Time to Short Carrie Underwood

Having been on board since her American Idol win, I think it's time to short Carrie Underwood.

While I agreed with Simon Cowell's early prediction that Carrie would out sell Kelly Clarkson, I fear now that her lack of humility will cost her market share, much the way Clarkson's did when she spurned Clive Davis.

A friend of mine who lives in Nashville tells me Carrie has a reputation of being "hard to deal with" and her recent comments at the American Music Awards may give credence to it.

If you recall, Slash and Scott Weiland were announced as presenters of the award for Country Artist of the Year. As Slash came out, Simon Le Bon of Duran Duran, who had just finished performing, ran over and shook his hand. Then Slash walked up to the mic, took a drag of his cigarette and said with an air of self-deprecation, "they'll let anybody into this place." He then went on to say that Scott "was country before country was cool," paraphrasing the hit song with a hint of sarcasm before Scott, who looked like a leather clad skeleton, read the nominees.

When Carrie accepted the award, she said something to the effect that "had I known that Scott Weiland and Slash would be presenting this award, I'm not sure how I'd feel about it ... I love country music." After the dig sunk in, Scott gave an incredulous nudge to Slash, who was probably too busy staring at Carrie's legs to give a damn.

Need I remind Carrie that country hasn't always been Faith and Tim and billboards in Oklahoma of Garth Brooks' new babies. There are less degrees of separation than one might think between Slash (who can only be beat by the Devil in the new Guitar Hero) and the prescription drug addiction of Johnny Cash or President Reagan's pardon of Merle Haggard. One need only look at the lines on George Jones' face to know country artists haven't always been clean living, bible thumping debutantes. Carrie should give Lorrie Morgan a call and ask her about her late husband, Keith Whitley, or listen to Willie Nelson play Whiskey River in a bar filled with bikers and pot smoke if she truly loves country music.

While country fans are among the most loyal, I suspect Underwood will lose emerging fans to the likes of Kelly Pickler and her rumored boob-job and newcomer Julianne Hough of Dancing With the Stars fame, who I am bullish on. After all, without songwriters and musicians to back her, Underwood may be another pretty face with big pipes. I fear her lack of humility may have her riding shotgun in Britney's station wagon before she can say "damn y'all." Bright side is Slash will probably be waiting for her at the bar.
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The Ring and the Scar

It's hard to fathom a move from the operating room to the altar in just six short weeks, but it happened and I am grateful to all who assisted beginning with my friends, family and former fiancee for shining their love on me as bright as the Aztec sun.

From a man who could not eat, drink, or walk, to one who twirled his bride and danced around the hall with gin and tonic safely in hand, I commend my lead counsel in the war on Crohn's Disease, Dr. Barry Jaffin, for his patience, sagacity and his showing up at the hospital each morning to check that the right bags were hooked to my arm.

I must thank Dr. Randolph Steinhagen for carving me more delicately than my father does a turkey on Thanksgiving and for bringing the character of Gregory House alive, albeit with more compassion. Kudos to his extraordinary team at Mt. Sinai Medical Center who slept less than I did on the eve of my wedding and to the wonderful nurses for the sights, sounds and smells they endure each day without pause.

I have to thank my colleague, Paul S., for making me laugh when it was hard to laugh with the following inscription in a Get Well card: Hmmm ... Which is more painful - your own wedding or being in the hospital? You will soon find out!

I thank Father Francis Hoffman at Saint Catherine of Siena Church in Riverside, Connecticut, for keeping things cool in critical moments and those who participated in our ceremony for hitting all the marks. You made Claire proud!

To all who attended the wedding, battling the rain and traffic on 95 -- the red sky and impromptu version of The Gambler was for you. Thank you for your generosity, particularly my best man, Ralph, who broke out the worm and, unfortunately, broke his toe. And ...

