetic," he said. "You guys write about things happening in a week's time. That's why we don't like you. Baseball is a six-month game."

And if that weren't enough, Kent went on to tell everyone why they shouldn't listen to Scully.

"I've been here four years and I have never seen Vin Scully down here in the clubhouse," Kent said. "How does Vin Scully know me? How does Vin Scully know Derek Lowe?"

Oh, I don't know, the way play-by-play guys have been figuring it out since before the turn of the last century? As Simers said to Kent one more time:

"Scully is making the same point everyone else is making. He says the stats indicate you are having success hitting behind Ramirez - tell me that isn't the case."

To which Kent, exercising his ability to state the obvious, responded:

"See my answer to the first question. Listen, I'm so tired of talking about this stuff. It diminishes my whole career and all the hard work. I take it as an insult."I'm 40. You don't get better when you are 40."

Or, apparently, smarter.

When asked by Simers for a comment on Kent's thoughts, Vin Scully, as expected, declined.
In Kent's defense, throughout the interview, you can tell he thought he was being funny. Other famous people who thought they were being funny include King George III of England who, on July 4, 1776 wrote:

"Nothing of importance happened today".

And of course who can forget the words of the ancient Egyptian astrologer Ptolemy, who said:

"The earth is the center of the universe."

Or in Jeff Kent's case...

Just for the record, right now, in triple-A Las Vegas, the Dodgers are at work turning rookie third baseman Blake DeWitt into a second baseman. Kent, in the final weeks of his contract with Los Angeles, has for some time been expected to make this his last season as a player.

And if Kent, as pointed out by Scully, weren't hitting .500 since being dropped in front of an unconscious Man-Ram in the batting order, well...

Jeff Kent talks too much.

Don't let the club house door hit you on your red-ass as you go.

John Edwards: The Fool Waha Interview

2008-08-11T15:18:00.000-07:00

The former Democratic Presidential candidate did not, under any circumstances, not even for a moment, sit down for this exclusive interview with BrooWaha's Bill Friday.

John Edwards, so glad you could be here today.

For the moment, let me say thank you for having me here today. I am here right now, aren’t I?

Not as far as I know. First, let me tell you how much I’ve enjoyed the tour of your home. Just how many square feet is it?

28,200 on 102 acres.

Wow. I guess it’s true what they say about the size of a man’s carbon footprint.

It even has a 600 square foot guest bedroom over the guest garage.

You don’t say?

Yeah, well… lately I do.

Right, so… first question…

If you don’t mind Mr. Friday, before we begin, I’d like to read from a prepared statement if I may?

Well, I can’t say I was prepared for that but…

(Edwards clears his throat… whispers to Bill Friday)

Do I have time to fix my hair?

There are no cameras sir.

Hmm. Alright then. Here we go. It is inadequate to say to the people who believed in me that I am sorry, as it is inadequate to say to the people who love me that I am…

Senator?

…sorry. In the course of several campaigns, I started to believe that I was special and became increasingly egocentric and narcissistic…

Senator Edwards!

If you want to beat me up - feel free…

I’m thinking about it…

Mr. Friday, you cannot beat me up more than I have already beaten up myself.

Have you ever considered witness protection?

More and more every day.

Getting back to the questions… Mr. Edwards, in light of recent events… the allegations about this affair, your wife’s cancer… how do you respond to statements like this from your former campaign manager, David Bonior, who told the Associated Press that your supporters had, “been betrayed by [your] action[s].”

Mostly by ignoring them, Bill.

(laughs)

Seriously Bill, what I’ve found recently is that the best way to move forward is to never look back, because some might be gaining on you.

Wasn't that Satchel Paige?

Of course it was, of course it was! I’m glad you noticed that. Thank you, Bill.

Mr. Edwards, let’s get to the reason for this interview… on July 21st you were in Los Angeles for a press conference with L.A. Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa. At 2:40 the next morning, a reporter and staff photographer from the National Enquirer identified you coming out of a room at the Beverly Hills Hotel…

Aw c’mon now, Bill…

…then followed you into a restroom where, according to reports, you waited for fifteen minutes in one of the stalls until hotel security came and escorted you out of the hotel. What exactly were you doing in a public restroom for fifteen minutes?

I was on a conference call with Senator Larry Craig. It took a bit longer than I expected.

It seems as though you and the Mayor Villaraigosa have much in common. During your stay in L.A., did the Mayor have any words of advice for you in your time of personal disclosure?

He said, “Do your best to keep your mother-in-law away from the media.”

