Haire of the Dog

There are many reasons to hate George Lucas.

His decision to have Greedo shoot first.

Jar Jar Binks' "messa gonna die" Stepin Fetchit routine.

Changing Raiders of the Lost Ark to Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark.

Howard the Fucking Duck.

Noooooooo!

But there is one reason to hate the flannel shirt-wearing Emperor Neck Fat of Skywalker Ranch, one that trumps all others: George Lucas killed NASA.

See, younglings and padawans, your fellow Americans used to dream of traveling to the moon and Mars and planets far beyond our solar-system suburb instead of plopping back on the couch with a bag of deep-fried corn shits and watching yet another PG-13, Sweet Valley space opera. They studied. They designed. They built. They flew. But that all changed thanks to George Lucas.

Since Star Wars was released on May 25, 1977, we've seen the rise of second-rate sci-fi flicks and TV shows and the decline of the U.S. space program. Sometimes the story is in headache-inducing 3-D. Other times there's an army of transforming, jive-talking. leg-humping robots. And occasionally there's a bunch of really angry Smurfs riding Crayola-crayon dragons and sticking it to the military-industrial oedipal complex. But regardless of who's smurfing who, the mothersmurfing point is the same: Outer space is just another green-scene set on the 20th Century Fox back lot; it's not a actually a place that human beings tread. It is not the realm of our hopes and dreams. And exploring it is no longer a point of national pride.

And so we have come to the sad, sad day when NASA's headquarters, the Kennedy Space Center, is forced to throw a garage sale in order to pursue future, underfunded projects. Why? Uncle Sam and the American people have decided that NASA's mission is no longer important, and so, year after year, the space program gets less and less funding and its once proud and highly-skilled workforce is decimated and demoralized. As Brian Vastag of the Washington Post reports NASA has "already torn down the big gray tower on one of the two space shuttle launch pads" and sold the facility's copper wiring for a much-needed $621,000.

Sadly, NASA's yard sale goes beyond selling copper wire like a toothless fucking meth head. It includes leaving the space shuttle to rust in an otherwise empty warehouse. Vastag writes: "The future of the second shuttle launchpad remains uncertain. Colloredo said NASA officials were talking with “two or three” potential customers ... But there’s still no word on who might be interested in renting the huge Vehicle Assembly Building. For now, the decommissioned space shuttle Atlantis rests on the building’s floor, its engines removed, its windows blinkered.

And it gets worse. Vastag notes:

Behind Atlantis, a sea of gunmetal gray desks, tables, cabinets, office chairs and other discarded furniture awaits removal. Among the castoffs is a lone white refrigerator, its door ajar. It bears a handwritten note that says, “Free to good home.”

I know, depressing. (Please read Vastag's story for how bleak the picture is for NASA. The above quotes don't fully show the picture.)

Of course, George Lucas isn't solely to blame. While you can argue that he poisoned our dreams with silver screen trifles, you can't say that the filmmaker is opposed to the very scientific disciplines that make space exploration possible. For that you have to turn to the Religious Right, whose virulently anti-science agenda has festered in the open wound of the American culture war — the one pitting the hopeful forces of progress and education and tolerance against the scared shitless swarm of anti-evolution, anti-intellectual, fundamentalist paranoids who know with a terrible certainty that the end times are near — that is unless we overturn Roe v. Wade or ban same-sex unions. At the very least we must prevent Barack Obama from returning to the White House. That might be enough to convince God not to smote us.

Somehow this latter group has taken hold of the American mind, and they are chartering a course to our ultimate destiny. And now we are feeling the effects of their misdirection with the creation of a grossly uneducated American workforce that dismisses nearly all book learning and curses the learned elites at our nation's colleges and universities. Even worse, there is a profound distrust among the population at large of anyone who has devoted themselves to intellectual and scientific pursuits. Those people are condemned for being godless, ivory tower devils who smugly look down upon the curiously uncurious masses who hate anyone with the willpower to get their super-sized asses off of the couch.

Instead of advancing scientific and intellectual pursuits, the lazy boys and sofa sisters seek mastery over their smart phones, their Facebook accounts, their DVRs, their XBoxes, their remote controls. Theirs is an obsession with the never-ending stream of must-have tech devices. Theirs is a unrequited love affair with toys. And so we have become a nation of ever-entertained children with little or no desire to buckle down and study, to work their fingers to the bone, to push their bodies and minds to the limit, all in pursuit of truly noble and important ventures.

