Feminists Line Up To Blow Ted

Awww shucks. And I just wanted to be a damn good blogger. But now, we might get to rule the world! Sure, I'd do Ted -- for this priceless gem alone:

Men should be barred from public office for 100 years in every part of the world. ... It would be a much kinder, gentler, more intelligently run world. The men have had millions of years where we've been running things. We've screwed it up hopelessly. Let's give it to the women.

Full mouthiness here.

Peach Perfect

Sometimes the gods do smile on us. Not often, but when they do you recognize the divine intervention because you're dancing to it. Last night I danced to a live, Bill Berry-powered R.E.M., next to friend Cheryl and a happy Dallas Austin, who rocked out to "Losing My Religion" with all the zest of a true fan, let alone joyful inductee, at the 28th Annual Georgia Music Hall of Fame Awards. Then as Gregg Allman sang our state song, "Georgia On My Mind," Max Cleland patted my shoulder.

This was one for storing-up memories for the longhaul as the evening carried on 'til the wee hours with a champagne-ridden note of pure happy giddiness, ending right back in the one place I've always wanted to be.

And look, I even dredged up Tony Paris from the Kremlin!

Pics below courtesy of Tom Roche, Crawford Communications.

Timrod and Nimrod

Yowzer. I got a little panicky when I overheard something on Weekend Edition this morning about Bob Dylan "borrowing" from a Civil War-era poet on his latest album. (Doesn't Dylan "borrow" on every record he puts out? But that's neither here nor there.)

That kinda info, emanating vaguely in the background of the kitchen while whipping-up a Saturday morning omelet and pouring the coffee, was momentarily startling since my namesake is the Civil War-era poet, William John Grayson, an ancestor, lawyer, writer and Representative from South Carolina.

The poet of whom Dylan is rumored to reek is Grayson's contemporary and fellow South Carolinian, the tubercular nursery-room tutor, Henry Timrod, often cited as the "poet laureate of the Confederacy."

And that's a good thing as no one I'm aware of, including any of my immediate family, has ever been inspired by a single line of 'ole W. J.'s poetry. For good reasons, as Grayson's poems surely fall into the "had to have been there" category of Civil War poetry making. Rather, throughout the generations, we've about worn out the name.

An excerpt from Grayson's The Hireling and The Slave is here.

Acting Politically

Is Sean Penn the worst actor in America because of his face? Or is he the worst actor because of that contrived explosive-emoting thing he does over and over?

Is Sean Penn the worst lefty-spokesperson because of his face? Or is he the worst lefty-spokesperson because of the contrived explosive-emoting thing he does over and over?

Not only does Penn look like a greasy angry troll, he behaves like one too, reminding the world that his last moment of genuine expressiveness came in 1982 while acting the part of a stoner.

I tried to watch Sean Penn on Larry King last night as he snorted and snarled and grunted his way through a litany of personal efforts and alleged global compassions on the part of oppressed people everywhere, but by the time he got to pushing his unattractive way through Iran, I had to shut the whole painful process down.

There was simply never a flicker, not one moment, of humanity in the dude's face. Penn’s contorted, Rumpelstiltskin-like visage betrayed not a moment of genuine compassion or concern for whatever he was spitting and snapping about. He seemed an ugly, affected bundle of scorn and contempt for not only the current administration, but for life in general.

The face is where human beings wear their humanity, should we be inclined to have some. Thank goodness then that Ugly Penn was followed by George Clooney's quietly urgent and considerate comments to the U.N. and to John Roberts of CNN (no longer CBS) on behalf of the crisis in Darfur.

Now there’s a face that can radiate the beauty and depth of a man's convictions and concerns. There is a genuine quality of honesty in Clooney's eyes. No doubt there is a small chance that I am dulled and dazzled by Clooney’s sheer physical beauty, by that classic timelessness he radiates with the rugged tan, glossy black hair and proper suit, but it's pretty damn hard to fake genuine compassion. Then again, he gets paid the ludicrous bucks to do just that - to act. (All this remind you of anyone? Hint hint. As in a former White House res/pres???)

The problem with celebrity causes is that they're so extreme they give the impression that one must have Hollywood-levels of resources to even get on the helpful-radar. Do you need Gulfstreams full of cash and influence to do anything about Darfur? The horror in Sudan seems oblivious to money and influence. Indeed, it seems oblivious to George Clooney. Who are the people who can really "do something," and does the average American even factor into the assistance equation?

