Oh, Scott Lee Cohen, you sad, miserable, schmuck.  I appreciate your indignation, but...a history of abuse?  Steroid use?  Shacking up with a massage parlor girl?  There are no "happy endings" to this story, I'm afraid; this stuff always comes out. 

Cohen's is but the latest career fatality on a political death list that's scrolled through the White House, past the House and Senate, and across Governor's mansions large and small across the U.S.

For those seeking or holding public office, everything you do...everything...is scrutinized and well-documented.  Whether it's keeping a Argentinian mistress, trolling for gay sex, or the much-beloved putting a price on the President's vacant Senate seat, the internet is ready to spell out the details of your misconduct and chart the fall.  In real time. 

A cynic might think that pols today are more corrupt than a few generations back.  I disagree.  I think the information age just makes it harder to get away with misdeeds, and absolutely impossible to rewrite history (take that, Winston Smith).  For a politician to succeed and not get "dinged," he or she must have both the business cunning of Lex Luthor and the moral accountability of a convent full of nuns.

The idea of public office, accepting that higher call to serve the greater good, is one that always appealed to me.  I could never even think about it for real, though.  The second my name hit a ballot, the Tribune would be calling.  "Mr. VanOsdol, is it true that you used to pound beer bongs and do donuts in vacant parking lots while in high school?"
"Ummm..."

ABC-7 would show up at the front door.  "Mr VanOsdol, church groups have found audio of you on the radio playing a group called Cradle of Filth.  Before playing their songs, you were quoted as saying, 'praise Satan.' Are you, in fact, a devil worshipper?"
"Ummm..." 

Enter Walter Jacobson.  "Mr. VanOsdol, have you, as a passenger, ever mooned someone from a speeding vehicle?"
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Then explain this photo we've uncovered from 1989."
"Crap."

Robert Feder, Vocalo.org blogger.  "James, were you telling the truth on the air when you said, 'I can't wait to hear the new Red Hot Chili Peppers album'?"
"Ummm..."

I can only imagine how my opponents would come after me in their ads:

JAMES VANOSDOL WANTS YOU TO BELIEVE HE'S TELLING THE TRUTH. 

REMEMBER WHEN HE SAID HE "COULDN'T WAIT" TO HEAR THE NEW CHILI PEPPERS ALBUM?  HMMM...THAT DOESN'T SOUND LIKE THE SAME PERSON WHO WROTE A BLOG ENTRY SAYING THAT THEY WERE "THE WORST BAND EVER."

COME ON, JAMES VANOSDOL.  WHAT ELSE HAVE YOU BEEN LYING ABOUT?

Ummm...lots?   Okay, I get it.  I'm out.  I respectfully withdraw. 

        

The dreaded stomach flu laid me out this week, taking me out of commission from Wednesday through Friday. 

There are viruses and illnesses far more dangerous and debilitating than the stomach flu.   When the stomach flu hits though, it's so relentlessly awful that you can't imagine anything worse...at least I can't.  When your body gets on its internal loudspeaker and announces that a "red alert" evacuation from all entry points is underway, the sweet release of death seems like a more pleasant and altogether desirable experience.

When I first felt the signs of stomach flu, I raced to the bathroom.  The full effects didn't immediately show themselves, so I camped out on the cold, hard floor and waited.  With a bath towel shoved between my head and the wall, clad in my cunning Hulk T-shirt/Guitar-Hero-flannel-pajama-pant ensemble, I felt the telltale rush of saliva in the back of my throat as the cold sweats dampened my skull.   With only my cell phone to keep me company while on the floor, I emailed the office to say (paraphrasing) "Won't be in tomorrow, got the stomach flu.  Ugh."

The most sick I felt was Thursday morning.  I woke up on the couch around 5 a.m. and decided to stagger to the bathroom. As I started to walk, everything felt...really...strange.  I heard a low buzz in my ears.  I felt like I had the bedspins as I was walking.  Everything went black and white.  I was convinced I was going to pass out.  I'd never passed out before, so the idea of it scared the bejesus out of me. I quickly assumed my spot on the bathroom floor and waited it out for a worrisome and fidgety half hour. Once the feeling (thankfully) passed, I climbed back into bed.  I woke up four hours later, feeling much better, if not better-better.

