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

Greetings Mouthketeers:

Last night I had the privilege of going to the Elton John concert at Madison Square Garden, and if you think really quickly, you’d probably agree that it should have been the coolest concert in town.  Not.  Uh, was it me, or did I feel as if I was watching a Debbie Downer extravaganza for the AARP set?  Please understand I’m a member of AARP, so I’m preaching to the choir…however, it is these AARP moments that you don’t look forward to.  First, was Elton wearing sweatpants onstage, over a very ugly long coat that he would not have worn even in his better days?  Second, was the lighting scheme from my Bar Mitzvah?  How do you say, “1971?”  Blink, Blink, Spotlight.  Blink, Blink.   I could have sworn I saw a strobe light and a bit of smoke puff-puff from the back, but talking about a cheap-ass production!  Third, what was up with the sound?  Almost every song seemed to have gone through a bit of a soundcheck before it got up and running, and for a few hundred bucks a seat, it would have been nice for the band to rehearse before showing off their wares, no?

Speaking of the stage, the show was in three parts:  the first part featured some great Elton John anthems–you know, the kind of songs that you came to the Garden for.  The second part seemed straight out of Nashville or something, as Elton introduced Leon Russell, who apparently is sharing the billing on a new album they’ve recorded.  Is it me, or is there anyone else who did not know who Leon Russell was??   Or was that Z-Z Top onstage?  Or Willie Nelson?  Whomever Elton introduced was hobbling to the piano with a cane, and someone who looked as if they won’t pay their taxes anytime soon.  Negating how I felt about Leon Russell, Elton John totally lost his audience for the next hour (out of a three-hour concert); playing with Leon Russell as if they were at a dive bar in Dollywood.  And then, Elton introduces a special guest–a Rock & Roll “Hall of Famer”–Gregg Allman, who sang an entire song about the Civil War (I think) without any sound.  Perhaps he had laryngitis?

After the painful hour of listening to Elton and Leon’s batch of new songs (honestly I think there was one tune in there that was worth it), which to my knowledge hasn’t gotten any airplay before this concert, Elton came “back” with more greatest hits.  And when he sang them, you felt as if you were 20 years younger.   And that’s when the trouble started.

Who gives 50 something people–or people at any age–the right to act out, get drunk and start spitting over audience members?  That’s right.  That’s who was sitting next to me; and sadly they were from Brooklyn and Woodbridge New Jersey.  Can you believe that out of thousands of people, I had to sit next to those who probably hadn’t been to a concert since the last time Elton was at MSG!  In any event, once I had a yelling match with my bridge and tunnel neighbors–telling them basically to shut the f–k up–the concert was getting a bit better.  How could you hate anyone for singing “Benny and the Jets” or “Candle in the Wind?”

Even with cheesy lighting, sweat pants, bad sound, obnoxious audience members and a chunk of songs that aren’t ready for prime time, it was great to try and hear Elton John–as a senior citizen–with a voice of a 20 year-old.  Now why didn’t I get a PBS tote bag along with the purchase of two tickets?

Did I just see Raquel Welch on a Foster Grants commercial?  How old is that beauty??  How old is that commercial?

Peace.

The Mouthinator.

The Mouthinator Pop Culture, Uncategorized

Greetings Mouthketeers:

This was a week I really should have been on vacation or in a state where I should not have gotten out of bed. During this week I learned my friend’s dog passed away, learned another friend’s transgendered cousin committed suicide and hung herself, heard an old friend’s elderly dad had fallen, found out a book agent began pitching our clients to media without including us in the negotiation; and this week was the week a bat flew into my home at 5am and fluttered around me in my bedroom while I naked in my bed and screaming…as if I was a woman.

The bat story is worth detailing. It’s not a good feeling when your house alarm goes off at 5am, and it’s even worse to get a call from the alarm’s dispatcher telling you the motion detector in your living room is where the alarm was tripped.

I sleep in the buff (TMI); but imagine contemplating the notion that someone is walking up your stairs ready to murder you; only to learn that the violator is a bat, fluttering around you in your bed, while you are butt naked to the wind. (Thank God I wasn’t sitting naked on the terlet when this creature decided to freak me out.)

This is a true story.

The sounds that came out of me when this bat violated my space was only equal to the sound of a woman giving birth—only there were no stirrups to strap me into. Instead of taking a breath and remembering that bats are harmless little creatures who simply carry diseases; I launched an all out screaming campaign in the hopes this bat will fly back to whatever cave he came from. (Where were my neighbors during all of this? Were they afraid if they called the cops I would have pulled a “Henry Louis Gates” on them??)

