This morning, I was lucky enough to get into the Diversity Career Fair at the Marriott Marquis in Times Square. It was sponsored by the New York Times, and the newspaper itself had a booth. You might ask, what differentiates the “Diversity Career Fair” from every other career fair? Well, I can tell you from first-hand experience that the Diversity Career Fair was sponsored by a magazine called “Diversity,” which features articles involving diversity in the workplace. Also, the companies with booths and representatives at the Diversity Career Fair were from a wide variety of employment sectors, including pharmaceuticals and education. Oh, wait! Any career fair features that! In reality, the only reason the Diversity Career Fair was special was because it was sponsored by Diversity magazine. That’s all.

But the Fair did have a long line of people waiting to get in. I got to the Marriott Marquis around 10:30—a half-hour after the fair started—and rode the escalator up to the 7th floor banquet hall. By then it was 10:45 or so, and there was already a line snaking around the 7th floor lobby. The Marriott Marquis is a huge hotel, with an elaborate lobby on each floor that looks about the size of cruise ship deck. The line of people waiting to get into the banquet hall was so huge, it snaked all around the rim, then up through the guts, folding in on itself many times. If any of you unemployed New Yorkers out there think you’re the only ones who can’t find a job, please attend one of these fairs. You will quickly realize that you are not alone.

So I ended up all the way at the back of the line, which was only twenty or so feet from the front of the line, given the strange way that the serpentine beast lounged languidly about the lobby. I was resigned to spending the next six or seven hours waiting patiently to get into the career fair. But one of the hotel security people walked over and said, “We have to clear this area you’re standing in, so please go stand somewhere else.”

Of course, there wasn’t any other place where we could stand. Eventually, the attendant at the door to the lounge went ahead and let us all in. We were at the back of the line, and we ended up getting into the career fair before the people at the front of the line. I’m sure that the people who had been waiting for much longer than us would have been understandably miffed, had they known. But since they hadn’t seen us at the back, due to a well-placed elevator column, they had no idea that their efforts to get to the Marquis earlier had effectively gotten them punished. So it is, sometimes.

I spent the next hour going around to the various booths, getting business cards and web site info. As it turns out, a career fair whose name promises diversity still only features eight booths. That didn’t seem very diverse. However, there was a seminar on schmoozing that I got to sit in on. I forgot the speaker’s name, but I learned from his motivational speech that I must learn to be less introverted, or I will surely be doomed. I also found out that NYU’s Alumni Association apparently sucks, since it was founded by former students who are now in their 60’s, and most graduates in the intervening years have shunned it altogether. Finally, seminar man revealed both to myself and the audience a heretofore unknown dichotomy. To quote him,

"Employment is a vast meat market right now. You see all those booths next door and you think, 'Here's a bunch of opportunities to network and find a job.' Hah! Good luck! You know what percentage of job hunters land a job through a meat market like the one next door? Roughly 7 PERCENT! That's right! It's a waste of time!"

On the way out of the lounge, I picked up some complimentary water. Too bad there wasn't a .38 and a bullet I could blast through my skull! However, there were sample copies of “Diversity” magazine, which as far as I can tell, exists mainly to criticize companies who don’t feature enough pictures of ethnic minorities on their web pages.

By 1 p.m., I was already on my way home. I’m hopeful that seminar man is understating the percentage of meat market success stories, and that the New York Times really has some job openings I can take advantage of, which the chick at the NY Times booth told me of. But in reality, my time might be better spent looking for nice highway underpasses where I can sleep during my inevitable homelessness.

It was drizzling in Times Square as I made my way out of the Marriott Marquis. And with a cold wind blowing. Remind me to find an underpass near a nice, warm heating grate.

Just finished watching “Kill Bill, Volume One.” Looks like everyone had fun making it, and God knows I had fun watching it! Let’s do a Top Five for Tarantino written and/or directed movies:

TARANTINO TOP FIVE:

1. Pulp Fiction
2. Kill Bill
3. Jackie Brown
4. Reservoir Dogs
5. True Romance

“HEY LOOK, I’M RALPH NADER, AND I’M RUNNING FOR PRESIDENT. I’LL PROBABLY STEAL ENOUGH DEMOCRATIC VOTES FROM JOHN KERRY TO HELP RE-ELECT GEORGE W. BUSH, BUT THAT’S OKAY. Because everyone has an equal right to run for President in this country, and obviously, as long as you’re not a Democrat, you have every right to win.”

Ah, Sir Ralph of Princeton. Here’s the man who hates the Democratic Party so much he’s willing to ruin the lives of millions of non-zillionaire Americans. Don’t buy any of that, “I’m running to give the American people a presidential nominee who doesn’t represent the special interests” crap. The only reason Ralph Nader is running for President is so Ralph Nader can stroke himself with a smile this November. It’s been well-documented in the New York Times, and all over the web, that Nader wants to utterly destroy the Democratic Party. He feels that the Democrats have become too corporate interest-oriented, as much so as that country club masquerading as a political party which we call the Republicans.

Nader may very well cause the Democrats a seismic setback come November. Polls all over the news show Bush and Kerry in a virtual dead heat once the salt-and-pepper haired independent is factored in. Nader, of course, denies the detrimental effect his candidacy has on the Democratic bid. In the mind of the boy from the enviromentally-sound ivory tower, Ralph-for-Prez will harm Bush much more than Kerry down the line. After all, political pundits know that there’s no one Republicans like more than a candidate who is against large corporations, and who reserves particular animosity towards the big oil companies. Why, in southern states like Texas, where oil both employs and enriches thousands of lives, registered Republicans will be leaping over the party line like their chaps are on fire!

