Ed Bradley of 60 Minutes Dies

This blog has become some sort of memorial service, first woeing the impending death of Tom Selleck and then weeping about Bob Barker's retirement. Ed Bradley, however, has truly passed after battling a quiet bout of leukemia. Journalism entered my life at an early age through my parents' subscription to LIFE Magazine, my father's devotion to Louis Ruykeyser, and our Sunday night viewings of 60 Minutes. May you rest in peace, Mr. Bradley, and thank you for contributing to our world.

A Nation Mourns, Allegedlly Fondled "Price is Right" Showcase Girls breathe a sigh of relief

Bob Barker announces he will retire from television after 50 years...

We'll miss you, you Q-tip-microphone totin' son-of-a-gun. Please spay and neuter your pets.

Newsflash: Italy wins World Cup, celebratory conception and low-employee turnout at all-time high

(Photo: From little ole me, 7/10/06)

Living two blocks from Little Italy, the lead-up to the World Cup final between the namesake motherland and France made for blue shirts and wild cheers. Our windows are ever open so the noise bounced through our apartment much like the horn honking and griping of the two old Italian women who lounge outside their apartment all day. Around 5:30 p.m., Italy won. Moments after I was in a standstill in a two-block orgy of nationalistic pride, exuberance, enthusiasm, and guys dangling dangerously off fire escapes. Wine bottles were shared, soccer balls were kicked to fans gallavanting on rooftops, Italian flags the size of pick-up trucks were flown and general beautiful chaos ensued.

And guys took every chance to grab girls's asses as they ran through the crowd. Because when on Mulberry...

(I was going to post a photo of the Italian Flag and ran "italy condom" through yahoo! photos with hopes of posting something playing off the idea that there was much coitus conducted in the name of celebration last night. The following was what I discovered. I present you with the file that is labeled simply, "condom_dale." Viva Italia, people.)

Helicopter

We looked so good together on the subway, but we parted at your next stop, and I tried to eat a little better to trim off those pounds, but come on, now, that never works. It takes barbells and trainers and the threat of summer. And only you will make it.

But I feel better. I'm wearing better clothes and walking in new sunglasses, finding that every fantasy you create can become reality if you shove aside a goal, because goals are thoughts more than plans.

I'm buying a bike and building a helicopter on top of my three-story walk-up. Get on your roof and look for me.

Photograph by this guy

Just Give Her Something to Say

Andy Whistler woke up to a loud thunk against his door followed by silence. He opened it and found Meagan, her nostril bleeding a crimson line that trickled over her and was poised to drip from her chin. She smiled and laughed that uneasy laugh that screamed "take me back" but he just let her in. Meagan spent her days sitting Indian style, cradling wine and twiddling packs of cigarettes and was better off as on the sidelines than running with the bulls. Steel blue eyes, the same size she and we all had as babies, that even in such a stupefying state of drug and drink, told him of her confusion.

He wiped her nose and let her in.

What Is This "Vision" of Which You Speak?

Growing up a wee lad I had the most tremendous amount of respect for daredevils like Evel Knievel or Jimmy Snuka, wild ass and embattled lunatics who earned their fame by breaking their bones. I wanted to ride a motorcycle or jump off the tops of steel cages. Those dreams died when I realized that glory in aerial stunts is fleeting at best. I now have the utmost respect for a whole different breed of human: blind folk.

Even in the most familiar of surroundings I would not set foot outside of my home were I lacking the gift of sight, that power we use to not only warn of us of large piles of poodle poop but also to spot a mate, be it for life or a night. A cane would bring me no comfort.

Today I spotted a blind Frenchman walking by himself, talking to himself, a grin upon his face as he tapped out his path before him. The chirps of traffic signals told him to stop and go; I'm sure he knew it was a beautiful day by how the sun baked his cheeks. He never knows bad news because he can't read it. But he will never know a photograph or the power of maps.

Photograph by Story Sloane III

Yes Milton, He's Doing Quite Well These Days

Using a piece of wheat bread I slathered up the remaining cranberry sauce and brought it to my lips, a gob dropping on to my hand-me-down tux, another roll of the eyes from my relatives seated at the circular table. Though the invitation said "dry" I said "no" and proceeded to pound shot after scraping shot from my grandfather's flask, stopping myself from vomiting in the bathroom sink while the priest knuckled and knocked on the door. I ate a flower from the bride's bouquet and dropped two plates of chicken fingers while feigning sobriety. The girl my aunt introduced me to told me my breath could sanitize a lab. I replied that she wouldn't know fun if it crawled up her skirt and bit her.

I'm Going to Be a Sad Boy When Tom Selleck Leaves the Earth

The only man besides my father who can pull off a moustache. May this clip show you just how much better off we are since we had Mr. Selleck galavanting about in Hawaiian shirts (Magnum, P.I.) and acting as the most debonaire of 1980s NYC bachelors (Three Men and a Baby).