Today, the average American no longer focuses his attention on the heavens — and to the seemingly impossible, world-changing tasks ahead of us — but to the high-tech tombstones that they hold in their hands. And if things don't change, it will be on those devices that our great nation will carve its epitaph: "Here lies the people of the United States of America. They amused themselves to death while the rest of the world raced passed them."

I've seen plenty of disturbing stuff on the screen, sounds and images that have chilled me to my already ice cold bones.

The ear cutting scene in Reservoir Dogs.

Gummo — in its white-trash entirety.

The eye-gouging scene in Zombi 2.

But no single scene in movie history disturbs me more than Dave Mustaine's brief appearance in the Metallica documentary, Some Kind of Monster, a cinematic ode to inner-child quackery and self-indulgent, feel-good pop-psychoanalysis.

As many of you know, Mustaine is the frontman for thrash kings Megadeth, but before that he was the lead guitarist for Metallica in its wee toddler days. And he was given the boot for being a drunken ass.

But as successful as Mustaine and Megadeth have been, their achievements pale in comparison to those of Metallica. And that makes Dave feel sad. Like really sad. In fact, it makes him cry. A lot. And all of that crying is there for everyone to see in Some Kind of Monster. And as I said, it's really difficult to watch.

Which brings us to yesterday's news that Mustaine has endorsed Rick Santorum. For some reason, somebody, somewhere thought that this was worth reporting. I mean, I think it is, but I need my daily fix of news junk. I imagine that for the rest of you, it's as meaningless as a Zen koan from Sarah Palin. (Note: I know that Mustaine was a political correspondence for MTV during their Rock the Vote days, you know, back when the Real World was a commendable social experiment and not a body-shot slamming hottub screwfest.)

Here's what Radar magazine says on the matter:

"I'm just hoping that whatever is in the White House next year is a Republican. I can't bear to watch what's happened to our great country. Everybody's got their head in the sand. Everybody in the industry is like, 'Oh, Obama's doing such a great job...' I don't think so. Not from what I see.

"Looking at the Republican candidates, I've got to tell you, I was floored the other day to see that Mitt Romney's five boys have a $100 million trust fund. Where does a guy make that much money? So there's some questions there. And watching Newt Gingrich, I was pretty excited for a while, but now he's just gone back to being that person that everybody said he was — that angry little man. I still like him, but I don't think I'd vote for him.

"Ron Paul… you know, I heard somebody say he was like insecticide — 98 percent of it's inert gases, but it's the two percent that's left that will kill you. What that means is that he'll make total sense for a while, and then he'll say something so way out that it negates everything else. I like the guy because he knows how to excite the youth of America and fill them in on some things. But when he says that we're like the Taliban… I'm sorry, Congressman Paul, but I'm nothing like the Taliban.

"Earlier in the election, I was completely oblivious as to who Rick Santorum was, but when the dude went home to be with his daughter when she was sick, that was very commendable. Also, just watching how he hasn't gotten into doing these horrible, horrible attack ads like Mitt Romney's done against Newt Gingrich, and then the volume at which Newt has gone back at Romney… You know, I think Santorum has some presidential qualities, and I'm hoping that if it does come down to it, we'll see a Republican in the White House... and that it's Rick Santorum."

Now, take that for what you will. Dave's a smart guy for sure. And there's no denying his love of politics. But I just can't get that scene from Some Kind of Monster out of my head. Can you? Peace sells but who's crying?

I've always been indifferent to Neil Young.

"Hey Hey My My" is a half-ounce of sticky-icky sonic badassery while "The Needle and the Damage Done" is the most beautiful PSA ever composed. That said, he's never been my bag. He's got one of rock's most memorable voices and he's an ace guitarist, but most of his songs lack a solid hook, and he has never put out an album that wasn't one side short of a five-star classic.

Now, that doesn't mean that I don't understand his importance to rock 'n' roll. Whether it's been with Buffalo Springfield or CSNY or Crazy Horse or Pearl Jam, Young has long been one of rock's most essential players.

Which is why on a recent drive into work, while listening to Young's "Cinnamon Girl," I began thinking about what sort of coverage he'll get when he dies. Not much, I suppose.

I mean, it'll make a short segment on MSNBC and the crawl on Fox News, but it'll last one day and that'll be it. Well, that is until the obligatory superstar memorial concert.

And then I began thinking about other rock, R&B, and rap greats, folks who've had even bigger cultural impacts than Neil Young — artists like Pete Townsend or Al Green or Chuck D.