If it sounds like I think John Kerry is already doomed, that’s because I think John Kerry is already doomed. Mark my words: Ralph Nader is going to ruin everything. And that shouldn’t surprise anyone, given that, as I noted in the earlier paragraph, Nader has spent way too much time in an ivory tower, isolated from the suffering of ordinary people. I wonder how many of his Princeton law school chums came from working-class families?

Hey Nader, if I vote for you, will you give me a job? Because that’s my criteria as far as determining who I vote for. Frankly, I don’t care if you stood up to Dodge in order to get a standard-sized bumper attached to the front of a car. I can’t buy a car, because I CAN’T FIND A GOOD JOB! And if it takes special favors from a political dittohead to get Dodge to hire more workers to make more cars, I will vote that special interest-monkey into office, and I will personally wave the banana that leads him into the White House.

In closing, CNN online has just reported Nader saying he will be meeting with either Kerry or the Kerry camp next month, in order to discuss pooling resources in the mutual fight to kick Bush out of office. But don’t worry, says Nader, there’s no way the Democrats will talk me out of running. The Kerry camp makes no comment; it’s possible this is just a stunt by Ralphie Boy to make himself look like a big shot. “Who do the Democrats wanna talk to? Me, that’s who. Because I own a whopping 5 percent of the popular vote. Look at me, I’m a big monkey.”

And the sad part is, that 5 percent of the popular vote makes him a veritable King Kong. If anyone knows what kind of banana Ralphie Boy’s keen on, maybe we can trick him back into his cage up on that ivory tower.

As most of you may or may not be aware, Tom Hanks’ latest film, “The Ladykillers,” is also the latest by the Coen Brothers, Joel and Ethan. While I am an unabashed fan of the Coens’ frequent cinematic forays, and have been ever since I saw “The Hudsucker Proxy” (1994) on cable, even I will admit that the quality of their work has been declining since 1996’s “Fargo.” The Coens’ subsequent two films, “The Big Lebowski” (1998) and “O Brother, Where Art Thou?” (2000) weren’t terrible films. In fact, between “Fargo” and “…Lebowski,” I would argue that the latter features less of that oft-detracting quality that one finds in Coen Brothers’ movies: goony behavior.

Rent “…Lebowski” and watch it again if you don’t believe me. Jeffrey “The Dude” Lebowski and the other residents of the Coens’ Los Angeles are all a bit offbeat, but they seem way more… grounded. They don’t act like their I.Q.’s are smaller than their bowling shoe sizes. As opposed to just about every other Coen Brothers movie, and especially their worst, 1987’s “Raising Arizona,” where every other line of dialogue must have been typed up in caps. God, “Raising Arizona” was awful.

However, the point of this post isn’t to criticize the Coens for churning out mediocre flicks since making it to Hollywood. If I wanted to do that, I would have mentioned “Intolerable Cruelty” (2003) already. My God, that movie was mediocre! It couldn’t have been the Coen Brothers, or it couldn’t have been Joel and Ethan, at least. The REAL Coens wouldn’t toss off a movie like that. They know that the name Rex Rexroth isn’t funny unless spoken by a cartoon dog named Astro.

Will “The Ladykillers” mark a return to form? Probably not. But in the meantime, let us commemorate its release by qualifying Joel and Ethan Coens’ earlier, better movies.

TOP FIVE COEN BROTHERS MOVIES:

1. “Fargo.” Best Coens ever. Am I the only one who can still hear Carter Burnwell’s score echoing in their head?
2. “Blood Simple.” The last 20 minutes are hair-raising.
3. “The Big Lebowski.” Not a goon show.
4. “Barton Fink.” So very, very strange. But I liked it.
5. “Miller’s Crossing.” I’ve looked in my heart, and this movie is okay.

Worst: “Raising Arizona.” Oh, Hi! EVERY OTHER LINE IN THIS SUCKY MOVIE IS IN CAPS!

Hi, this is Jon Katz. You may remember me as a writer for Wired magazine, as well as the author of Geeks, the story of two boys from Idaho who used their knowledge of computers and the Internet to find a better life. I’m filling in today for Phil X. He’s gone off to see “The Passion,” hoping to be the third person to die while watching it. But the odds are good that he’ll be back tomorrow, writing away furiously like always.

For today, while I’m here, we’ll be addressing a subject which I have become the unofficial advocate of, and which has made me a good deal of money: social outcasts. You’ll remember that in my book, I wrote about geeks, and the growing pains they often go through. Bullying, social rejection—we all know how in high school, the land of cliques, blandness is rewarded while those who are different are scorned. But the point of my book was that our technology-dependant society ultimately rewards geeks. Those who grew up on the outside looking in often end up comfortable and well-adjusted. In summary: It’s okay to be a geek.

But while we may be living in the era of the Geek Ascension, there are other social groups who aren’t doing nearly as well. You may have heard about the gorilla which got out of its cage at a Chicago zoo, then viciously attacked a group of teenagers. Zoo workers tried to sedate the animal, but when that didn’t work, cops opened fire, killing it.

Here’s what you may not have known about the incident: According to witnesses at the Chicago zoo, the teenagers whom the gorilla attacked had been taunting it. Bullying it, in other words. Yet the media has trying its hardest to portray the gorilla as the monster, much the way it did with Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold, the two high school kids who planned, then carried out the Columbine Massacre.

Yes, PTA members out there, you’re absolutely right. Bullying happens in our society, in every society. But the question is, how many dead bodies is it going to take, how many homicidal rampages by geeks and apes is it going to take, to make us realize that something is definitely wrong with our public schools, and with the values of our young people, which cause these tragedies to keep happening?