Tom Selleck on "The Daily Show"

More Imagination

There was a time when rock and roll pranksters had a little bit more panache, be it by using swordfish to sexually satisfy groupies, or wiring your bass drum with small explosives and partially deafening your guitarist after detonating them on live television. Pete Doherty is more subdued and manages to stay in the public eye by tripping over his decadent boots and accidentally always managing to land on a syringe that just happens to be filled with heroin. No more. The artist has moved on to painting masterpieces with blood. His brush? Well, hell, a needle. So speaketh his former manager, James Mullord, whose sangre was extracted by Doherty for one of his works.

"He was very careful, he used a new needle. Pete has become very good at using the syringe, either scratching it on to the paper or spraying an area. It creates an effect a little like a Ralph Steadman cartoon."

I'm sure he's badass. The image of him allegedly injecting a female with heroin, Doherty defends, really was staged and he was merely extracting her blood to use as paint. Yes, Pete, and Jack Ruby was just poking Lee Harvey Oswald in the ribs.

Doherty's Blood Paintings [This Is London, from the Evening Standard]

Your Baby's Daddy Is...

Maury Povich charged with sexual harassment

Thunder Without Rain is Like Tonic Without Vodka

This morning at 8:43 a.m. I heard my first thunder in New York City. It was wonderful. The first sound of nature trumping urban life. And no rain followed.

The Cringe-O-Meter

Yes, as technology brings us closer together it also sadly tears us apart. The impact of being constantly connected and ever alone has left many a keypusher heartbroken and despondent, curled up in pj's watching "Contact" or drinking beer and prank calling public access television (now that's the ticket). Though there are so many people in the box they're looking at, there are none outside their door.

When in doubt, rely on magazine editors. The masters-of-lists are also the wrangler of hormones.

You'll always have the sage advice of how-to articles on issues as complex and hit-or-miss as love. In this example, the writer's use of the "Dave-O-Meter" as a measurement of date ideas is cringeworthy but oh so quirky. Me so lonely. Me so wone-ly, wone-ly, wone-ly.

Great Dating Ideas or How to Recycle the Same Article Countless Times a Year (Yahoo!)

Alfred Hitchcock and Steam

Gyms at 9:00 a.m. are interesting because every other schlub on a treadmill wonders if the other has a job. The equipment is available for use, the bass thump pumping throughout is not as overbearing, and the men's locker room is a few penises less populated. Mine in particular is filled with these gallavanting jaybirds, the guys who shoot you a quick glance when you're lathering up in the shower and who like to chat in the buff. Somewhere you find the strengh to push on.

The sauna this morning was still warming up so I opted for the tiled rival.

I entered the steam room and was greeted by hiss and mist and the figure of another person faintly visible through the fog. Gold-chain Italians in movies and business tycoons might talk in steam rooms and saunas, but I refrain, and not because it's considered strange or untoward, no far from that. I'm sitting in 140 degrees, my elbows on my knees, and I'm dripping with sweat and inhaling menthol-tinged damp air. It's just not conducive to discussion for me. I sit on the tile and the hiss begins anew.

I lean against the wall and close my eyes as heat envelopes me and think of my life and of words and of how I need to get better sleep, eat a bit better, renew my credit cards, mail resumes, upload my photos, and visit my grandmother in Jersey. She lives a bus ride away and is sleeping on the first floor now, can't make it up the stairs, we'll go get lunch, I say, and she says no, We'll eat cold cuts and talk about how she just doesn't get it anymore, these Koreans with the nail salon and the Russian lady she's paying to drive her to Shop-Rite. I asked her once why she has never told me she loved me and she said they didn't do that in Germany. We have the same face.

The heat becomes too much. I lift my head up off the wall and open my eyes. There before me stands a squatty silhouette, like Alfred Hitchcock's, except he's butt naked and locked like a guard with a fuzzy hat. Just standing there, in a state of naked Zen, his chest expanding wide. Al doesn't stay for the mist to clear and leaves as a shadow figure. I tell the guy sitting next to me that it was an awkward thing to see after snapping out of a daydream.

"Yep," he said. "That kind of shit can be pretty shocking."

And to think that my birth was protected by a drunken security guard named Merle...

Lions to protect pregnant [Angelina] Jolie's privacy: paper (Reuters)

Cold Hard Rain in a Big Big City

Today all of Manhattan, and the entire northeast United States I think (no time for forecasts, must do chin ups), was blanketed by clouds and pelted by rain, and it was a day of umbrellas bending backwards from the wind cutting through the skyscrapers. Every block or so you see a brolly's carcass mangled on the sidewalk, and the rain comes down too hard that even if you're unlucky enough to possess one (or just too poor to buy one) and are walking 15 blocks to mail headshots and resumes, you will not pick it up. You won't try to fix it by bending the frame back in shape and rehooking the fabric while the smattering of people hustle by. You'll step over the umbrella and with your hands in your pockets, tuck your head in your coat like a turtle in a war trench, and continue to walk south to a tiny restuarant. And it will be the cheapest and best Mexican food you've had since arriving in this city.