I haven’t a clue.

Yes, clueless.

I have an enormous amount of knowledge at my disposal and even some TALENTS (I mesmerized a hostess’ child when I blew through the very difficult Batman: Arkham Asylum video game which is really the Citizen Kane of video games!) but I grow old and wear my trousers rolled and I find I have no idea why people do the things they do.  Maybe this revelation came because a terrorist wanted to scatter tiny pieces of 300 people over Detroit –as if Detroit didn’t have enough trouble — or maybe this past very tough year has left me a little punchy.

Yes, the New Decade is upon us and I was fortunate to find a nifty book of epigrams hidden in the bookshelves of my hostess that I think will help with my number one New Year’s resolution: get a clue.  It is called Don’ts For Bachelors And Old Maids (1908) by Minna Thomas Antrim, a noted American writer and epigrammist.  Who doesn’t love epigrams?

See the jewels I found late on Christmas Eve:

“When a man knows nothing about a woman’s clothes, she resents it.  When he knows too much, she resents it more.”

Which is why I always watch Project Runway alone.

“Better be known as a Rampant Iconoclast than a sonorous Echo.”

Yes. What she said.

“That married men prefer Loyalty to Love-making never ceases to amaze the average young wife.  But they do.”

And masturbation.

“Promise nothing to a Doll-woman unless your time is your own and your Purse bottomless.”

Note to self: find Doll-woman.

“Don’t remain a Bachelor or a Maid because the marriages of others do not come up to your high Standard.  Lower your Celestial Ideals to Human Possibilities.”

My Celestial Ideal: breathing.

“In work or play or love, don’t be a “Quitter.”

Unless you are running for office.

“A babbling Elderly Man is the Ignoblest work of Time.”

More reason to grow old quietly.

Happy New Year! Everybody.

Feel free to leave New Year’s resolutions below!

First seals grew gigantic teeth and CLAWS on their FLIPPERS! Now, news from Australia that thousands of feral camels are holding an Australian town hostage. The unfunny thing is that Australia’s drought is a catastrophe of Biblical proportions.

When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight…

So…Sarah Palin’s new book has now outsold The Bible, The Koran and Chairman Mao’s Poems and her appearance on The Oprah Winfrey Show will be the most watched television program since man walked on the moon and The Soprano’s last episode.  But I fully expected the better among us to just ignore this silly Alaskan — who has always reminded me of a nosy neighbor who insists on talking about how the property line “must have been moved” and how I might improve my rose bushes.  I just smile and wave at Sarah as she takes the kids to school in the minivan and hope to hell I never have to talk to her.

But the media just wouldn’t let a sleeping moose lie.

It started early Sunday, when David Brooks on ABC’s This Week, just had to say: “She is a joke.” Thanks David.  Then my favorite book reviewer — and sometimes cocktail party companion — stooped to conquer with this:

“’Going Rogue,’ the title of Sarah Palin’s erratic new memoir…Ms. Palin emerges from ‘Going Rogue’ as an eager player in the blame game, ungrateful to the McCain campaign for putting her on the national stage…she argues that there’s no better training ground for politics than motherhood.”

But does anyone dislike Sarah Palin more than Daily Dish scribbler Andrew Sullivan with his encyclopedia of Sarah Palin’s lie-y-lie-liar-lies?

I know I am wrong to just tend to my garden and let the self-satisfied icky neighbor continue to retrace the property line and make un-asked-for and un-helpful suggestions about things that do not concern her. I just want Sarah Palin to drive her minivan on the way to somewhere else while I just nod and smile and wave good-bye.

The Rams, who were once The Los Angeles Rams, need no taint on its illustrious history: the franchaise  boasted the “Fearsome Foursome,”  Eric Dickerson, and quarterbacks named Roman and Joe.  The Rams (FUN FACT!) also re-integrated professional football in 1946 when they signed Woody Strode and Kenny Washington (teammates of Jackie Robinson from UCLA) after a 13 year  ”unoffical” ban on black ballplayers in the NFL. It wasn’t like the Rams wanted to do it,  but they needed to satisfy the lease holders of their stadium (The Los Angeles Coliseum) because they wouldn’t be allowed to play there as an all-white team.

Woody went on to play football  in Canada and helped his team win the Canadian Super Bowl (The Grey Cup?) and of course became a professional wrestler who fought Gorgeous George and then became a fine actor sparring in Spartacus against his fellow gladiator-slave Kirk Douglas. He did more than that in the film and was nominated for a Golden Globe.