We need answers, derived from honest, thought-provoking debate, and that is what I am calling for today. The last thing we need is simplistic villain-painting by the media. Only yesterday, I posted on my own blog regarding the Chicago tragedy, and the response was overwhelming. Of the hundreds of e-mails I received overnight, from individuals who knew what it was like to “grow up ape” in America, many still suffered from deep-seeded wounds, and others looked back on their traumatic childhoods with self-lacerating humor. Collectively, however, they admitted that they would probably “never get over” what they endured, and hoped no one else would have to have it nearly as bad.

What follows is the e-mail I received from “D,” who “grew up ape” in America during the 80’s. “D’s” is the most optimistic story. He has a successful career now, but admits that the bullying he endured in his youth adversely affected him in his later life…

“…Hi, Jon. I really hope my story can help someone who’s in a similar situation.

“I didn’t have a lot of friends when I was growing up. My only friend was this girl named Daisy, and looking back, I suppose I was way too overprotective of our relationship. See, there were these two Italian guys who lived in our neighborhood, Mario and Luigi. They always carried themselves like they were big shots because their father was a plumber and very successful. They were always showing off, trying to impress Daisy. Also, they were part of the “in-crowd:” Samus, Kid Icarus, Link, Princess Zelda. Who could blame Daisy for wanting to be part of that clique? Gradually, she hung out less with me, and more with that Mario guy.

“Looking back, I’m ashamed how mad it made me. Daisy was the only one who made me feel that I wasn’t just some big ugly gorilla who worked part-time in the neighborhood carnival. One day Mario and I got into it. I grabbed Daisy, took her up to the top floor of the building I lived in, and as Mario came up after us, I rolled barrels down the stairwell at him. To this day, I don’t know what those barrels were doing on the top floor of that apartment building—It really doesn’t seem to make any sense. But thank God no one got hurt from my boorish behavior. Daisy never spoke to me again, and later she moved away and inexplicably changed her name to Peach. But I was in a real funk for a while.

“For so long after that incident, whenever Mario and his buddies saw me, they’d go “Ooo! Ooo! Ooo!” and do gorilla dances. And every now and then, some jerk would come up to me and say, ‘Hey, I know you! You’re the big ape who threw barrels at Mario!’ My self-esteem got so low that I started thinking, ‘Hey, you’re right. All I am is a big dumb gorilla who’s only good for barrel tossing.’ But then I got into professional cart racing, where my size has some benefits, and I’ve become much more comfortable with myself.

“So I guess my message for anyone out there who’s having a rough time growing up ape themselves is: Accept yourself for who you are. Don’t let the jerks with the fancy blue suspenders and magic mushrooms bring you down.” –D. Kong

Thanks, “D.” Hopefully, we’ll be able to address the trials and tribulations associated with “growing up ape” for as long as I’m filling in for Phil X. We can talk about the trials and tribulations of being a geek, too, if you want. Anything involving outcasts! I’m your advocate!

As most of you know, Hamas founder and “spiritual adviser” Sheik Ahmed Yassin was killed early Monday morning by a missile strike by Israel. While many in the world stage have criticized Hamas for being a vicious terrorist organization, which feels no compunction over using small children as mules for bombs meant to murder Jews, Yassin was arguably doing the best work of his life prior to his abrupt death. Most recently, he appeared as Saruman the White, an evil wizard bent on destroying Middle Earth in the blockbuster “Lord of the Rings” movies. Yassin will be remembered for his intense physical presence, as well as his resonant voice, which seemingly knew no depths—Huh? Are you sure? But I mean, his picture looks just like him. Oh. Um, okay…

I’ve just received word that Saruman the White, the diabolical sorcerer from the popular “Lord of the Rings” movies, was actually portrayed by British actor Christopher Lee. He wasn’t played by the late Sheik Ahmed Yassin, as I had mistakenly indicated. In fact, I’ve also received word that Sheik Ahmed Yassin never appeared in any feature films, unlike Christopher Lee, who made a name for himself donning the black cape and fangs for “Dracula,” and will reprise his role as the evil Count Dookoo in next year’s highly-anticipated “Star Wars Episode III.”

So once again, Christopher Lee, and not the late Sheik Ahmed Yassin, appeared in the popular “Lord of the Rings” movies over the past three years. Christopher Lee is definitely still alive. The late Sheik Ahmed Yassin, meanwhile, could never quite attain the same level of success, either in the movies or on-stage. However, he is definitely dead. Our apologies to Christopher Lee’s family for any confusion our coverage may have caused. Sheik Ahmed Yassin is still dead.

* * *

All joking aside, I have yet to read any evidence that the late Sheik Ahmed Yassin was anything more than a bloodsoaked murderer who hopefully sh*t himself before french-kissing that missile. I mean, is it just me, or does it seem that whenever Israel and Palestine reach the beginnings of some kind of accord, some preliminary step towards a peaceful resolution to their eternal war-waging, it’s a retarded Palestinian militant who ruins it? Are they really so used to fighting the Israelis that the very idea of ‘not fighting’ sails completely over their heads? “What, Israel doesn’t think we’re good enough to be enemies anymore? This 9-year old suicide bomber will show them!”

