Greetings Mouthketeers,

Osama Bin Laden is dead, and our client, Cousin Brucie Morrow opened this week on Broadway.  What a week.  Both are huge events–for each respective party and culture, and both are important to the people who are their followers.

I am having a hard time understanding the media positioning on the Osama front.  First, how many of us heard American reporters tongue-twist our President’s name into Bin Laden’s?  President Osama?  It was really shameful, don’t you think?  I mean, here’s a guy (our Prez), who brought down the “Hitler” of our time, and a reporter can’t get his name straight?  Go back to journalism school, take an online history course at the University of Phoenix or pull up last week’s interviews with Donald Trump–he pronounced Obama’s name correctly!  Stop reporting, and start fact-checking!!

Second, how many days does the media need to report on the perimeter of the Osama story?  We heard about the killing, then we heard about the pictures.  Then we heard about what people thought about the pictures…And then I actually saw a show on cable that was showing other gruesome pictures of other dead people while they were talking about whether or not people should see Bin Laden’s gruesome pictures!  It’s too c-r-a-z-y.   I’m beginning to think the media wants to make this tragic story into a “Nightmare on Elm Street Part 4.”

Although I’m not for abortion, it’s not my place to decide if a woman should have one; and although I’m not for seeing the dead pictures of Osama Bin Laden, it’s not my place to decide whether the victims’ families of 9/11 should see them either.  If a mother of a child killed at the Twin Towers needs to see the blood of Bin Laden drip out of his brain for closure, then they need to see them, and they need to see them behind closed doors, not plastered on the front page of a tabloid.  The pictures should be housed at the State Department, and every family member of a victim should be invited to see them.  And if the family doesn’t want to see them, simply RSVP, “NO, CANNOT ATTEND.”

I love, love, love this country, and I also admire President Obama because he did the right thing.  I don’t think those brave Navy SEALs should have captured Bin Laden alive, and I don’t care whether or not he was armed when they took him down.  Were the victims of 9/11 armed when they were incinerated?  The only thing they were armed with was coffee and a donut, while they were rushing to work.  We pay way too many taxes as it is…would you really want a portion of your hard-earned money spent on keeping Osama Bin Laden in a prison, eating grilled cheese and bananas?

As the news broke about Bin Laden, the news started to break about the opening of Cousin Brucie, in the Tony award-winning Best Musical, “Memphis.”  He’s only going to be featured in the show for a week, but it was my company’s way of bringing light to his paperback version of “Rock & Roll…And the Beat Goes On” and boy was this fun times for all.  During the moments I was with the cast, the crew and our client, there was no talk of the Bin Laden story…it was as if I had stepped into a world before 9/11/2001, a feeling that was well worth it.  As I sit at Juniors restaurant, at Sardi’s and at Juniors (again) with Brucie, and share a laugh and talk about the time when he introduced the Beatles during their historic concert at Shea Stadium, the ones who were killed on 9/11 didn’t get a chance to laugh and eat cheesecake.  So, for God’s sake, if anyone in the media has any kind of integrity, please tone down the tabloiding so that people can heal…or perhaps see a picture of a dead man, or even see “Memphis” if they want.

Why did the Tony members diss “Priscilla, Queen of the Desert” for Best Musical?  Now, THAT’S a problem.

Peace,

The Mouthinator.

The Mouthinator Lifestyle, Politics, Pop Culture, entertainment

Mayor Fumeberg!!

Greetings Mouthketeers:

Is anyone stumped why NYC’s Mayor Bloomberg approved the mazes and mazes of pedestrian malls, fake sand, bike lanes (that no one seems to ride) and gigantic potted plants on the streets of the Big Apple?   First, I think the mayor has done a fine job in many ways, but this circus act on the streets of the city is making me FUME, (I’m fuming!), which is why, at least for today, I’m calling Mayor Bloomberg, Mayor FUMEberg!

You got that right, America!!

Take Broadway between 19th and 23rd streets–the Flatiron District and the hood of my company, Mouth Public Relations.  How many road gymnastics and cheap patio furniture can you put in one zone?  And, how many parking spots need to be in the middle of the street? Has the mayor even walked down the monster streets he and his transportation secretary re-routed?  The asphalt in town looks more like a bad version of a driving test than a serious tool for transportation.  And seriously, when you’re on 23rd street and ready to make a left turn: forget about only worrying about crashing into a bus or a pedestrian…NOW you have to worry about bashing into three uber-sized potted plants–strategically positioned as if they were pasties on a woman’s boobs–on the southeast corner of 23rd and Broadway–it’s an accident ready to happen.