For Jacqueline Marie

To wed my love,
a chance a bliss
whose odds are fixed
in every kiss

Life and love
held hand in hand,
sparkling in
each wedding band

The shimmering Sound
could not divide,
Family and friends stand
by our side

Worked proved an easy
place to fall in love,
Forever grateful
to the Lord above

- D.W. Dowling
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I Lost 26 Pounds in Two Months on the Jenny Crohn's Diet

For those of you who haven't seen me in a while, here is some footage from a recent sales call I made to D.C.:


While it's true I've been competing with my fiancee over who would have the sexiest, trimmest figure on our wedding day, my gray pallor and severe lack of mobility needed to be addressed.

Oh sure, I knew about the mass in my intestines more than a year ago, doc recommended surgery then, even read back his notes: "Patient said he doesn't want surgery." I've been called stoic for enduring the pain and trying not to let it affect my life, but I believe it was cowardice all along. Although the medical fact that this insidious disease might return to the same spot within five years can also be attributed to my reluctance.

Alas, the decision to proceed has been made. It's in God's hands now:
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Liz Cho Is Back!

Liz Cho returned to Eyewitness News tonight for the six o'clock show. It was as if she had never been gone at all and then Bill Ritter formally welcomed her back as did Lee Goldberg prior to his forecast.

 When asked by Bill if she had gotten any sleep lately, she answered no, but that she is loving it (motherhood)! She also said she was very happy to be back and it seems as though the feeling was more than mutual from her colleagues.

 Welcome back, Liz! We TV news viewers missed you!
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RAT

Wasting my days
like a rat in a maze
scurrying
worrying
flurrying about
trying to shout
nobody listening
fat women glistening

 Suffering from a malaise
despite this bloody craze
canyon sickness
population quickness
tunnels and towers
smog and black showers
women are vicious
men are malicious
running around
over worn down ground
only to die in the suburbs

 Confused and befuddled
debt is mounting
from shoddy accounting
bullshit is wearing
beleaguered soul is tearing
can't get ahead
can't stay in bed
nothing what it seems
stacks of metal beams
maybe get hit by a car
or the ash from a rich man's cigar

 Sit in the park
long after dark
sounds like a loon
damn bird is out of tune
why am I sitting
damn kabobs got me shitting

 Wasting my days
like a rat in maze
only difference is
the rats mind their own biz.


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    Amy Winehouse Is Gonna Straighten Your Ass Out

    Listen up Lindsay Lohan and Britney Spears! Amy Winehouse is gonna get on a plane, and she's gonna come out there for the day, and she's gonna straighten your ass out when she sees you. Do you understand me? She's gonna really make sure you get it. Then she's gonna get on a plane, she's gonna turn around and she's gonna come home. So you better be ready Friday the 20th to meet with her because she's gonna let you know just how she feels about what a rude little pig you really are. You are a rude, thoughtless little pig, okay!?!

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    Cuckoo for Cookie Puss

    Who knows what legendary Carvel characters lurk within the hearts of men?

    The White Rhino do.

    There is something to be said for social media via Wikipedia's entry on Cookie Puss.

    And Fudgy the Whale!

    How bout a vintage clip of Cookie O'Puss on You Tube?



    I'm pretty sure Tom Carvel invented crack.

    Smucker's Is Dead to Me
    This morning I opted for Smucker's All Natural Peanut Butter over my old standby Skippy Creamy. It was the Reduced Fat logo on the Skippy that threw me off as I give fat the credit for letting the goop off the roof of the mouth.

    Get home and open the Smucker's and out pours a tablespoon of peanut oil down my cabinet's facade. I am furious. I am tempted to bring the jar back across the street to the Korean grocer who I have known for seven years, but alas the label reads: Separation of oil and butter may occur. Simply mix together and enjoy the taste.

    Simply mix together! That shit is harder than concrete!

    I was negligent. I should have read the label. Damn those clever bastards at Smucker's!

    Be careful what you wish for ...

    Smucker's ad executive dies at 80
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    Restless Remote Syndrome

    Restless Remote Syndrome (RRS) is defined as the inability to prevent yourself from seeing what else is on the television even though the program you're watching is the one most desired. It's important to note that RRS occurs while a show is in progress, not during commercial breaks when channel surfing is common.