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not about placing blame squarely on the Palestinians, though they clearly deserve their fair share of it. Israel reminds me of those ultra-insecure, macho types who want to pick a fight with whoever looks at them funny. They’re so trigger-happy they make Ben Kingsley in “Ganghi” look like Ben Kingsley in “Sexy Beast.” Hey Israel, The Jew of Malta was a sucky play, and “Chariots of Fire” was probably a good movie, so let’s get back to the bargaining table with Palestine, because not everybody hates you, only the Middle East and all of Europe. And you, Palestinian militant! Please get over the fact that Ariel Sharon accidentally incinerated your autographed posters of Yassah Arafat when he shot that missile at your house two years ago. You’re a big boy now, and so is your little brother Fahim, who, for the last time, will NOT go on a commuter bus with plastique duct-taped to his testicles. So stop asking!

And for the love of God, can we get an accord signed sometime within the next hundred years, so we can bring some industry to this war-torn region? Maybe if young Palestinians had a choice between bombing Israeli civilians and stitching together Chinese underwear for a decent wage, they wouldn’t opt so readily to go kamikaze-Haji. Yeah, it won’t make Palestinians’ lives better overnight, but it’s more hope than Sheik Ammed Yassin ever offered them.

A slight chill in the air did not deter thousands from marching down Madison Avenue to Union Square Park, then back up Fifth to the rally beside Madison Square Park. It was easy to lose count of the placards being waved in the air, the most common being a pre-manufactured blue sign with white letters reading, “Bush Lies, Someone Dies.” Other anti-war protesters got creative; there was a young man wearing a sandwich board that read, “The Bush-Cheney Empire: Coming to an Oil-Rich Country Near You.” The letters of the sign accusing the Bush administration of empire-building dripped red droplets of imaginary blood. Less radical were the homemade signs and white T-shirts that read, “Money for Books, Not Bombs.”

It was hard to tell whether the turnout for yesterday’s anti-war rally exceeded what its planners expected. However, police barricades had to funnel protesters who wanted to get close to the rally through 26th Street, several blocks from the actual event. One of the anti-war speakers made a note of the hemmed-in conditions from the stage that was closed-off from the crowds. “While we are restricted from criticizing this racist administration in Washington, just as we are restricted here physically today,” said a black woman who worked with immigrants in the Bronx, “we must continue to criticize it.”

Calling the war in Iraq a racist war was high on the agenda of guest speakers. Just as popular was calling for a free Palestine, and a return to power of ex-Haitian president Jean-Bertrand Aristide. Many guest speakers spoke of visits they had made to the Middle East, and how they had seen first-hand that Iraqis were not benefiting from the American occupation. Some of the Iraqi peoples’ sufferings have already been mentioned by the media: high unemployment, accidental civilian killings, the delay in allowing Iraqis self-destiny. However, certain guest speakers, such as an intelligent, but whiny Middle Eastern woman, implied that none of the bright and sunny (not to mention bright and Shiite) stories reported from Iraq were true, that the Americans had done nothing good for the people, that women are still as oppressed as they were before, and that Iraqis in general hate the Americans because “they’re killing the Iraqi people.”

Other guest speakers included a rap artist who led the crowds in a chant of, “Damn, Bush! Get out the way! Get out the way! Get out the way!” This refrain might have been more effective if Bush were standing at the head of a line at Burger King, and was taking too long to order. However, as a means of protesting a president who has brazenly ruined this country in less than four years, it seemed lacking in willfulness. The crowds did not enthusiastically pick up on the chant. Meanwhile, the most impressive orator was a former member of the British Parliament. He spoke eloquently about a generation of Europeans who, having survived two horrendous World Wars within the same lifetime, pledged never to engage in such detrimental behavior ever again. America, the ex-Parliament member said, needs to do the same thing.

The crowd applauded and cheered the distinguished-sounding speaker’s comments. The response was even more enthusiastic for the poet who came on right after and said, “Brooklyn’s in the house!” Then came much rabble-rousing, pseudo rap style, about how blacks, Latinos, and the poor are being killed in Iraq in disproportionate number. “These people cannot afford to go to college,” said the orator in a non-rap. “They have no economic opportunities unless they join the army. They don’t believe in the war in Iraq, but they have no choice.” The man went on to list names of conscientious objectors who were thrown in jail for telling officers they will not fight, and who remain in jail.

The poet stepped down from the stage after one last “Brooklyn’s always in the house!” which earned a standing ovation. Next came a spelling bee winner, who mentioned that all the money spent in Iraq could have been used to hire over a million school teachers. This also earned loud, rowdy applause. The parade of rabble-rousers continued to a surprisingly low-key ending, where a guy with a scraggly-looking beard came on stage and gave everyone dates for more rallies—including a march in Washington D.C. to put Jean-Bertrand Aristide back in power (whether the majority of Haitians want him or not!), and a rally in New York City on the day of the Republican National Convention, aimed squarely at showing President Bush just how fed-up New Yorkers are of him.

* * *

After the rally proper finished, it was easier to roam Madison Avenue between 23rd and 28th Street, to admire the more P.T. Barnum aspects of political protest. My favorite was this odd pantomime-style jig being performed by two men in coattails, wearing ghoulish plastic masks of ex-President Ronald Reagan and Secretary of State Colin Powell. The dance moves themselves looked like the kind of thing vaudevillians in blackface would have done, and they bounced a giant inflatable globe between them. In hindsight, I suppose that making fun of the Republicans is a legitimate way of protesting their policies. It would certainly be more effective than the placard I saw lying in the street on my way out. The blue magic marker writing on its face read, “To Protest Bush, Stop Paying Taxs.” (Quoted exactly as it was written.)

FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO HADN’T HEARD, Bloomberg’s educational reform proposal, which would force 8-year olds to repeat 3rd grade if they score in the lowest percentile of a year-end reading examination, was passed under a cloud of controversy yesterday. Mayor Michael Bloomberg admitted to firing two members of a committee who would have voted against the bill, and appointing new members who would have voted in its favor. But while the mayor’s tactics have incensed the various critics of mandatory 3rd grade testing, none of his actions fall outside the scope of authority given to him by the Board of Education. So Bloomberg’s critics can cry foul all they want about strong-arm tactics. Meanwhile, the 15,000 New York City public school students in danger of being left back in the 3rd grade will have to crack open their grammar textbooks, and get used to the idea that achievement is not a right, but a privilege that must be earned. Sort of like in real life.

So, did I manage to simulate serious, thought-provoking commentary? Because I really just want to ask what the critics of mandatory 3rd grade reading testing have against the idea. I’ve read some of the rebuttals towards the plan, and most of them, not surprisingly, have played the race card. Mayor Bloomberg and Education Chancellor Joel Klein’s plan would impact, and supposedly harm, blacks and hispanics most severely, since the majority of students who score in the lowest percentile of the reading test—that’s a score of 1 out of a possible 4—are black and hispanic. If the numbers hold up over the course of this year’s reading test, thousands of young blacks and hispanics would have their self-esteem irreparably damaged by being left back. What injustice! After that whole slavery thing, hasn’t Whitey and/or the Jew done enough to hold down the colored man?

The majority of those who raised a fuss over mandatory 3rd grade reading tests are, not surprisingly, parents of students in danger of failing the upcoming test. These are the most vocal, as well as anxious, critics. Their main argument is that a single exam should not determine whether their child should go to the next grade. I think their argument is reasonable, but they are misinformed as to how the exam would work. Remember, only those children who score a 1 out of a possible 4 would be left behind. A score of 2, while it would count as below-average reading ability, is still high enough a score that the student is allowed to move on to the 4th grade.

Bottom line: While it’s true that 3rd graders must score higher than a 1 on the reading exam, a passing score is still possible with even the minimal preparation, which a student should have received over the previous 9 months.

And let’s not forget, according to Bloomberg and Klein’s plan for educational reform, even if a 3rd grader scores a 1, which indicates that he’s basically illiterate, intensive summer courses are available for emergency instruction. These reforms provide lifelines; they are meant to help students stay afloat, not let them drown. The mayor’s enemies need to realize that condemning underperforming students to a future of illiteracy and non-existent job prospects does much more to damage self-esteem than a second year in the third grade. This is how America should be: No one who hasn’t put in an honest effort should be allowed to get by. No one should get a free pass simply because of the color of their skin.

(Coming tomorrow: The GOD, I HATE RALPH NADER rant.)

In the near-future, the stereotypical image of the Spaniard must be changed from the macho matador of the Hemingway novels to a cancan dress-wetting Euro-coward who gets spooked by the sight of his own shadow.

Yes, the terrorist attack on a Madrid train station last Thursday was as brazen as it was horrifying. Multiple explosions left over two hundred people dead. The weapons were as innocuous as backpacks, yet the results were devastating. But let us not forget that this was a retaliatory attack from Al Qaeda, punishment for Spain for sending troops to Iraq. This was a retaliation on Spain for aiding the U.N. occupation; this was revenge for bringing freedom to a country which had suffered in the grip of tyranny. The people who planned, then carried out these horrifying attacks, are the same misogynistic thugs who stone women for walking in public with their faces exposed, and whose desire is to maintain a status quo of ignorance and poverty, where their machine guns will easily be the loudest voice. These same Islamic extremists, these Al Qaeda scumbags, made a slaughterhouse out of the Alcala de Henares. In essence, they were “sending a warning” to anyone who would dare mess with them, the same way mafia soldiers shoot guns through the windows of prosecuting attorneys. All these tactics are means of intimidation, of ruling through fear.

And Spain has clearly shown it lacks the fortitude to stand up to this bullying.

Less than two days after the March 11th bombing of the Alcala de Henares station, Spain’s conservative government was swept out of power. The new Socialist regime wears this bemused grin on camera, like they know they just got away with stealing something. And in fact, they did. Before the terrible bombing, the conservatives were comfortably in the lead. But then came that fateful morning last Thursday, and the fateful suckerpunch by the Al Qaeda mafioso. The public was left in a state of shock and fear. They realized that, in the face of terrorist aggression, they had only two options to choose from:

(A) Choose to do the “right thing:” Continue supporting the conservative administration, along with the occupation of Iraq, which was definitely improving life in the small, historically-abused nation.

(B) Appease the terrorists. Kick the conversatives out and replace them with whoever can get Spanish troops out of Iraq the quickest, thus ensuring that Al Qaeda will no longer attack you.

Look, you Spaniards, you. I will admit that President Bush definitely screwed up the Iraqi occupation by not getting the U.N. involved sooner. Secondly, I will concede that there is every chance that he lied outright to both Congress and the world about his initial reasons for invading Iraq. But you Spaniards, man, you are going to be kicking yourselves six months from now when you look back on this election. This was not an election informed by either logic or political affiliation. The voters were still reeling from the bombing; they felt like there was a mugger holding a knife to their necks, and they wanted the bad man to go away.

However, by hitting the panic button so readily, you Spaniards have shown the terrorists how easily deterred you can be. Yes, Spanish troops will be evacuated from Iraq. But unless the Socialists intend to isolate your country, a la pre-1990’s China, odds are good that Spain will get involved with world events at some point. Do not think that improved security will deter Spain’s enemies from lashing out once more, from “sending a warning,” like those aforementioned mafioso. Not when your nation’s resolve is so questionable. Not when the terrorists know how easily your country can be intimidated.