I think Clooney, by appearing before the U.N., is telling us that the U.N. can do something. In fact, he said, "If not the U.N., then who?" But what about the audience watching at home? What about the celebrity spokesperson's fans, the people who might want to actually do something to help? What is it that these celebrities are trying to tell them when they appear on TV?

Honestly, I don't have a clue. Once you rally the troops, what do you do then? A few email addresses or wwws could be a start. Or maybe they left that part on the edit room floor.

Big Media Dreaming, On Such A Yucky Day

I enjoyed writing this comment on John Sugg's blog so much that I'll just turn it into an open letter right here!

I have a Big Media dream... a dream that Atlanta media, alt and otherwise, will one day be free of the bonds of the fatuous, white male pomposity and uselessness that currently bind our local radio, TV and print to the wheel of cultural irrelevance as it continues to pass dull, relentless, tired 'ole opinionista babble off as some kinda fresh journalistic leadership.

Thank you Jesus, for most of us weary longtimers now have the power to tune-out the tired 'ole likes of Sugg and Shipp and Williams and Lindsay/Clark and Edelstein and Bookman and Wooten and Boortz, and move on to other perspectives via new media and mediums.

Your thought leadership is now hollering only in the vacuums of boring insignificance you've talked and written yourselves right into.

I gotta go pour another cup of coffee and power-up the iMovie.

Oh, one other thing... I'll toss Lois Reitzes in to the above pit 'o names to give you boys something to play with. Then again, you wouldn't know what to do with her. She doesn't crank-out silly trash-copy about sex and girlie-gay stuff; she just plays really hideous music on our public airwaves for 6 agonizing hours a day.

AAAAGGGGGHHHHHHH

Little Black Cloud In A Dress

Diana had to have it all -- she desired our facilities and institutions, and pined, to her butler, to be our First Lady, chiefly just to give the finger to her ex-in-law QE2 on returning state visits to Buckingham Palace.

Whew... could that gal work herself into a vengeful, wacko frenzy or what?! Still, Di as First Lady could have been dazzling, and buying her way in with a wealthy husband was one of her more reasonable ideas, given our pay-to-play system of government.

Diana as First Lady would sure have beat having the First Zombie we do now. What an utter dud Laura Bush has turned out to be. I guess I'd have to be drugged-up on anti-depressants, as she often appears to be, if I was married to this Chief Dim-Wit, too.

With her fixation on Pakistan and that handsome Pakistani doc, Diana could have been their sovereign; then she might have helped patrol the ludicrously porous border with Afghanistan. Now there's a job for a good, psycho princess.

Of course when one ponders the shitheap that is Afghanistan, one can't help but draw the obvious parallel to the ellusive adventures of that other cute terrorist, Eric Rudolf, running loose through the tangle of our wild, southern mountain ranges for five freakin' years. Rudolf wasn't toting a new media production facility along with him, though. Traveled solo, traveled light. Still, the Feds caught his sorry ass in the long, millions and millions later, run.

I am a little concerned for Anderson Cooper's safety over there chasing Osama. He sure likes to stand real close to those howitzers. One of those military menz is gonna get real pissed with the cutie pie in the fake fatigues getting too close to his biz and fire that thing right into AC's adorable ass.

This post put together by The Shins' Chutes Too Narrow.

Who Yo Enemy Be, Bitch?

Martin Amis, Literary White Jesus of Britain, lays it all out here for you. You need read no further than his longwinded (for good reasons) treatise on the Islamacists. Only Martin Amis should be allowed more than 150 online words. He's the only person who can write this kinda dope.

Also, yesterday's post was cleaned-up for public consumption here.

One other thing and I'll let you go... TrueGritz is rumored to be back in the biz sometime today. 'Bout time too. Talk about some lazy-ass white hoes.

We're Not Afraid

No, I was not afraid during the terrorist attacks of 9/11. I was angry -- angry with a white hot fury I'd never felt inside of me, and I haven't felt since. I wanted to seek immediate revenge. I wanted bombs and guns and lawyers and lots of money to go and get the people who were killing us. I wished at the time I was a member of the military, with a license to kill our enemy - whoever the f that was at the time. I wanted to DO something. Anything. I wanted an F-16 in particular.