So, I called the police. They gave me the name of an animal control service—who unfortunately wasn’t opened 24 hours-a-day. As I screamed down the hall to the guest bedroom, shutting the doors behind me as if the attacker would find me again and try and tussle my hair (did I tell you I’m bald?), I decided to boot up the laptop in the hopes of finding an around-the-clock company who will rescue me and put me and the bat out of our misery.

Jim—who lives in Connecticut—but owns a company called New York Bat Control (or something of that ilk), was kind enough to take my call, and talk me off a ledge of fear.

Two hours after my call, Jim arrived in his company uniform—looking as if he was Kevin Costner in that baseball movie he starred in. Sadly for me, the sun was rising just as Jim’s truck had pulled into the driveway, and if you remember anything about bats, they hide and sleep (upside down) by day, and flutter around by night. Needless to say, after an hour of bat hunting with a pair of rubber gloves and a flashlight, Jim did not find the intruder.

But Jim charged me $400 and the promise that he would meet me at 10pm (for free), and catch the bat when it woke up from its power nap.

Jim kept his promise and showed up, and found me sitting in my car refusing to go into my house. Jim asked me to open the door, which lead into a pitch black living room, and as I peaked through the panes of the old looking colonial window, I could see Jim doing a bat dance with the flashlight—and I could see the bat dancing to the beat of Jim’s song.

Frankly there was no music, but trust me when I say Jim and the bat gyrated to a tune I never heard of at any disco—and sadly the dance ended in about three minutes when Jim grabbed the flying mouse (uh, b-a-t), and broke his neck. (I know, I know, I asked Jim to let the bat go back to the wild but for some odd reason Jim said that the town wants all captured bats killed and tested for Rabies.) So my 15-hour saga with the bat ended on a high note.  (Boy I wish the stories of the dog that died, the woman who committed suicide, the agent who spoke out of turn, and the elderly man who fell would have had a happier ending; but when it comes to capturing bats, Jim is now on the top of my list of vendors I will definitely use in the future!) 

Bat behavior and bad behavior is not tolerated; however there’s gotta be some moral to the story, right?  What I also learned from Jim was that earlier in the morning he saw a coyote slithering in my yard, and reminded me to never let my dog off a leash—or on the deck without supervision because there will be a tragic ending.  I would have never learned about how to protect my dog if it wasn’t for the bat; and although the entire week was chock full of human bats circling me as if I was Dracula, deep down I knew there was going to be a brighter day at the end of this tunnel of sadness, drama and insanity.

Today is my company’s retreat, and I’m firing up the BBQ and grilling some chicken burgers for the staff. If the party is overshadowed by thunderstorms, I will switch gears, book a massage for my employees at the local day spa, and treat everyone to lunch at the state’s most critically-acclaimed smokehouse.

Darkness will eventually turn into light—and all I will need to do is take a breath and look toward the future.

Hey, wasn’t Teri Garr hysterical in “Young Frankenstein”?

Peace.

The Mouthinator.

The Mouthinator Pet, Pop Culture, 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

Greetings Mouthketeers:

I nearly upchucked my bagel and lox yesterday when I heard the news that allegedly, Sarah Palin is moving to Hampton Bays, New York, the town where my family has lived since 1986! Fact? According to Dan’s Papers, the local rag of the South Fork (known for forgetting to fact-check), the dummy ex-governor with a big mouth, a lot of kids and not much of any kind of experience, moved in on August 1^st! Is that chick gonna shop at my family’s King Kullen, use the terlet at the local Starbucks and go to the local movie theater? Get me outa here!

Well, it won’t be the first time, Dan’s Papers has (hopefully), made a mistake, but it isn’t the first time fancy-schmancy people have lived in Hampton Bays, the “poor” Hampton—the town where people who work and don’t need to be “seen”—live.

There are six things you need to know about Hampton Bays: One—the Hampton Bays Diner is the worst Greek Diner in America and I wouldn’t even invite Sarah to brunch there; Two—Barbra Streisand rented a house across the street from my mother for a summer; Three—the fabulous reporter and host, Jane Velez-Mitchell, spent her summers there as a kid; Four—a gazillion publishing execs live there too; Five—it’s the town where all of the debris from TWA Flight 800 was collected; and Six—if Sarah Palin moves in town I am going to tell my family to move to Canada!@#$ You got that right, Mouthketeers! That woman is a danger to Long Island because she’s gotta gun, and there are a lot of ducks, rabbits and deer romping around in the woods.

