"I think it's time we recognized the Dark Ages are over. Galileo and Copernicus have been proven right. The world is in fact round; the Earth does revolve around the sun. I believe God gave us intellect to differentiate between imprisoning dogma and sound ethical science, which is what we must do here today."

- Rep. Christopher Shays, R-Conneticut

So I went to see Star Wars on Thursday night, once I was sure the geeks, having already had their turn at midnight, would finally be forced to succumb to sleep.

Before I offer an opinion on III, let's face it: Episodes I and II, no matter how you slice and dice them, were pure rubbish. You couldn't convince any thinking adult that they were actually any good. And as for the people who liked it, well, they already had their noses so far up Lucas's ass that they would've gladly gobbled up any stinker that plopped out.

Episode III, in many ways, carries on with the same flaws: overwrought, soap opera-ish dialogue, flat acting that lacks emotional authenticity, spectacular yet suspenseless action scenes. Padme saying to Anakin "[Obi-Wan] is worried about you...he says you've been under a lot of stress," has got to be one of the worst movie lines I've heard in years.

The film's final hour, though, is immensely compelling. One can't help but be mesmerized as Lucas builds his bridge between episodes III and IV. As the pieces are put into place -- the defeat of the Jedi, Anakin's descent into the Dark Side, the rise of the empire, the scattering of Obi-Wan, Yoda, Luke and Leia -- one must acknowledge that Lucas' ability to captivate our collective imagination hasn't been totally lost to the Rings and Matrixes of today.

Furthermore, as the republic becomes an empire, Padme's observation from the senate chamber that "this is how liberty dies...to thunderous applause" is by far the most resonant line of any in the entire series. Art imitates life.

In the six years since The Phanton Menace debuted, I've been praying for the end of this franchise. Now, I want to see what Lucas has up his sleeve for a sequel.

What an incredible movie.

To merely call "Crash" a film about prejudice would be akin to calling The Lord of the Rings a trilogy about midgets.

This film, like Magnolia, attempts to show how we are interconnected by an undercurrent of angst and anguish. Sometimes, these tensions tugging beneath the surface cause us, both physically and emotionally, to slam into one another.

There is no single race or sex that is innocent. We are all both victims and victimizers, alternatively offended and offensive, outraged and outrageous.

Poor us...how dare we?

I've been AWOL from the blog for about two months now, working on two mutually exclusive ventures, one the result of hard work, the other a complete surprise, and both with, I'd say, a 50-50 chance of success.

When I know more, maybe you will too.

Politics is getting interesting again.

Rick Santorum vs Bob Casey Jr.

Rudy Giuliani vs Eliot Spitzer.

Harold Ford, who ought to be in the Senate and running for president right now, is finally taking a gamble and putting his career on the line to move up the food chain.

Is it 2006 yet? I think I'm gonna wet my pants.

I just gotta say, I'm so sick of the starstruck idiots who can't help but solely blame the victims' parents and excuse MJ by saying "well, he is weird, but..."

But what? The man is clearly guilty, and if he were some mill worker in Mississippi he'd be rotting in jail by now. Why does Michael Jackson get a pass? He's not even a priest...

To be clear, I think he's not only guilty, but a predator of the worst kind. He befriended children with cancer and other deadly diseases, and under the guise of helping, took advantage of them. He ought to lose custody of his kids and go to jail.

As far as the trial goes, though, I'm about 95% sure he'll be found not guilty. There is reasonable doubt all over the place. No, I'm not watching the re-enactments on E!, but I can tell just from scanning the headlines that the prosecution's case is nearly sunk. No physical evidence, contradictory statements from the accuser as to whether Jackson abused him or not, a family history of frivolous suits and perjury...it's a slam dunk for our favorite guilty celebrity defendant since O.J. If I were on the jury, I'd have to turn him loose.

Ah, well. Anyway, for your pleasure...

IT Wizerd (4:02:21 PM): so yeah

IT Wizerd (4:02:50 PM): when I get back tonight you're finished

Sancho1O26 (4:03:11 PM): hmmmm all i gotta say is
21-6

Sancho1O26 (4:03:15 PM): lol

IT Wizerd (4:03:36 PM): every bum gets lucky once...

