We should thank UNICEF for at least explaining to us what "goodwill ambassador" is NOT.
During a television broadcast, Belafonte told Chavez, "No matter what the greatest tyrant in the world, the greatest terrorist in the world, George W. Bush says, we're here to tell you: Not hundreds, not thousands, but millions of the American people ... support your revolution."
Lots of people in the public spotlight have relatives who embarrass them, even Osama bin Laden:
I am happier today than I was yesterday. I might be less happy tomorrow. Such is the ebb and flow of life. Trying to extrapolate such individual experiences into a snapshot of the national psyche is silly, but it constitutes almost the whole of social science these days, with millions and millions spent on pointless studies, such as this one:
John F. Kennedy gave us "Profiles in Courage." Ted Kennedy gives us "My Senator and Me: A Dogs-Eye View of Washington, D.C." His dog's name is Splash. You can't make this stuff up.
You can tell a lot about people by looking at their pets, so it's no big surprise that a lot of fat Britons also have fat pets. You see someone with friendly, wanting-to-please dogs, there's a fair chance they will be that way, too. Cold, private people tend to have cats with a take-it-or-leave-it attitude. You'll probaby know too much about me when I tell you my two cats each have a favorite spot on the couch.
While the leader of the Indiana House is trying to make Jesus a political operative, NBC-TV is turning him into a cartoon savior, looking like a '60s flower child and mouthing inanities ("Life is hard," "Everyone's different") to possibly the biggest collection of creeps and losers ever assembled. I know there's a lot of tough competition, but "The Book of Daniel" just might be the worst television show of all time.
Just when you think Pat Robertson has reached the bottom of his stupid-comments barrel, he fools you. Maybe God is annoyed with us all, and listening to Robertson is our punishment.
Beware of this warning! A sign about the sign itself, a philosophical conundrum.
I was raised in a coal-mining culture. One uncle died in a mine cave-in, another had his back broken. My father had black lung. If you grow up with the mines as the center of your family's existence, you know that death is always there, waiting to snatch somebody from you before it's his time to go. Of all the things I've read about the West Virginia mine explosion, the saddest and most touching is the revelation that some of the miners left letters for their loved ones:
I suppose this is one way to deal with the problem of the alcoholic homeless -- just keep them soused. It conjures up possible solutions for all kinds of problems, doesn't it? Leave it to the Canadians.