Out of all the hoods in the country, why on Earth is Palin plotzing in my family’s hamlet? Couldn’t she have moved near those corrupted rabbis in New Jersey instead of my sleepy town in Long Island? Unless she’s rehearsing for a summer stock version of “Annie Get Your Gun,” she don’t belong in this neck. Doesn’t she realize there will be Jews and gays and people who read the New York Times living around her corner? Sure, there are most likely a few KKK living down our streets too, but in my book, “Plottin’ Palin” is as mean-spirited as those weirdos in white.

Let’s put this in plain English: Sarah Palin is a quitter. Hampton Bays is a working class town. There is no room for Barbie doll, politics-as-usual, bigoted moose hunters.

Will Rush and Beck move to a manse in Hampton Bays too?

“Tear down that wall . . .” –Ronald Reagan

Peace.

The Mouthinator.

The Mouthinator News, Politics, Pop Culture

Greetings Mouthketeers:

I’m thrilled Kim Weiss and HCI Books hired my firm to rep Mary Jo Buttafuoco and her book, Getting It Through My Thick Skull. In all my years of working in PR, Mary Jo is the only client to be booked on eight morning shows and six free radio satellite tours, totaling over ten hours on the air.

That’s because people genuinely wanna hear from Mary Jo. Audiences wanna hear from a woman who was a victim but has come out of her ordeal—which, incidentally was seventeen years ago—as an advocate for others who might be in the same boat.

For those of you who never heard of Mary Jo Buttafuco, she’s an American icon—a housewife who was painting in her backyard when a sixteen year-old Amy Fisher rang her bell . . . and shot her in the head. All this bloodshed over an auto mechanic named Joey Buttafuoco, Mary Jo’s husband, who denied having an affair with Amy. (Amy was sent to prison for seven years, and Joey was arrested for a few months.)

What kills me about this story (no pun intended), is that some in the media refuse to interview Mary Jo because they think she’s too “tabloid!” (Thank you, Leonard Lopate for interviewing MJB, but what up with that NPR Fresh Air or Diane Rehm??) What these hoity-toity outlets seem to forget is that Mary Jo didn’t asked to be shot, and was never in a love triangle with the Long Island Lolita and Joey. That was a story that was hyped by the very media who disses Mary Jo.

When you hear the interviews with Mary Jo, she’s surprisingly eloquent, very smart and a character of compassion. You want her to win, and you want her to marry her fiancé, and gentle man, Stu Tendler. Even though it’s shocking to most why she stayed with Joey a decade after she was shot, you really get “it” after you hear Mary Jo talk about her life. In this case, love was really blind, but it’s never too late to see the light. Two years ago, Mary Jo had a revelation with her son, who claimed his dad was a sociopath, and after doing exhaustive research, Mary Jo agreed; and this book is her journey—no one else’s—about what it is to live with and what to avoid when you’re living with . . . a crazy.

So for all of you Mouthketeers who are sick and tired of hearing about Michael Jackson, and are really fed up with Henry Louis Gates, Jr.’s crap about his racial incident (did Obama really need to chime in?), pick up Mary Jo’s book and applaud her.

Hey, doesn’t is suck that E. Lynn Harris died?

Peace.

The Mouthinator.

The Mouthinator News, Pop Culture

Greetings Mouthketeers:

I had the pleasure of driving to work yesterday, and during the excursion, turned on the radio and stumbled upon “The Glenn Beck Program.”  Is Beck kidding?  At times, I really like Glenn Beck on television:  He’s eloquent, delivers a great sound byte, and even though I don’t always agree with his politics, think he’s somewhat entertaining too.  And, I realize a lot of people like him. (That guy must make gazillion dollars!) 

But this GB radio show almost put me to sleep at the wheel.  Why?