I knew I was heading towards the end when I was able to put the stomach flu in perspective.  "There's a good chance I'll lose some weight because of this," I thought in one of yesterday's more lucid moments.

Today's status:  Down two pounds.  Thanks, stomach flu. I take back everything I said.

        

The critics tried to keep me from seeing "Legion."  Case in point...

The Los Angeles Times wrote:
"Legion may traffic in signposts of the apocalypse, but the whole affair mostly indicates that we're in the movie wasteland that is January."

The Chicago Reader says:
"This feature debut by writer-director Scott Stewart may sound like an enjoyably goofy theo-horror romp, but it's a serious penance."

Entertainment Weekly adds:
"the script turns out to be a rough and humorless beast slouching its way towards utter ludicrousness."

And yet, I went to see it this past week.

"Legion" portrays the onset of a biblical apocalypse with B-movie glee. If you've seen the trailer, you get the gist: An angel armed to the teeth with bazookas and other heavy artillery protects a group of humans from an onslaught of angels bent on purging the world of the human race. That onslaught is focused on a dusty diner in the middle of nowhere--the desolate, tumbleweed-covered, town of Paradise Falls.

This is not high art (though Dennis Quaid manages a slightly better acting turn than he did in "G.I. Joe Rise of the Cobra"). Knowing that, accepting "Legion" at B-movie face value makes the movie-going experience a (pardon the expression) hell of a lot more fun. There are creepy children, a disturbing potty-mouthed granny, and pus that eats through human flesh. Did I forget to mention that the mean angels have fucked-up cartoon teeth? All. In.

I'm sure that  "Invictus," "Julie and Julia," and "Precious" are all incredible cinematic achievements. Sometimes, you just want to see an angel blow up a car with a big gun instead.

        

As mentioned overandoverandover again, Facebook's not for me; I still doggedly believe that it'll go the route of MySpace within three years or less.  Furthermore, I can't understand why people focus so much energy building out personal content on a website that's not their own.  I'll occasionally post status updates on my page, though they're usually just of the "announcement" vein, and they're directly copied from what I'm posting on Twitter.

But I digress..

I have a few hundred "friends" on Facebook, some of whom I even know.  I got a Facebook message today from someone who noted that I have a lot of "friends" on the social net site.  He then asked me for a favor.  He wanted me to recommend his band's fan page to all my Facebook friends in order to impress a record label.

Two things about that:

-I've never blindly recommended that all my friends join a fan page, nor have I ever endorsed a band in that way. 
-This is a fundamental problem with baby bands and the music industry: the belief that amassing passive names is the right way to build a career.

If labels are still impressed by--let alone considering artists on the basis of--empty numbers, then they rightfully deserve to continue circling the drain.

Bands:  Make good music.  Build a fan base of truly interested, passionate people who want to interact with you online and see you on stage.  It's not about tonnage, it's about superserving that core group of followers.  Reinforce their belief in you, and their enthusiasm will be shared and spread with others. 

Careers aren't made by record companies (I can point to plenty of examples to the contrary), and they're certainly not made because a bunch of sheep click "Join" on a fan page. 

        

I thought this article about companies closing stores in 2010 was worth mentioning. Especially noteworthy is the fact that Blockbuster made the list; not because it's a surprise, but more because of the giant Netflix ad bordering the story. The 300 pixel-wide tile jumps off the page, in the process metaphorically crushing Blockbuster's mention "below the fold."

I recently returned to Netflix after cancelling the service a few months ago. At the time I got rid of it, I was convinced it was an unnecessary expense.

In the time without Netflix, I still had movie needs. Those needs found me going to Blockbuster to rent movies at least twice a month. At $4.99 a rental, and a minimum of two movies per visit, two trips a month to Blockbuster cost me at least $20. That ended up being more--sometimes much more--than Netflix's monthly fee for unlimited, two movies at a time. The math, coupled with common sense, led me to reactivate my Netflix membership.

While I haven't exactly been tearing through the red envelopes since rejoining Netflix, I haven't been visiting Blockbuster either. I was right about carrying an unnecessary expense; I just had assigned the blame incorrectly.