Mr. Edwards, you told ABC News that you personally never paid Rielle Hunter, yet Fred Baron, your former finance chairman, admitted on Friday that he made "regular payments" to Rielle Hunter, and that though unemployed, she lives in a $3 million home in Santa Barbara.

Like I have told everyone who will listen, I have never knowingly compensated this woman for anything, nor will I ever knowingly admit to such.

But you do admit to paying $114,000 to Ms. Hunter for her work on various campaign videos?

No, I do not! That’s just another Tabloid accusation, Bill. If Ms. Hunter was paid for services rendered to my campaign I will continue to maintain that I have no recollection of that until proven otherwise.

The question of a paternity test has been the subject of much speculation. Has a date been set yet for any such paternity test?

August, sometime between the 25th and the 28th.

During the Democratic National Convention?

I'm afraid so.

Is that a factor in why you’ll not be attending the convention?

That, and the Cabinet post I'll be receiving in exchange for my non-participation. The test is set for the Cayman Islands. Andrew Young and I had already made plans to be there at that time anyway… company time share, already booked. My people say if I don’t go, we’ll have to forfeit the deposit, you know. Anyway, I’m sure I’ll be able to make good use of the situation.

Staying on the subject of paternity, the birth certificate of the child…

Frances.

Right, um… Frances. The birth certificate lists no name for the father. Mr. Edwards, do you know who the father is?

Not yet.

Given the age of the child…

Frances.

Given the age of Frances, it would appear that you and Mr. Young were seeing Rielle Hunter at about the same time.

Bill, were you ever in a… fraternity?

But couldn’t you…

Mirthala Salinas was busy.

Senator…

Bill, please… call me “John.”

Alright then… John, doctors now say that your wife Elizabeth’s cancer is terminal - she is dying. Mr. Edwards…

John…

John… your wife is dying. What do you think her dying thought of you will be?

(silence).

Bill, may I finish reading from my prepared statement?

Sure.

“… I have been stripped bare and will now work with everything I have to help my family and others who need my help.”

(crumples paper)

John Edwards… thank you.

Manny Being Manny Hits Los Angeles At The Trading Deadline

2008-07-31T13:05:00.000-07:00

Ladies and Gentlemen, introducing... Manny Ramirez!

Far be it from me to tell you, "I told you so", so instead, let me just say...

I told you so!

Manny Ramirez is a Dodger.

Thanks to the help of the Pittsburgh Pirates (more on that in a minute), the Los Angeles Dodgers have acquired the services of perennial All-Star and future Hall of Famer, outfielder Manny Ramirez from the Boston Red Sox for the equivalent of a plane ticket and two bags of used baseballs.

The two bags of balls, part-time third baseman Andy LaRoche and minor league pitcher Bryan Morris. The plane ticket is the Dodgers' willingness to pay for the remainder of Ramirez' 2008 salary, or about $7 million through the end of the season, which the Dodgers now feel will be extending itself into the latter-stages of October.

For its trouble, Boston will get Pirates' outfielder Jason Bay and, for their own stretch run, an even more valuable commodity... peace of mind. Over the last several weeks, the Red Sox have grown increasingly unable to tolerate any longer the New England phenomenon known as "Manny being Manny", that is, the unexplainably wacko behavior of their highly unorthodox slugger.

For the Dodgers' trouble, they get baseball's unquestioned best right-handed hitter of the new millennium, and a clubhouse chemistry experiment that most observers see doomed to explosive failure. How "Manny being Manny" will play in a team already divided between a core of highly talented, "directionless youth" (Matt Kemp, James Loney, Russell Martin) and a pair of once-great, former stars (Jeff Kent, Nomar Garciaparra) who's veteran leadership skills seem more closely related to a kinder, gentler version of the ones once employed by Barry Bonds.

Now stir in just a little Manny and (tick, tick...).

Hey, on paper this is a great deal for the Dodgers, especially in the wake of the Angels pick-up of star first baseman Mark Teixeira from Atlanta. If the team can ride Manny being Manny - that is, the great-big, clean-up hitting slugger - into the World Series, the stadium revenues alone will pay for the 7 million dollar bump in the budget from now till the end of the year. Even if the team chooses not to exercise the player's $20 million, 2009 contract option, the experiment would be considered a stunning success. But like they say, games aren't won on paper.

But paper can catch fire if your team chemistry happens to explode along the way to the end of the season. And for the Dodgers, fire extinguishers at the ready, that road begins tonight, as they host the first-place Arizona Diamondbacks tonight at Dodger Stadium.

Where all eyes will be focused squarely on Manny being Manny.

