OLD 210 West Magazine

He'll Sleep When He's Dead: The Dave Attell Interview

With a new live CD, "Skanks for the Memories," and a DVD of uncensored Insomniac episodes on the shelves, an extremely ingratiating and friendly Attell was kind enough to speak to 210 West by phone about the current season of Insomniac, writing for Saturday Night Live and what exactly the deal is with Pootie Tang.

By Erik Pepple
210 west Pop Culture Editor [send email]

For 16 years Dave Attell has earned a reputation as a comic’s comic. Guys like David Cross (Mr. Show) have claimed that it’s nearly impossible to follow an Attell set and Jimmy Kimmel has called him one of the best comics working today.

Attell’s notorious, some would say obsessive, work ethic results in a stand-up act that is a bracing mix of the insightful and the raunchy. Much like his spiritual brethren George Carlin and Richard Pryor, Attell is capable of making the profane poetic. Touching on topics ranging from masturbation, pornography, midgets and the benefits of having a parrot, he has mastered what he has called “the educated dick joke.”

His gifts as a stand-up have resulted in spending a season as a writer on Saturday Night Live, a recurring role on Everybody Loves Raymond, a stint as “The Ugly American” on The Daily Show and perhaps most interestingly a role in the cult hit Pootie Tang. But more than that, it’s been his hit Comedy Central show Insomniac (Thursdays at 10 p.m.) that has really brought Attell to the attention of a group other than die hard comedy fans.

Dubbed “E!’s Wild On for ugly people,” Insomniac follows Attell from city to city as he patrols the streets looking for other night crawlers. The alcohol- and nicotine-drenched half-hour finds Attell interviewing fellow drunks, hookers, street sweepers, the occasional porn star and in one episode a guy who cleans up crime scenes. It is a fascinating, good-natured travelogue about the types of people who thrive at night and who take the jobs that would make most of us cringe.

Insomniac has now entered its fourth and final season, and is at the height of its popularity. This season will find Attell and company going overseas, breaking the seven deadly sins and taking on a co-host for a special episode.

With a new live CD, "Skanks for the Memories," and a DVD of uncensored Insomniac episodes on the shelves, an extremely ingratiating and friendly Attell was kind enough to speak to 210 West by phone about the current season of Insomniac, writing for Saturday Night Live and what exactly the deal is with Pootie Tang.

210 West: So rumor has it that this is the last season for Insomniac.

Dave Attell: Yes, it is. We may come back for a series of specials, you know, for big events like the Indianapolis 500, stuff like that.

210W: So why go out now while the show seems to be at the height of its popularity?

DA: The show has sort of become a victim of its own popularity. It’s getting harder and harder to slide in and out of places anymore. In a lot of instances it’s no longer about the Q and A with drunks and people with cool late night jobs, it’s a lot of people using it as a vehicle to get on TV and use it as a soapbox to say things like “Did you know people are raping the rainforests!?”

210W: You’re missing the anonymity of the earlier seasons, then?

DA: Yeah, the undercover aspect is almost completely blown. And in some ways the show can be a grind and when it starts to feel like a grind it can get stale.
I love that people have found the show, though, it’s a great feeling. I never thought it would be this successful.

210W: Can you tell me anything about the upcoming season?

DA: This season we went overseas to London, Dublin and Amsterdam. And we have episodes in Honolulu, Columbus, Vegas, among others. The show in Amsterdam (the season premiere) is an hour and we did some stuff like break the seven deadly sins.

210W: Is there a noticeable difference doing the show overseas than here in the U.S.?

DA: Yeah, doing the show overseas is the complete opposite of how it’s done here. In London and Dublin people aren’t used to cameras coming into pubs so it was difficult to find people to talk to, so there was a lot of table hopping. Another big difference is that security is so tight in the U.S. that we can’t get in or around government buildings or things like meat packing plants. In London we were able to hang out on the London Bridge, which is like going to the roof of the White House in the United States.

210W: Were you overseas before or during the Iraq war? What was the attitude like?

DA: We were there before the war so we had a lot of people getting on camera trying to get messages to the government and things like “Tell Bush this and that.”

210W: This season the Columbus, Ohio, episode features a co-host; how did that come about? How did it alter the dynamic of how you host the show?

DA: The Columbus show is the result of an e-mail contest on the website. We had a lot of entries from all over the place and from all kinds of people. And the goal, the prize along with co-hosting, was $1,000, and we wanted to give it to someone who needed help to get on their feet. And the guy who won (James Thornburg) was cool, a regular guy and he had just come back from the Peace Corps where he had been doing all these good works and it was a chance to just help someone out, get him a start. $1,000 may not be a lot, but it’s enough to find a place to stay for a month or so.

And Columbus was cool, because school was out so we really just got the chance to just hang out with regular people.

210W: You’ve done these shows all over the place. Do you notice a difference between the degrees of depravity or drunkenness, or the scenes in the Midwest versus the coasts?

DA: Everyone thinks that New York and Los Angeles are these really glamorous party cities with these really glamorous scenes and that’s kind of true, there’s certainly that aspect to it. But generally because everything is turning into a chain, it’s turning more and more like everywhere else. The goal of the show has always been to find wild and cool stuff and drinking and with franchises like Planet Hollywood opening up all over it’s getting harder and harder.

210W: Did you ever want to take the show to these smaller cities and towns out in the boondocks that no one would ever think to go?

DA: Well the way we do the show is that we go out in towns where I do my stand-up act. But I’d love to go to places off the map and to these border towns and stuff like that. The problem is, or so I’ve been told, is that you need a way to get the equipment in and out and have easy access to equipment like battery belts and stuff and a lot of theses smaller towns with 500 people don’t have easy access to things like that. There’s not really a support staff that can accommodate a television crew.

210W: How long have you been a working stand-up comic? Was there some sort of a compulsion do it?

DA: I’ve been a stand-up for 16 years. There is a compulsion to do it, but what I like about stand-up is it’s basically just you and you don’t have to deal with bullshit like hair and make-up. I don’t consider myself a TV star; I’m just a guy with a show that people seem to like. And even though I’ve been at it for a long time, it’s only been 8 years or so since I’ve been making a living at it, so most of the time I was working day jobs, then at night doing my act and getting drunk. You’d do it until you got fired from your day job or knew when to fire yourself.

210W: You were a writer for Saturday Night Live, can you tell me what that was like?

DA: I’m not a writer, I’ve done writing work, but I’m not a writer. On Insomniac, there is no writing with the exception of the little opening intros.
With SNL it is sort of like a pit bull fight where the biggest and best will ultimately emerge. It’s really cool, though, and it taught me a lot about show business and the pecking orders and when I was writing for them I guess I was more naïve.
It wasn’t a dream of mine or anything, but that show is America’s sweetheart, isn’t it? And it was definitely a cool experience, but a lot times I’d show up, do my job and as part of my stand-up compulsion I’d leave to do stand-up while everyone else was hanging out.

210W: A year or so ago I interviewed Lewis Black and he mentioned that there was a possibility of you guys doing a tour together. Is that still an option?

DA: I love Lewis Black. He’s great and he’s not a “punch line” comic. He does these college shows and everyone always thinks he’s the funniest act they bring in.

And I’m looking at touring with Lewis and someone like Mitch Hedberg. Between us we could sell out a theatre, even though I’m not a theatre comic; I think it’d be interesting.

210W: I have one last question that’s an outgrowth from working in a video store when Pootie Tang was released. What’s the deal with the cult that is springing up around that movie?

DA: I don’t know. But that’s like trying to crack the new Taliban code figuring that out. From what I’ve heard from the writer and director, Louis CK, who is another great comic, is that it got finagled by the studios. Regardless, it is really cool to be part of a movie that is becoming this interesting cult item.

Ang Lee's Hulk: Ambitious misfire

Lee and company get credit for trying, but the flop sweat shows.

Hulk
Rated: PG-13
Starring: Eric Bana. Jennifer Connelly, Sam Elliot and Nick Nolte
Directed by: Ang Lee
140 minutes
GRADE: C

By Erik Pepple
210 west Pop Culture Editor [send email]

Generally, the first rule of thumb when it comes to adaptations is that those involved in the adapting should not be ashamed of the source material. To see room for improvement or to rigorously develop subtexts and supratexts is one thing; but to harbor a seeming disdain for the source is another.

In interviews, director Ang Lee and co-screenwriter James Schamus (both of Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon fame) have tried hard to separate the movie version of the Hulk from the comic books. It’s not a piece of pulp art, they infer, it’s a tragedy, it’s Shakespearean, and it’s a deeply serious meditation on the inner rage of the contemporary man. And, certainly, those interpretations of the Hulk exist and are built into the structure of the comics. But primarily it’s pulp art, and pulp art, even at its most serious, lets the air in to let its characters breathe. With their eagerly awaited film version of the Hulk, Lee and Schamus have stifled and choked all the fun and lightness out of their source material.

The cast and crew of the Hulk are certainly making an admirable effort to beef up the Hulk story, but in attempting to make the story of this post-modern Prometheus edge into Greek tragedy, they have forgotten that the reason most folks want to read a comic or see a comic adaptation is to have fun. The subtexts of all great comic adaptations (namely Batman, Spider-Man, Ghost World and Superman) all speak for themselves, they are not forced down the viewer’s throat; they simply float about in the ether of the storytelling. The directors and writers of those movies were not scared to let the fun sidle up to serious themes. Lee and his crew are so determined to make sure that the audience “gets it” that the movie becomes as cumbersome and top-heavy as the Hulk itself.

Visually, the picture is (no pun intended) a marvel. Lee and his editors have adopted a style inspired by everyone from Fritz Lang to Hal Ashby’s editorial work on the original Thomas Crown Affair to television’s 24, and it works ingeniously. The screen splits into panels that offer different perspectives on con-current scenes and gives the film a sense of life that it desperately lacks. In fact, the Hulk looks more like a comic book than most comic adaptations have. Even the CGI Hulk looks pretty good -- especially in close-up; he’s detailed and has a nice range of expression; even if at a distance he tends to look like Shrek with a hemorrhoid. It’s a shame then that Lee and company didn’t follow through with their visual scheme and tailor the script in the same fashion.

What we get are lots of scenes of people standing around looking concerned and dropping their voices an octave to say things to the effect of “I have a rage I do not understand,” and “Tell me Bruce, tell me what happened in that room so long ago?” Bana and Connelly, gifted actors each, do what they can, but they can’t do much as they are so burdened by the script’s extremely one-dimensional characterizations. The characters are so stifled and repressed it becomes a chore to watch them, except for Nolte and Elliot who inject what human life there is into the picture. For the most part, the characters are given no moments of humor or lightness. And let’s face it a movie about a 15-foot-tall green giant has an inherent humor about it. The image of a not-so-jolly green giant trundling down a thoroughfare is funny. But the hermetically sealed style of Lee keeps any levity at arm’s length.

Certainly, it’s clear that Lee’s ambitions are laudable. He wants to make a contemporary Universal Pictures monster movie a la Frankenstein. But what is missing, the thing that made those movies so good, is a sense of humanity. Frankenstein and King Kong only attacked when provoked, and even then they seemed racked by guilt. On top of that, they seemed real; they didn’t look like an avatar from a video game. With the Hulk, he just stomps about; paying no mind to the innocents he may destroy. He is focused on a self-centered quest for a dame who left him. Furthermore, the Hulk as imagined by CGI is certainly detailed, but it’s cold. We’re watching a video game character yearn, and where’s the humanity in that?