Instead, I sat in my Home Depot headquarters cubicle here in Atlanta, on the phone with my brother, Chris, who had walked past the twin towers just minutes before the attacks, as he did every workday morning on his way to his Wall Street office. I stayed on the phone with him as the North Tower collapsed. I could hear Chris' building shaking and rumbling over the phone. And then the line went dead.

I had no idea what was going on at the time, other than what was on CNN, which I'm watching the replay of now, no clue about what had happened to Chris. I wouldn't know for another two hours or so.

After the phone connection failed, Chris fled with the crowds and the smoke thru Lower Manhattan and made his way, slowly, up towards Midtown where his wife Jane's office was located. Jane and I emailed back and forth, frantically, until Chris was able to place a cell phone call letting her know he was alive and headed her way on foot. I thought periodically of how Chris had loved to photograph the twin towers from all sorts of intriquing angles.

I was wiped-out with relief at that point, and moreorless in a state of stunned disbelief for what seemed like weeks afterwards. I vaguely remember picking Ava up at daycare by early afternoon on 9/11, but I have no recall of the hours afterwards. I assume I just sat in front of ABC and CNN for hours on end. I remember Peter Jennings and his cool, calm smoothness throughout it all. I remember Mayor Giuliani emerging through the media as a strong, intelligent, reassuring, competent leader. I have no memory or sense of George Bush assuming any kind of credible leadership role - ever.

I've visited NYC several times since. The first time after 9/11, I looked back across the Hudson River on my way out of town over to New Jersey to absorb the Manhattan skyline. The sensation of the newly-transformed skyline was strange and sobering and disconcerting without the WTCs rising up at the end. A few trips later, through the passing years, and I no longer expect to see the towers when I gaze the powerful skyline.

My anger flares momentarily from time to time, but ultimately I am not afraid of terrorism or these goddamn terrorists. After all, we are Americans, and we will fight them to the end.

Went To Rome

Rome, Georgia that is. About an hour and a half north of Atlanta for the Rome International Film Festival. Found indie filmakers roaming loose in the streets:

While in Rome, I saw a lefty documentary, a grownup ham, enjoyed good company, delicious appetizers, and a coupla really nice cosmos. The doc viewed was Sacco and Vinzetti, a film co-produced and (online) edited by friend Tom Roche. It was very nicely put together, given Tom's long, hard work on cleaning-up the historical footage. The film hit the audience over the head with the obvious (contemporary political implications) only briefly. Chiefly, Sacco and Vinzetti was made compelling via (likely) never-before-seen historical footage of huge rallys across the U.S. (other than the South of course) in support of the doomed immigrant duo.

The ham was the woman who played the beloved Scout in To Kill A Mockingbird. (She always enters my mind as the ham rescued by Boo Radley/Robert Duvall.)

Mary Badham (her real name unfortunately) is all grown-up now with kids of her own, and making a career of fielding questions at film festivals it seems. After a screening of her classic movie Saturday night, Ms. Badham answered all the earnest Q's with tidy stories and southernesque anecdotes I suspect were well-rehearsed.

Below, Cheryl Roche, Tom's wife and my choice for Queen Mum of the Roadtrip, consults a guide to where we shall follow, the local BBQ joint being a typical first stop.

Below, Jay Edwards, creator of Stomp, Shout, Scream!, the first in his SkunkApe trilogy, gets direction from Tom on where to stand for his GPB podcast interview.

Less than 24 hours later, it was right back to the ATL, where a host of interesting offerings are on tap for the coming week, including Cat Power, Judith Owen and a theatrical offering about a true Southern frump, Celestine Sibley.

Movie Making

A movie set for Motives 2 materialized in the neighborhood tonight, morphing the school bus stop into a staging area. This made for an interesting evening's stroll. Ava posed for a shot by the grip truck. Lots of nice young people milling about. One crew member said Ben Affleck was in the movie, but not in tonight's scenes. Can't say I ever saw Motives 1. A bit of Googling finds that the director, Craig, liked the Boondocks/MLK episode, too.

Still the major feature film-making rages on into the night. Yawn. Time for bed. The lead-dog cinemaphotographer was adorable. Sweet dreams.

The Hard Working Vagina

The answer to yesterday's queston is, "Hell yeah, if Katie Couric sh*ts in the woods, you'd better believe we're gonna watch that!"

The numbers are in. Looks like we were 13.5M strong. I can imagine the brew ha-ha going on at Black Rock this week. Bet that's an exciting place to be, eh Bert?