OY Mayor, whassup with all dat?!@#

Seriously, I’m all for the environment, and actually get excited sitting on a lawn chair in the middle of Times Square; however, the last time I checked in dictionary.com, a “sidewalk” is for pedestrians, a “street” is for cars and trucks, and a “mall” is a place where you shop in Paramus, New Jersey.   I think the problem in the world isn’t about pushing the car off the streets of New York City (as if the Tablet has pushed the publishing industry virtually out of business), it’s about totally committing to a greener, smaller electric car, simply because people want to get to point A and point B faster than the mayor can say, “let’s create another traffic pattern!” And, whether Fumeberg likes it or not, the car is here to stay.

BTW, where ARE all the bike riders on the bike lanes?  If I was the owner of Schwinn bikes, I’d create a huge PR stunt and give away 5,000 bikes (first come/first served), in Times Square–simply to get people pumped on riding a bike again.  You see, if Fumeberg actually thought the bike lane idea through, he’d also create more parking lots for bikes, because in my opinion, people might ride a bike to work if they knew where the hell to park that thang.  (Our office at Mouth Public Relations is about 600 square feet, and since we have no storage space, we could balance a bike on our heads!  Why not?   Hahahahahaha…)

Whether you’re roller blading, riding a bike, walking or God forbid, driving a car, Mayor Fumeberg, would you PUHLEEZE, fill-up those facacta potholes, which emerged after all those snowstorms the newspapers said you weren’t even in town for?

Forget about comparing cellulite to cottage cheese, you can compare cellulite to the streets of NYC!

BTW, why do only 17% of those polled like Public School Chancellor Cathie Black?  She seems like a nice looking woman, right?

Peace,

The Mouthinator

The Mouthinator Lifestyle, News, Politics, entertainment

Greetings Mouthketeers:

I was going to write about the late and most interesting, Eunice Kennedy Shriver, (was her husband’s first name, Sargent, or was he a sergeant in the war?) …Then I was going to send a shout out to my client, New York Times best-selling author, Mary Jo Buttafuoco, and the success of her book, Getting it Through My Thick Skull … (Wait until you hear who wants to sue her. . .) Then . . . right before blogging this evening I opened up my iPhone and wondered, “How the hell did I get 200 emails from 6:42-11pm, and why do I feel guilty going to bed without answering them?”

I’m pissed.  Yes, I’m the one who spent $625 to have an IT person reconnect my iPhone to the Mac to the PC, etc., etc.  But I hate the whole thing.      

As Bette Midler said in “The Rose,” “Where is everybody going?”  I truly believe the downfall of our society is Facebook, Twitter, Blackberry and iPhone, because at the end of the day, the act of maneuvering all these electronic devices is sucking the daylights out of us, and if you look back at the content of your tweets, and emails, and wall messages, you might notice that nothing you’ve read or written today is uber interesting and you certainly won’t cure cancer with the content produced in any of your profiles.  Sure, you confirmed a reservation or two via email, “friended” a friend you never liked in the first place on Facebook . . .  but at the end of the day, what does it really have to do with you and your life?    

Throw that Blackberry in the garbage and use the iPhone as a flashlight the next time you loose your keys in your knapsack.  That’s right; just use the phone as a flashlight.

Seriously, I can see the value in instant messaging when you’re in a hurry, but I don’t understand what is the importance of important issues anymore?  Have you turned into the person who is scrolling up and down your inbox while you’re in an elevator, simply because you’re playing ‘catch up’ with your device?  Should my evening be a big bust simply because the mobileme.com server hasn’t downloaded another 100 more messages in my inbox yet? 

Puhleese!  Give me a Princess rotary phone any day, because I want your number to call you and say, hi.  You got that right:  Take a breath, and call. It would be nice to hear your voice.

Does anyone remember Ernestine the telephone operator on “Laugh In”?

Peace.

The Mouthinator. 