Angels Finally Make Deadline Deal - Teixeira Is Newest Halo

2008-07-29T15:47:00.000-07:00

With the July 31st trade deadline fast approaching - and after years of not pulling the trigger - the Angels make their move, getting slugger Mark Teixeira. Can Manny Ramirez to the Dodgers be next?

It's about stinking time!

The Angels, after days if telling the baseball world they weren't ready to empty the cupboard for a temporary fix - and a shot at a possible 2nd World Championship - didn't. And yet the team sees itself as L.A.'s team did set itself up as the team to beat down the stretch, acquiring power-hitting first baseman Mark Teixeira from the Atlanta Braves for first baseman Casey Kotchman and minor league pitcher Stephen Marek.

If all the excitement the deal is generating around the Major Leagues seems a bit premature, one thing is for sure, the Angels, who seemingly never could pull off a last minute deal during the regime of former general manager Bill Stoneman pulled off what looks to be the deal of the year in getting Teixeira. In only giving up a relative career journeyman in Kotchman and a pitcher with a losing record and an ERA approaching four at AA Arkansas, it looks like the post-season excitement will once-again remain in Anaheim this October.

Although in the final year of his current contract - and as a client of often vilified super agent Scott Boras - the bringing in of Teixeira for little to no long-term player personnel cost begins to look like a genius move for the leaders in the American League West. Even if he walks at the end of the year (and any client of Scott Boras is likely to do just that), the Angels have upgraded considerably without losing the one thing the team was unwilling to part with. Any part of what is thought to be, top to bottom, the best pitching staff in the big leagues.

With Teixeira comes one thing the Angels have not had in a season that finds them maintaining the best record in baseball... a bat in the line-up to protect Vladimir Guererro. Now, with Teixeira projectded to bat behind Guererro in the order, when the play-offs roll around, teams will no longer be as likely to pitch around the man who had been the team's only legitimate power threat.

And if all things go according to plans, with all that additional World Series revenue the Angels hope to collect come October, maybe owner Arte Moreno won't hesitate to pay the going rate for the player who is expected to be worth between 15 and 20 million a season in 2009.

Yes, it's about stinking time!

In a related story, The Los Angeles Dodgers have been mentioned repeatedly today as possibly the team to step up in the Manny Being Manny Sweepstakes, now the the Boston Red Sox are seriously shopping their on-again/off-again head case and perennial all-star, left fielder Manny Ramirez. According to a report by ESPN's Peter Gammons, future Hall-Of-Famer Ramirez has officially worn out his welcome as Boston's lovable loon, and is on the block for any team willing to make the Sox a semi-credible offer.

Of all the teams interested in Man-Ram, the Dodgers have as much to offer as any almost-contender in the hunt.

What would the Dodgers have to give up to get a power-hitter of Ramirez' caliber (and oft-questioned) character? Pitching, hitting, defense... probably all three. It is the Dodgers' hopes that the Red Sox would settle for less talent and more peace of mind in the removal of Manny Ramirez from their plans for another World Championship. In July of 2004, the Sox set the precedent for chemistry over chaos when they traded a disgruntled Nomar Garciaparra, then the face of the franchise, at the trading deadline and went on to win their first Series since Babe Ruth was a pitcher.

Maybe they would be more interested in the same kind of a move for Manny. After all, he's sure to fit right in with a clubhouse lead by wound-tight second baseman Jeff Kent, a bunch of talented youngsters who haven't yet figured out how to win at the big league level, and of course that former Boston favorite, yep you guessed it, Nomar Garciaparra.

I can't wait to see how this all plays out.

Chino Hills Feels The Earth Move During Magnitude 5.4 Quake

2008-07-29T11:59:00.000-07:00

Just before 11:42 a.m. this morning, a moderate earthquake registering 5.4 on the Richter scale rumbled through a wide area of Southern California. Centered 29 miles east of Downtown Los Angeles.

Chino Hills, CA

The effects of the quake were reportedly felt as far south as San Diego and east all the way to Las Vegas. Graded as "moderate to strong" by the U.S. Geological Survey, the shaking was not the first felt today in California.

In the pre-dawn hours, a small quake, centered in Barstow and registering 3.1 was felt at 5:04 a.m.

An interesting, if not somewhat alarming possibility reported by CBS 2 news reporter Kent Schocknek (no stranger to earthquakes in Southern California) is the notion that 1 in 20 earthquakes reported are classified as a "fore-shock" of an imminent, larger quake. The incident of this morning's 3.1 Barstow quake, followed less than 6 hours later by the 5.6 Chino Hills quake, tends to corroborate this theory as it was reported.

