Cut the Smut

I'm sure many of you already know this, but it's a rough time to be in the smut peddling business. First, the city tries to force three strip clubs out of town through rezoning, and now a little mom-and-pop porn shop has come under the gun.

You see, Saturday marked the grand opening of "Secrets Boutique", a store that specializes in lingerie, as well as some "novelty" items, which may or may not be shaped like certain "novelty" parts of the human anatomy.

Now, the city council can certainly appreciate a fine novelty item just as much as the next old coot (although they have changed a bit since back in the day... the ol' spring loaded snake in a can isn't quite how they remembered it when it comes from this shop), but the real problem came in the fact that it opened up next to a popular family shopping mall along the interstate. To top it off, their permit application had a different name and claimed to be a clothing store. Looks like the secret's out!

"Shh" indeed.

However, the good people of this city weren't about to accept this without a fight. Armed with a camera and a sign, some local Christian do-gooders began their holy crusade to embarrass any folks who wished to partake in some smut dealings on the way home from the office.

That's right, YouTube has become a tool for the righteous, doing God's work in the 21st century. And we all know how wholesome YouTube is, giving us such family friendly classics as The O'Reilly Flip Out, The Ghost Ridin' Grandma, and A Monkey Drinking His Own Pee. Church wasn't nearly this much fun when I was a kid.

As of press time, their video did not seem to be on YouTube. Meanwhile, my streak of smut-related news stories continues. I've got high hopes for next week... maybe cracking down on naked pillow fights? I'll save that gem for sweeps.

Covering the Crisis

Gas prices suck, there's no denying that. But what's even more painful is seeing your initials on the assignment board next to a "Gas Prices" story... for the third time that month. Indeed, gas prices stories are good for two things: Filling time in a newscast and draining the creative soul of a photographer. We could easily run the same story from last week and no one, not even the producers, would notice. Original ideas have long since dried up, and we are left with nothing more than a string of complaints from people telling us things that we already know... mainly, that gas prices suck. Well buddy, covering gas prices ain't much more fun, so step off.

One news station had the guts to cover the crisis in covering the gas crisis. Indeed, it's the journalists who are the true victims in this tragedy.

Turdpolishing

Everyone knows that the journalism industry ain't what it used to be. Rather than tuning in to a grandpa-like figure narrating the day's events as the family gathered around the television, we are regularly handed a collection of stories meant to entertain rather than inform. To quote a former colleague, the audience is often times handed a "polished turd" and told that it's news. That being said, I present to you the following. In return, I ask only that you write a 15-20 page annotated report on the current state of the news media as it is represented in this clip's visual imagery.

You may copy and paste the final draft of your report in the comments section. Late submissions will be docked one letter grade per day late. Plagiarism is absolutely inexcusable.

Save the Pole

Rather than start out by explaining what today's story was, I'll just let one of our interviews explain, in what might be one of the greatest sound bites I've come across in my professional career.

"As American citizens, it is our right to
go to places like these (strip clubs).
That's what our forefathers fought for...
Not necessarily looking at titties n' stuff,
but for doing whatever we want. Religious freedom."

Now, how could you possibly argue with logic like that? While the bite didn't make it into the package (although it almost did), it made me break my composure and crack up laughing, and the veteran reporter I was working with say "Alright, I think we're done." It was a great moment in the history of Journalism.

Briefly, here's the back story: the city's trying to rezone an area to force out three strip clubs. The clubs are taking the matter to court. The result? A story assignment that can only be rivaled by Ron Jeremy dropping by the station.

Due to pending litigation, none of the club owners would talk to us, so we were forced to rely on the drunk patrons for input on the situation, which resulted in the formerly stated words of wisdom.

How many other jobs will require you to spend your day talking to drunks and wandering from strip club to strip club... It was certainly one of those days where you wanted to gather together a class of journalism students and say, "This is what you're studying to do. This is what your life will be. Now quit screwing around and go to business school."

Not that I'm complaining.

Bay to Breakers

This past Sunday, San Francisco hosted the 98th Annual Bay to Breakers, a 12k race from one side of the city to the other. Runners from around the world gathered in the City by the Bay to partake in this exposition of competition and athleticism.

However, it wasn't only the world's top athletes that made up the 60,000 participants. In fact, they made up only a small and fairly un-noteworthy portion of those racing. Curious to learn more, I (the investigative journalist that I am) decided to head into San Francisco Sunday morning to learn more about this cultural event. My findings: It's just about the greatest thing ever.

You see, in addition to the athletes, thousands and thousands of costumed drunks descend upon the city, parading through in a constant barrage of idiotic numbskullery.

Groups dressed in ridiculous costumes came equipped with themed floats that were really only used as transports for kegs. They ranged from the simple...

...to the unnecessarily elaborate...


Our crew had a Caddyshack-esque golfing green, complete with a gopher on the keg.

