Once again, my apologies for the prolonged absence.

Once again, there's no excuse.

Once again, I am a douchebag.


No, I can't really talk New Orleans and Katrina yet, because I'm still gonna write a piece for the fishwrap, believe it or not. 'Been bombarded with work lately - unlike some other employees who stroll in at 2 p.m. on a regular basis who will remain nameless. But my editor's promised me actual time to write the piece, during daylight hours no less! Holy shit!

Do check out this ridiculously interesting piece on the recent Katrina murder charges. Gadzooks.

Then there was that whole fifth-sign-of-the-apocalypse thing, where God reminded us this desert truly is the Land He Hath Shunned, Forgotten. So let me get this straight: Tonight it was 110 on my car temperature gauge at 9 p.m., and last week a fire claimed 90,000 acres? Really? I would never fucking think! Christ, say what you will about Beirut right now ... at least they've got the weather.

Speaking of which, you gotta hand it to the Israelis - I mean, all this carnage over a couple of kidnapped soldiers. Don't ever let people tell you the best defense is a damn good offense.

Now, you know the irony is if Syria would just tell Hezbollah to quit all this shit...

Wait: Did I just write that out loud?

Wait: Hold up, you're looking a little tense there Madame Chancellor. Well my job at this G-8 summit is certainly done - pass the pretzels Tony?

Oh, and while I'm posting CNN articles like I'm Ted frickin Turner, I loved the headline on this piece. I'm sure the dead women and child are stoked the "terror raid" went off without a hitch. Sometimes I think our real strategy in the war on terra is to kill everyone, that way nobody's terrorized. See? Simple.

Speaking of dangerous ongoing crises with no visible end, I sit next to this reporter who everyday - and I mean every. fucking. day dines on an onion salad and microwaved fish for lunch. Any suggestions on how to resolve this conflict before I inevitably go postal? Because it's only a matter of time at this point...

Finally, I have to at least mention the craziness going on at the Santa Barbara News-Press, for which I wrote during J-School during spring 05. Honorable mention goes to Las Vegas reporter Smashtar, who sobered up just long enough to forward me the latest article on the upheaval.

It'll always be a special paper - the first quarter where I felt things really started to happen for me, writing-wise. And I owe a lot of that to my editor there, Don.

I'll also always remember ... they had me ask the SB Congresswoman once about her "pro" stance towards the Dept. of Fish and Wildlife's hunting of feral pigs on one of the islands - they'd been artificially introduced into that ecosystem and were throwing off the delicate balance, yaddy yaddy yaddy. The paper's editorial section went all PETA and really lashed out at this hunting decision. And it always struck me: They never even acknowledged the other side of the coin, the fact that these pigs were threatening thousands of years' worth of native species. I felt awkward even bringing it up with the Congresswoman ... but I didn't think much of it, from 3,000 miles away in DC.

Well, turns out that small pig issue was a symptom of a much larger problem going on in Santa Barbara. And while Don and I had a great working relationship, turns out he was simultaneously dealing with a lot of maddening office bullshit - and some tough, soul-searching choices. You would have never known it, that's the kind of guy Don is.

Before I learned Don was one of the first five to resign in protest against the ongoing ethically-questionable behavior of a meddlesome amateur publisher (and from what I hear Don was actually the very first), he was already one of the people I admired most in journalism. After 19 years at that paper, he had the testicular fortitude to walk away on principle. He wins the annual Dickie Cronkite Big Brass Balls Award for 2006. No fucking contest.

I talked to him the other day and he sounded scared - can you imagine? I mean, we're newspaper reporters, here ... the jobs aren't exactly growing on trees. It's like that scene in The Peacemaker, where George Clooney laments the death of his Russian spy counterpart: It doesn't make sense. You don't... you don't kill a Dimitri Vertikoff. There are certain rules.


You don't discard a Don Murphy. It doesn't make sense. There are certain rules.


(Don't ask why I'm quoting the fucking Peacemaker; Just know HBO went on a real frenzy lately.)


Well I'm off. To drink to my friend Don. If all goes well, I don't pull a Haley Joel Osment driving home from the bar.

I'll try to post more frequently, I promise: I'm not doing my best Chappelle Show Season Three impersonation on purpose here.