The Mouthinator Lifestyle, Pop Culture, Technology

Dear Mouthketeers:

If Ruth Madoff isn’t going down as the “Eva Braun” to one of the most disgusting financial terrorists on the planet, she’ll go down as a woman who best resembles Meg Ryan—without the poufy-puffy lips.  Why?  I had the “pleasure” of seeing not one, but two shots of Ruth Madoff in the New York Times “Sunday Styles” section yesterday, where this woman’s “story” was apparently worthy of a front page.  But what is Ruth/Eva/Meg’s revelation these days?  Newsflash:  She’s waiting for her husband Bernie Madoff/Adolf (Hitler) to await sentencing.

That’s the story. (I would have loved to be a fly on the wall when the publicist pitched this non-story to the writer.)  And wait, there’s more to learn:  Eva/Ruth/Meg has been ousted from her beauty salon in NYC (they won’t even visit her privately in her penthouse apartment on 64th Street in Manhattan), and from the Amagansett, New York florist who decorated her husband’s annual corporate party in Montauk, the tip of Long Island.  Wow.

But what is probably the most shocking news of all is the Times didn’t even have the clout to get an interview with Eva/Ruth/Meg herself.  What’s up with that?  You write a cover story about someone who doesn’t do anything, hasn’t even committed suicide, and all you can come up with is a few quotes from a wife of another former evil financier and a couple of soundbytes from an attorney, as example?  Yadda, yadda, yadda . . . Y-A-W-N.

In a world where the news business is greatly tanking, (because, in my opinion, the public is sick of reading the same old stories over and over again), I think the SundayStyles section is getting desperate for attention.  Perhaps I’d be interested if Ruth/Eva/Meg squeals on Bernie/Adolf and tells the truth; however, until then, what clout does she really have except being married to an asshole for 49 years?  And the last time I checked, living with a puss-faced criminal for almost half a century isn’t very stylish either.  Unless she’s a cloister nun disguised as a rich woman, how could this chick not know what her hubby was up to?  She must’ve had a conversation or two with him before ordering his flowers or before she highlighted her hair the color of “Soft Baby Blonde,” according to the paper, no? 

Most disgustingly, some yenta image consultant quoted in the piece actually suggested Ruth/Eva/Meg could change her image if she simply devoted her time to a charity, predicting that “an orphanage or a pet shelter would be a good place to start.”  Image Consultant:  If you get any salary for your advice you should be fired.  The American public won’t shed any tear for Ruth/Eva/Meg simply because she sits at the reception desk at the local ASPCA every Saturday.  Are you kidding?

My Account Executive, Khuong, and my AAE, Abby, do more charity work than anyone I know, yet no paper features them.  And that’s precisely why the New York Times and all the other papers are tanking:  Because they’re not putting much news value on the local scene anymore, and in fact, the Metro Section has really shrunk in the Times these days.  A current trend on the Internet and on television; however, is to promote real people on the street as iReporters, who can respond to real news as it really happens.

I might cancel my subscriptions to the New York Times because if I wanna read these wannabe news stories, I’ll just go on their website.  I’m beginning to pull my news from the Internet anyway; and frankly, I will find more about Ruth/Eva/Meg on Google, than in the Times, so why bother?

It takes too long to drive to Montauk, doesn’t it?

Peace.

The Mouthinator.

The Mouthinator Finance, Lifestyle, News, Pop Culture

Greetings Mouthketeers:

We’ve all watched the legendary, Cher, turn back time—transitioning from a 60ish year-old senior to a 17 year-old somthin/somthin throughout the last decade.  Now, Cher’s, gay daughter, Chastity Sun Bono, will be transitioning her own way as she announced late last night she will become a male and has asked to be called “Chaz.”  You got that right.  I’d say Chaz has some big balls to go ahead with this.  You go, boyyyyy! 

I had the unique experience of meeting Chaz’s parents, Sonny and Cher, at the Playboy Plaza Hotel in Miami Beach in the early 1960s.  On a hot December day, the two were tanning by the pool, and to add to the excitement, the Jackson Five were swimming in the pool right next to them.  (True story.)  There I was, as tall as I was wide, plopping in and out of the water and running up and down the patio—trying to entice my secret love, Cher Bono, to notice me.   

So I went over to Cher and asked for her autograph. 