Thanks for showing your true colors, Spain. Al Qaeda are probably cheering in their mountain hideouts this very moment, in between meetings where they plot a major hit on the United States two days before the November presidential election. I hope it doesn’t happen. But if it does, I am sure the U.S. will respond very differently from you. We will remember who the enemy is—Islamic fundamentalists—and our peoples’ resolve to capture and crush terrorist cells will only grow stronger. This is not pro-Bush propaganda. If his invasion of Iraq has proven one thing, it is that Bush Jr. himself does not know who the real enemy is. However, the American people do. We are not the type to be easily intimidated.

The March 11th bombing in Madrid has been referred to as “Spain’s Sept. 11th.” Both days will live in infamy, but that is all they have in common. America’s September 11th brought out the best in our country. Spain’s has seemingly brought out the worst in them. For shame.

So I saw “Hidalgo” the other night with the Sci-Fi Club Gang. We went to Loews E-Walk for the 7:20 show, and though I’ve frequented 42nd Street many times over the past couple of years, it still amazes me how they can light Times Square at night and the effect is bright as day. It’s one of the great wonders of the world, ladies and gentlemen. Even if you’ve seen it in the movies, there is nothing like Times Square up-close and in person.

As for “Hidalgo” the movie, it is a serviceable adventure, and many will enjoy watching it at least once. It features an epic horse race across the “Ocean of Fire”—3,000 miles of scorching desert—which is the best thing the movie has to offer. Director Joe Johnston should have stuck more closely to the horse race plot, instead of digressing into more traditional action movie cheesiness. It’s a shame. “Hidalgo” makes a valiant effort to be something very good, and has a strong performance by Viggo Mortensen at its center. But it still falls short of greatness by a nose.

Okay, now I’m going to put diplomacy aside and rant. There is no reason for the evil brigand—the one who kidnapped the princess and ransomed her for the Sheik of Sheiks’ prize horse—to have had such a huge role in this film. I don’t mind that Frank Hopkins had to get sidetracked from the race. Yeah, the scene where he was about to have his tool of violation removed was pretty bad—“Arabian Nights” in-joke or not. But since “Hidalgo” is supposed to be an adventure movie, why not have him go rescue a princess? There might have actually been some sort of novelty in that; how many cowboy movies have you seen where the hero storms a Bastille full of Middle Eastern bad guys?

Hopkins should have rescued Princess Jazmina (Is there a Middle Eastern princess in the movies who isn’t named some variation of Jasmine?), killed her evil abductor, taken the girl home, then resumed the race. But no, the bad guy doesn’t get killed by what seems like a miracle. Cowboy Frank has all that bad guy to aim for, but manages to shoot him in his gun hand. Remind me, was there a Disney logo hovering above this movie’s title?

If Hopkins had killed the bad brigand—or better yet, if Hidalgo had run him over—we wouldn’t have had to endure the awful scene later, where the brigand and some other bad guys return to try and kill our hero. They fail, in spite of being armed with two CGI tigers (And Viggo isn’t even a gladiator!) What really made the scene awful was the way Hopkins finally dispatches the villain. He says a one-liner, “Nobody messes with my horse,” in the midst of an 80’s style close-up. What was this dumb action movie moment doing in what should have been the suspense-filled final leg of the race?

On the bright side, they eventually get back to the horse race (Which Hidalgo manages to find himself near the lead, somehow.) and the really bad CGI tigers never reappear. Also, Omar Shariff managed to make the Sheik of Sheiks into a complicated, sympathetic character which no sane man would try and cross. Finally, many of the Middle Eastern characters appear to have been played by Middle Eastern actors, which is itself impressive, given that the film was apparently shot mostly on Los Angeles soundstages. And finally, there was the end of the movie, when I got to go back outside to Times Square. Man, is it brightly lit.

Am I the only one who thinks it’s just a matter of time before President Bush declares Vancouver Canucks forward Todd Bertuzzi’s cheap shot hit on Colorado Avalanche forward Steve Moore to be the greatest threat this country has faced since gay marriage, which in turn was the greatest threat this country faced since steroid use in Major League Baseball?

(I’m sure someone in the Dubya administration would also list Janet Jackson’s breast-baring at the Super Bowl to be one of the greatest threats this country has faced in recent years. No one mention the last seven years of South Park, unless you want to see that person’s head explode…!)

But as far as Bertuzzi’s hit is concerned, let’s look at the big picture. This was the case of a CANADIAN hockey player decking an AMERICAN from behind, then slamming his head against the ice, then continuing to pound him until referees pulled him off. Steve Moore, an AMERICAN hockey player, spent several minutes lying face down in a pool of his own blood, while his assailant, a cowardly CANADIAN, skated back to the Canucks’ bench, where he exchanged high fives with his fellow CANADIANS.

As of today, Bertuzzi has been suspended for the rest of the season, including the playoffs. I don’t know whether that will be a huge impact on the Canucks, since (a) I don’t know whether Todd Bertuzzi is a good hockey player (At least for whatever parts of the game don’t involve cheapshotting an opponent player from behind.), (b) I don’t know whether the Canucks are going to make the playoffs, and (c) I don’t even know if hockey has playoffs, since I don’t follow hockey.