By the two-hour point, though, the Hulk’s painfully slow pace and ponderous dialogue become so stuffy that even watching Sam Elliot and Nick Nolte ham it up becomes dull. Nolte and Bana finally get a lovely moment toward the end where they confront past and present demons. Staged like a play, it generates a genuine warmth and emotion, but only to have the rug pulled out from under it in an effort to turn the climactic battle into the shittiest wrestling match that never made it on the WWE.

When the Hulk reaches its ridiculous epilogue in the rain forests of Brazil, Lee has piled on themes of Oedipal rage, contemporary angst, male confusion, daddy rage, questions about genetics, man playing God, even going so far as to almost turn into a big, green version of the Celestine Prophecy. While it’s great that Lee wants to try something different, his approach seems to be to all but superficially separate the Hulk from its origins in the world of pulp art. By making the subtext into text, he creates a textual distance that puts an unneeded tension between its themes and ideas and in the end it ultimately collapses under its own weight.

'Godfather' as instruction manual

Vince Guerrieri revisits the classic that -- in conjunction with his father -- taught him life lessons.

By Vince Guerrieri
210 west Managing Editor [send email]

When I was in high school, my father took me to the hospital to visit his father. As we walked up the steps, Dad stopped me. I turned to face him, and he turned up the collar of my coat.

"Put your hands in your pockets," he told me. "Make it look like you have a gun."

The Godfather has hung heavily in my consciousness since my father sat me down when I was 12 and made me watch the movie just for one line, uttered by Sonny Corleone as the family’s planning to hide a gun in the men’s room of the restaurant where his brother Mike will meet the Turk..

"I want you to find someone good, and I mean very good, to plant that gun," Sonny said. "I don’t want my brother coming out of the bathroom with just his dick in his hands." At that point, my father would shout, "But it would be loaded!!"

I was required to watch all three Godfathers. For the record, III wasn’t bad on its own merits, but just didn’t stack up to the two parts that preceded it. The first two movies are modern classics, but to those of us whose names end in a vowel, it’s a way of life. My grandfather told me he was going to have the theme from the movie played at my wedding. Even people who don’t know manicotti from linguini have taken Mario Puzo’s saga to heart. I have a friend who’s about as white as can be, and he has quotes from the movie on his Palm Pilot (Italian Americans don’t have Palm Pilots. We don’t like to leave a paper trail. In fact, I’m torn about writing this down).

All I needed to know in life, I learned from The Godfather. And I don’t just mean when it’s appropriate to have in-laws or siblings killed. I mean real life lessons for those of us who’ll never preside over a criminal empire, er, a large olive oil importing company.

"A man who doesn’t spend time with his family can never be a real man."
Pretty self-explanatory. The whole point of the movie is that the actions are taken to preserve and protect the family, because the family is the only entity that will rise up and defend you. Don’t ever take sides against the family. Kinda gives a whole new sinister interpretation to the Republicans’ pleas for "family values."

"We’re both part of the same hypocrisy, senator."
The line between organized crime and politics is very thin and blurry, and mostly boils down to where you buy your suits. People with power are just as corrupt, if not more so, than the rest of us. Men we think are honorable statesmen can be just as vulgar. Don’t believe me? Compare Richard Nixon’s tapes to those taken of John Gotti at the Ravenite Social Club. See who has more expletives deleted.

Don Corleone sent Tom Hagen to law school with the idea that a lawyer with a briefcase can steal more than a thousand men with guns and masks. (One of my non-Italian friends asked why anyone would want one man with a gun and mask, let alone more than a thousand.) Thievery on a small scale clogs America’s courts and prisons. Thievery on a large scale makes them take your company’s name off the ballpark.

"Do you know how naïve you sound, Michael? Presidents and senators don’t have men killed!" "Who’s being naïve?"

"Leave the gun. Take the cannoli."
Italians believe that there is no problem that can’t be solved over dinner. Some wine, maybe some antipasto, pasta, some meat, dessert, and finished off with coffee, if for no other reason than to keep everyone awake.

A scene in the book that didn’t make it into the movie showed Momma Corleone cooking after finding out her son had been killed. "In her experience," Puzo wrote, "Pain didn’t dull hunger. The taking of food dulled pain. She would have been offended if someone had offered a drug to sedate her, but a cup of coffee and a crust of bread were another matter."

While the family’s going to the mattresses, they make spaghetti. When men are guarding the house, Clemenza’s making spaghetti and singing, "Mikey, why don’t you tell that nice girl you love her. I lova you with alla my heart, if I don’t see you againa soon I’ma gonna die…" If I closed my eyes, I saw my grandfather. When Mikey goes to meet the Turk, he does so over veal parmagiana at a restaurant. I hope he enjoyed it, because after killing two people there, they’ll probably never let him come back.

"I’m gonna make him an offer he can’t refuse."
The most important lesson, it could have been taken directly from Machiavelli himself. Never negotiate out of weakness. Don’t be afraid to say "boo" to anyone. More often than not, it’s not like they’ll kill you. Always be able to back up your promises, or your threats. The winner of any conflict isn’t the strongest, or the smartest. It’s a question of will. If you’re willing to kill a racehorse just to get a movie role for your godson, you’ll probably get it.

That’s what I learned. But it’s not all. If you’ve seen the movie, though, you know I won’t tell you everything I’ve learned. It’s like Vito told Sonny, "Never let anyone outside the family know what you’re thinking…"

Never a dull moment at Casa Canseco

Dan Nied wonders why he's surprised to find out Jose Canseco's been juicing.

By Dan Nied [send email]

Jose Canseco and steroids?

No way, not the Jose Canseco I know.

Not the Jose Canseco who said that 85 percent of Major League Baseball players were juicing. Not the Jose Canseco that has become one of the greatest running real life comedy shows of this era.

Jose Canseco would never juice.

Wait, all right, maybe he would.

So why am I surprised to learn that Canseco was arrested Friday for testing positive for steroids, a violation of his parole?

Maybe it is because the guy has been retired for a few years. I mean, why would he need them?

But then he does like to get into fights now and again, as his conviction for brawling with brother Ozzie at his side suggests.

But violating parole for that conviction landed him under house arrest. Who’s he gonna rumble with at home? Maybe a fight to the death with the dog in the family pool?

Of course, Canseco recently opened his home to the public. For $2,500 you can spend four hours at Canseco Manor. Maybe he was prepping in case one of his patrons got mouthy.

With this latest incident, a retired athlete who can’t leave home juicing up, the question that begs to be asked is this:

Can a man be this fucking stupid?

Look, Jose, I understood when you wanted to pitch for the Rangers back in your playing days. We all would have done that just to live out a dream. Fine.

I figured you were just a little crazy when you made the steroid claim about baseball. When you said race was a factor in the Sammy Sosa Corked bat frenzy, I thought you might have been a just a little misguided.
And the whole “spend a day with Jose” thing was reprehensible, but still entertaining.

But now this? What are we to do in this country when a great man like Jose Canseco falls to the bottom more times than Elmer Fudd in a rabbit cage?

Should we just dismiss him as a perpetual anti-example of how to live our lives? Maybe we should applaud the fact that none of us actually are him?

Maybe we should just ignore him and hope that he goes away.

But that would be no fun. This guy needs his own reality TV show. We need to see his stupidity on a weekly basis.

Maybe Jose and Mike Tyson could get a show. (Try and stop me from watching.)

Then we could have an answer to the earlier question.

I’m just afraid the answer would be: yes, a man can be, and is, this fucking stupid.

The old Tiger? Nowhere to be seen

Joel Hammond watched the US Open and saw more Tiger in Jim Furyk than in Tiger Woods.

By Joel Hammond
210 west Writer [send email]

Jim Furyk won the 103rd US Open last weekend, holding off a young Australian named Stephen Leaney and a lovely female flasher on his 66th hole.

With the weekend's eyes watching, nearly every other golfer who made Olympia Fields look more like a ladies' course in the first two rounds disappeared faster than Milli Vanilli. But not Furyk, who instead resembled another golfer on the Professional Golf Association's tour: Eldrick "Tiger" Woods.

Eldrick, though, was nowhere to be seen; except of course by the rest of those in the field who, like Mr. Woods, were dropping like flies to the bottom of the leaderboard.

Vijay Singh, just weeks removed from being chastised for ripping Annika Sorenstam, and promptly winning the Colonial, shot 78 in the final round and finished three over.

David Duval missed the cut. Nick Price, nine under at one point during Saturday's third round, shot 75 and finished even.

Phil Mickelson, supposedly Woods' biggest challenger, finished nine over and didn't shoot a round under par.

Furyk, though, seemed unfazed by the toughening course and the grit it takes to win an Open, finishing in 72, showing intestinal fortitude like no other during the final round. After Leaney birdied 13 to move within three, Furyk calmly knocked his approach at 14 within six feet and sunk the putt to essentially crush Leaney's spirit and win the Open.

Sounds like Tiger. The old Tiger.

Furyk bogeyed 17 and 18, which played as hard as any other holes on the course Sunday, and still took the championship by three.

Sounds like Tiger. The old Tiger.

No, Tiger was in no position to show how tough he was on Sunday at Olympia Fields, because he was too busy showing just how far he has slipped since last June, when he overcame raucous crowds at New York's public Bethpage Black to win the Open. One writer made the assertion this weekend that, as Woods said himself, that the world No. 1 is not in a slump, despite finishing badly in the two majors thus far this year. He has, after all, still won three times and is still cashing some large paychecks.

That doesn't sound like Tiger.

Fourteen golfers were under par at the beginning of the final round. Four finished in red numbers, two of whom finished just a stroke under.

None were Tiger Woods. His second round, which showed flashes of the golfer we've all come to expect, put him in perfect position entering Saturday's round, three strokes behind the leader and ready to pounce after a 65.

Instead, he bogeyed the first after a spectator whistled at the top of his backswing, and never recovered, struggling to a 75. He shot 72 Sunday, four-putting the ninth.

Supposedly the best and toughest golfer in the world seemingly allowed a spectator and an ensuing bogey ruin the third round of a major championship.
He's won an astounding seven of the last 15 majors on tour, and is still easily the most popular draw on tour. That's fine if you're Anna Kournikova.

But popularity contests aren't what Tiger is most concerned about winning.
Furyk's mental tenacity was the ultimate decider in this championship.

That sounds like Tiger.

But not anymore.

Motor City's lookin' for love

There's a hole in Detroit's heart where Sanders and Yzerman used to be. Dan Nied thinks Charles Rogers and Darko Milicic could be just the guys to fill the vacancy.

By Dan Nied [send email]

Charlie and Darko.

Detroit needs this.

In a city that was shunned four years ago by arguably its greatest athlete ever, Barry Sanders, and will see arguably its favorite athlete ever, Steve Yzerman, retire within the next three years, Charles Rogers and Darko Milicic are coming along in a very crucial time.

Honestly, when Barry walked away in 1999, it wasn’t all that detrimental to Detroit’s sporting world. We still had Yzerman and Sergei Fedorov. Grant Hill was supposedly just about to hit his peak and the Lions weren’t going to be any good anyway.

