Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead!
Dear as the blood ye gave;
No impious footstep here shall tread
The herbage of your grave;
Nor shall your story be forgot,
While Fame her record keeps,
Or Honor points the hallowed spot
Where Valor proudly sleeps.

From The Bivouac of the Dead by Theodore O’Hara

As predicted by the ghost of Telly Savalas here at T&A on January 25, 2005, ‘Green Acres’ star Eddie Albert has died at age 99. Click here to revisit that initial prediction almost 4 months ago to the day! As Fran Tarkenton would say, “That’s Amazing!”

Today’s Tribune Review reports that Rick Springfield, who is sick with pneumonia, has rescheduled tonight’s concert at the Pepsi-Cola Roadhouse in Burgettstown to Sept. 30. Wha? Huh? Uh….wha…eh…uh…erm. Huh?

People who ask for Diet Coke in mixed drinks are assholes. I was at a bar the other day when I overheard someone ordering a rum and Diet Coke. I turned to him and said, “If you’re so concerned about your calorie intake, perhaps you shouldn’t drink liquor that’s distilled from sugar-cane, assbag.” (OK, I really didn’t say that to him, but I imagined that I did.)

Ankle tattoos on women over the age of 50 look creepy.

Today I ordered take out for the first time from The Green Mango Thai restaurant that recently opened on 1st Avenue downtown. I ordered the Shrimp Pad Thai, and I give it a thumbs up. As I was eating, I found a single raisin in my food. Since raisins are not a typical ingredient in Pad Thai, I naturally assumed that the raisin must be the Thai equivalent of the little plastic baby found in King Cakes baked during Mardi Gras. I called the restaurant, proudly told them that I found “the raisin” and asked what time I should return to be named King for the Day. It turns out that the raisins are next to the bean sprouts in the kitchen, and a raisin inadvertently fell into my food. I was disappointed, but life goes on.

Danica Patrick has qualified in fourth position for the May 29 Indianapolis 500, the highest ever for a woman in the race. She’s racing for Rahal Letterman Racing, co-owned by David Letterman. Even more impressive than the fact that she handed in a better qualifying time than most of her male counterparts, she did so wearing a driving suit completely covered in effervescent Alka-Seltzer tablets!

Is it me or has everything really sucked lately? I need a cocktail.

Today I am going to make an admission that probably most of you, the vast T&A readership, will find startling: I am a fan of American Idol. Right now you’re probably asking in disbelief, “But Anthony, how can a hip bon vivant like you find pleasure in such shallow bubblegum fluff?” If you think that American Idol is merely a singing competition, you are sadly mistaken. American Idol is perhaps the greatest cultural or sociological study ever undertaken. And what makes this study unique is that we are permitted to watch it develop each and every week from the comfort of our sofas. As an added bonus, any given week we may be treated to a stirring rendition of “Chain of Fools.”

From beginning to end each season, the American Idol series presents a microcosm of society and a study of human nature. Every behavior and attitude that we see from the AI contestants can also be seen in virtually any area of our lives: work, school, relationships or the little league baseball diamond. Each of us may have different motives, but aren’t we all just trying to get ahead and make the most of our short time on earth? Like life itself, there are consequences, good and bad, to the decisions the contestants make each week concerning things such as song choice and wardrobe. There is laughter, there are tears. Dreams are shattered, dreams are realized. And it’s all brought to you by Coca-Cola and the Ford Focus.

Perhaps the greatest thing about American Idol is what it reveals about ourselves. Do we openly admit that we love to watch contestants cower in fear as they are hit with a barrage of Simon’s heartless and stinging criticisms? Just as we find satisfaction in the kiss-up at work getting reprimanded, we love it when the least-talented poser who should have gotten voted off the first week finally gets voted off on week 7. We may deny being judgmental, but the truth of the matter is that we are. And we like it that way. No, we won’t judge someone based on the color of their skin or how many piercings they have, but if someone sings a bad cover of “Against All Odds,” that bitch is going to pay!

Having said all that, Bo got robbed! Carrie isn’t nearly as good of a singer or performer as Bo! He only seemed to do poorly on Tuesday because he was singing those crappy original American Idol teenybopper songs. It was like watching Greg Allman sing “Oops!…I Did It Again.” C’mon now, America! Get your heads out of your asses!

I’m making a bold prediction here: just like the career of the 2nd season’s runner-up Clay Aiken has taken off more than that fat bastard Ruben’s has, Bo is going to sell more records than Carrie. I also predict that Bo’s success on Idol will touch off a rebirth of Southern Fried Rock that will spread like wildfire. I further predict that Bo will achieve critical acclaim for his remake of Molly Hatchet’s “Flirting With Disaster.”

And Bo, if you’re reading this, cat all I gotta say is:

This week I took my annual vacation back home to Lawrenceville. “The Ville of Kill”, “the Ward”, “dahn the street”. You know where I mean ,10th Ward baby!The former home of Frank’s Bakery, the only bakery I knew that opened at 6pm.

I spent my time downing some beers, playing some cards and reminiscing with some dear old friends. During my retreat I stopped by some old haunts, McCleary Field , the Atlantic Ballfield and the Slovenski Dom. What I’ve come to realize is young kids don’t play games outside like we used to when I grew up. I never see kids playing pick up games anymore. Unless there is an organized league run by overzealous adults kids aren’t playing. I guess it’s the allure of the video game keeping these kids inside with their Mr. Pibb and Beef Jerky. While I was sitting on the steps of the Slovenski Dom humming Sara Smile and chomping on sunflower seeds a young kid came up to me and asked me if I was lost. I explained to the young lad that I grew up in that neighborhood and this was my annual trek back. I noticed in his backpack he was toting a Playstation 2. He told me he was taking it to a friends house where they were going to play against a couple kids from Texas. I take it you can hookup through broadband and play video games across country. I never felt so old in my life. I noticed the young man had quite a large belly for a ten year old boy . I said ,If you played a few games of “Hide the Belt” you would lose some of the weight young man.” “Hide the belt!” the boy exclaimed “What are you some kind of perv?”. I realized this young man is growing up in Lawrenceville and has never played a game of “Hide the belt”. I assured the young man I was not a “perv” and explained the rules of hide the belt. Hide the belt is played with a minimum of 5 players. One player hides a belt somewhere on the premises he then picks out a “base” or “safe haven” the remaining players search for the belt. The player who finds the belt gets to beat the players who didn’t find the belt until they reach the “base” or “safe haven”. The young man just stared wide eyed at me and ran to his friends house like he had seen a ghost.

It’s a shame but some day this country is going to be run by people who never got their ass whipped in a game of “Hide the Belt”.

Re- introduce yourself to “The Jam”. Enjoy 100 Rifles with Raquel Welch, Burt Reynolds and Jim Brown.