Now, I don’t care what happens to the Rams so much — since the real St. Louis football team will always be the St. Louis Football Cardinals (you had to make it clear when you lived in St. Louis at that time that you were not talking about The St. Louis Baseball Cardinals who are still there) — but the history of the Rams has a couple of bright spots that I wouldn’t want to see soiled.  Also they had kick-ass uniforms.

The NFL had already signaled they have no interest in a Rush Rams, and it is now being reported that the group trying to buy the Rams has dumped Rush from the package — though he will be judging the Miss America Pageant in 2010 so he has got that going for him.

But just in case, come back Woody. Bring your trident thingie with you and stick it in Rush’s fat ass. Stick it. Stick it good.

“Chronic City seems like an insipid, cartoon version of Manhattan…this tedious, overstuffed novel…the entire book, which pretentiously — and clumsily — tries to create a kind of virtual-reality game version of Manhattan…the characters turn out to be an annoying and tiresome lot……a 400-plus-page novel, into an irritating bore. In the end the reader simply doesn’t care…this lame and unsatisfying novel.”

I don’t think she liked it.  It is sure to be a New York Times Bestseller.

It’s all over the news; not just the bloggy news either.  No, not President Hitler talking to the Wall Street Storm Troopers in New York. Not, Hitler-loving Elton John trying to adopt a Stalinist baby from the Ukraine. Not the Republicans very own Joseph “Goebbels” Wilson who will not, I repeat will not, apologize anymore for being a member of the party.  No, the top story of the day is Kanye “Notorious Big Hitler” West grabbing the microphone from Taylor “Perfect Vision of Aryan Beauty” Swift at the disastrous Radio City Music Hall Putsch the other night.

Where you once thought you would find careful analysis of Lady “Lil’ Wagner” Gagadammerung’s reworking of all Andrew Lloyd Webber’s musicals in one five minute segment in your favorite media, instead, the headlines scream “Ach Nein! Kanye!”  Megan “Yeah, My Shirt Is Brown What’s It To You?” Fox held the record for two days for stretching the once most hated name in Western Civilization to a throw-away line at Michael “Triumph Of the Will” Bay.

You know who is to blame? Hillbillies. Yes, people who live in the rural parts of our great nation that we do not go to for any reason, well at least not on purpose. People who skipped school and can’t afford all the cable channels. People who started this “President Hitler” thing. People who have equated one of the great mass murderers in history with anyone, and I mean anyone, who “tells them what to do.” I can only imagine what traffic cops are putting up with all across our great stupid land when they hand out a warning ticket: “Yeah, thanks there, Officer. I will have to remember we have speed limits on our autobahn. Hiel Hitler!” Or, when flight attendants tell people to turn off their cell phones, ” Yah, Reichsmarschall Goering turning off my cell phone right now after I tell Goober that I had to pay three extra bag charges. What a bunch of Hitlers!”

I guess the “…you are so Hitler!” trend will fade away but I just remember how long it took for people to stop saying “Git her done!” even ironically.

Can I tell a story? Okay, I will.

During a huge storm in Manhattan many years ago all the snowbound residents of my apartment floor threw open their doors and had a party. I had noticed there were many attractive people on my floor –especially the young women down the hall. It was just like Friends. but if real people. The party moved outside into the two feet of snow for a drunken game of football. A beautiful Southern Belle took to tackling me on every play even when I didn’t have the ball. I think she liked me! Later after a crawl through Village bars ending with us being eased out of the Lion’s Head at about three, the Southern Belle whispered in my ear, “If we are going to be seeing each other you are going to have to start drinking Johnnie Walker Red.” “Sure!” I said.

As we ran through our whirlwind romance I noticed my fondness for Johnnie Walker Red increased in inverse proportion to the Southern Belle’s fondness for me. As our efforts to maintain our white hot love affair waned we took to having late night conversations to figure out our relationship that kept her roommates up late or if at my place were sidetracked by Walker fueled sex in my apartment. Southern in an effort to move are discussion along turned to me one night and said, “You can stop drinking Johhnie Walker Red, now.” And so I did. Next time she came over there was a chilled bottle of Absolut in the refrigerator.

(Yes, it’s Your Editor again. From now on if something like the above catches my eye in the comments I’m going to steal it and run it as a post of it’s own and under your name because I have that type of power, yeah, I do, you’ve known I can do this for a time now but for some reason you’ve never been able to ask me if it was true, so the cat’s out of the kettle now and you should expect this feature to be as frequent as you are brilliant.)