To be honest, I have no idea how anyone got away with any of this. The displays of public drunkenness, public nudity and public urination seemed to be widely celebrated throughout the city, without any sort of repercussions. I mean, when was the last time you did a keg stand in the middle of the street in a major metropolitan area?

As the race wore on, the city began to wake up and join in on the festivities. Thousands gathered along the streets and from balconies to watch and cheer on the parading drunkards. Residents were barbecuing in their driveways, house parties were blasting music from their windows, and everyone was enjoying themselves on a beautiful California day.

By the time we made it to Golden Gate Park, makeshift parties started along the sides of the road, as themed groups began to inter-mingle, cross-mingle, and de-mingle, until it was one big celebration. A Care Bear was walking alongside a Scrabble piece and a dancing banana as they shared from a keg connected to The Love Boat. It was truly a display of brotherhood and companionship that is rarely seen in this modern day.

In the end, a Kenyan man won the race with a time of 32 minutes 24 seconds, repeating his victory of the previous year. Our finishing time was a little less impressive, coming closer to 6 or 7 hours. Plus, by the time we got there, they had already shut down the finish line. Unfortunately, the "breakers" were never seen.

We didn't win, but I got a good feeling about next year. Amazingly, there were no major injuries or felony arrests at the end of the race. How many other races can you say that about?

The Bay to Breakers race was easily one of the coolest events I've taken part in. I'll be there next year, and I hope you'll be there too, dancing in a giraffe costume and drinking from a Yellow Submarine shaped keg.


Only in America.

Ronald McDonald and Politics

Back in my day, Ronald McDonald wasn't just a peddler of saturated fat like he is today. No, he was a cultural icon. He didn't just bring meals to your table, he brought happy meals. They came in fun boxes with wacky cartoons and a kickass toy. He and his rag-tag bunch, including the kleptomaniac Hamburgler, the mentally challanged Grimace, and the frighteningly tantalizing McNuggets were thought of as friends and heroes amongst the pre-kindergarten demographic. Hey, with commercials like this, how could we resist?

That's right, despite Hamburgler's best efforts to kidnap and devour an entire class of innocent schoolburgers, Ronald was always there to save the day. Aside from Santa Claus and He-Man, he was every young boy's hero.

Following each of these wholesome commercials, there would be an announcement that "Ronald McDonald is coming to a town near you!" and it would list a number of cities. Every time I saw this commercial, I'd run to my mom and say "Do we live near [insert mentioned city]?" Every time, she'd say no. Until one day...

As the foreign city names rolled across the screen, one caught my attention. Ronald was coming to the city of Petaluma, which my grandma lived in (and, coincidentally, was mayor of)! I tore through the house in search of my mom to declare that Ronald was coming to Petaluma!

And indeed he did. On that fateful day, we loaded up the family Volvo and headed 45 minutes inland to the quaint town of Petaluma, where the Ronald McDonald was to give a performance on the back of a flatbed truck in the parking lot of the local McDonald's. Oh man, what a day!

Upon arrival, I pushed my way through the wild crowd of toddlers and Gerber-junkies to the front of the stage. And, sure enough, Ronald put on one hell of a show.

About half way through is performance, Ronald declared that whoever had the best smile in the audience would get to join him on stage. Oh man, I smiled so hard that it made my face hurt. I smiled and I smiled... I wanted to get on that damn stage more than anyone else in that stupid parking lot. Just as I was about to collapse from exhaustion, a yellow-gloved hand pointed my direction, and I was hurried up before the crowd.

Sweet Jesus, it was everything I thought it could be and more. I stared down upon the disappointed faces of all those who disparately wanted to be in my shoes (and short-shorts). Ronald told some jokes, made me a balloon animal, and said that I was special. It was the greatest day ever.

Afterwards, Grandma and my brothers got to join Ronald and myself for an exclusive photo-op. I decided to let them join in on my glory, as I was a kind-hearted fellow who wished to help those who could only dream to one day reach my level of fame.

This photo later appeared in their local newspaper, along with a caption that explained how the mayor spent the day with Ronald McDonald and her three grandsons. I was shocked to see that I, with my award-winning smile, had been exploited for political gains. Indeed, Ronald had used me to get to the mayor. I had never felt so betrayed in all my life. From that point on, I was never able to trust Ronald's comical smile, or that of any other clown.

Also, years later, I found out that Ronald, after the show, was hitting on my mom, telling her that he was "really great with kids".

At the ripe age of four, I learned an important life lesson: Clowns (much like politicians) will make you feel like you're the king of the world, until they get what they came for, after which you're nothing but another face in the crowd.

Now, all these years later, the only regret that I have is that I associated Grandma with this fiend whose false promises and propaganda was spread throughout the land. If I cost her the election, I offer my sincerest apologies.