But things changed. Hill went to the Magic and did a fine disappearing act. Yzerman, while still beloved, is now a shell of his former self and the Lions went into the can the last two years, winning just five games. Mix that with Fedorov turning down a $10 million per year contract offer this season and things aren’t looking up right now.

This is the most important transition period in Detroit’s recent history.

Right now, Ben Wallace, a guy who averaged six points per game for the Pistons last year, is the most nationally recognized man in Detroit sports.

Something, someone, has to give to this city so the city can give back to them.

We need Charlie and Darko.
Charlie is the charismatic, homegrown wide receiver the Lions chose with the No. 2 pick in the draft. He has blazing speed and a chip on his shoulder and could bring major national attention if he forms chemistry with second-year quarterback Joey Harrington.

Darko is a 17-year old, 7-foot enigma the Pistons will most likely draft with the second pick on June 26. He has an impressive all around game and may have the skills to help Ben Wallace rebound. Darko could be a difference maker.

Their potential is sky high; Detroit needs them to fulfill it. If Charlie can play like he did in his college days at Michigan State, he will instantly become a fan favorite.

If Darko can ease into a leading role with the Pistons, and become the Dirk Nowitzki-type player everyone expects, then there will be nothing but unconditional love from the people of Detroit.

And, with the parallels between the two drawn with hype and draft status, if Charlie and Darko can do it together, they might just save a sports city that is on the verge of a deep depression.

The Tigers may never see .500 again, the Red Wings will be victimized by the new NHL in 2004, the Pistons were just exposed by the Nets in the Eastern Conference Finals and the Lions have no where to go but up and only a few rungs on the ladder to start climbing.

And that is only our sports teams.

Mayor Kwame Kilpatrick is neck-deep in a security scandal that somehow did not surprise anyone. Abandoned buildings accompany Detroit’s so-called “Entertainment district” and are impossible not to walk by on your way to Ford Field or Comerica Park.

Race riots in nearby Benton Harbor this week are shaking the city at its core with memories of the 1967 riots. Back then, a shell-shocked Detroit was brought together again by the world series win of the 1968 Tigers.

The only thing Detroit really has is its sports passion.

We need Charlie and Darko.

Hey, Detroit fan, imagine if, during a week in November, Charlie catches 10 balls for 140 yards and two touchdowns, and Darko averages 30 points and 14 rebounds per night.

Can you see the potential impact of Charlie and Darko? Can you see what they would mean to a city that welcomes heroes with open arms and takes them in like adopted children?

The results would be fantastic, almost like 1998, when Barry rushed for 2000 yards and Yzerman led the Wings to their second straight cup, winning the Conn Smythe trophy along the way.

We can’t be sure that either Charlie or Darko will pan out, but we can look at probabilities and possibilities.

And Charlie and Darko seem to fit nicely.

Off the Teat

Mary Beth Eastman journeys into a new life without television.

By Mary Beth Eastman
210 west Writer [send email]

Eight p.m. Thursday night. I'm goin' nuts. I don't know what to do with myself.

I'm missing "Friends," and the only thing I want to be doing right now is watching that damn show.

Old habits die really, really hard. My foot's a-tappin', my cigarette is at hand, waiting for the theme music to start so's I can light up and sit back. But that's not happening tonight, nor has it happened for the last two months, since I quit television.

Lord, what a bumpy road it's been without my idiot box.

***

Two months ago, the old man and I visited friends at Purdue University. Fish and Carla live in an old warehouse on the edge of town, in a tiny one-bedroom apartment. And as soon as I walked in the front door, I noticed something was very, very wrong with their living room. I scanned it, trying to pin down the offending item, and realized this: it was missing. The television. The television was missing. The first words out of my mouth, after hello, were "Guys, where's your TV?" Turns out it was in the closet, where it'd been since they moved in.

So we spent the weekend at the coffeeshop, wandering Lafayette, reading and listening to music. We baked a cake. We saw a one-man band. We jammed on the guitar. We had lengthy socio-political discussions.

I missed "Friends," "Scrubs," "Will and Grace," "The Simpsons," the six o'clock news and my "Seinfeld" reruns.

Know what? It was OK. I survived. In fact, I never felt better. There was a brave new world out there, one that was full and satisfying. I wanted out of the box I was living in.

***

When we returned home, I tried to quit cold-turkey.

This is not as easy as it sounds. The withdrawal was a bitch, I can tell you that. For at least a week after I quit, I had dreams wherein Ross Geller and I were doing the nasty. I swear to God I saw Peter Jennings at the supermarket. And then there were the cold sweats, the moodiness, the isolation.

I found myself making excuses to watch just one episode of "The Simpsons" a week. Three weeks in, I realized that either this season is crap, or I've lost my ability to enjoy watching it.

At last I was weaned.

And it feels good, let me tell you.

There are many arguments for the elimination of television, four of which are put forth by Jerry Mander in his 1977 treatise, a powerful and frightening read.

But I'll give you my reasons [abridged version], instead:
1. I'm sick of getting jingles stuck in my head. The solution: Stop watching commercials. The method: stop watching television, which exists solely to create an audience for advertisers. Sounds sick and paranoid, but it's not. Why the hoopla over Nielsen ratings? To find out who's watching what ... so networks can adjust ad prices accordingly. 30 seconds ad space during "Friends'" last season will cost an advertiser millions of dollars ... because of the millions of eyes guaranteed to be looking at that screen.

2. I'm always short on time. Solution: Save two or three hours a day by not watching Fox's Comedy Tune-Up [sitcom reruns, 6-8 p.m. weekdays] and prime-time mush [i.e. American Idol]. Method: Stop watching programs I've seen already or which try to get the most bang for the buck by using "real people" instead of more expensive "actors." If I want to see real Americans bitching at each other, I can look out my window.

3. I'm sick of feeling ugly, poor, unfunny, scared and broke. Solution: Stop watching any and all sitcoms, dramas, ads, made-for-TV movies, TV news programs, comedy specials, music videos, documentaries, and how-to shows. Method: Stop watching any form of television. Sitcoms oversimplify human interaction. Dramas highlight death, murder and destruction, as does TV news, movies, and documentaries. Music videos override the pleasure of listening, comedy specials flatten the ambience and two-way feedback necessary to good comedy and documentaries compress important issues and cultures into television-friendly soundbytes. How-to shows never show enough how-to to be truly useful.

The only redeeming aspects of TV I could find were "The Simpsons" for its devious social commentary and Maryland Public Television, which often shows instructional programs on topics such as The Great Pyramids of Giza or the lifestyles of iguanas. But then I realized I could rent the Simpsons on DVD, read about the pyramids and go see a real-live iguana at the zoo.

I was able, then, to cut the apron-strings.

***

With no television, I do have to be creative in how I spend my time. And I will admit to renting tons of movies in the last two months -- my version of The Patch, something to take the edge off.

With no television, I took up painting again. I explored the city. The old man and I started cooking more elaborate meals and eating together at the dining room table, instead of from TV trays.

I spend less time at the mall. I spend less time at CVS [and Lord knows how hard it is to separate a girl from her hair-product supplier]. I have started to reuse things, instead of buying the latest "disposable" gadget I haven't heard about. We've got more money in the bank.

I've begun doing things which make me personally happy. I've stopped imagining my life as a sitcom or, on bad days, a Lifetime movie. I've read new books, learned a new skill, helped launch a magazine and spent more time at art shows and drinking with friends [instead of by myself, watching "Joe Millionaire"].

It's a huge freaking step, to give TV up altogether. TV's been with me throughout my entire life. It's held my hand through childhood, adolescence, breakups, drug experiments, loneliness, and family get-togethers. It's been the source of so many good memories ... Sesame Street, The Muppets, Fraggle Rock, Clarissa Explains It All, My So-Called Life, Will and Grace, The Wedding Story. Shows that stick with me. Shows that let me to connect with others of my generation. Shows that give us all a common bond, a starting-off point. At times, it seems almost traitorous to give it up.

And what will I do when the fourth season of "Sex and The City" comes out on DVD? Or "The Sopranos?" Will I survive not knowing if Joey and Rachel ever hook up? Will I make it without ever seeing "Good Day Live" again?

I think so, I really do. I'll just tune into some real drama instead: listening to the neighbors upstairs, following the election this year [in the newspaper, natch], checking on my sisters and their misadventures. I'll connect with real people, leading real lives, doing things that affect me. Me the person, not me the walking wallet.

***

The old man and I still haven't put our televisions out on the curb. It's like keeping that emergency pack of cigarettes under the bed: It's reassuring to know that one day, if I really need it, it'll be there.

But slowly, steadily, the televisions have become part of the furniture, instead of the vehicle life molds itself around. One is propping up a landscape in oil. The other, shrouded, supports a stack of work-pants. And the day will come when we ditch them altogether, and I'll know i'm on this wagon for good.

Arguments devolve on both sides of abortion issue

Anti-abortion activists have got "faith-based" reasons down pat. Now abortion-rights supporters are joining the fray with ridiculous reasons.

By Chuck Soder
210 west Writer [send email]

Abortion advocates found their champion 30 years ago in "Jane Roe" -- Norma McCorvey -- who helped make abortion legal in the United States. Nowadays McCorvey hates abortion. To stop it, she's trying to overturn the decision she helped put in place: Roe vs. Wade.

McCorvey's motives for filing the June 16 motion against the decision are likely influenced by her newfound Christianity. Her views on the topic took a U-turn in 1995 -- the same year she was baptized by an anti-abortion activist, the Rev. Phillip Benham.

McCorvey's former posse of abortion supporters is bound to pounce on her for this move. After all, most of them are liberals, who usually hate faith-based arguments against abortion. Those arguments, they say, lack hard evidence.

But beware. One particular pro-abortion argument is just as illogical and much more threatening.

Supreme Court justices don't quote scripture in their arguments against abortion. They don't mention God or souls. But in Colautti vs. Franklin, abortion fanatics managed to sell the courts this ridiculous assumption: Because a fetus is attached to a woman and reliant on her, it has no rights.

This 1979 decision made it legal for states to protect the life of a fetus only once it is able survive outside the womb on machines. If a fetus can live without mom, it has the right to live, according to the courts.

By focusing on a fetus' ability to survive, this decision dodges this super-important question: "When do a sperm and egg officially become human?" It's the only question that matters because, once you're human, you deserve rights. Hence the term "human rights."

I don't know when life begins, but I can narrow it down: Abortion supporters are wrong when they say being "attached to mom" and "reliant on mom" amount to being "not human."

Sure, a fetus and a mother share an umbilical cord, but -- regardless of what feminists say -- a fetus is not part of a mother's body. A DNA test can prove it.

Two separate organisms with different DNA. They are attached. So why does mom get all the rights? Why not give them all to junior -- who has almost all the traits of a newborn, including a nice little brain?

To answer this question, those who support abortions late in pregnancy always cite that the fetus relies on the mother. This makes her queen, ruler, master.

By this logic, Michael Jackson was "master" late last year when he dangled his youngest child from the edge of a balcony. The infant was definitely reliant on good 'ole Jacko. His grip -- his body -- kept the baby alive. Was he allowed to release his grip, allowing the baby to plummet four stories to its death? Nope. The baby was clearly human. Its reliance on the King of Pop didn't matter.

