Old People have Sex; Tell Oprah

Let me start by noting I have nothing against good cosmetic surgery. Facelifts have been with us for a long time. So has Barbara Walters. It appears the twain have met.

Barbara is a legend. She is the Cal Ripken, Jr. of female TV news personalities. She is head and shoulders above them all, even Oprah, who may be bigger now, but can’t catch her for longevity or trailblazitudeness.

Barbara Walters (l)

How old is La Babs? They say late seventies, and we should all look that good and remain so vital at that age. I doubt, however, we’ll ever know Ms. Walters’ true age for sure without felling her and counting the rings in her legs—and I’m not advocating that--but my guess is she’s actually about 125 years young.

Recently, she appears to have sipped a Jeroboam of bubbly from her own Fountain of Youth. Either that or she’s had some extraordinary work. Babs, you look terrific. Her plastic surgery was so successful she got a frantic call form Priscilla Presley, who asked, “Mmmmm Gffff Mmmjmgh Mgggh?” Huzzah for her Plastique Surgeon. Dude rules.

With the single exception of the experimental Full Body Cap Regis had in December, it’s the finest work I’ve ever seen on a living human. (Full disclosure: After I contracted Bell’s Palsy in 2003, I had plastic surgery on an eye that drooped like dewlaps on a Bloodhound.)

Now the bad news. Apparently, Barbara’s latest rejuvenation has inspired her to announce to the world—maybe as a preemptive pre-outing strike—that she did the nasty last century with a now dead, then married formerly African-American, U.S. American Senator. Not just any dolt, but Sen. Edward Brook of the great State of Massachusetts.

Ooops. This just in! Edward Brook is still alive! No word on whether he wishes he were dead and/or wishes Babs had kept her pie hole closed. (More Full disclosure: To my knowledge, I have never slept with Barbara Walters. Or, for that matter, Edward Brook.)


Fat Chance of getting Babs to shut up about this. She is slated to babble on about her dalliance on—where else—Oprah. As if the meeting of the two Top Doyennes of television femaledum wasn’t enough, she‘ll talk about the affair there, and if time permits, jump on Oprah’s couch.

And this is the gift that keeps on giving. Geraldo has slithered out from the rock under which he hides to announce he really really wanted to nail Babs his own self, and shock of shocks, she turned him down.

Geraldo then theorized in that racially sensitive way he has that the shootdown was due to “Once you’ve been back, you never go back.” Not to be outdone, the current occupant of the Joan Rivers Chair of Cosmetic Reconstruction at UCLA, Cher, announced that she once nailed Tom Cruise. Cruise, of course, also is appearing on Oprah, not to deny dalliances with strange women—he has a enough trouble convincing people he even dallies with Katie--but to claim he’s not really wacky as a Loon. Uh-huh.

Then the new Governor of New York, David Patterson, announced the only reason he released his laundry list of illicit affairs was because he thought someone was about to out him on the matter. I’d love to have been a fly on the wall when he ‘splained that to the Missus.

I know I’m a voice crying in the Wilderness here, but enough, already. I’m no prude. I don’t poopoo Barbara or Cher or the Gov’s dalliances; nor do I condone them. Just, for God’ sake, shut up about it. The world is going to Hell in a Handbasket and when not discussing Obama’s Preacher, all the media can concern itself with is who was porking who decades ago in Senor Village.

I guess insecurity plus the years ticking by are not good for one’s sense of self-esteem, no matter the accomplishment to date or the quality of facial reconstruction. But, sadly, it appears Pallaver, Blather, Gossip and Glop have just become the new Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

Kicking Obama Where It Hurts

If we are a Nation that still sticks up for the underdog, Barack Obama may well be the next President of the United States

If our sense of Fair Play can overcome our innate, inbred, bubbling-below-the-surface fear of black people, Senator Obama is the next President of the United States.

If we, as a nation, have come to realize that much of the Media no longer cares about what is right or wrong, what is responsible or irresponsible, but just what is profitable, and we ignore that Media, Obama is a shoo-in.

If we realize that Ralph Nader and Reverend Wright were once good and honest men who worked for the well-being of their people and the country, but have since been seduced by the Dark Side’s Bitch Goddess of Megalomania and must be ignored, Obama can start writing his inaugural address now.