Sancho1O26 (4:04:10 PM): umm 2-0 for the good guy

Sancho1O26 (4:04:14 PM): lol

Sancho1O26 (4:04:21 PM): u got nothing

IT Wizerd (4:04:27 PM): ugh

Sancho1O26 (4:04:32 PM): 8-)

IT Wizerd (4:04:44 PM): there's nothing more annoyingly
pious than someone who refers to himself as "the good
guy"

IT Wizerd (4:05:17 PM): Besides, what are you trying to
say? That I'm the BAD guy?

IT Wizerd (4:05:27 PM): Bad as in dark? Dark as in
black?

Sancho1O26 (4:09:05 PM): lol

Sancho1O26 (4:09:12 PM): i dont like this game

IT Wizerd (4:09:53 PM): What? We're just talking.

IT Wizerd (4:09:55 PM): hehehe

Sancho1O26 (4:11:21 PM): lol

It's really strange how, in the moment prior to an accident, your perception of reality speeds up and everything around you seems to slow to a crawl. And it's extraordinary that, when you see the accident coming, your singular focus becomes the physics of avoiding or minimizing the imminent physical impact. The scope of your life suddenly narrows, like a camera with a wide-angle lens focusing on the pin of a needle.

And what's even more amazing is how, in even the most unforeseen accidents, we always take a split-second prior to impact to subconsciously assign blame. To think, fuuuuck, I knew I shouldn't have done that. Or alternatively, WTF?? This guy...

That happened to me yesterday as I got onto Interstate 76. Let me explain.

Just moments before the occurrence I'd been sitting beside the highway at a red light, waiting and sizing up the hill ahead of me. I was thinking about how I wouldn't be one of those people who gets up to the very end of the on-ramp and then stops, waiting for a traffic gap of at least 10 car-lengths before they feel safe enough to sputter onto the highway.

You see, that's what always happens at this particular on-ramp, at Green Lane. Most days I'm already on the highway by the time I approach Green Lane. (Today is different because I took a different route home.) Every time I pass by, I see a queue of cars waiting to get on, and I heed the urge to accelerate. I think to myself, If you're too timid to merge onto a highway, then I sure as hell don't want you in front of me. And as I pass them, I look to my right, hoping to catch a glimpse of the non-senior citizens who can't manage a simple on-ramp. I mutter at all of them, stay there...idiots.

This time, though, it was my turn to approach the on-ramp that so many others had found unmanageable. It was a clear night, and a yellow light for traffic crossing under the highway reflected off my car's hood. I let the car drift forward, my foot hovering above the gas pedal, ready to mash it in as soon as the light facing me turned green.

A few seconds later I was racing up the hill. Or trying to race, at least. A quarter of the way up, I was only going 25mph, so I forced the transmission to downshift. Halfway up, the speedometer was teasing 45. When the concrete separator on my left gave way, I could see the highway traffic rushing by. It was heavier than usual, and as I gauged my speed to that of the passing cars, I contemplated whether I could get the additional 15mph needed from my aged, overdriven Taurus to glide seamlessly into traffic. I thought about how I might have to joust my way into the lane, relying, as I often do, on that firmware that forces other drivers to yield their space as they see your on-ramp space running out. And how, speaking of space running out, it might help if I knew how much room was left until it was time to start nudging in.

It's when I glance at the road in front of me that everything happens. My eyes widen, and my right foot snaps back from the gas pedal. My lungs inhale, and my arms extend until I'm pushing the steering wheel as far away from me as possible. A pair of red lights is looming ahead, two snake eyes, and they are separating rapidly.

Slow-motion begins. My upper body flashes hot, the physical equivalent of WTF?? I push in the brake pedal. A half-second later, I'm grateful that I'm not skidding and yet mindful that I won't stop in time. My eyes dart to the right and, not seeing a car on the shoulder, my hands follow suit. During the pivot, I lean forward to see the front-left corner of my car maneuver around the right side of his bumper like the nose of a guided missile around a building. I whip the wheel back and, seeing open road ahead of me, I take my foot off the brake and coast past him. Side by side I think, This guy...

I swerve back onto the road and, this being the end of the on-ramp, accelerate into highway traffic, looking back only briefly at the car I just passed.

The danger has passed. I start breathing again.

My forehead was hot and perspiring a few seconds ago, and now it feels like there's ice in my pores. I clench the wheel with both hands, taking a second to wipe each palm off onto my lap. I shrug my shoulders uncomfortably, because my back feels damp.