    RRS can be burdensome to long-term relationships, but is usually not as burdensome as erectile dysfunction. For example: The ninth inning is about to start and your partner minimizes the brilliant HD field to a square box in the top right hand corner of the screen causing you to react like Gordon Ramsey in the midst of Hell's Kitchen.

    While it's speculated that Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD) plays a part, there has been no clinical study to support the assumption.

    Treatments for RRS include reading, online shopping, and in severe cases, writing a blog.
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    Liz Cho Gave Birth to a Baby Girl Today

    It was announced by Bill Ritter on Eyewitness News tonight that Liz Cho gave birth to a baby girl, Louisa Simone Gotlieb, at 10 a.m. this morning. That was just about the time I touched down in DC.

    Congratulations to Liz and her husband Evan. And congratulations to Louisa Simone for hitting the lottery.


    And congratulations to David Wells on the nine year anniversary of his perfect game.
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    Fergie's Glamorous Is Flossy Flossy

    The first time I heard Fergie's Glamorous I was wearing a tuxedo with the bowtie in my pocket and ordering a Red Bull and vodka at the gentleman's club across from The Ed Sullivan Theater on Broadway that goes by the clever name of Flashdancers.

    At the time, I didn't know it was Fergie. I wouldn't have expected it to be her. When I was last in L.A., the valley girls were using the term "Fergie Bad" to describe gross faux paus in vernacular and/or attire. And then my friend Ralph saw her on Lexington and 53rd and said she was short and had bad acne.

    The short thing doesn't bother me and the acne usually befalls pretty girls after a night of clubbing, dancing ... which brings me back to the strip club and the stunning silhouette of a girl shaking her hips to the Glamorous, the flossy, flossy and my friend buying me a lap dance so I am ensconced in wickedly divisive perfume.

    It was during American Idol, the one where Fergie appeared on the undercard with Prince. She was great, whatever she sang, but before she took the stage the girls in the room where I was watching the show were speculating that she might sing Glamorous and I asked them to sing the chorus and one of them did and I recognized the song and my nose filled with perfume.

    I heard it on a narrow road in the misty Ring of Kerry and I heard it on Chambers Street when cutting crosstown from the Brooklyn Bridge to West Street. The same stretch where I heard My Humps the first time. Fergie made that track, but I still think of it as a Black Eyed Peas thing and there ain't nothing better than sipping a fantastic Bloody Mary on a golf course in Santa Barbara while the guy about to tee-off starts humming that song to relax and pepper ends up in your nose from a spontaneous guffaw.

    I watch the video via the Web 2.0 and listen to it on my gaming speakers and not only enjoy it, I get it. "If you ain't got no money take your broke ass home" ain't a mantra for a gold digger, it's her dad's message that she'll always have a roof over her head, so she can go for it.

    I wonder if the stripper on the pole at Flashdancers got that message or if after the four millionth time she released the hook on her bra while that song was on it has become white noise. Perhaps she too knows the evil nature of money is you can always add ... That's why I hate math, books have a conclusion. Blessedly, so does subtraction.

    Thank you, Fergie! Thank you for making me look up the word flossy. Oh yeah, nice lady lumps, too.
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    Trip to Ireland

    Our spacious coach.


    Dead cat on Dingle sidewalk.


    Music is woven in Irish culture.


    Ring of Kerry shrouded in mist.


    My Irish lass on the shores of Lahinch.


    We averaged one photo per 10 kilometers.


    Cliffs of Moher.


    Couldn't drag me away ...


    Johnny Cash's home away from home, Markree Castle in Sligo.


    A moment with Yeats.


    Pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.


    Giant's Causeway.


    The head of Saint Oliver Plunkett, on display in Drogheda.


    Glendalough.


    Tis himself in Wicklow.


    Henry Street in Dublin and the "Stiletto in the Ghetto."


    Happy to travel abroad (From left: Jackie, Sophie, Fiona and Hester).


    The Ha'penny Bridge over the River Liffey.