However, if the Barstow and Chino Hills quakes are not related, there remains a 1 in 20 possibility of another, larger quake yet to come.

On a personal note, in Redondo Beach, this reporter was on the third floor of a structure that sits approximately one mile from the Pacific Ocean. My initial observation was the thought that a worker for the building was on the roof above, walking heavily and quickly from one side of the building to the other. At that point lights in the building flickered and flashed, followed by a swaying of the room complete with curtains moving on the curtain rods for the next 10 to 15 seconds.

By 12:30 p.m. a total of 10 aftershocks had been felt, registering as strong as 3.8.

As usually experienced at the time of a stronger quake, cell phones were rendered useless, however regular land-line phone service remained on.

Malice At The Palace - 2: The Sparks - Shock Brawl

2008-07-23T17:13:00.000-07:00

Deeee-troit Basket-baaaaall!!!!! Has equality finally come to the WNBA?

The WNBA has finally arrived!

In a game seen live by tens of hundreds of viewers on ESPN 2 Tuesday (and thousands more than that today on YouTube), the Los Angeles Sparks and the Detroit Shock played an otherwise meaningless regular-season game in Auburn Hills.

Meaningless until only 4.5 seconds remained when, after a brief, under-the-basket scuffle between Shock forward Cheryl Ford and Sparks rookie Candace Parker. Immediately after the second of two free throws by L.A.'s Marie Ferdinand-Harris made the score 82-78 in favor of the visiting Sparks, Detroit's Plenette Pierson initiated contact with Parker, causing last year's college player of the year to fall to the floor.

Then it was on.

Pierson then delivered a walking hip check to the head of the downed Parker while she attempted to regain her feet, stepping knees-first into the face of the Sparks forward. Benches emptied, including members of the Detroit coaching staff Rick Mahorn and head coach Bill Laimbeer, both former players with the NBA's Detroit Pistons, as well as Sparks coach - and former Laker - Michael Cooper.

Mahorn and Laimbeer, along with Dennis Rodman made up the core of what was known as the "Bad Boys", helping the team to two championships in the late '80s and early '90s.

As referees and players restrained other players, Mahorn actually shoved Sparks center and face of the league Lisa Leslie, with Leslie falling, and another Sparks teammate, DeLisha Milton-Jones, shoving Mahorn and even striking him from behind. While this was taking place near the teams' benches, another conflict, this between Ford (the daughter of former NBA all-star Karl Malone) and Shock teammate Pierson. While attempting to restrain Pierson from further involvement in the melee, Ford sprained her right knee, and had to be taken off the court in a wheel chair.

Damn the Equal Rights Amendment. As of today, women's equality is here to stay.

It was just four years ago that, in what was then called "The Malice at the Palace", the Pistons and Indiana Pacers rumbled on and off the court in an incident that became the symbol for all that is wrong with the sport.

And now, right or wrong, the WNBA has blazed a trail toward equal rights that Hillary Clinton, or a long-dead 27th Amendment to the Constitution could never do.

By the way, the Sparks won the game, 84-81.

A few unintentionally humorous, post-game comments by some of the principals involved to explain what happened in this ground-breaking moment:

“The game was getting out of hand physical-wise, and I warned [the ref] about that and she gave me a warning,” said the local Palos Verdes high school graduate Laimbeer. “But it started to escalate, and players are going to get emotional, and it happens sometimes.

“It’s unfortunate, but it happens.”

Ejectee Rick Mahorn saw the happening this way:

“I was trying to protect the whole game, the integrity of the game,” Mahorn said.

Despite video evidence to the contrary, the former "Bad Boy" elaborated on his version of the fight.

“The WNBA is very special to me because I have four daughters," Mahorn elaborated. "I don’t even raise my hand to them, and I would never push a woman. This game, I love this game too much.”

Candace Parker, the new face of the WNBA, explained her role in what happened this way during post-game comments:

“I don’t even recall what happened — I’ll have to look at the tape. I don’t really remember any of it.”

Finally, Milton-Jones put all things into perspective like this:

“This isn’t what we want to happen. We are trying to demonstrate class and integrity and the good things about basketball. This was unfortunate, but sometimes these things happen in basketball."

Except that, before yesterday, these things never happened in a WNBA game.

All things now being equal, let's see if this is as Milton-Jones wants us to believe, that this is just an unfortunate anomaly, and not just the tip of a soon-to-be fully-exposed iceberg of the way things really are.

All things being equal, Let's hope not.

Bill Friday Is On Assignment

2008-07-10T00:33:00.000-07:00

As seen in the pages of Broowaha.com, Bill Friday is taking a few days off to recharge...