I think about what transpired. Matching the rear of the car to the dark front end that I glimpsed in the mirror, I realize that that was a Dodge Caravan completely stopped at the top of the on-ramp. Some schlub who was waiting for the highway traffic to stop and invite him on. I imagine how, if some father had been beside the minivan, changing a tire, I would have run him right over. I push the thought out of my mind because it's unsettling, and well, that didn't happen.

The car is filled with the noxious smell of burnt rubber and discs. I roll down several windows to let out the wind sweep out the tension and its byproducts.

The episode begins to evaporate from my thoughts. Life expands. I have somewhere to be.

I look to my left, and then to my right. I judge which lane is moving faster, veer my car into position, and hit the gas.

From my chat with a Microsoft support rep today:

Welcome to Microsoft XBox Support
The XBox Chat session has been accepted. This chat session is being recorded for quality monitoring; your IP address may be traced.

{Mylene} Welcome to the Xbox North America Customer Support! My name is Mylene.

{Mylene} Hello Aaron

{Aaron Benson} Hi

{Mylene} I understand that you want to change your gamertag, right?

{Aaron Benson} yes

{Aaron Benson} How do I do it?

{Mylene} Unfortunately we are unable to change the gamertag you created when setting up your Xbox Live account.

{Aaron Benson} umm

{Mylene} he only way to have a new gamertag is to create a new account by providing a new set of subscription codes

{Mylene} The*

{Aaron Benson} That's ridiculous. I paid for my account with a yearly subscription, so I'm stuck with that name for that whole time?

{Mylene} This is one of the key features of Xbox Live that sets it apart from other online gaming services.

{Mylene} I'm sorry for the inconvenience

{Aaron Benson} You don't allow people to change their name, and you're calling it a feature?

{Aaron Benson} What's the benefit?

{Mylene} In order to maintain the community on Xbox Live, we need to have gamers maintain a permanent, unique identity on the service.

{Aaron Benson} Great. Well, maybe my Playstation will let me do it when I buy one.

{Aaron Benson} Thanks for nothing. Microsoft sux.

{Mylene} It was a pleasure chatting with you today. Thank you for inquiring about Xbox. If you need further assistance, please come back and visit us again. I hope you have a nice day!

Just posting for the hell of it.

Hey, would you want "American Idol" at the top of your home page? Okay.

Look, I watch it. I'll just get that out of the way right now.

I've tried not to discuss this, but I just can't bottle it up inside anymore. And before you get carried away, no, I never watch the competitive shows down the stretch run. But I do think the production of the first few shows, with the mass auditions, is excellent.

It's only partially about talent (or the outright lack thereof), because a show created solely for the exposition of talent is no fun. Ditto for the personal snapshots of people and personalities, as interesting and marginally inspiring as they may be.

No -- you can chalk my interest up to voyeurism. I love seeing train-wreck performances by self-deluded starlets who run smack into the reality of their teenage mediocrity. Since these kids should already know better, I feel a certain glee at seeing their confidence crumble beneath the withering criticism of cackling judges.

They emerge from their auditions, shell-shocked and bewildered by those preceeding moments of lost poise. They know that we know; as their failure resonates for all to see, we watch as they face not a camera, but rather, a mirror.

As much as the masses yearn for the uplifting and inspiring selection that will inevitably conclude this series, we love to see conceited and narcissistic people fail even more. But as much as we love to see the vain fall, even moreso are we enthralled by those portraits of people who are too full of themselves to even realize how fucked up they are:

"This person can't really think they're any good. God, that rendition was horrid. Yeah, they actually do think that sounded good. Wow. Now look at them get a dose of reality from the judges. That must be humiliating. But this person still really believes they were great. The next Michael Jackson / Madonna...huh? Wow."

So yeah, I watch American Idol. Fuck you, okay?

As I had to remind someone today, you have to actually live life in order to write about it.

Hell, I've been thinking I should take all of 2005 off from blogging. Yes, I would like that very much.

There's one picture I forgot to post from NYC. I was walking near 33rd and 3rd when I happened upon this:

[click the pic]

Apparently, there wasn't enough parking at the V.A. hospital.

If you look closely, you'll notice that there's not one, but two chains on the wheelchair. It's as if the owner, having been burned once, resolved to be doubly vigilant against those wheelchair black market bastards.

[click the pic]