Observations, confessions and revelations

If you, like me, are a viewer/prisoner of AT&T because you live in a Reno house or apartment where you can’t use a satellite dish, ponder the following while your monthly cable bill quietly escalates:

A guy named John Walter was canned in 1997 after only nine months as president of AT&T because, the company said, he lacked “intellectual leadership,” which is corporate speak for “too dumb to do the job.” To make sure he wouldn’t go away with his feelings hurt, AT&T gifted Mr. Walter with a $26 million severance package.

Unfortunately, the keen-minded executives who hired him in the first place are not the ones who have to pay all that money for Mr. Walter’s stupidity. Nossir. Not them.

Enjoy your cable viewing.

Reflection on the 2001 Grammy Awards:

Never before in history have so many millionaires with so little talent been so inarticulate in thanking so many people with so little taste.

Reflection on the 2001 sitcoms:

1. Some form of the word “suck” must be used twice in every episode, preferably along with the word “life,” as in, “My life sucks.” (Note to producers and writers: Whenever “my life sucks” is uttered by a pre-teenager, it is twice as hilarious.)

2. Somebody must be gay, and somebody else must generously be “all right with it.”

3. The decriminalization of marijuana is never to be mentioned until a substantial number of children of politicians and network executives have been busted for smoking it.

4. A black man may … ah … you know … with non-black women, as long as the non-black women are either Latino and/or Asian.

5. OK, all right. But if it’s with a white woman, then only once.


The least hip person in America is Bill Gates’ barber.

Domestic note:

Laundry is always a big hassle to single men until they figure out that nobody actually sees socks and underwear. That’s why we invented the sniff test. Some guys use their dogs. (Basic rule for dog owners: If it doesn’t run away, you’re good for another couple of weeks.)

Maybe it’s just me:

Some things are hard to do. I could never be married to Frank Zappa’s daughter, because I couldn’t say, “I love you, Moon Unit” without breaking up.

Cinch bet:

Our city will never use the following slogan because, one, it might help attract tourists, and two, it wasn’t created by our self-serving mayor’s overpaid lame-ass public relations boob, Phil Rose. But here it is anyway:



You’re welcome.

Perfection note:

OK, I admit it. I have an imaginary friend. His name is Scoop Newsworthy, and he’s a great reporter. You got a problem with that?

Squinter’s note:

If you do not own a magnifying glass and are curious about the teeny-tiny printing at the left of this page, it reveals that any negative comments about this column should be sent directly to me by e-mailing your bitching to: pricewrites@newsreview.com.

If, on the other hand, you enjoy this irreverentia, comments should be sent directly to the boss at: jimmyb@newsreview.com.