First: Let’s talk bare bones logistics.  What’s up with that 1980s radio voice, Glenn?  You know, the sound you wanted to hear when you were a kid—as you yelled into a glass or screamed at your bathroom tiles—just to hear your voice echo?  (In radio terms, the “echo” is called, “reverb.”)  Second: What’s up with the promo music?  Is Beck’s show a “Newstalk” show or is it a “Z Morning Zoo?”  A wannabe “Imus?”  Surely not a “Howard Stern,” right?  Puhleese.  Save the scratchy electric guitar promos and the whispering women for a ZZ-Top Reunion.  Third:  How many times do you have to say, “Yadda, yadda, yadda . .?”  (OK.  Maybe that was a cheap shot.  I apologize Mr. Beck for critiquing your vocabulary.)  And Fourth:  If I heard another minute more about Billy Joel’s divorce—which seemed to be a topic of discussion for nearly an hour—I was going to do a jackknife across the highway!

You got that right.  Who the hell cares about Billy Joel’s divorce, and the fact he married a chick more than thirty years his junior?  After Beck ranted on and on about this “Piano Man’s” predicament, they opened up the phone lines to talk about the age difference, and a 53 year-old male caller chimed in and boasted how lucky he was to meet his (now) 23 year-old wife.  However, the fact the caller hinted he met his wife when she was a minor—and the fact Beck and his Z Morningish Zoo crew thought it was funny, was really creepy to me . . . Especially when the next segment was a monologue judging our new President Obama, who the last time I checked, wasn’t joking in the Oval Office about pedophlia.

Let’s not even touch upon the Obama thing, because this is a free country, and if Beck wants to vote for Sarah Palin next time around, go for it baby (no pun)—and bring those stanky guitars with you in the voting booth.  But really, Beck, your persona on TV is a disconnect with your radio host character, and although it’s great you command a huge audience who respects you, I’m not sure I find humor in a caller admitting he played around with a minor before having her baby.  Do you?  On the other hand, if you respected Sarah Palin’s 2008 campaign, you probably aren’t thrown off by really awkward moments.   

In a world where Sarah Palin has the right to scream and yell at David Letterman for making that stupid joke about how he thought Palin’s teenage daughter should get knocked up by baseball star, Alex Rodriguez, why is Beck and company not judging his 53 year-old geezer of a caller?  Instead, we’re privy to hearing Beck’s entourage chuckling in the background about this sick schtick!  Do you think because you’re all guys, this subject matter is acceptable, and a rite of passage only worthy of those who watch Spike TV? Uh, where the hell is Gloria Steinem when you need her?   

This ain’t guy talk; This is NewsTalk . . . Radio.   

Beck:  Tell it like it is—without the reverb, the guitars, and the sales pitch.  Oh, and congrats on your (already) New York Times best-seller, Glenn Beck’s Common Sense, the book you say was ‘scary to write.’ 

Lights out, fellas.

Hey, whatever happened to Soupy Sales? 

Peace.

The Mouthinator.  

The Mouthinator News, Politics, Pop Culture, entertainment

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 got a Ling sentenced to twelve years hard labor in North Korea, we have a Von Brunn suspected of shooting at the US Holocaust Museum in Washington DC, and now we have a Prejean dethroned as Miss California in Los Angeles. (Where else, but Cali?) 

Jeez, do we really need to hear from this woman and The Comb Over (uh, I mean, The Donald) again on this subject?  She weathered the storm after the way she answered the gay marriage question while competing for the Miss USA crown, and she survived the blitzkrieg of reporters after her topless photos surfaced on the Internet.  So why couldn’t this chick hold onto her title?  Hmmm. Something tells me she didn’t put out for The Comb Over; and he said, “You’re fired!”

According to ”newsbreaking” accounts all over the Web and on traditional TV and radio, this woman isn’t meeting up to all of her “contractual negotiations;” therefore, Trump (the owner of the pageant), canned her.  OK.  Gubuy dearie.  See ya on the unemployment line.  Next!

Can’t the American “culture” just chill out when it comes to covering people who offer nothing in the news except a tit, an ass, and a beautiful smile?  I mean, really . . . you have Hilary Clinton trying to stop a nuclear Holocaust in North Korea, and this Carrie Prejean story is number twelve on Google Trends at the time of this posting.

I suppose I am adding fuel to the fire by even blogging about this subject for the third time, but I’m totally stumped as to why we can’t let beauty queens stay beautiful?  We don’t need to hear from them about gay marriage for God’s sake . . . especially when they’re parading around in high heels and wearing nothing but a Brazilian wax.  If I were a judge, I would have asked the contestants if they could name all the ingredients in a Mojito, not what their strategy is for world peace.

Is The Terminator still the Governator of California?

Peace.

The Mouthinator.

The Mouthinator Pop Culture, 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