Schieffer's last week:
NBC: 8,580,000
ABC: 7,560,000
CBS: 7,240,000

Katie's first night:
CBS: 13,590,000 (MSM just put itself back together, Big J.)
NBC: 7,760,000
ABC: 7,580,000

Numbers courtesy of Tom Roche via MediaBistro's Couric Watch site. I wonder what they'll be next week? Can't say I've tuned back in since the debut night. But I just might.

Since I read a mean Harry Potter (we're up to Book 6, The Fresh Blood Prince, now) to my kid each night, I wonder what I'd look like reading the news, but in all that pancake makeup and racoon eyes paste they caked on Ms. Couric. We're about the same age. Heck, I'm not even afraid of no-makeup and glasses, as you can tell from this self-portrait.

Don't ask me what those highlights cost. I don't want to know; I just hand over the card. At least they're not Manhattan prices. I heart the ATL - for real estate and highlights alone. Just know I'll be ready with the Clinique and the snark when they come for the bloggers.

And one other thing, Bob Dylan, who's annoyed me since I was six-years old, in his recent Rolling Stone cover interview, said that book reviewers were so smart and wrote so well that they made him cry sometimes when he'd read what they'd written about his book, Chronicles (2005). (Sorry, you'll have to buy the issue, off the stands now, if you want to read this part.)

Dylan went on to confirm that music critics were simply full of shit bottom-feeders. Thanks for the heads-up, Big Daddy Z. Like we couldn't figure that one out on our own. Gawd, some things never change; Dylan continues to remain utterly full of himself. Like we need a freakin' prophet to figure out that music critics are useless!? Go shrug yourself. If there was ever a medium, Mr. Jarvis, that needed exploding...


tags: Bob Dylan, Rolling Stone, Katie Couric, News, MSM, Media, Sour grapes, I could do that

What If Katie Couric Sh*ts In The Woods?

So... what if a bear poops in the woods and EVERYONE and their redneck, drooling cousin are there to report it? Would bear pooping become newsworthy? Is bear poop now inherently interesting?

Since I grew-up in Kershaw, South Carolina, a portion of the planet where nothing newsworthy has occurred since the Revolutionary War, I was startled to see that the neighboring town of Hartsville is now a pioneer in the field of citizen journalism.

How about those Friday night football games!! Or Congealed Salad Night at the First Baptist Church? (Methodists and Baptists use marshmallows in their congealed salads; Episcopalians do not. They prefer disgusting aspics. More on such social abstractions here.)

Thanks to Prof. Witt over at PJNET.org for this update on the road to nowhere.

In all reality, the Atlanta writer Joe Dabney, who's written with great authority on moonshining, Appalachian cooking and a plane built by Lockheed, is also from Kershaw, SC. He never fails to address me as "Miss Kershaw" when we run into one another at APC gatherings. Annoys me to no end, but I let him get away with the insult if he shares a sip or two of his homebrew.

Speaking of "Person With A Vagina" now anchoring the nightly news, I thought Ms. Couric did well at her new post. Still, no matter how they tart it up with cutesy features like Free Speech (good luck getting on that segment), network news still seems dated compared to the Internet, blogs, iTunes, YouTube and all the e-bells and whistles that give us, the citizen, the illusion of being in control of something... anything.

tags: Katie Couric, news, CBS News, media, citizen journalism, South Carolina, Revolutionary War

Dog Days Of Summer

Bubbles, Adopt Me A (Chinese) Baby Now

What does the changing face of the Episcopal church look like? Other than way-gay?

(One frumpy-grumpy old bird got up and moved to another pew the other day at my church when a group of fuming, with perfume, gay men sat down in front of her. I doubt she was a homophobe as she wouldn't be at this church if she was; rather, the stench of the Calvin Klein cologne was utterly overpowering. I had to move, too.)

Anyway, getting back to the point here, Asian girls from about 7-years old on down keep popping-up, quite literally, in every pew of the Episcopal Church. What's with the olde, reliable WASP gene? Unable to reproduce itself? Mon Dior.

Or have WASPy southern women been so busy on the partner track at Troutman and Flounders that they forgot to have children at a riper childbearing age?

I wonder how Chinese culture will blend with old money Southern WASP? Should be an interesting cultural soup. I know my twenty-something, male cousins are dating only gorgeous, razor-sharp Asian women nowadays. As the old joke goes:

Q: How are Southerners like Asians?
A: They both eat a lot of rice and worship their ancestors.