For some odd reason, reliance matters to lots of people. Religious beliefs sway the politics of many, but at least they have some stable definition of when life begins. Those who support the Supreme Court's 1979 ruling are the ones to worry about. To them the fetus only deserves human rights if a hospital has the high-tech life-support equipment to keep the thing alive outside its master.

Review: O.A.R.'s "In Between Now And Then"

Of A Revolution's latest release is building up steam, pulling the band forward in new and promising directions.

By Dan Nied [send email]

O.A.R.
In Between Now and Then
Lava Records
Grade: B+

On their first major label release In Between Now and Then, an album where pop-rock is shaken with an Island vibe, garnished with jazz and served on the rocks of catchy choruses and tap-your-fingers basslines, Of A Revolution (O.A.R.) simply leaves out the filler and makes good music.

And this realease, in keeping with the tradition of a band that made its first album in high school, showcases what happens when loads of raw talent gets molded. They are starting to take shape.

Sure, O.A.R. purists might think the slick production on In Between Now and Then negates the band's incredibly charming (mainly because they sound like they were recorded in a moving car) first two albums. And they might wonder about certain non-battle-tested songs that didn't show up on O.A.R.'s first studio release, Risen.

However, for a band that has shown the promise of breaking through the meathead pop metal that dominates the charts today, IBNT can only be seen as a bold move in the right direction.

O.A.R. and producer John Alagia mix it up with a number of safe feel good jams like "Risen", "Road Outside Columbus" and "Old Man Time". However, songs like "Dareh Meyod", "Right on Time" and "Whose Chariot" show that O.A.R. is not content with making just college party music.

In all, IBNT shows a band that embraces its innocent, teenaged songwriting past but is still challenging itself to be as good as the hype surrounding them.

Of course, while members of O.A.R. are establishing themselves as an act to look out for, they trip slightly along the way. Singer Marc Roberge sometimes relies too heavily on echoed vocals; a shame because Roberge's gravelly working-class voice is the perfect instrument to establish O.A.R.'s identity.

And Roberge's lyrics can seem lazy or distracted as he relies on rhyming Day and Way and Day an incredible number of times. However, Roberge offsets the grammar-school poetry with some classic lines such as "It's easy for a man to stand tall, much harder for a man to simmer down" from "Right on Time".
But how can you really capture the essence of a 13-song album? Well, here is a track-by-track rundown:

Dareh Meyod - A new adventure for O.A.R. Benj Gershman's bass bounces like a superball and combines with Roberge's voice to create a fun yet brooding opening track.

Risen - Damn, this is a fun song. Sure, it seems a little light to have Roberge pleading for everyone to "take some time to smile." However, momentary human bliss has been a running theme for O.A.R. and Roberge since the band's inception. Whoever coined the phrase "pop-rock nugget" had to have this song in mind.

As catchy as bubble gum on a sidewalk while still maintaining the band's integrity, this would have made the perfect first single. It is a tragedy that this song sits uncovered by radio stations while the less charming "Hey Girl" has already been received and discarded by stations around the country.

Right on Time - The best pure song on the album. An amazing combination of catchy hook, wildy entertaining riff and intriguing lyrics. It would make perfect second single to show that O.A.R. has a pretty big set of balls on them.

Mr.Moon - Alright, let's slow it down a bit here. Take a look at the moon and wonder why it won't talk to us. Roberge plays around with metaphor and you can't really blame him. No matter; this song, while a little bland, still keeps you listening and tapping your feet with a certain amount of gusto.

Revisited - What is this revisiting? Well, the last song on O.A.R.'s first album is a nine-minute epic called "Ladanday," about a mythical man named Peter and his mountain dwellings. Well, Peter is back in this song that keeps in step with the suddenly changing O.A.R. favorite "Delicate Few." The song goes from bellowing to wonderously hoppy in one chord. Not the best song on IBNT, but worth a listen, especially if you liked "Ladanday."

Hey Girl - The one mistake on the album is this first single that has been released on three (!) different albums. Not a cardinal sin, mind you. The Dave Matthews Band released "Ants Marching" and a slew of other tunes twice.

But if you are going to release a song three times, you had better make damn sure that each version is better than the last and offers a new interpretation. "Hey Girl" peaked with its inclusion on the band's 2002 live album "Any Time Now." And even with a new third verse, this ranks far below all other versions of the song. I mean, I just don't get putting this on as the first single when four other songs are better written and less annoying. This wasn't even one of the best songs on previous releases and it certainly is not memorable enough for four albums.

James - Mr. Roberge, take a bow. We learn from the accompanying DVD that this song is about the death of a friend's father. And indeed, some of the lyrics are insightful and inspiring. Roberge murmurs, "I've heard about heaven for years/Can't be sure where you are/Wander on blessed James/I'm fine with you here."

Just the kind of song that makes you want this band to succeed.

Good stuff.

Coalminer - Your basic twangy country/rock hybrid. Easy to sing along to, hard to pry out of your brain. But what is with all this talk about Daddy? It gets a little creepy with Roberge moaning "Too bad for Daddy" over and over again. A little unsettling.

Old Man Time - The Chorus is right out of Doby Gray's "Drift Away" but I dare you to stop singing it after three listens. It is fucking impossible. It haunts me at night and I really kind of like it.

Anyway - An original song. I've never really heard anything like it. "Anyway" has been a live staple since it was a centerpiece on Any Time Now.

Saxophone player Jerry Depizzo shines here, steering this song's poppy melody.

Side note: DePizzo joined the band after their second album and now, after their fifth, it's hard to imagine that O.A.R. would be anywhere near as good without him. His saxophone creates a different level of music. He plays a huge part in making this more than just a college jam band. And it's not like he's ripping off LeRoi Moore from the Dave Matthews band. He has woven a distinct style that meshes with the musical style that was in place before he got there. He didn't change it, he just amplified it.
From interviews and such, you get the feeling that the rest of the band knows that. DePizzo is probably the most talented guy in O.A.R. and he is almost like a silent ringleader on the second tier of the band hierarchy. They might not be making music right now if it weren't for him.

Sorry, I'm rambling.

Road Outside Columbus - A tribute to the band's days at Ohio State University. Good songwriting by Roberge makes this a spine tingler for anyone who went away to college. I admit, the first time I read the lyrics, and thought back to my college days, well, something just got caught in my eye.

Any Time Now - While any other band would pass this Reggae song off as sheer filler, O.A.R. wants you to believe that this is a part of their sound.

And I believe it.

Of course this is nothing new for them. High School trips to Israel did wonders in shaping the sound of this band, and it shows here. Really, this isn't the best reggae song they've done. They've had more success in high school with the songs "Get Away" and "Missing Pieces".

It's odd, for as many bands that try and fail at putting a reggae vibe on albums, that this combination of three Jews, an Asian and an Italian pull it off seamlessly. Weird. I guess O.A.R. busts stereotypes, too. How political.

Whose Chariot - The band put this song on IBNT as a tribute to fans. Apparently it is about their struggle in choosing a record company (a task they weighed over for at least two years before going with Lava). Good symbolism, good energy and a great song to end an album on.

Boys will be boys

So Eustachy gets in touch with the fans and Neuheisel tosses a few bucks into an NCAA pool. Firing offenses? I think not.

By Dan Nied [send email]

When that first drop of beer slides down the gullet and the girl next to you smiles with glossy eyes, perfect dental work and a plunging neckline, well, it's hard not to get carried away.

There is nothing wrong with a party now and again. Nothing wrong with a little fun, in most cases.

And now, with Washington coach Rick Neuheisel hitting the gallows after betting in an NCAA tournament pool, I have to wonder what is wrong with these men being men.

Of course Eustachy and Neuheisel's cases aren't most cases. They were coaches in the most visible position that their respective schools have ever known. Let's just say it wasn't a good idea for Larry to head to a five kegger and do a few body shots. And maybe Rick should have thought twice about throwing a few hundred bucks in an NCAA pool.

But, then, it wasn't a good idea for me to drop $1,000 for a spring break trip to Cancun, make a fool out of myself and not even get laid. I learned to forgive myself. Everyone I knew learned to forgive me and ISU and Washington should have forgiven their men.

In Eustachy's case, let's face it, most coaches talk about getting closer to the campus community, creating a tighter bond with the students. Eustachy actually probed and prodded into the real life of the average college students.

What he did was identify with the fans. He is the Jack Kerouac of coaching.

Maybe Joe Torre or Don Baylor should think about heading to the local watering hole after each game and tying one on with the average Yankees and Cubs fan. Couldn't hurt.

But, I suppose, that in some circles, what Eustachy did could maybe, possibly, be considered unprofessional. I might be able to see how the blandest of people might see a coach hitting on 18-year-old chicks at a party and wonder if that is the best image for the basketball program.

But Neuheisel? I just don't get how you justify firing a man for participating in something as common as an NCAA pool. Millions of American men and women fill out brackets all the time, and most of them don't do it just for fun.

There may or may not be an NCAA rule Neuheisel violated; nobody is really sure. But if it is in the rule book, maybe they should think about taking it out. Or at least ignore it the way the NBA does with traveling.

If you want to chastise these men, fine, be that way. But there are a hell of a lot of other atrocities that coaches commit that are far worse, but not as blatant.

During my junior year at Bowling Green's student newspaper, the BG News, I repeatedly dogged football coach Gary Blackney because defensive back Emmanual Hendrix was CONVICTED of felonious assault, yet he was barely disciplined, let alone kicked off the team. So basically I had to pay my way though school (out-of-state tuition, at that) while a convicted felon, who wasn't even a starter, didn't even get the proverbial slap on the wrist for beating the shit out of a girl.

That made me feel good.

By the way, Blackney didn't get fired until the next season, when his team went 2-9 and lost to pathetic Buffalo ... man, it makes my teeth hurt to even think about that team.

I would have felt better about our society had Blackney just shown up with Hendrix to a party and tried to get a little ass. Then at least I could halfway respect the man. Of course, Emmanual Hendrix was just one of about a thousand convicted felons playing football in college and the pros that year, but no coach ever lost his job over it.

Last year Penn State's Joe Paterno let safety Anwar Phillips play in the team's Citrus bowl game three weeks after he was EXPELLED from school for sexually assaulting a woman.

I greet that with a hearty "WHAT THE FUCK?"

But now are a night of drinking with students and an NCAA tournament pool unprofessional? Yes. It should never happen again. But should Eustachy and Neuheisel have been fired? Talk to me when one of their players gets convicted of assault and plays the next day.

But hey, it could be worse. They could be Mike Price.

Welcome to Youngstown...

... where ordinary rules of right and wrong do not apply.

By Vince Guerrieri
210 west Managing Editor [send email]

There are two paths to greatness in Youngstown, Ohio: skill or talent in football, or association with organized crime.

At one point or another, Jim Traficant has done both.

Like many blue-collar towns, Youngstown is proud of its athletes. One of the Boys of Summer, Brooklyn Dodgers outfielder George “Shotgun” Shuba, hailed from the West Side of town. A bridge is named after Frank Sinkwich, the 1942 Heisman Trophy winner with the University of Georgia. Signs at just about every entry point to the city in Northeast Ohio hail its winning high school and college football teams.

A better idea would be to take down all of the signs and replace them with signs that say, “Welcome to Youngstown, where ordinary rules of right and wrong do not apply.”