    Erin Go Bragh!
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    Lindsay Campbell: The Maria Bartiromo of Web 2.0

    Last week, enthralled by the short squeeze on Jones Soda (Nasdaq: JSDA), I came across a clip on Wallstrip where its host, Lindsay Campbell, conducted a taste test of the company's carbonated beverages on the streets of New York.

    Lindsay looked exquisite and her dalliance enhanced a poignant piece. It seems the producers of Wallstrip took a page from CNBC by casting an alluring brunette to sex up content which can often be convoluted and boring much the way Maria Bartiromo has done throughout her career. Bartiromo's stardom has CNBC committed to replicating her success with the likes of Erin Burnett and Rebecca Jarvis, while other innovators eagerly seek to do the same.

    Makes sense. Casting attractive women to relay business news plays to the primal lust associated with Gordon Gekko's idea of greed being good. And what better way to placate the ego of the rich and powerful and often hideously unattractive financiers, who dance among these beauties like marionettes with their emotions in check, which may be why the Naked News format hasn't taken over, yet.

    Maria Bartiromo is in a class by herself with an impressive background in business and financial journalism. In fact, New York Magazine once described her as the doyenne of the New York Stock Exchange. Haughty praise, but well earned and validated by her continued eloquence.

    Enter Lindsay Campbell, an accomplished actress and dancer with no financial background, who brings a theatrical quality to Wallstrip that is sorely missing from CNBC, FOX and Bloomberg. Her platform, a three minute video often shot in front of a green screen, allows for more creativity, is cheaper to produce, and has a greater shelf life.

    As news seekers jump the pond of traditional print and broadcast media to the Googlicious ocean of the InterWeb, they are less inclined to come back. And why should they? They get what they want, when they want it and the content magnates can monetize it a click at a time. In this period of expansion, new media personalities such as Lindsay will continue to emerge, but there will be plenty of room for our old favorites, too.
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    Hunter S. Thompson Interviews Keith Richards

    Check it out ... There's about ten seconds of choppy film in the beginning, then Keith Richards and Hunter S. Thompson mumble through memories of the sixties beside some healthy looking cannabis sativa. The actual interview runs about five minutes then segues into "Eileen" by Keith Richards and The Expensive Winos. Kudos to 88medicine88 for the post.

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    Liz Cho Is Pregnant

    Had it not been for HDTV, I would still be oblivious to the fact that Liz Cho is pregnant. While I did think her boobs seemed a bit bigger of late, it was a natural progression, not like the overnight, in-your-face Ivanka Trump implants, but during the intro to last night's broadcast, her form fitting black dress seemed to hug the little bun in her oven as warmly as she no doubt will one day. Of course it was only for a moment and then that super blue Channel 7 banner was thrown over her, cloaking her secret like da Vinci. She also seems to be seated somewhat higher in her chair these days. Perhaps her rotund belly would push her too far back from the desk for the producer's comfort.

    Wikipedia says that she is due in June. For nearly eight months, my fiancee and I were blind to this story, even though we watch Eyewitness News each night. How did it get by us? How come this hasn't been widely reported? One of People's 50 Most Beautiful is spawning and it's a secret! I deduce that while her bust is shown in segues sometimes, often the camera focuses on her porcelain face, which remains a mask of professionalism despite the little bundle of joy incubating beneath the studio lights.

    Her look of late has been a bit matronly, far from the fashion forward styles she usually flaunts. Then again, Nancy O'Dell didn't let her bulge get in the way of her evening wear during the Miss Universe pageant.

    Liz Cho and Nancy O'Dell, pregnant at the same time. What can I say, it's been a busy year.
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    Miles From Wicklow

    Damp spirits from damp weather, then sunshine appears like the shamrock at St. Patrick's feet. Sad pipers at funeral procession for fallen brothers march down Fifth Avenue's invisible green line, sure-footed like the Fightin' 69th. Somber mood venerated by Nancy O'Dell's propagation of our proud species.

    In Brooklyn, blond hair like gold at the bottom of a prospector's pan shines upon a milky wool sweater beside red hair battling a green scarf for supremacy in the glare of almighty Farrell's. My Ireland wells up ... writers, fighters, igniters of warmth beneath the threatening clouds.