I just wonder how these women will find the relationships with their imperious, blue-blood, high-WASP grandmothers-in-law to be once they grow-up and get to the Inheriting Age? I feel I must warn any woman who might marry into a Southern WASP family not to get too upset if Tara, or the silver, doesn't pass into your hands. It rarely goes to us white women even. The silver maybe, if you learn to kiss Grand-Mere's ass real good over the course of a few decades or so.

Good luck to you all. You'll need it. In the meantime, be sure to watch the freakin' hilarious "Romanian Baby" AbFab episode. Hell, watch 'em all. We women folk sure need the laughs.

tags: AbFab, Absolutely Fabulous, Episcopal Church, Anglican Communion, Religion, Adoption, Are You More Patsy Or More Edina?

This Ain't No Mommy Blog. No CBGBs

Excuses abound here. I warn 'ya...

Sometimes I wonder why I don't do the "mommy blog" thing more often. To tell you the truth, despite you not asking for it, mommyhood is just downright exhausting most of the time, so the last thing I want to do is dredge it all back and write about it after slogging through it most of the day. And there is no day off. When the kid goes to bed, most of the time I do too.

The horror of the dog attack (on my daughter) on Mother's Day still sends a knife of pain right through me, making it hard to breath and crumbling my knees with a mere flicker of recall; I can't imagine, right now, tackling the sitting-down necessary to write about it. Maybe one day... later.

But I am not going to suppress that incident, nor resign it to some utter bullshit bin of fabricated shamefulness that's not supposed to be talked about, as I was taught to do in that good old-fashioned, southern repressed atmosphere of conformity, dismissiveness, oppression, and overt sexism.

There simply will be no more supressing of horror or grief or truth or anger or shock or pain or abuse or fear or lies or strangeness in my life. Having done so for a lifetime has been nothing but devestatingly destructive on many levels. The buck stops with this blog.

Another reason I don't mommy-blog is that Tania Rochelle at Stone's Colossal Dream does it so damn well, I needn't bother. Besides, she's got numerous kids and a husband. I've got only the one kid. And of course the goldfish and the (good) dog. Tania blogs with lots of pictures too, and most of the time my settings are so weird on my PC, I can't upload pics to Blogger.com anyways.

Gawd, is her 19-year old a genuine Southern beauty or what? Tania was hardly ever homely herself, so Sadie turning out to be so stunning is hardly a surprise. And I needn't bother with the poetry, as Tania's always had that in spades. But I've been known to slip one or two of those in here. Could be more on the way. Consider yourself put on notice.

tags: Tania Rochelle, blogs, Internet, mommy blogs, writing, Life, Family, Poetry

So Are The Jerks Of Our Lives

I've long felt that The Corrections was the great American novel of our culturally-hideous times. Now Jonathan Frazen shines that infamous, squirmy laser beam on himself.

From today's NYT:

In his new memoir, “The Discomfort Zone,” Mr. Franzen turns his unforgiving eye on himself and succeeds in giving us an odious selfportrait of the artist as a young jackass: petulant, pompous,obsessive, selfish and overwhelmingly self-absorbed.

He tells us that as a child he was “a small glutton for attention, forever turning conversations to the subject of myself.” He tells us that he felt put upon by public entreaties to help the victims of Hurricane Katrina. (“Why should I pony up for this particular disaster?”)

And he tells us that he used to find it difficult to enjoy nature’s beauty: a hike up to a spectacular summit was never enough; instead he would imagine himself “in a movie with this vista in the background and various girls I’d known in high school and college watching the movie and being impressed with me.”

Full review here. I'll spare myself the indulgence of reading this one. I could fill several books with tales of the parade of whiney jerks and assholes in my family and life. Hell, I'd fill a goddamn subdivision with a shit heap of the whiney, indulged, utterly self-absorbed, alcoholic, mean, addicted, useless, worthless, pompous, hopeless, sadistic, socially and culturally myopic, weak, sexist, cowardly, precious, beautiful, brilliant men I've known. Why bother? They're a plague on America as it is.

tags: Jonathan Franzen, The Corrections, Yes, it is literature., Literature, Books, New York Times

If You Go Down In The Woods Today...