If voters understand that there is something intrinsically wrong with ignoring or joining in with a gang-like pummeling of a single, honorable person by his Republican opponent, his Democratic opponent, his Pastor, Fox News, and most of the rest of the Media is so very, very wrong, the Senator can reserve a lane at the White House bowling alley now.

If American citizens realize this Nation cannot go on like this, cannot continue electing its officials as a result of manipulation by Spin Machines and Professional propagandists, Barack Obama can get fitted for his Top Hat and Tails.

The optimist in me feels this could happen. The cynic, the pessimist, the pragmatist and the historian within me don’t hold out much hope.

A Black man hasn’t had a beatdown like this since Rodney King stopped driving. And racist cops got nothing on Fox News or a once honorable Dragon Lady who now won’t allow the Will of the People to stand up to her Ego.

An argument can even be made that Ms. Clinton has known whereof she speaks. The Senator form new York may know that Barack is unelectable because of her unconscionable behavior designed to make him unelectable. This is not a stupid woman. She undestand the concept of Self-fulfilling prophecies.

Ms. Clinton, with whose policies I’ve largely been in accord, has nonetheless proven that there are few if any depths to which she will not sink in this campaign. She may not have reinvented Rovian strategery, but she’s emulated it. Senator Clinton may well stop Senator Obama from becoming the Next President of the United States and earn her Pyrrhic victory and .

Why Pyrrhic? Ms. Clinton has been so dishonest and so disingenuous that I truly wish her the worst fate I can imagine—stealing the nomination from Senator Obama. This would essentially end her political Presidential aspirations. Getting the nomination now is a task achievable only by driving away so many Democratic voters she cannot win the general election. Well, unless John McCain makes The Great Pumpkin his running mate.

As for The Reverend Jeremiah Wright. It has not been a good time for Men of the Cloth, and he isn't helping. No matter his intention--whether a delusional belief that he is doing African-Americans good by his actions, or intentionally not turning the other cheek to smite his former Parishener--the effect is singular. His is the behavior of a a man thoroughly in the grip of Megalomania. He isn't even a tragic figure--just a sadly comic one. His legacy, whether he helps Hillary haul down Obama or not--will be pathetic, a series of YouTube videos, ranging from an angry madman to a Post-Modernist Stepin Fetchit.

One can't be sure what he was going for. But what he has become is a punch line.

PESKY OPEN LETTER: What the Hell's Wrong with MSNBC?

To paraphrase the late humorist Fred Allen, you could put all I know about the Economy in a flea’s navel and still have room left over for three caraway seeds and an agent’s heart.

So I was watching Senator Obama’s speech on the Economy today with a combination of bewilderment and fascination. While what I heard made sense, I suspect what will linger long after speech was the memorable catch phrase he uttered about Sen. McCain, who he said was running for George Bush’s third term as President. As the economic mess and Mesopotamia mess vie to see who’s going to Hell faster, Obama’s effort to associate Granpa with the people responsible for both disasters makes sense.

Before his speech had even ended, McCain had issued a statement accusing Obama of the crime of Liberalism, and MSNBC, which was carrying the speech live, cut away. Why? To get back to what they do best—turn presidential politics into a Hybrid circus--half Dancing with the Stars, half Maury! (Seems they had some more dirt on Reverend Wright that just could not wait.)

What in the high holy Hell is wrong with you MSNBC? Aside from your one bright shining star—Keith Olbermann—the rest of your programming is bad and getting worse.

Dumping the Tuckster was a good idea, but replacing him with Journalist turned Karl Rove Backup dancer David Gregory? I don’t watch the new show much because every time I tune in I see tiny boxes filled with talking heads, one of whom is always Pat Buchanon. And Pat Buchanon makes my dog yak up her Alpo.

And the one thing the 24/7s don’t need are more hours devoted just to politics. (And almost exclusively presidential politics, at that. Had MSNBC dumped out of Obama for updates on the latest post Surge resurgence of violence in Iraq, I could understand. But MSNBC is so far behind the power curve in Iraq, I had to tune over to Fox News—FOX!—to get a live update from that beleaguered nation. They had some Scotsman named MacDonald reporting live. Yes, American TV is now outsourcing it’s war coverage.

Meanwhile, two Americans have been killed by recent shelling in Baghdad’s Green Zone. (as of 3 PM PDT) The U.S. Military blames Iranian-backed Shiite Militiamen. George Bush blames Congress. John McCain blames Mongol Insurgents, trained by al Qaeda in Philadelphia. The Mainstream media has bought the Administration line of hooey that the Surge has worked so it may take them a while to realize it hasn’t.