        

Schools: Closed

        

I haven't seen or read "Up in the Air" yet, though I have every intention to do both.  For the purposes of this entry, the aspect of the story that captured my attention was the lead character's quest for frequent flyer miles. 

Not unlike a Scientologist's goal of reaching "Clear," many have tried and failed in their attempts to achieve the seemingly-mythical highest level of air traveler status.  I know in my case it's been a fool's errand.

I travel enough for my status to be considered "regular," though not nearly enough to be considered "frequent."  Depending on need and cost, my travels are spread across a handful of dependable airlines. Because of my schedule and impossible-to-lock-in loyalty, I can never make it to the Clooney-esque ranks.  In fact, I'll never make it out of economy.

The appeal of a higher status is made painfully clear when you fly United.  First Class and "Premier" members don't merely preboard; they walk a roped-off red carpet to the jetway.  As my laptop-heavy, over-the-shoulder, Timbuk2 bag forces me to shift the weight back and forth between my feet, all I can do is stand and bitterly watch as the mileage masters march the goosestep of the privileged. 

Staying with United for the sake of example, according to their site, "When you earn 25,000 Elite Qualifying Miles (EQM) or 30 Elite Qualifying Segments (EQS) on United in a calendar year, you attain Premier status in the United Mileage Plus program."

30 Elite Qualifying Miles means 15 round trips.  That's more than one trip a month on United.  As it stands, I average 1 1/2 business trips a month.  In order to hit the Qualifying Miles goal, I'd need to make sure that every flight taken between now and December 31 was on United.  In doing that, though, I'd have to sacrifice better fares and departure times offered by other airlines (Southwest, for instance).  Not worth it.

Dismissing the frequent flights angle, the alternative route to United Premier status would be to fly really, really far on United a few less times. I exclusively travel within the U.S. and Canada, and my average distance flown is 500 miles.  In order to reach Premier status based on Qualifying Miles, I'd need to fly 25 round trips on United this year.  Impossible.

People who achieve higher status in airline affinity programs do so without even thinking about it.  Those of us who have time to think about it will never get there.  See you in the 27th row.

        

My biggest pet peeve, besides the lack of good synonyms for "pet peeve," is tailgating.  There simply is no bigger douchebag move to pull on the road.

Driving in the Kennedy express lanes to Q101 this morning, I watched classic tailgating from a safe distance.  A bald 30-something suburbanite with iPod earbuds plugged in was driving his red Jetta (girl car!  girl car!) shockingly close to the pickup truck in front of him.  This was aggressive driving, for sure; there was barely a hair's width between the front bumper of the Jetta and the rear of the pickup.  The Jetta's brake lights were on the entire time.

From the right, I whizzed past the Jetta and pickup, taking a long, hard glance at the driver of the pickup.  This was no fragile creature; he looked like a cross between Rob Zombie and Andre the Giant.  I then started to fantasize about what would happen if the pickup driver were to hit his brakes.  Surely the Jetta would end up rear-ending the pickup   Then, once the cars pulled over, Zombie the Giant would get out of the truck and effectively make the Jetta driver s**** himself on sight.  Taking my fantasy one step further, Zombie the Giant would punch through the driver's side window of the Jetta and extract the tailgating weasel and beat him within an inch of his life.  That task accomplished, the pickup driver would take the weasel's wallet and leave him by the side of the road.  Zombie would then get back in his truck, drive to the weasel's house, and burn it to the ground.

The thing is, that could've happened.  Had the Jetta driver hit the pickup or caught Zombie the Giant at a bad moment, his day could've gotten real bad, real fast.

I've argued about tailgating with friends of mine who proudly do it.  Their arguments in favor are so short-sighted and ignorant, they throw me into a blind rage.  Short of D.U.I., there's nothing dumber you can do on the road. 

The Jetta weasel will get his.  And he should consider this blog entry his "I told you so" in advance.

        

On New Year's Eve, Chris Cornell announced via Twitter, "The 12 year break is over & school is back in session. Sign up now. Knights of the Soundtable ride again!"  Like Billy Corgan before him, a failed solo album paved the way for a much more-welcomed band reunion.

        

I've been keeping an eye on the ongoing discussions about the much-rumored "iSlate" (iTab?), which Apple allegedly plans to announce at the end of this month.