You will not be alone. Seems those pesky Brits at The Guardian have disclosed the whereabouts of our Admin's shadow government... up thar in them Blue Ridge hills of VA, right outside Washington. Naturally enough. Of course, if you Google "Mount Weather," you'll only find a zillion sites and articles that will lead you right to the freakin' front door, where you'll promptly be escorted on your way by men in black.

As one VA witness declared, eyes wide open, regarding events of 9/11 on good 'ole Rocky Top/Mount Weather, "I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, but the whole mountain opened up and Air Force One flew in and it closed right up. I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes." GET outta here, Grandma!

Forget rehashing Area 51; this is juicy reading, folks:

Mount Weather is a top-security underground installation an hour's drive from Washington DC. It has its own leaders, police, fire department - and laws. A cold war relic, it has been given a new lease of life since 9/11. And no one who's been inside has ever talked.

Seems no one is still busy not talking, but full story here. Sure beats the hell out of reading about Meredith Vieira's career. Does ANYONE left in America give a flying fuck about Meredith Vieira's career?

tags: Meredith Vieira, Mount Weather, Bush Administration, Neocons, News, Bush, FEMA, The View was always a joke, hon

No Day Job Was Quit

Here it is... graduation night at the Punchline from Jeff Justice's Level II Comedy Workshoppe -- as a podcast. Enjoy!

And a zillion thanks and shout-outs go to Rusty and Amber at the Georgia Podcast Network for being there that night and podcasting this. Thanks guys! You're too hip for the room. Don't ever change.

And "any hippy with a guitar," please contact Rusty at: info@gapodcastnetwork.com

tags: TrueGritz, The Punchline, Sandy Springs, Jeff Justice, Neal Boortz, Royal Marshall, Comedy

Run Naked Thru The Streets of Baghdad

Oh how I wish I could, as I mentioned to My Favourite Feminazi, Amber, over at her always delightful blog, Being Amber Rhea. But instead of Baghdad, it's graduation night, where I will again take to the stage at the Punchline tonight to challenge myself, conquer assorted loooming fears, and wrest control away from my always-contentious inner-life, the one that is constantly harping on me, berating the real me with a barage of...

"You can't do something like that. You might fail. I might have to do something. Or, more importantly, you might embarrass:
a.) me
b.) me
c.) the family
d.) me"

Now read that back as my mother repeating it to me over and over and over. When I do that, I understand why I'm compelled to take to the stage once again, as a middle-aged soccer mom, and perform a rather mundane, four-minute long comedy routine.

And once again, anticipating that four-minutes must be my personal version of burning oneself at the stake. The process is THAT frightening. And the payoff... utterly the biggest adrenaline rush you can imagine. Such a brilliant fuck-you to everything you were led to believe as a girl raised in a really screwed-up South.

There are still seats left I hear, so book one now to watch as I walk through the valley of death, fear all evil, and trust that I will emerge unscathed on the other side.

UPDATE: How will I ever go on now? This French woman like soooo totally stole my whole act!

tags: comedy, South, The Punchline, Atlanta, fear, overcoming fear, laughter, jokes

Basil Roll and A Perp Walk Please

Yep, those Thais sure can put on a good perp walk. Regarding the arrest of the suspect in the JonBenet case, Al Thompkins at Poynter Online says this:

Not since Lee Harvey Oswald have I seen such a display. And yet, courts have said in the past that perp walks can have a legitimate purpose. But perp walks staged for the media, as the Thai perp walk was, present serious Fourth Amendment rights issues. Perp walks in the U.S. are generally OK if they are not "staged" for the media.

Link-saturated piece about the case here.

Former Channel Two pretty-boy reporter, Atlanta's own Jonathan Serrie, now with Fox News' Southeast Bureau, got "screened" over at Huffington Post for his special, cutie-pie brand of "graveyard journalism." Wait until darkness falls and go BOO.

Oh Gawd, where is that group of live-shot commandos when you need 'em? The ones who dress up in silly costumes and run around ambushing news live shots in NYC?

I would about sell my momma down the river to see someone, anyone, pop-up dressed like Grandpa Munster and run around behind PrettyBoy Serrie tonight. Now there's an endless list of possiblities! Send me your suggestions of what you'd like to see cavorting behind a FoxNews live shot.

Better yet, get out there to that graveyard and do your own "run behind." Top of the six o'clock hour is always a good time. Graveyard is out in Vinings somewhere.

tags: JonBenet, FoxNews, TV, Journalism, Media, Bad TV, News No One Needs, The Munsters