Pesky Prize # 4 Hail Britannia

Okay, maybe we aren't as dumb as we look. Turns out our little tagalong Coalition of the Willing partners may be stupider than we US Americans.

Hence, today’s Pesky Prize (#4) goes to one out of three English Kidlets. According to a survey in the Daily Telegraph taken between molar extractions, one-third of English youngsters surveyed think Sir Winston Churchill was the first man to walk on the Moon.

Idiots! Everyone knows Neil Armstrong was the first man to walk on the Moon. Churchill was second.

PESKY PRIZE # 3: Keith 'n' Patrick

Let’s unleash a big round of smoky applause for our first ever tie for The Pesky Prize, the World's Greatest Honor.

Our first selectee is soon-to-be late actor Patrick Swayze, denied the privacy of death by a Media that chose to thank him for entertaining us by outing his End Game. First the National Enquirer revealed that the Dirty Dancing star had less than six weeks to live due to Pancreatic Cancer. Then they followed up by snapping Swayze with a lit butt in his mouth. Then editorialists tut-tutted him for smoking when he already had Cancer. Yeah, a dying guy with a cancer stick in his mouth is a terrible role model and will no doubt turn lots of kids on to the nasty habit.

Our second smoking selectee is frequent winner of Rock ‘n’ roll Dead Pools, Rolling Stones guitarist Keith Richards, who in a recent interview with the London Daily Mail confirmed he still “smokes weed all the damn time.” More bad news for society, since this means handsome young guitarists hoping to emulate Keith’s matinee idol appearance will no doubt race out and pick up some chronic right away.

PESKY PRIZE #2: The Unfaithful Eight

Every time the phone rings, their pucker factor goes up to Eleven. When their accountants ask about a “couple of unusual withdrawals” in that special account they maintain, they stammer and sweat. When dark sedans circle or cop cars prowl outside their homes, their blood pressure spikes. When “Love Potion #9” plays on the radio, they change the station. When someone suggests “hanging is too good” for Client #9, they change the topic.

“They” are Emperor Club VIP Clients Numbers One through Eight.

The Unfaithful Eight, AKA Eight Men (not yet) Out(ted), are the first anonymous winners of the World’s Most Valuable Award, The Pesky Prize. The second ever Pesky Prize is awarded anonymously because the public-at-large and, more importantly, Pesky Gadabout, doesn’t know the recipient’s identity—yet. And it’s a sure bet they dearly want it to stay that way. But Pesky knows the Unfaithful Eight’s time will, er, come--faster than you can say “just leave it on the dresser.”

For them, it won’t be long before the fit hits the shan. Even as we speak, tabloid editors around the world are bellowing at bedraggled reporters to find fresh meat for the biggest story of sex, politics, and money 2008 has produced. Pesky suspects reporters might find them either enjoying one for the road or in church, thanking the Patron Saint of Sexual Misconduct for picking Eliot Spitzer, not them, to take one for the team. They’re left to wonder how much longer Spitzer will remain the Sole Sultan of Assignation, the Single Swallow of Capistrano, the Lone Arranger of Sexual Danger, the Solitary Subject of the Media’s Sizzling Spotlight.

Soon enough the Unfaithful Eight will have to convince their spouses to get dressed up and stand in front of hundreds of reporters, each thinking the same thought: “that’s the one he didn’t want to have sex with.” And is there a crueler sight than the crestfallen, heartbroken spouse, enticed by the man who betrayed her, standing bravely by his side?

And finally, Pesky wonders, could there ever be a better moment in live TV if, following this sad cheater’s waltz, in the instant after hubby finishes his Mea Culpa, wifey leans toward the mike and says: “For those of you who are interested, and that includes the scumbag standing next to me, I’ve just started doing the pool boy.”

No, Dammit, It's NOT My Book

Hi. I'm still John Corcoran and I'm still not illiterate, still not a karate expert, still not a “New Yorker” cartoonist, still not dead, still not a political consultant, and I especially still don't have a new book out. Several “John Corcoran's” are. Or have. Or do.