A 1963 magazine article called Youngstown “Crimetown U.S.A.” Since then, it seems everyone has taken a turn telling similar tales, including The New York Times, The Washington Post, Newsweek, “60 Minutes” and “Nightline.” George Magazine called Youngstown one of the most corrupt cities in America. The New Republic went one better and called Youngstown the most corrupt city in America. Molly Ivins compared Youngstown to Personville, the thoroughly unredeemable town in Dashiell Hammett’s 1928 novel Red Harvest, and U.S. News and World Report compared U.S Rep. Jim Traficant to a character on “The Sopranos.”

Since Traficant went on trial for racketeering, bribery and income tax evasion in the spring of 2001, the glare of the national spotlight has shone on him and his district. People are trying to understand what type of area could spawn a man like Traficant, with his lack of fashion sense and Einstein-influenced hair. They found people who called Traficant an embarrassment to the community, but they also found, even after he’d been convicted, people who said Traficant was silenced because he told it like it was, that he was just a victim of the Washington power structure. They were surprised to find people who still thought of Traficant as the biggest underdog in a city full of them, and went so far as to say that they’d vote for him while he was
in prison.

I wasn’t surprised. I grew up in Youngstown, and I knew many of those people. But you can’t really blame them. It’s just the city they call home.

Youngstown’s a city where a man accused of taking bribes can get elected to Congress and a man can get disbarred and thrown off the bench as a judge and still get elected mayor. It’s a city where the current county prosecutor bears scars from an assassination attempt, and his predecessor is in jail for selling justice to the highest bidder. It’s a city where gangsters could incorporate their own borough for the sole purpose of running a gambling den unchecked. It’s a city that expects its public officials to be on the take and politicians in general to be guilty of something. It’s a city that believes that Jim Traficant’s only crime was getting caught.

We Italians are corrupt and irreligious above all others.
-- Niccolo Machiavelli

Although my grandfather was born in a small village near Uniontown, Pennsylvania, he lived most of his life in or around Youngstown.

My grandfather, called Charlie by just about everyone he knew, was first-generation American. His father, named Alezio Guerrieri but called “The Old Man” by his sons, came over from Italy and worked in the coal mines in Southwestern Pennsylvania until he had enough money to start a grocery store in the 1920s. He demonstrated the can-do entrepreneurialism that made America great by selling fruit, vegetables, lunchmeat and wine, which at the time happened to be illegal.

Charlie liked to tell the story of the day revenooers came to the family house. The Old Man was a gracious host, plying them with cookies and coffee in the living room while his son Christy bashed in barrels of wine in the basement, letting any evidence spill onto the floor and into the drain.

By the time Charlie was 12 years old, the family had uprooted. The story was that the family was headed to Detroit, but they barely crossed over into Ohio, settling on the East Side of Youngstown, with its burgeoning Italian population.

At that time, Youngstown was a mecca for immigrants from southern and eastern Europe. In 1900, Youngstown Iron Sheet and Tube was incorporated. The word iron was eventually dropped from its name, and Youngstown Sheet and Tube eventually became the largest locally owned steel company in the nation. One writer compared the Mahoning River Valley through Youngstown and Warren to the Ruhr Valley, the center of industry in Europe. Mills and factories ran around the clock, employing thousands of people and turning the sky gray in the day and orange at night. In 1900, the population of Youngstown was 44,885. Twenty years later it had tripled.

After the nation came to its senses and repealed Prohibition, the Old Man opened a bar on Oak Street on the East Side, serving beer, sandwiches, spaghetti and lottery tickets. The food was all right, and the Old Man was now allowed to sell beer, but since the state hadn’t gotten into the lottery business at that point, the lottery tickets – The Bug – were thoroughly illegal.

When you think of stories learned from your grandfather, the popular image is of fairy tales, when a purely good hero defeats a purely evil villain and lives a happy life with the princess. Or you might think of idealized stories about growing up in the good old days, when everything was cheap, nobody had money, but all you needed was love.

Unfortunately, idealists are in short supply in Youngstown. The city that offered well-paying jobs to unskilled laborers was also a haven for organized crime. When I went away to college, I’d introduce myself and say I was from Youngstown. The combination of my hometown and my surname prompted people to ask, “Are you in the Mafia?”

Prohibition and gang warfare were the good old days to Charlie, and those were the stories he shared with me.

Charlie told tales that were equal parts Damon Runyon and Mario Puzo. He remembered the days when police officers collected the day’s Bug receipts, and knew men named Doc Sawbones, Big Dom, Brier Hill Jimmy and, my personal favorite, Sledgehammer Jerry, an enforcer in Youngstown in the late 1930s and early 1940s. He drove a Buick Roadmaster four-door convertible and kept a sledgehammer in the trunk.

Coins deposited in jukeboxes, cigarette machines and pinball games were a major source of revenue for organized crime. Sledgehammer Jerry made sure that those machines belonged to the man that paid him. If they didn’t, he’d go out to the car, get his sledgehammer, and smash the machines.

They found his car in Cuyahoga Falls, but they never found Sledgehammer Jerry.

When we drove past the Colonial House on Market Street on the South Side, Charlie would point and say, “That’s where Vince DeNiro blew up in his car.” On July 17, 1961, Vince met some friends at the Colonial House. After an evening of revelry, he walked to an Oldsmobile parked nearby. He put his foot on the starter pedal, and the explosion rattled windows all the way to downtown, including the windows of Charlie’s home on Willis Avenue. They found one shoe still on the starter pedal. The other was found on the rooftop of a building three blocks away. There was a joke making the rounds in Youngstown that barbers would cut your hair for $2, and start your car for $3.

DeNiro’s murder took place during the term of Youngstown Mayor Frank Franko, who was originally elected judge as a Republican, but switched affiliations when he ran for prosecutor in a county where even Republicans are registered Democrats. Franko was disbarred for, among other things, campaigning for prosecutor while a judge and fixing his parking tickets. He promptly ran for mayor—and won!

When we drove down Fifth Avenue on the North Side, Charlie would point and say, “That’s where your cousin Mario used to live.” Mario’s house was bombed about a year after Vince DeNiro met his end. In the 1960s, “Ban the Bomb” meant something entirely different in Youngstown.

To this day, there are former residents of the North Side who recognize my last name, ask me if I’m related to Mario, and tell me what they were doing when his house was bombed. Mario lived to fight another day, but is currently a guest of the state penal system.

Every man has a vice. Charlie’s was gambling; his game, craps. Charlie used to frequent craps tables at the Jungle Inn, a sumptuous but illegal gambling den in a hamlet called Halls Corners.

Halls Corners was formed by a group of particularly enterprising gangsters, who petitioned the state to incorporate a borough. In this borough there were about a dozen residents and the Jungle Inn, which began as a cathouse but became most notorious as a gambling casino. It was a place that most people thought only existed in movies, with a machine gun nest above the front doors. In the days before he became famous, a Steubenville native named Dino Crocetti, later known to the world as Dean Martin, sang at the Jungle Inn.

Halls Corners had no police force, county sheriffs could be bought and the Ohio Highway Patrol had no duties outside of traffic enforcement, so the Jungle Inn ran unfettered until the State Liquor Board finally shut it down for serving booze without a license.

With the pervasive corruption of Youngstown, my grandfather, a smart but not educated man, retained a healthy contempt for authority in all of its forms. Although Grandma got him away from crap games, Charlie continued to play the lottery, which was legal by the time I was born. The Ohio Lottery funds schools in the state, but Randy Gardner, the Ohio House Majority Leader, told a crowd of students at Bowling Green State University that the lottery’s primary purpose was to co-opt the illegal lotteries that were run throughout the state.

One evening, in his bemusement, Charlie pontificated about state lotteries, telling me, “At least when the Mob ran the numbers, you knew where the money went.”

When I die I don’t want no part of heaven
I would not do heaven’s work well
I pray the devil comes and takes me
To stand in the fiery furnaces of hell
--Bruce Springsteen, “Youngstown”

It was into this wild town that Jim Traficant was born in 1941. The city’s population was peaking at nearly 167,000, and the mills continued to run full tilt as part of what Franklin Roosevelt called “The Arsenal of Democracy.”

Traficant, whose surname was originally Traficante, was a member of the first graduating class of Cardinal Mooney High School, one of the two Catholic high schools in the city, not far from the spot where Vince DeNiro got what is sardonically called a “Youngstown tune-up.”

Traficant became a quarterback at Mooney, and beat Ursuline in the first game of the biggest rivalry in the city. He attended the University of Pittsburgh and played football there as well, even getting a tryout with the Steelers.

Like many people in Youngstown, he took a turn working in the steel mills. He received two master’s degrees from Youngstown State University, and ran for Mahoning County Sheriff in 1980 on a platform of “Honesty in Politics.”

Youngstown was in the middle of its second Mob war in a generation when Traficant ran for office. Trouble was brewing in Cleveland, as an upstart named Danny Greene tried to wrest control of rackets from the Mafia family in Cleveland. Greene survived a couple assassination attempts, but his Irish luck ran out on October 5, 1977, when a bomb was planted in a car parked next to his. Greene came out of his dentist’s office in Lyndhurst and walked to his car. The bomb was detonated, and Greene met his maker instantly.

One of Greene’s assassins was a Youngstown hood named Ronnie “The Crab” Carabbia. Carabbia and Greene’s other killers were brought to trial, and the Crab was found guilty and sentenced to life in prison. After serving nearly 25 years, he was released on parole to Youngstown in September 2002.

The Cleveland Mob was notably weakened in the aftermath of Danny Greene’s death, and the Pittsburgh Mob saw a chance to gain control in Youngstown, leading to a mob war between the two factions. The Cleveland Mob attempted to buy Traficant off, offering him $100,000. The Pittsburgh faction, led by a man named Vincenzo “Brier Hill Jimmy” Prato and his protégé Joey Naples, also offered $60,000 to Traficant.

Traficant, not playing favorites, accepted all the money he was offered, and won election as sheriff. By the time he took office in 1981, the city’s best days were behind it. On September 19, 1977, a day residents of the Mahoning Valley call Black Monday, Youngstown Sheet and Tube, by then part of a national conglomerate, closed one of its mills, instantly throwing 5,000 people out of work. A little more than a year later, more than 1,000 additional employees of Youngstown Sheet and Tube lost their jobs when another mill in Youngstown closed. U.S. Steel followed suit and closed their mill in Youngstown. By 1980,
the population of the city was down to 115,000, decreasing by 50,000 over 20 years.

The effects were devastating. The city’s amusement park, Idora Park,
limped along until a fire finally forced its closing in 1984. The Youngstown City Schools closed buildings. The two department stores in downtown Youngstown had become parts of national chains and also surrendered in the 1980s, turning an already reeling downtown into a ghost town full of boarded-up storefronts. Ironically, as the city’s present and future got bleaker, the skies got brighter and bluer, with the haze from the mills vanishing.

One of Traficant’s duties as sheriff was serving eviction notices, and he had more than his fair share to serve at that point, mostly to unemployed steelworkers. Out of a sense of compassion, or maybe because it made for good theater, Traficant refused to evict these workingmen who were guilty of nothing but losing their jobs. Traficant spent time in jail for his refusal to serve the eviction notices, and he became a folk hero. Some people thought he could walk on water.

Can a city be governed without any alliance with crime?
--Lincoln Steffens

On August 9, 1982, FBI agents arrested Mahoning County Sheriff Jim Traficant on charges of receiving bribes and filing a false income tax return.