    Bills and cigar reviews take precedence, put off from exhausting travel through the Tuscon desert to the Rock n' Roll Hall of Fame where The Clash speak to me as do the broad shoulders of Jimi Hendrix and the sublime philosophy of Roger Waters.

    Years past spent on parade route and Emerald Society pier party, but this year brings a slow start til U2 rattles and hums the reminder that we are poets and scoundrels, salt of the earth conquerors in ancient taverns with quick wit and welcoming smiles beneath the glow of melancholy eyes. The world is on loan and we Irish thank you, Jesus, in the name of our intrepid saint.

    Write, right to the bar, hoist, hoist a cigar and whiskey, whiskey in my jar-o, two, two pints of brew before the day is through, through with these words, I love you.

    Weird Long Beard Press, Brooklyn.
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    Sushi Cooked in Brooklyn Blaze

    Sushi Yama in Windsor Terrace, Brooklyn caught fire this frost bit February morning.

    It happened around 2 a.m., sirens, one after the other, blared down Prospect Park West to the block between where Al Pacino screamed "Attica!" in Dog Day Afternoon and Jack Nicholson took Helen Hunt for rolls in As Good As It Gets.

    The hot flames seemed inviting to those gathered outside in the frigid air as NYC's Bravest contained them as quickly as a Mario Batali flambe. But the choking smoke was a harsh rebuke as it filled the street seeping into one's clothes like an offensive department store spray.







    At least five engine and ladder companies responded to the alarm with a swarm of EMTs in tow. The street shined like Times Square with search beams and flashing lights ricocheting off the buildings in the cold, dark night. A start contrast to this afternoon, where the broken glass and ashes were all that was left of the proprietor's hopes and dreams.





    As far as I know, no one was hurt.
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    Happy Birthday Danny Boy

    I am officially an uncle.

     My nephew Daniel came into the world this afternoon and according to my sister, he was screaming and peeing all over the place. Well done, young man, well done. I can see you and I already have a lot in common.

    Big ups to Dee, Marty and Grandma and Grandpa since this uncle won't be changing any dirty diapers.
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    Milk Crates

    A writer doomed by his lack of memory must resort to fiction or the testimony of an eyewitness.

    This is no fiction, dear reader.

    Sure my recollection is hazy, but I can still sense the emotions, the smearing lights, and the raving madness I inspired in the Village one night.

    On the approach to my lady's abode, after a considerable amount of carousing, I stopped at the corner store that we affectionately refer to as The Korean.

    I'm not sure of my motive, but judging from the angle at which I conversed with the merchant, I believe I was withdrawing money from the ATM to purchase more beer.

    The pressure on my kidneys was volcanic. I asked the merchant if I could use his restroom and he snarled at me and said he didn't have one.

    In the background, my lady said, “let's go home, you can use the bathroom there,” but I was vexed.

    "Criminal! Savage! To refuse your restroom is against the law! I shall call the police!”

    The merchant took this as an idle threat even though I dialed 911 on my cell phone. He was right. I knew better than to send the call, the bugger had called my bluff.

    I exited the store and nearly fell over a milk crate lying by its entrance. It sputtered onto the street. I snatched the thing and without a moment’s hesitation, I fired it at the storefront with all my might.

    The empty box ricocheted off the window and bounced back toward me as if the glass was armor. Hysterically, the merchant flew out of the door, screeching like a spoiled child who’s mother has told him no.

    He drew forth another milk crate and charged me with wrath in his eyes. I retrieved mine off the pavement and faced him head on.

    We were within striking distance. He rattled his crate and I rattled mine back, but we never came to blows. I could feel his momentum ebb as I, too, had called his bluff.

    My girlfriend, amused by the absurdity of it all, offered a quid pro quo where I drop my shabby bludgeon in return for a slice of Joe’s Pizza at her expense. Drawn to the brighter flame, I flicked the box aside and came to a gushing realization that I still had to piss.



    And piss I did, good reader.
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