What I do know, however, is this: Whatever punishment was handed down by NHL Commissioner Gary Bettman is insultingly light, given the horrendous nature of Bertuzzi’s attack. Steve Moore received a broken neck, and a concussion, as a result of the cheap shot. Meanwhile, the sight of Moore lying prone and bloody was captured by television cameras in all its hideousness, and I am certain that many of the Canucks fans who attended that game had to be wondering whether they had just seen a murder being committed before their eyes. Make no mistake; even if Bertuzzi happens to be a franchise-caliber player, and his absence from the Canucks line-up inevitably costs them the penant/Super Bowl trophy/whatever, there can be no doubt that he got off with a slap on the wrist. As for his victim, he will be lucky if he one day resumes his professional career.

So has anyone else seen the trailer for the upcoming remake of "Dawn of the Dead?" Not the 30-second spots on the TV, I'm talking about the cinematic trailer. I found it to be both witty and intense, and something I never want to see ever again. It was, however, a very effective trailer, something the producers should be plenty pleased with.

But I'm not here to talk about the trailer. I think there's a much more important issue at stake here, and that issue is: Why zombies are so damn freaky. Now, don't confuse me for some shrinking violet. I've been a shrinking violet only once in my life, and that was when I accidentally zapped myself with that matter-reducing ray while enrolled at NYU.

Seriously, though, I was very squeamish towards horror movies when I was a little kid. It didn't help that I had siblings who were very much into horror movies, especially the 80's slasher films, where much of the bloodletting was done in the suburbs. I grew up in the suburbs, and somehow, playing outside at night, right after watching "Halloween, Part Four Times the Eviscerating!" wasn't particularly appealing to me. Nevertheless, I would tag along on our various sojourns into the big, dark, eerily quiet backyard, where every rustle in the bushes or the trees sounded awfully similar to a crazy, knife-wielding psycho with William Shatner's face preparing to leap out and stab me.

Now of course, as I got older, my fear of horror films gradually subsided. It helped that I started getting interested in the filmmaking process, and so "The Exorcist" became more of a scientific endeavor than a story to be taken seriously. And what's really funny is, now when I catch a horror film from my youth on broadcast TV, it seems so fake! Remember Chucky the killer doll from the "Child's Play" movies? I saw the first one again a few weeks ago, and I couldn't believe how tongue-in-cheek, unintentionally funny it is! And it just goes on and on, with the doll continuously coming back to life. Imagine James Cameron directing a movie about a killer doll, with a budget of only a thousand dollars! Chris Sarandon did a fine job as the hero cop, however. If I ever have to stand up to a killer doll the way he did, I can only hope to match his level of intensity and seriousness.

But the point is--and I'm sure this applies to everyone else as much as it does me--as I've gotten older, horror flicks don't seem so scary anymore. There are a number of possibilities for why this is. For one thing, real life is much scarier. If I were to show the "Nightmare on Elm Street" guy my student loan bill and say to him, "How would you like to pay this EVERY MONTH?!" he would get so scared he'd probably high-tail it back down to the boiler room and light himself on fire again.

Another possibility is that horror movies aren't that good anymore. Why couldn't Fox Searchlight let "28 Days Later" stand on its own? It was a pretty effective horror movie, despite the fact that Sandra Bullock didn't reprise her character. I don't know if "28 Days Later" is necessarily terrifying, but it didn't help that the trailer made it clear that this movie was directed by Danny Boyle, of "Trainspotting" and "The Beach" fame. No matter how intense Boyle's new film got, I kept looking for little signature moments from the director. I was actually disappointed that the film never turned into a video game.

Speaking of movies that turn into video games, or vice versa, there was Paul W. S. Anderson's "Resident Evil." It was certainly louder than "The Exorcist," though that isn't the sign of a superior movie. Was this supposed to be a horror film? It had zombies in it, but I don't remember them too well. I remember Milla Jovovich fighting a monster with a huge tongue, and knowing that this was a Paul W. S. Anderson joint, I pumped both fists into the air and yelled "Mortal Kombat!" Then I laughed until my cousin--we were trying to watch the video--politely told me to shut the fuck up.

And yet, though neither "28 Days Later" nor "Resident Kombat" made me want to lock myself in my closet until my mommy found me, a good zombie movie, even the HINT of a good zombie movie, can still freak me out. Why is that? What is it about the zombie that I find more unnerving that, say, vampires or werewolves? The last time I saw an ad for a vampire flick, I just kept thinking, "Look! Long teeth!" With werewolves it was "Look! Big doggie!" With mummies, my initial reaction was, "Hey, didn't that bald guy play the Phantom?" (I was mistaken about that, but the point is, that's what I thought.)

But make no mistake. Zombies still leave me unsettled. I don't know if it's because, in theory, a zombie is a mindless eating machine which cannot be bargained with (Nor will it deliver pithy lines before killing you, as a vampire might.) Perhaps it's because the undead was once a living person, who may have known, or even loved, that which it now hunts. Imagine your own mother rising up from the grave to kill you. For many of you readers, this wouldn't be different from what your mom does to you right now, while she's still alive. But there's probably a measurable qualitative difference between nagging you to death, and trying to bite your skin off.

Or maybe it's because zombies always travel in packs. Large packs comprised of many green-colored, decomposing hands. I mean, who would be scared of a single zombie? But the idea of being killed by a mob, whether it be zombies, bats, schoolchildren, combines all the terrifying aspects of claustrophobia and all the terrifying aspects of death itself.

In closing, am I the only one who is still freaked out by zombies, and plans to stay away from "Dawn of the Dead?" Granted, the most effective way for me to conquer my fear of zombies is to face down this movie, so I can belittle it afterward for its script, acting, or special effects deficiencies. But that is not to going to happen, at least not while I am cowering in my closet. Please let my mom know where she can find me. Wait, make sure she isn't a zombie first, then tell her.