She was lying on her stomach, and Sonny was propped up on his back, reading a book.  Tragically for me, Cher wouldn’t turn over to acknowledge my existence; however, Sonny was kind enough to autograph his name—and hers—on the playbill I had gotten the night before from their show.  (Imagine seeing the “Sonny and Cher Show” at the age of six with your parents at the Playboy Plaza in Miami Beach Florida . . . Unforgettable.) 

Who cared about Michael Jackson, who looked like a real person in those days? All I wanted was to meet Cher, and she didn’t give me the time of day.  I never forgot how she dissed me, and when I was fortunate enough to represent Olympia Dukakis six years ago (and told her my devastating Cher story), the uber talented Dukakis—who starred with Cher in “Moonstruck”—promised me Cher was a very nice woman who ‘would apologize to me if she knew she had hurt me.’

Now that I’m (apparently) an adult, I don’t need Cher’s forgiveness or her love for that matter; however if there’s anyone who needs Cher now, it’s her newfound son, Chaz.  It must suck being a man stuck in a woman’s body.  Hell, it certainly sucks being a man stuck in a chubby body as I’m sure it’s a tragedy being an older woman who has just realized she has lost her looks.  The grass is always greener.  What can we all do but live our lives the way our gut—not necessarily our God—tells us to.  I’m not necessarily convinced God created transgendered souls; however, I know God loves them.  Read your Bibles people.  Page 34:  And God said, “Thou shalt love White People, Asian, Black, Indian and Transgendered peeps.”  (OK.  Sorry.  It must be page 36.)

Chastity was a very, very cute little girl whose parents paraded her on their television show as if she was a toy.  Now the toy is turning into a boy, and I sure hope Cher will still want to play with him. 

Good luck, Chaz.  Wishing you all the best.

Does anyone remember when we all used baby oil mixed with Iodine as a tan accelerator? 

Peace.

The Mouthinator. 

The Mouthinator Lifestyle, entertainment

Greetings Mouthketeers:

So the new, third version of the iPhone, called 3GS (“S” stands for “Speed”), is scheduled to roll-out later on this month, promising faster speed, faster apps, a 3-megapixel camera, a camcorder, voice control, a built-in digital compass, Bluetooth tethering and a voiceover feature…

Blah, biddy, blah, biddy blah, blah blah.  Do I really need to tether, and do I really, really need a compass? Honestly, I know where I’m going, and those who don’t aren’t the ones who will buy this thang anyway.  What about the typing feature???  Is it me or am I the only one who realizes the reason why the iPhone isn’t as popular as the Blackberry is because the iPhone’s typing keyboard sucks.  You got that right. The keyboard is designed for those who have toothpick fingers, smaller than those of a little person or a chimp for that matter.  Who the hell designed this keyboard and why don’t they hunker down and reinvent it? 

Doesn’t iPhone understand if they morph the keyboard into a harder apparatus, they will  b-l-o-w  the lid off Blackberry and any other PDA in the category?  OK.  We love the screen, the apps, the ability to search on the web; but we’re living in a world where—for whatever reason—we email people, and we need a function that works for us, not the other way around.  That’s why I give the iPhone a big fat “F” for that facacta keyboard. 

Couldn’t those geniuses on the west coast at least invent a voice-activated email feature so you don’t even have to touch the keyboard?  Just speak into the mic.  It’s great it will have a new camera, but not everyone wants to feel as if they’re a twenty-something who works at TMZ, finding the need to spontaneously snap a photo of Britney Spears everytime she comes out of a limo without any puddy pants on. (That grrrl takes the “Vagina Monologues” to a whole new level, doesn’t she?)

And since we’re on the subject of snap, could the customer service sods at AppleCare speed up their convos or are they all waiting to audition for “Stepford Wives 3?” Jeez, when you call those peeps with a problem, it’s as if you’re speaking to the special needs set—they are soooo slow, I just wanna run through the streets naked with a whistle bobbing against my thighs after every phone call I have with AppleCare.

Apple and iPhone need to stop smoking weed and walk into the streets, asking fans what they want, what they need.  Or perhaps they should merge with Blackberry, pull the best from each thing and raise the standard of their version of excellence? 

Wasn’t the Osmond’s “One Bad Apple” a great single?    