The FBI established that Traficant had accepted bribes from gangsters including Charlie Carabbia, Ronnie’s brother, who had taped his conversations with the office-seeker in 1980. The FBI played the tapes for Traficant, who signed a confession shortly thereafter. But Carabbia wasn’t around to testify. Like Sledgehammer Jerry, his car turned up, in Cleveland, but he was nowhere to be found. Although he was not a lawyer, Traficant was determined to defend
himself in federal court.

Traficant recanted his confession, and told jurors in federal court inCleveland that he took the money, but he did so as part of “the most unorthodox sting operation in the history of Ohio politics.” At the time he took the bribes, Traficant was a candidate for sheriff. He put the FBI and Mahoning County officials on trial, railing against widespread corruption in county government and the federal
organization.

It worked. Traficant was acquitted, and came home to a hero’s welcome in 1983. The next year, he ran for Congress and won, defeating Republican incumbent Lyle Williams.

Traficant’s brand of chip-on-the-shoulder populism played well in the Mahoning Valley, where unemployment continued to hover around the 25 percent mark. Traficant boasted that he was a son of a truck driver, albeit one with post-graduate education. He gained a cult following on C-SPAN and the Perspectives page of Newsweek, with his less than polished appearance and speeches on the House floor peppered with earthy words. He once said the national security brain trust needed a proctologist on staff and said another time that with an interest rate hike, Alan Greenspan and the Federal Reserve gave the finger to the nation. He suggested ending the 1994 baseball strike by putting both sides of the debate in a windowless room, plying them with hot dogs, beans and beer and locking the door.

As Congressman, Traficant was one of the two most powerful people in Mahoning County, with the other being Don Hanni Jr., the chairman of the county Democratic Party and a self-styled political boss in the vein of William Tweed of New York.

Traficant wanted to unseat Hanni, who served as attorney for various mob figures, and Hanni wanted to remove Traficant from Congress. At one point, Hanni tried to declare Traficant legally insane to have his Congressional seat vacated. The attempt failed, and Traficant has referred to himself as legally sane since. Hanni, for his part, later mended fences with Traficant, and said he did him a favor, because Traficant was the only person on Capitol Hill with proof of his sanity.

During his second term in Congress, Traficant faced civil charges from the Internal Revenue Service, who pointed out that he received the bribe money, didn’t impound it, spent some of it and didn’t declare it on his income taxes. Congressman Traficant had his salary garnished by the IRS.

We’re bigger than U.S. Steel.
--Meyer Lansky

Since Joe Valachi testified before Congress in the 1960s, someone is always willing to write the Mafia’s obituary. Prosecutors pursued gangsters relentlessly and successfully, and from the breakup of the Cleveland Mob after Danny Greene’s killing in 1979 to the 1991 conviction of John Gotti in New York City, too many people are too willing to believe that the Mafia has become a relic.

But it still showed a strong pulse in Youngstown. Joey Naples survived the Mob war in the 1960s that claimed two of his brothers, but one night in August 1991, he viewed the construction site of his retirement home in Beaver Township, and as he walked to his car, he was shot and killed from the cornfields across the road.

In 1994, Don Hanni was turned out as Mahoning County Democratic Party chairman. A grassroots group called Mahoning County Democrats for Change unseated him by installing their own candidates as precinct captains, which elected a new chairman.

After Naples’ death, Lenny Strollo became Youngstown’s crime boss. Ernie Biondillo made a push to take over the rackets, but met his end
in 1996 when his car was boxed in on his drive to work through Youngstown’s East Side. Two men jumped out of the cars and shotgunned Biondillo’s Cadillac.

That year, a man named Paul Gains was elected prosecutor, defeating incumbent James Philomena, who had his house bombed during his term in office. Gains was shot in his home on Christmas Eve of that year. He survived, and took the oath of office with his arm in a sling.

After that, all hell broke loose. The killers of Biondillo and shooters of Gains were identified and indicted, and they rolled on Strollo and other gangsters in the city. When Biondillo’s killers went to jail, it was the first time in the city’s history that the books were closed on a Mob murder.

Philomena was tried and convicted, as were several municipal and county judges, a county commissioner and other elected officials. Hospitals closed. Property values declined. The city was in the middle of a drug turf war, and murder rates rose to a point where Youngstown had one of the highest per-capita murder rates in the nation.

Bruce Springsteen wrote a song about the mills in Youngstown, a wistful acoustic dirge about a dying city that was left behind by the world. He sang it on tour with the full backing of the E Street Band, turning it into an angry howl from the depths of hell. Invariably, he followed that song with a song that suited Youngstown just as well, if not better—Murder Incorporated.

There were attempts to revitalize the city, most notably with the Phar-Mor chain of discount drug superstores. The corporate headquarters for the chain was in downtown Youngstown, in a building formerly used as an Erie Railroad Terminal and Strouss’s Department Store, one of Youngstown’s two department stores that closed in the 1980s.

Phar-Mor was run by a man named Mickey Monus, who was also one of the initial buyers of the Colorado Rockies baseball team, and ran the World Basketball League. Nobody seemed to pay for tickets to watch the Youngstown Pride play in that league, and Mickey Monus managed to keep the league afloat by cooking the books of Phar-Mor, demonstrating great capitalistic sense a full decade before Enron or WorldCom. Monus went to jail and the league and the store ultimately went belly-up, creating more empty buildings downtown.

Through it all, the one constant that remained was Jim Traficant. He continued to serve as Congressman, facing little opposition within his party and token opposition in November. He would win re-election every two years with at least two-thirds of the vote, and on one occasion, got more than 90 percent of the vote.

Traficant had served more than a decade in Congress, but had little to show for it. He served on only a few committees, and was denied a spot on the House’s powerful Ways and Means Committee. The chairman of the committee at that point was a man from Chicago named Dan Rostenkowski, who later went to prison. I guess Traficant wasn’t Rosty’s kind of thief.

The word most commonly used to describe Traficant was “maverick.” He
marched to the beat of a different drummer within the Washington power
structure, and maintained that he was ostracized because of it. He made no secret of the fact that he despised the Internal Revenue Service, and was no fan of the FBI.

Traficant was a Democrat, but he railed against the Clinton administration. He went so far as to call Janet Reno a treasonous mob-controlled Communist lesbian. At this point, it’s worth repeating that Traficant was caught on tape accepting money from the mob in Youngstown, and although he said it was for purposes of a sting, the money was never impounded.

Finally, in 2000, Traficant sold his soul for $25 million. Congress passed a bill that allotted $25 million to Youngstown to create a convention center on the bank of the Mahoning River downtown on a site formerly used as a steel mill. Traficant was so grateful to the Republican leadership in the House that he announced his support for Illinois Republican Dennis Hastert as Speaker of the House, which so
incensed the Democratic Party leadership that they stripped him of his committee assignments.

Traficant was in a bind. He couldn’t switch affiliations to Republican, because the district he served, with the highest concentration of Democrats in Ohio, would look askance at him. However, as a Democrat, he was persona non grata within his party. But his problems were just beginning. On April 4, 2001, he was
indicted on charges of bribery, racketeering and theft in office.

Only the faces will change.
--Don Hanni Jr., on efforts to unseat him as Mahoning County Democratic
chairman

In Youngstown, Jim Traficant was regarded as the city’s favorite son or biggest embarassment. However, because of his low position on the political totem pole, he was fairly anonymous on the national scene.

That all changed when he went to trial. He pleaded not guilty by reason of sanity and once again he was determined to defend himself. This time, he wasn’t as lucky. Almost a year to the day he was indicted, Traficant was found guilty on all charges, and was sentenced to eight years in prison.

Because he was a convicted felon, Congress decided that he was giving the rest of them a bad name. Of course, it couldn’t have helped when he suggested in front of live television cameras that House Minority Leader Dick Gephardt, who called for Traficant’s resignation, should go fuck himself.

Jim Traficant was expelled from Congress, one of only two men since the Civil War to suffer that ignominious fate. But he remained defiant. While he was in front of the House Ethics Committee, he suggested that he was going to break out of jail, get a sword and start stabbing people in the crotch.

Traficant spent Election Night as a guest of the federal prison system. Members of the national media, whom Traficant said were so stupid that they could throw themselves at the floor and miss, have descended upon Youngstown in the past year, trying to figure out the culture from whence he sprang. Bumper stickers, T-shirts and coffee mugs appeared, saying “Free Jim!”

Many of those people doubtless feel that they’re victims of the system as well. While Columbus is expanding, the entire southwest corner of the state is booming, downtowns in Akron and Cleveland are coming alive, Youngstown continues to sink into the mire, unable or unwilling to recover. The $25 million for a convention center sits unused. Youngstown is now smaller than Parma, one of the suburbs of Cleveland. Its youth depart for other cities and towns like a generation of Diogenes looking for an honest man, or at least a downtown with
something to offer.

The November election chose the next person to represent the Youngstown
area, which has since been divided among a couple of Congressional districts. It offered a fresh start to a city looking for its renaissance. Tim Ryan, a Democratic state senator from nearby Niles, ascended to the seat formerly held by Traficant. Ryan, who previously worked in Traficant’s office and was a high school quarterback himself, promised an end to politics as usual. He wants to lead Youngstown to a rebirth, but it could be more of the same.

I tend to think it’ll be the latter, but growing up in Youngstown has made me a cynic.

Pop Culture: An Introduction

Odds are if you are reading this, one of two things has happened.

1) You were looking for hot, big-tittied teen sluts and through a series of unfortunate clicks and inattentive Googles you've ended up here and are no doubt frustrated...Or

2) You are a friend or family member of someone who writes for this site.

By Erik Pepple
210 west Pop Culture Editor [send email]

If you are looking for big-breasted barely legal teens, click here. If you are a family member or friend, I'm sorry that you have to see that my professional life consists of writing the words 'big tittied teen sluts,' and not being paid for it.
Sorry, Grandma.

However, if you are one of the few who has stumbled upon this site because you are down with reading movie reviews or CD reviews or insightful, humorous commentary about the candy store we call popular culture, then let us tell you a little about ourselves.

As the Pop Culture section of 210 West, we are no doubt aware that there are more movie and music reviews floating around the Net than rolled up dollar bills at a David Crosby party circa 1976. That's part of the democratizing beauty of the Web -- any yahoo who sees a movie can write about it and you can choose whether you pay it any mind. It's the free market of ideas, baby! It almost makes you wish the real world was this democratized and not conglomerized, although I'm sure with the recent lessening of FCC regulation 210 West will find itself gobbled up by Conglomco and turned into a website that tells you just how awesome and totally sweet The Lizzie McGuire Movie is.

However, until then, until the sweet, sweet Conglomco money and hookers start rolling in; let's get these pesky introductions out the way.

Bearing in mind that you can get pop culture commentary anywhere, and that most of it will be interchangeable, we at 210 West would like to hope we offer you an alternative. You see, there's a lot of great, insightful writing out there, but what the very structure of the Web has created is thousands of websites about niche markets. Many websites focus on one genre or style of movies and music. Let's face it, much of the Internet is about navel gazing. It's about getting off on your kinks and loves and explaining why Matrix: Reloaded sucks because if Neo can fly, why doesn't he just get the fuck out of the way of the Smith clones during the burly brawl? And that's the last thing 210 West wants to do. If you want that, start hanging out at the Aint It Cool News boards.