This may cause you to ask the musical question: "Who the hell cares?" Well, THIS John Corcoran does. THIS John Corcoran cares about you, the book buying public. And THIS John Corcoran especially cares about the financial well-being of his family, his friends, even his sworn enemies (And Lord knows there is some overlap there). THIS John Corcoran doesn't want people buying the other John Corcoran's book thinking the royaltie$ will go to me to spend on liquor and unguents. THIS John Corcoran wants book buyers to invest their money wisely instead, so when HIS book comes out (heh-heh-heh), you can buy more than one copy. THIS John Corcoran will stop referring to himself in the third person now.

I'm updating an earlier post because shortly after "Go Google Yourself" was published on this Blog, the other--okay ONE of the other--John Corcoran's came out with a book. Timing. I’ve got a gift for it.

The formerly illiterate John Corcoran’s new book is called “The Bridge to Literacy.” I didn’t write a single word of it. Some of my acquaintances know that. One emailed me to say, and I quote: “I'm guessing this is some other scribing schmuck and that your bridge blew up long ago.” Let me paraphrase Spencer Tracy, speaking of Kathryn Hepburn, and specifically of the “meat on her bones…” which he describd as “… cherce.” I don’t have a lot of friends, but the ones I have are cherce AND weird.

They know, as I do, that I am one of at least four John Corcoran’s I know of who are published authors, and that includes the one who wrote a book about 10,000 names for your boat. MY books are called "A Few Marbles Left" and "True Grits." My books sold well into the high several figures, and none contain boat names. I am currently working on a new book. When it gets peddled to publishers, the letter will begin: "If you LIKED my last book, you're gonna LOVE this one..." I’m hoping they’ll make the same misassumption some have and think I’m cranking books out faster than Steven King. Or maybe I’ll save time and just change my name to Steven King.

If that's illegal and I end up in prison, I'm requesting I be sent to the same hoosegow that houses Charlie Manson and Sirhan Sirhan. That’s Corcoran State Penitentiary. It's in Corcoran, CA, which is also the cotton capital of California. There is a Corcoran Gallery in Washington, DC, too. Years ago, my late father—although not late at the time--Lt. Col. John Corcoran, (USAF, Ret.) called The Corcoran Gallery about his membership status.

"Name please?" he was asked.

"John Corcoran," he replied.

"Would you spell that please?" he was asked.

"You’re kidding," Dad said.

Back when I lived where it rained, I owned a signature umbrella from the Corcoran Gallery Gift Shop. It was a good umbrella and I always prevailed whenever ownership disputes broke out because it said “Corcoran” on it.

I’ve never visited Corcoran State Penitentiary, either as visitor or guest. I live a good life because I was raisd well and I know a guy like me wouldn’t last long in the joint. I’d have to hope my cellmate preferred snappy repartee and movie trivia over that thing they do to pass time between conjugal visits.

Hussein Name Game

I got a call from my Uncle Morty yesterday. (Morty wants you to know that's NOT his real name, and that he's imaginary.)

“Have any of you Media geniuses realized the real reason why his opening act shouldn't have played the Hussein Name Game at the McCain rally?”

“You talking about Mr. Red Meat, the radio assclown who kept trying to associate Barrack Obama with a certain deceased dictator?” I asked.

“Yeah. Why should McCain have stopped the guy before he did that to an honorable opponent?”

“Because it was a dirty, underhanded, sleazy political trick,” I said.

“No, I'm serious,” Morty said.

“I give up, why?”

“Because of the radio guy's name,” Morty said.

“I don't get it.”

“See, McCain is a Capitol Hill politician and a war-hero former Navy pilot with a whiff of political scandal in his past. He's famous for spending time in involuntary confinement. And the guy who introduced him is named Cunningham,” Morty said.

“So what?”

“So, connect the dots. 'Capitol Hill. War-hero. Former Navy pilot. Political corruption. Incarceration. Cunningham.' Name associate and you get another war-hero former Navy pilot, known for political corruption and he's famous for spending time in involuntary confinement. HIS name is Cunningham, too. Duke Cunningham.”

“But Duke Cunningham's sins have nothing to do with John McCain.”

“And Saddam Hussein's sins have nothing to do with Barrack Obama.”

“Good point. Anything else?”

“Yeah. Why does Hillary think the Media wants Obama to defeat her?” Morty continued. “Doesn't she know they know she's a package deal with Bill? And doesn't she know they remember her husband and how covering him put a lot of Media kids through college?