Aw c'mon, who am I trying to kid. Writers block is a terrible thing, afflicting millions of otherwise-creative souls with its gripping, clenching (it sounds like the symptoms of something that could really use a little more fiber in the diet), roll over and play dead malaise.

That would be me.

Okay, so I haven't reinvented the screenplay, or written an article for Broowaha in the last couple of weeks. So what?

What I have done is...

I'll have to get back to you on that.

The Happening: Could A Village Make Sense Of These Signs?

2008-06-14T06:30:00.000-07:00

"THE HAPPENING", the latest film by the former genius M. Night Shyamalan, begs many questions. Maybe the biggest question of all is, "Mark Wahlberg?"

The Sixth Sense... Unbreakable... Signs...

In the early days of the career of writer/director M. Night Shyamalan, these films were like the breaking of the day after the long cinematic darkness. Phrases like, ..."not since Hitchcock..." and, "...if only Orson Welles..." were thrown as loosely around Hollywood as company credit cards at a strip club south of Downtown.

In these motion pictures, a twenty-something outsider took three larger-than-life box office stars (Bruce Willis, Samuel L. Jackson and Mel Gibson) and somehow caused these big-dollar, name-above-the-title giants to fill the everyman persona of ordinary folk, till movie-goers couldn't wait for more.

Even as the shiny new was rubbing off of Night's bright career with the appearance of The Village, followed by Lady In The Water, the day for Night, though increasingly cloudy, still had patches of brilliance (like when the movie critic gets eaten by a fairytale wolf while hiding in the laundry room in Lady), you still knew that as studio execs grew tired of the same old stories, the only thing keeping good Night from straight-to-DVD hell was an Academy Award and Shyamalan's ability to get Hollywood A-listers to line up to work for him.

Not only were there the Willis/Jackson/Gibson connection, but Shyamalan continued to attract a fresh wave of newer talent in multiple Oscar nominees Haley Joel Osment, Joaquin Phoenix and Paul Giamatti, even 2002 Best Actor winner Adrien Brody. From 1999 to 2006, it seemed like the toughest club in Hollywood for getting past the velvet ropes was the "Lead Role by an Actor in a film by M. Night Shyamalan" club.

Which brings us to today.

The word is out. First whispered by agents, then carried along the wind on cocktail napkin memos and mom's basement bloggers all across the country and beyond. "Avoid this guy like the Ishtar", and "You're better off doing the sequel to Superman Returns." Even Kevin Spacey passed.

So today, June 13, 2008, we welcome the premier of The Happening... a film by M. Night Shyamalan... starring...

Mark Wahlberg.

Mark Wahlberg has worked with some of Hollywood's best-known directors. The list includes Best Director winner Martin Scorsese, as well as Paul Thomas Anderson (Boogie Nights; There Will Be Blood), Tim Burton, Jonathan Demme, Wolfgang Peterson and John Singleton. Yet, he is still remembered more as a former underwear model and one-time musical star(?). In fact, Mark Wahlberg has yet to be a part of any film that has generated big numbers that didn't have George Clooney's name on it.

So why would the has-been director turn to the never-was actor to resurrect each other's careers? My guess is that the now-veteran director may have pulled a fast one on his star.

In interviews leading up to the premier of The Happening, Wahlberg has said,

"Night described this movie as Kramer vs Kramer meets The Birds."

Which explains it all. Wahlberg probably hasn't seen either movie, so it must have been simple for Shyamalan to drop this used tea bag of a script on the actor best remembered for playing opposite Helena Bonham Carter in chimpanzee make-up.

Then there's that R rating thing. This is the first M. Night Shyamalan film ever to have earned an R from the MPAA. So important is The Happening's R that is the over one month of t.v. ads for the picture, the R is displayed in blood red while an announcer tells you about it over pictures of well-edited depictions of violence. The R campaign takes on an even more heightened sense of marketing urgency when you hear the director himself say in an interview,

"One of the things that I said to everybody, the cast and crew, I said, 'This is a B movie. Let's get ourselves straight here. This is just a great B movie. We're making the best B movie we can here. That's our job. We're making a B movie'."

Nothing like lowering expectations on the success of a project with production costs estimated at around $67 million.

So what will become of The Happening? Will it return M. Night Shyamalan to the top of the food chain in Hollywood? What about Mark Wahlberg? Will his new picture prove that he, like all of Shyamalan's other lead actors is, in fact, a stand-alone box office draw?

If it doesn't, I just hope that I, as the critic of Shyamalan's apocalyptic fairytale, won't meet as untimely an ending as the cranky film critic in Lady In The Water.