So I’ve been trying to figure out why I’ve been so grumpy lately. I looked through the Health sections of various newspapers over the weekend, but they’ve been no help. In fact, I was more confused after than I was before, thanks to all that meticulous research.

Part of the reason might have to do with the Atkins diet. My weight is just fine, but I have shamelessly followed the herd all my life, and I wasn’t about to stop once the all-meat diet exploded in popularity. I “Baa,” therefore I am. Also, Subway is hands down my favorite fast food chain. I’ve eaten there since high school. But ever since their Super Bowl media blitz, the Atkins crowd has steadily moved in, and now Subway is a popular Atkins hangout. Instead of expecting either the Subway chain or a large percentage of its clientele to adjust to me, I decided to adjust to them instead. Dammit, I just want to belong!

But I read in the Times over the weekend that the Atkins diet can make you extremely irritable. There is also unproved speculation that it can cause swelling and dangerously high cholesterol levels, leading to weight gain—which might have caused the death of Dr. Atkins himself, founder of the diet. Of these potential ailments, grumpiness is the only one that cannot be concealed with a dark-colored shirt, which is why it concerned me the most.

According to Times speculation, the body needs starch in order to produce a certain chemical. Without this chemical, a person can eat a 16-ounce steak and still not feel satisfied. This is worrisome stuff, in my opinion. How long will it be before people start dropping dead of cardiac arrest while scarfing down their 43rd or 44th breadless Big Mac? Sure, there are probably many Greek philosophers who will argue that life is nothing more than a futile quest for self-fulfillment and satisfaction, and that we are always doomed to fall short of the goals we set during our lifetime. But there’s a difference between dying whilst fighting the good fight, and delivering your final soliloquy to a ten-foot tall statue of Mayor McCheese, as beef grease dribbles down your chin. If you disagree with me, that’s fine. Now get in as much artery-packing as you can before December, because that’s when they stop super-sizing the McJaws of Life.

Seriously, though, after reading the article, I realized that the Atkins diet was the cause of all my grumpiness. Then I flipped to the Job Market section, and began reading about how the terrible economic situation has been taking a psychological toll on laid-off workers. I happen to be one of those laid-off workers. I have a college degree from a very good school, but I’ve been doing low-level temp jobs for the last year and-a-half. The Times article featured a tech worker from Manhattan’s Silicon Alley, a web designer who had to deal with being unemployed for two years. It had a happy ending; he found a permanent job which he likes even more than the one he lost. But the article never loses sight of how long-term unemployment can injure the psyche: sleepless nights, depression, irritability.

This article was a revelation for me. I felt my sleep-deprived, depressed, and irritable eyes opened wider than they had been in a while. “Of course,” I said. “Clearly, this is the reason for my overwhelming feelings of discontent as of late!” I began to feel myself enveloped in a warm, bright, healing light. It reminded me of the night I wandered into the middle of that unlit stretch of Flamingo Road, in an attempt to flag down the oncoming Chevy, so my car could get a jump. It was just like that, only without the horrible accident that followed.

I still felt myself enveloped in a warm, bright, healing light this morning, when I discovered the free Daily News which was left on the front porch of the house. I don’t subscribe to the Daily News, so I don’t know how it got there. However, I am not one to look a free newspaper in the mouth.

Upon flipping the tabloid-style paper open to any random page, I was greeted by a byline stating that lack of sex makes people more irritable, or words to that effect. The actual byline was far more tacky, and I would have chucked the Daily News aside that very second, if not for the well-lit, surprisingly tasteful, full-color photos that accompanied the article. According to the Daily News reporter, sex produces serotonin, which supposedly makes a person more confident, and less of a grumpipuss. Here was yet another—the third in a span of three days—possible explanation for why I have recently felt like dropping anvils on the heads of bunny rabbits.

I don’t know about you folks out there, but if there’s one thing I hate (Other than bunny rabbits at this moment), it’s people who whine, brag, or go into detail about their sex lives. I will admit, however, that my sex life has been in decline ever since that 9th grade Health class where I found out what sex actually was. See, in 8th grade, while I was at my friend F.M.’s house, I perused some of the Playdudes that he had found in his dad’s closet. There was a survey in one of them, and it said that three out of four couples considered seeing their partner getting dressed or undressed to be a kind of sexual intercourse. Now, I figured that I had seen myself getting at least partially dressed or undressed, almost every day since I was about five years old. That added up to a lot of sex over the years! Of course, 9th grade inevitably came along, and the numbers never quite hit the same peak.

But rather than be spurred on to an inspection of the tacky—by a Daily News article, no less—I have taken a more pragmatic tact towards glumness and irritability. My conclusion: It’s a stressful world out there, man. The bleak Social Security picture means people have to lose weight and take better care of themselves. The horrible job market, and a president who is so out of touch with the working man that he considers assembling hamburgers at a fast food joint to be manufacturing work, means thousands of people have to find some reason for living, so they can lose weight and take better care of themselves. And no offense to the Daily News, but I’m not about to go Deuce Bigolo, so gettin’ some ain’t about to pay my rent, nor the bill for my inevitable prostate transplant.

And yet, loneliness does inevitably seep in from time to time. That’s when I hustle down to the singles bar just around the corner. Not just any singles bar, either! It only caters to the out-of-work, carbohydrate-shunning crowd. They’re an okay bunch, except for this one guy who’s always upbeat and happy. An unemployed, Atkins-following single who isn’t a “Looks like you’ve already had one too many tonight, sir,” away from going Hulk?! Someone like that, in a joint like this, and you know he’s either a faker or a freak.