"And what about the funny guys? Why on God's Earth would Dave, Jon, Keith, Conan, or Jay want a President Obama? A smart, scandal-free, anti-war President who speaks English is the last thing they need. Bill Clinton's chilliwacker and George Bush's tongue have been comedy gold for years. Obama would be comedy dross.”

Uncle Morty was dropped on his head once as a child, and several times again as an adult.

“A final question,” Morty continued. “Twenty debates and the last one got the highest rating ever. So will they renew the series?”

They'd love to. Morty makes a good point. If the all-news networks could, they'd want them to run indefinitely. Tim Russert and Wolf Blitzer have become the political Simon Cowell and Paula Abdul and “American Idol” has become the template for the candidate's debates. Seriously, laugh about it, shout about it--when you've got to choose, every way you look at this you lose.

“You're darn tootin', Mrs. Robinson,” Morty said and hung up.

I gotta put him on my Do Not Call list.

Have Another Boozeberger, Ralph

Let's say for a moment Ralph Nader is a lush. I mean that metaphorically. As far as I can tell Nader has never tasted liquor, and as far as I can tell there are few people in public life who could use a drink more. But if Nader is a Metaphorical lush (Booze for Fame, get it?), then “Meet the Press” host Tim Russert was his enabler, Sunday. The Metaphorical case of scotch was the national platform Russert turned over to Ralph.

Russert helped resurrect the political career of a man who is at least peripherally responsible for the last seven years of National Misery. Lest we forget, had Nader not siphoned off the naiveté vote in Florida, the pivotal state in the 2000 election wouldn't have been close enough to steal-hanging chads be damned. Al Gore would never have done his Slide Show, the publisher of the “Bushisms” would be out some serious cash, and -who knows-perhaps half the country wouldn't hate the other half so much.

Nader made news Sunday, of course. Ralph announced he was running for President. Three thoughts. (1) Shocker. (2) Nader has as good a chance of getting elected as Harold Stassen does-and Stassen is dead. (2) You KNOW Russert knew in advance Ralph was there to announce. Otherwise, my sources say, Russert would have booked Brittney to announce she was going back into rehab.

Nader's combination of Ego and pragmatism is understandable. He runs for President again to reestablish his faded presence on the national stage. Fortunately for Megalomaniac enablers, this need plays right into their wheelhouse. Russert gets the pub for his Sweeps guest; Ralph gets a boost with voters anxious to waste their ballots. Win-win and sexier than-I dunno-booking guests who might discuss the real issues facing the country.

The (redundancy alert) Paranoid Far Left might also see a deeper conspiracy--the move as part of the McCain-loving MSM's desire to elect as president one of the few politicians who pretends he likes them, really likes them, just for themselves. Why, if John McCain becomes President, I'm sure he'll have us all over for a beer.

Never has the need for self-aggrandizement by the Ego needy been better positioned than in this day and age. Jokemeister turned Kingmaker Jay Leno launched Arnold Schwarzenegger's political campaign, and even Jon Stewart, Steven Colbert and Conan O'Brien “fought” over who helped bring Mike Huckabee out of obscurity.

Bored over the early Presidential campaign, some Media luminaries promoted Fred Dalton Thompson from the workaday TV character actor he was (and may again be) to “movie star Fred Thompson,” some even comparing his career with Ronald Reagan. Critics know Fred Thompson is a better political campaigner than an actor.

Last week we saw other examples how Splashmakers and their enablers operate. When Bill O'Reilly cranks up his (obviousness alert) Outrageous Stupidity Factor to Eleven, his Sworn Enemy, Keith Olbermann, tweaks O'Reilly by naming him the Worst Person in the World.

Last week O'Reilly suggested the possibility of lynching the African-American potential future First lady of the United States, and Olbermann righteously pointed out that--at the very least--O'Reilly should be suspended by Fox. True, but Keith is too smart to think that would ever happen.

So the Media Mandela goes on. O'Reilly rages, Keith rails-and both look good to their base.

But worse yet? When “The New York Times” ran its innuendo fest about John McCain, the biggest question on the Media's mind wasn't merely “What the Hell Were They Thinking?" or "What else have they got?" No, Media just had to know how the most Bloviated Bag of Wind in the land would react--in other words, what would (Oxymoron alert) Limbaugh Think?

So America's news junkies were treated to undercover quality video snippets of Rush doing his radio thing, telling the Dittoheads around the country how they should behave.

I could go on with other examples, but my goal here was to write about Media Megalomania without mentioning Chris Mathews.