Peace.

The Mouthinator.   

The Mouthinator Lifestyle, Pop Culture, Technology

Greetings Mouthketeers:

I was going to chat about dear Susan Boyle.  Then I thought I’d ramble on about my idiot box Blackberry and my stupid Macbook Pro—two contraptions I’m convinced will never sync up no matter how many renegade synching software packages I load up on my laptop.  Then I was going to write about how Angie Jolie bumped Oprah off of her pedestal on the Forbes “Celebrity 100″ List (uh, who really cares?) . . . But then I decided to pay tribute to Air France Flight 447.

I hope and pray those people didn’t feel any pain or experience any torture—that they simply popped out of there seats and took the express bus straight to Heaven.   But the other side of me knows they suffered big time. 

First, how does a plane just disintegrate off a radar screen—four hours into a flight?  Poof? Isn’t the “cruising altitude” part of the flight the safest over the takeoff and landing?   Honestly, the visual of how these poor people were killed forces me to give a big, tragic F to the airline industry for simply . . . being an industry.  This tragedy further confirms why I hate to fly and confirms why flying to me is as dangerous as hunting down Osama Bin Laden through the mountainous ranges of Afghanistan (or someone of that evil ilk.) 

I used to love to fly . . . until—at the age of seven—when some wackos were screaming during an entire turbulent flight from Miami to NYC.

When I was going through therapy and talked about fear of flying, the therapist actually compared a plane to a penis and said I was fearful of both.  (Yes, I really wrote that.)  I was once on a plane ready to touch down, when it decided to fly back up.  There was another flight where we were in the middle of a thunder and lightning storm (not fun). 

However, my absolute worse flying saga took place when I was coming home on Delta from a Book Expo America in Chicago.  The flight I was on should have been the first one of the day to be scraped, not the last to takeoff.  Instead of flying Chicago/Philadelphia, the flight ended up somewhere down south—because the plane was dodging tornados.  You got that right.  The damn tin can was being blown down the coast. Just as it made an emergency landing, the captain announced the plane was going to takeoff again.  At that moment, I freaked, and demanded to be “taken off of the plane because I [did] not trust the captain.”  Needless to say, I was kicked off and sent to a Holiday Inn for the night.  My friends on the plane not only wondered how the hell I was going to get home but if they were going to survive another flight in the amusement park in the sky.

Why should any of us put up with these escapades?  Do I really believe that turbulence is “like a car running over a pebble on the street?”  Bullshit.  Turbulence is more like a bullet ricocheting through the projects in the South Bronx, not a pebble. 

As much as I love going to Europe or the west coast, the thought of getting on that big penis really makes me want to throw up.  God bless Flight 447, and may you all rest in peace. 

What ever happened to the Concord? 

Peace.

The Mouthinator. 

The Mouthinator Lifestyle, News

Greetings Mouthketeers:

 Am I the only one who is watching the print world crumble before my very eyes?  Yesterday I had an “ah-ha” moment, which prompted me to write this emergency recovery plan for the magazine world.

 So here goes:  The more magazines fold, the more catalogs I seem to get in the mail.  And then it hit me!  Why don’t the magazine conglomerates buy up the most popular catalogs and then feature great stories from cookbook authors, home improvement editors, style icons and celebrities intertwined throughout the sales pitches of the blenders, hammocks, and platform beds?

 Let’s call this new catalog/magazine a MAGALOG, and let’s be real here:  Magazines seem to be dying because they’re losing advertisers, right?  Well, the Magalog has a guaranteed ad base, and audience.  I can sit my ass down and thumb through a great catalog for hours.  I’m sure Pottery Barn  would love, love, love to feature an exclusive excerpt from some faboo journalist who is revealing the first time she made love—on a porch, in a rocking chair, on a hot summer day.  Haven’t we all seen that picture in the Crate and Barrel catalog of the chair on the porch and the two people dressed in white linen looking at each other as if they’re ready to shag in a moment’s notice?  Imagine that photo coming to life with great text?  The bottom line is, if catalogs already have the readership, bring the consumers something juicy to read.    

 You get the picture (and the text), right?

 What do you think?  Don’t sit on it for too long. 

 Peace.

 The Mouthinator. 

The Mouthinator Lifestyle, Pop Culture, Style