The pop culture writers at 210 West realize that all art has some intrinsic value across a spectrum, and it's our job to report on it. It's not our job to tell you that you are a big assclown if you think 2 Fast 2 Furious is like, totally the best movie ever, bro! (OK, we may make an exception on that front). Our job, though, is to objectively let you know whether something is good or bad or OK or awesome or soul-suckingly vapid. This is not about trying to prove our cool or our superiority; this is about loving all that pop culture has to offer and evaluating it fairly. We are folks who know that loving the movie Booty Call is not mutually exclusive to loving the movie Citizen Kane.
Will there be snark? Well, yeah. Will there be cheap pot shots? On occasion. Will it be entertaining and insightful? We certainly hope so.

We have a lot on deck for future issues. This week, we have an interview with Dave Attell, host of Comedy Central's Insomniac. We also have movie reviews, music reviews and a column about the toll a Matrix obsession is taking on one of our writer's lives. In the future look for more interviews, movie/music/video game/comic book reviews, a feature on the Blog explosion, and departments like 'Canon Fodder' where we evaluate great -- but overlooked -- moments in popular culture. There will be a regular department called 'A Look Back in Anger,' where we take a look back at movies or records we may have hated, but now love and vice versa. There's a lot more on deck, too, and I don't want to be that guy who ruins it for everybody; you know, like those bastards who told everyone Bruce Willis was a ghost in The Sixth Sense before you got the chance to see it.

So there you have it, that's our deal. We hope you like what you see and stick around.

Now you can get back to those big tittied teen sluts.

It's not brutality, it's the law

The Fuzz is after you, guns in hand. Do you A) Raise your hands above your head or B) Run like holy hell, dodging bullets?

By Chuck Soder
210 west Writer [send email]

When I was 13, a cop threatened to shoot my friend Tom in the back. We weren't doing anything too horrible, but it looked that way to the policeman who pulled his gun.

We were just going toilet papering when a cop spotted three teenagers toting three duffle bags across a normally busy intersection at 2 a.m. He jumped from his car and pulled his gun.

"Freeze!" he yelled. My friend Brian and I stopped.

Tom kept running.

The cop cocked his gun: "Do you want to get shot?!" Tom stopped running. When the cop found we weren't robbing the nearby drive-thru, he brought us home.

Tom almost had his brain blown out that day. Assuming the cop meant his threat, why would he do something so horrible to a kid who clearly poses no immediate danger? Is there a reason?

Lots of people hate cops for this sort of thing -- just ask a rapper or any member of Amnesty International. Cops have earned a reputation as tools of an authoritarian state that overuse physical force as a means of silencing and controlling the masses.

Of course, this reputation is pure hogwash. Or better yet, "pigwash." Yes, cops shoot people. Most of them are asking for it. If my dear friend Tom had kept running, he too would've deserved a bullet in the back.

Out of a thousand police shootings a few might be unjustified, but some groups -- Amnesty International, in particular -- blame 999 of them on cops. The group, good-hearted as they may be, keeps a list of noble but expensive goals meant to put laws in place to regulate police violence and increase training so that cops wonít go on reckless killing sprees.

But the group often cites violence violations that don't exactly meet the Rodney King standard. Amnesty International lists "victims" who flee police, resist arrest or try to put cops under the wheels of a moving truck. Every time they mention a legit complaint, it turns out the cop has long since been fired and, in some cases, jailed.

To run from cops makes a suspect a criminal on at least one charge: resisting arrest. Of course, everyone deserves a fair trial. But someone who wrangles from a cop's grip and sprints for a getaway has waived that right. If this person escapes, there's another criminal on the loose.

The worst of Amnesty's claims is that cops can't shoot someone trying to run them over. According to their Web site, "Officers have frequently been exonerated -- despite having failed to take basic avoidance procedures (such as moving out of the path of an oncoming vehicle."

If a cop wants to risk his and others' lives by letting this guy escape, that's dandy. But the driver is out to kill. Blasting his brains out is self-defense.
Though some law-breakers are peaceful -- usually protesters -- they too need a solid smacking if they resist arrest.

Recent protests about the war in Iraq have jailed quite a few protesters. And injured a couple, too. When cops have to forcefully stop a protest, activists always think their rights are being violated. An anti-war student once told Republican pundit David Horowitz that protesters have the right to assemble. Horowitz's response was something akin to "not in the middle of an intersection."
Horowitz had a point. Rights aren't meant to violate the rights of others. For example: the right to go to work, to school, to a hospital or even to, dare I say, a World Trade Organization conference.

According to copwatch.com -- which makes Amnesty International look like a bunch of right-wing conspirators -- protesters in 1999's Seattle riots did nothing to incite forceful retribution by cops with oh-so-deadly rubber bullets. Well, maybe they did throw a few explosive Molotov Cocktails.

Though most protesters were peaceful, they still crowded streets that Seattle Mayor Paul Schell dubbed no-travel zones after the first day of havoc. Only those who had jobs in the area or were attending the WTO conference could set foot on the streets.

Copwatch.com calls this ridiculous. They also thought it was ridiculous for cops to shoot a rubber bullet at an old lady named "Life Has Meaning." Though her name is really what deserves ridicule, she knew the consequences and illegality of her actions, despite her age.

But was non-fatal violence necessary? It is a cop's job to protect the law. Without some force, the job is impossible. Are cops supposed to physically carry each protester back to the designated area? Maybe legislators could revoke law-breakers' health care benefits or something.

Any peaceful protester reading this would probably cite progress made by civil disobedience in the 1960s. But the situations are different. Black civil rights activists sat at whites-only counters because they were unjustly denied that right. They took only what rights they deserved. But if "Law A" is unjust, break it and kindly go to jail. Donít break "Law B." Otherwise, you might end up starting the L.A. Riots.

The rare incident that does meet the Rodney King standard of power abuse (i.e. the Rodney King beating) gets blown out of proportion and comes down on cops harder than it should. First, King, was not innocent. He was a drunk driver refusing to obey commands to lie on the ground. However, beating King was not the answer. He cooperated but still got the daylights beat out of him.
For this, cops everywhere are immortalized as brutal maniacs. Which is prejudice, plain and simple. I've met people who've honestly meant the phrase "Fuck the po-lice." Here's what I tell those prejudiced Dr. Dre wannabes: "Fuck gangs."

And, while we're talking about King, fuck rioters. The L.A. riots killed 54 people. The King beating jailed two out-of-line cops and gave an ex-con enough money to start a rap record company.

My point is not that cops should be quicker on the trigger. After all, thanks to one cop's patience, my friend Tom is still alive. But to those who can't heed a cop's warning to shoot, or who toss aside a chance at justice by resisting arrest, my advice is this: Quit breaking the law.

Come closer. They won't bite

Pit bulls aren't the ferocious attack-dogs DMX wants you to think they are.

By Natalie Miller
210 west Content Editor [send email]

I became a proud dog owner last year of an adorable black-and-white bundle of energy. But my joy at finally having a dog of my own was tainted – the same week we adopted Bailey, I found out that she was a breed that was part of the “pit bull” family. And the way I found out was that Staffordshire Bull Terrier was printed on a proposed piece of legislation banning her from a nearby suburb. Even though she is not a purebred, mixes of any of those breeds are included, too. I was shocked.

I became immersed in the subject, and found that even dog lovers have their prejudices against certain breeds. The portrayal of pit bulls in movies and the news is as an unpredictable monster, ready to strike out at innocent victims with their “locking jaws.” This ideology in pop culture, accelerated by rap videos and horror movies (pit bulls are often portrayed as hounds of hell) leads to people fearing them even when they are just acting like dogs – sniffing, jumping, wagging and running.

In reality, well-bred members of the bulldog family score very high on temperament tests, on average higher than the popular retrievers. As pets, their powerful haunches and flat head are awesome and regal. I’m not sure anyone believes me when I say that. I didn’t get her to be a bad-ass, I just thought she was a great dog.

What I wish people would gain is an understanding of the canine-human relationship and our large responsibility in molding our pets into constructive, rather than destructive, beings. People who have well-socialized and well-behaved dogs understand the wonderful companionship and spontenaity that owning a dog can bring. But there are many people who fear dogs for their unpredictability, and the damage they can cause.

Whose given these dogs a bad name? Well, dog fighters, for one. Although illegal in every state, this practice continues. Dogs are often tortured to make them meaner, and are forced to fight in filthy backyard or basement pits.

One of the reasons the bulldog breeds are prized by fighters is that they were originally bred for bull-baiting, another old barbaric sport. Their muscular bodies, high tolerance for pain and particular tenacity make them excel as fighters, although it is gruesome.

But as a pet, these are these same attributes have an appeal. That same muscular body and ready-for-anything attitude are advantages for a hike in the woods, even if you get lost. And that high tolerance for pain prevents nipping when ears or tail are pulled unsuspectingly. These dogs are also extremely loyal, and even sensitive. The dogs genetics dictate their propensity for physical activity, but human conditioning dictates what that activity is.

An example of the emotional rather than logical is that opponents of bully breeds cite their genetic propensity for aggression as matter of fact, but include mixed breeds too. So following the idea that pit bulls are pure evil, even a drop of their blood mixed with an angelic breed, such as a Lab or beagle, taints that dog completely. This is ridiculous – how can that behavior be transferred by blood? It can be genetic, but with a mixed breed, how can you know what traits will be inherited or revealed?

Another group giving these dogs a bad name is state and city legislators, who often pass bans and restrictions based on public panic; not on the facts. Although highly publicized, dog attacks are rare. Dog bites are much more common, particularly among children. People who fear dogs may feel safer thinking that they can identify a dog that will bite by the shape of her head, but mixed breeds bite the most, simply because there are more of them. And the mostly likely dog to bite you is yours or your neighbor’s, simply because of the increased exposure.

And there’re the bad owners to blame for the bad publicity too. People who get a dog who looks tough, and chain it up in the back yard. Or just ignore it. A dog of any breed mistreated will inevitably be a menace. As the breed bans expand to Chows, Rottweilers and Doberman Pinschers, I would like the people would see the absurdity of trying to classify “bad breeds,” rather than address the issue of biting and damage from individual mistreated dogs.

Experts know the profile of a dog who will bite, and where. The most likely dog to bite: an unneutered male who has been chained up. Where? On the owner’s property while off a leash. The least likely? While being walked on a leash off the property. It’s not about the breed, it’s about the behavior of the owner and the training of the dog. Temperament is not evenly spread across a breed, but down the line of decendents. No reputable breeder will breed a dog with a bad temperament.

Breed bans have sprung up across the nation in response to singular incidents, which is easy to do with enough gory details and emotional haranguing. But what these laws do are prevent good people with potentially good dogs from properly socializing, and these wonderful dogs from being adopted by good people. Banned dogs don’t get enough exercise, attention or medical care, which could all lead to bad behavior. I’m sure that someone will point out that a “bulldog” biting will cause more damage because of the aforementioned strength and tenacity: my response to that is that proper training becomes all the more necessary.

If laws and communities want to address the real issues of responsibility and dog violence, they should educate and legislate better treatment of animals. Animal abuse and neglect are the real culprits, and training your dog to be a killer is included in my definition of abuse. Dogs are social animals by nature who aim to please their human companions. What we want them to do for us to be pleased is our responsibility.