Yeah, I doubt their passings would get all that much of a mention beyond a single 24-hour news cycle. They'd be no US Weekly covers. No wall-to-wall coverage on CNN. And nary a mention by Perez Hilton

Nah, to get that kind of coverage, you either have to be a young star who dies at the peak of their popularity (See Kurt Cobain, River Phoenix) or a train-wreck freakshow (See Michael Jackson, Amy Winehouse).

Whitney Houston is in the latter category.

Yes, she had a great voice. Yes, she topped the charts a few times. Yes, she starred in a box office hit. But that's not why the media is focusing on her. The news anchors and the entertainment writers may be puking out purple prose in honor of the late Ms. Houston, but that is not why they are talking about her.

Truth be told, the only reason the cable networks and the tabloids give a rat's ass about Whitney Houston's death is because it'll be six to eight weeks before the toxicology report comes back. That and she admitted on the 2005 reality TV show Being Bobby Brown that her ex-husband Bobby Brown had once stuck his fingers up her ass to "to dig a doodie bubble" out of her butt.

Yeah, that's why we're truly talking about Whitney Houston — and it's not because of her talents or her achievements. It's because of the last degrading decade of her tragic, self-destructive life. (See the National Enquirer's photos of Houston's alleged crack-den bathroom.)

So move along now, ladies and gentlemen. There's nothing to see here but a horrible wreck.

(Speaking shit you don't want to see, whatever you do, do not google image search "krokodill Seriously, don't.")

I know it may seem like eons ago — especially to all the youngsters out there — but there was a time when the 2012 battle for the GOP presidential nomination was not focused on the never-ending locker slap-fight between Mitt Romney, Newt Gingrich, and Rick Santorum.

Yes, it's hard to imagine a time when Mitt wasn't ripping out Newt's hair, Newt wasn't clawing at Mitt's eyes, and Santorum wasn't busy being the third, lesser-appreciated Heather, but there was a time when it wasn't like this. And for a brief part of it we were all talking about Herman Cain.

I know, I know, I'd forgotten about him too, and I'd forgotten that he was once the Republican frontrunner.

Well, I'm pleased to report that Herman Cain is back. And no, I don't mean that he's returning to the campaign trail. That'll never happen, at least as long as Cain continues to carrying on the sad charade that marred the end of his presidential dreams. (Note to all future straight-shooting candidates: You can't market yourself as the tell-it-like-it-is candie and then get caught in one lie after enough. If you're not listening this bit of advice, Nikki Haley, you should.)

Instead, the one-time talk radio host Cain is returning to the airwaves, which is where his brand of empty, Amway-salesman blowhardery works best — well, that is except for inside convention center halls across America where self-helpless white collar professionals hand over their hard-earned cash for Kitchen Soup for the Corporate Soul-Sucking-Asshole aphorisms. Starting Fri. Feb. 17, the Cain Train will be subbing for Neal Boortz on The Neal Boortz Show. (You'll be able to hear Cain locally on 1250 WTMA from 10 a.m.-1 p.m. But tune in before then for The Morning Buzz with Richard Todd; Todd returns to the mic tomorrow Feb. 16. We love you, Richard.)

Here's what Cain has say about the announcement:

“Mr. Boortz may be the ‘Mighty Whitey’, but as his listeners know I’m the 'The Dean of the University of Common Sense.’ and I’m color blind,” joked Cain of his old friend and radio colleague. “I spent three years hosting my own talk show at WSB. It will be good to be back ‘home’. I promise that Boortz’s listeners will not be disappointed.”

In fact, listeners will be treated to Mr. Cain’s startling take on President Obama’s newly proposed budget. “I have this budget pegged for the atrocity that it is, in just three numbers,” Cain said. “And they’re not 9-9-9.

"9-9-9"? Geez oh Petes, is he still peddling that pile of unicorn poop? I mean, it may be all rainbowy and sparkly but it's still shit. Ugh.

It's as simple as this: As written, South Carolina's Voter ID law impedes or takes away the right to vote from those who are currently able to vote. It is illegal for the state to deny or prevent law-abiding voters from casting their ballots on Election Day or any other day.

The South Carolina state Senate knew this, and they knew that the law as written would be struck down by the courts because of this fact. Their plan was to grandfather in current voters and require an ID for new voters.

But they were too cowardly to vote against the House's harsher and unconstitutional bill, and so now our state is going to be spending taxpayer dollars to fund a battle that the state Senate knew we would never win.

When it comes to the Voter ID law, if any elected officials or pundit tells you that my point is not the defining problem with the law, they are lying to you.