Meanwhile, my “pit bull” lounges calmly on the couch while my black laborador puppy bites her face and growls. She takes with the grace and patience of a well-loved dog.

Rebound

Two years after that horrible day, Vince Guerrieri figures we're all going to be OK, after all.

By Vince Guerrieri
210 west Managing Editor [send email]

When I awoke on the morning of Sept. 11, 2001, the only significance the day held for me was that it was a Tuesday, which meant I could get my dress shirts laundered for 99 cents apiece.

I awoke about 8:30, and absentmindedly made breakfast. Although I was up and around in the kitchen, mentally I was still asleep.

The Peters Township Council meeting the night before was long and boring, as Peters meetings tend to be. I had no real plans that morning, but someone else out there did, and it was to impact me like it did most Americans.

I sat down and began thumbing through that day’s papers. I got two papers, the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review, who give me an employee’s discount of half off the newsstand price, and the New York Times, which I’m hoping will give me an employee’s discount someday.

The rerun of M*A*S*H on television bored me, so I decided to turn on the news. I turned on MSNBC and saw one of the World Trade Towers in flames. Reports stated that a plane had slammed into one of the towers. At first, I chalked it up to pilot error or something, remembering that once upon a time, a bomber smashed into the Empire State Building.

My illusions disappeared as I watched a jumbo jet slam into the other World Trade Tower. “Holy shit,” I muttered to myself. I quickly showered and dressed, and sped toward the dry cleaners, dropping off my shirts and commenting about what the hell was going on.

During my drive into work, a scant ten minutes, the car was filled
with Howard Stern. He was telling everyone to be calm, and stating that planes ran into the World Trade Towers as part of a terrorist action against the United States. After a few other calls suggesting turning the Middle East into a parking lot using 50-megaton bulldozers, I pulled into the office.

There are circulation, editorial and advertising departments in our office, and on a typical Tuesday morning, they are all going about their daily routine. But this was not a typical Tuesday morning, and there were about a dozen people crowded around the television. By the time I had gotten to work, another plane had crashed into the Pentagon.

Being a member of the media, able to keep cool under pressure, I thought that this was the beginning of Armageddon and wondered if my soul was right.

Then the towers collapsed. The one that I watched get hit was the
first, imploding on itself and thousands of people trapped inside. At that point, I hadn’t seen footage of people leaping out of the towers, deciding that if they were going to die, they would try to have some say in the matter.

The troops were being corralled at the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review. For the first time in its brief history, the Trib was putting out an extra edition. I was dispatched to the main newsroom and parts yet unknown.

I got back into the car, and the FM radio was filled with news reports by then. Rock ‘n’ roll stations had scrapped their scheduled programming in favor of news on what was quickly becoming a national catastrophe.

I took pains to avoid the Fort Pitt Tunnels, in part because I’m claustrophobic and in part out of fear of terrorist actions in the tubes. I got to the newsroom by 11 a.m. Newsrooms are organized chaos on a good day, but all hell was breaking loose. There were reports of a hijacked plane over Pittsburgh, its origins and, more ominously, its destination unknown. The tallest building between New York and Chicago is the USX Tower on Grant Street in downtown Pittsburgh. As a precaution, it was evacuated. Eventually, so were the other buildings downtown, creating rush hour at 11:30 a.m.

At that point, I honestly wondered if I would be around to pick up my shirts at the cleaners that evening.

I was dispatched to the Jewish Community Center in Squirrel Hill, a heavily Jewish neighborhood in the city. At that point, Palestinian groups were claiming credit for the bombing.

I filed enough for a story in the second of that day’s extra editions, which would ultimately be peddled in a deserted downtown. After filing, I returned to the main newsroom on the North Side, next to PNC Park. There would be no baseball game there between the Pirates and the Mets that night, nor would there be for another week.

I was sent back to the South Hills bureau, where I completed the work I would have done earlier that day, had all hell not broken loose. I checked my friend Art’s Web site. Art was in New York City, preparing to move back to Youngstown as he fought the good fight against Hodgkin’s Disease (a fight which, two years later, seems to be spiraling toward its inexorable and unpleasant conclusion).

Art watched the towers collapse from the rooftop of his building in Brooklyn. As I read his reports and realized he was safe, with all of my work complete for the day, then and only then did I weep. I went home. My friend Gangster Mike (his name’s Mike and he aspires to be a character in Goodfellas) arrived. He spends a lot of time on the road, and had driven into Pittsburgh from the Buffalo area.

The television was clotted with news reports, replaying the planes
hitting the World Trade towers and their collapse, as careful as a
planned implosion. I had no desire to stay in that night. Mike and I headed to the Saloon.

Initial estimates feared that more than 10,000 people were killed, but those estimates dropped. Ultimately, around 3,000 people met their end that day, sparing it from being the bloodiest day in American history (that dubious honor goes to the Battle of Antietam in the Civil War on Sept. 17, 1862), but it was still horrific. Because in addition to the dead in New York City, Arlington and Somerset County, there were more than 280 million walking wounded. Everyone at the Saloon was in a daze. Conversations were kept at a minimum, but nobody could watch the televisions. Normally, they’d be tuned to a baseball game or some other sports programming, but at that point, they were all tuned to various news channels. After some 80-proof balm in Gilead, we adjourned to my penthouse apartment. I slept the sleep of the dead that night.

The world was gray to me for weeks after that. I saw the opening of Barney Miller or the end of Working Girl, both showing the Twin Towers in their glory, and tears formed in my eyes. I went to a Mets-Pirates game, a week later than I’d planned, and it was like a wake. The atmosphere, normally subdued for a Pirates game in September, was almost sedated. The Mets players wore New York Fire Department or Police Department hats.

Six weeks after Sept. 11, I found myself in the D.C. area for the
wedding of a high school friend. The gang from high school had
gathered from Atlanta, Illinois, Missouri and other points because no matter what state the world was in, we could eat and drink on someone else’s dime. We didn’t pass it up.

On Sunday, I chauffeured a friend to the airport. The sun shone, and the sky was the same shade of blue it was that disturbing Tuesday morning six weeks earlier. Ray Charles was singing “America the Beautiful.” I could see the D.C. skyline in the distance. That song ended, and Bono’s voice came through the speakers of my Chevrolet. “The heart is abloom, it shoots up through the stony ground…”

I knew then I’d be all right. I knew then we’d be all right. I knew that every day for all of us is borrowed time. The President talked about letting the terrorists win. If we lived in fear, then we’ve lost. I will not live in fear, and not in that fatalistic sense that if it’s your day, then it’s your day.

“It’s a beautiful day, don’t let it get away…”
Goddamn right.

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A day of time and place

Mary Beth Eastman can't remember where she was when the planes struck the World Trade Center; she was unconscious. Sometimes strange things happen, and sometimes strange things happen for a reason.

By Mary Beth Eastman
210 west Writer [send email]

sept. 11, 2001

7:57 a.m.
I was going to be late to work. Again. No time for breakfast, just a can of Coke and a quick cigarette on the drive over to Belmont Country Club.
I worked there as a receptionist in the daytime and a waitress at night, spending 14 hours a day at the beck and call of the rich. It wasn't much, and they made me take my nose stud out, but it was a job.

8:02 a.m.
Yanked my timecard out of its slot and punched it. Two minutes late meant fifteen minutes' docked pay. I hustled through the back hallways and the long narrow kitchen and crossed the shimmering lobby.
Settled into my wee little desk, off to the side of the Big Boss's desk. Big Boss was an unbelievable WASP, the kind you thought died out decades ago. They don't die, they go into hiding with the rest of their kind.

8:08 a.m.
I begin alphabetizing the chits from last week's dinner patrons.

8:43 a.m.
I cross my legs. My right ankle slams into the leg of the mini-desk I sit at. It hurts. I bend down to look at it. Bending down makes me dizzy. I think I'm going to throw up.
I try to walk out of the office to the women's room off the lobby.

8:46 a.m.
In New York, a plane flies into the World Trade Center.
In Ohio, I lose consciousness and black out in the wide lobby of the country club.

8:47 a.m.
I come to. Chef Jim, in his whites, is leaning over me with a table cloth. The sunlight bounces off the parquet floors. The little old ladies who answer the telephones hustle out into the lobby, fretting like mother hens. One calls 911.

In New York, the horror has begun.

8: 59 a.m.
The ambulance drives into the circular drive of the club. My mother is there, too, in her minivan. She looks horrified. I am carted out, supine, and loaded into the ambulance.

9:03 a.m.
In New York, the second plane hits.
In Ohio, I crack my eyes open. Sunlight is pouring through the back window of the ambulance. Two of the EMS technicians are leaning over me. It's a beautiful morning.

9:26 a.m.
I wake up again. I am wired up, covered with electrodes and hooked into an IV. I am in a tiny room, and I have to pee. The machine next to me is beeping.

The television is on in the lounge; while I'm dragging my IV rigging into the tiny bathroom, my mother is seeing the first footage of images we'll all soon come to know by heart.

As she stands, watching the impossible happen, she tells the nurse, "We're at war." The nurse replies, "You think so?"

9:30 a.m.
In Washington, a plane crashes into the Pentagon.
In Ohio, I am drinking a hospital-issue smoothie, to rebalance my electrolytes. A nurse scolds me for not eating breakfast. I am admonished. I am repentant. I dutifully eat the banana she hands me.

10:06 a.m.
In Pennsylvania, the last plane crashes.
In Ohio, I'm itching to go home. The machine next to me has stopped its beeping. It's broken. But I am still alive.

My mother explains to me what little she could glean from the news. Denial strikes, and hard. She must be mistaken, she must be wrong, these things could never happen. It's the Pentagon, for Chrissakes.

She's not wrong, though. This sinks in on the drive home.

11:00 a.m.
In New York, panic has overtaken the city. In Pennsylvania, word of the crash is getting around. And in Washington, high-stakes diplomacy is underway.
In Ohio, my mother drives me home. I absently hold my arm, the one that held the needle of the IV. I stare at all the other drivers -- how dare they be on the road! How dare they be driving, shopping, pumping gas! I wonder what the truth is; what, dear God, has happened out there? What has happened?

***
Slowly, dazedly, we made it home. Phone calls are placed; almost all family members are found, accounted for, consoled.

I turn the television on, and see, for the first time, what is unfolding. Denial has flown the coop.
The shock sets in, and the tears follow.

***
I have never been more grateful for a hospital visit or a wage-slave job as I was that day. The only place I felt safe, the only place I could stand to be, was at home with my baby brother, my mother, my father, my sisters, and my dog, watching the news and discovering what that praying thing is all about. Thanks to the peculiar circumstances of that Tuesday morning, that's precisely what I was able to do.

***
sept. 11, 2003
Two years have flown by, and I now live 45 minutes from the Pentagon. The shock has worn off. The tears have dried up. The fear, the paranoia, and the anxiety have faded away.

But these things are still with me, waiting to be remembered. Sometimes, they are remembered, and the memories themselves are frightening and shocking. Sometimes, 9/11 becomes screamingly, painfully horrific again.

And sometimes it's just a catchphrase, an excuse, a bumper sticker.

But in the moments when it's so frighteningly real, so personal and painful and terrifying, I feel myself changing again, just a little bit. Growing up a little bit, reaching out a little bi