Judge Orders Fox News Reporter To Appear

Jana Winter Fox News

Jana Winter, Fox News

Fox News reporter Jana Winter shared that an unnamed source divulged details that James Holmes had issues before the Aurora shootings. And now the judge is requiring the New York-based reporter to attend a hearing Monday, when he will hear arguments on whether she must testify about her confidential sources for a story on the suspect.

Nothing in that is particularly blog-worthy. At least not for me. Until I read the comments:

-This article fails to mention that James Eagan Holmes was a product of the Occupy movement.

In fact, he was an Occupy “Black Bloc” member <– they want to kill cops.

-(In reply to the above) . . . it fails to mention this kid was the recipient of a DOD DARPA Neural interface Grant. You don’t find it odd at all when these things happen, the suspects are connected to the government and drugged out of their mind? That’s not suspicious at all?

-The ENTIRE story is fake, including the aurora “shooting”. Tom Cruise played the “doctor” at the hospital. You guys still aren’t connecting the dots? How bizarre.

-Since she’s a Fox News reporter, the rest of the media won’t stand by her side and defend her journalistic rights and safety.

I’ll stop there. . .

Tom Cruise as a Marine in All You Need Is Kill?

Oh no, here we go again with a Marine uniform. This time our stalwart Marine is no other than Tom Cruise, on location in London, playing character Lt. Col. Bill Cage in the movie All You Need Is Kill:

Tom Cruise as Lt. Col. Bill Cage in All You Need is Kill

Tom, this is very petty, but you better ask the prop department to let those trousers out a half-inch or so. They are starting to look like you fell into a pool. And please floss before you show up on set. Really love Top Gun, Maverick. Don’t screw this one up.

As for the movie, All You Need is Kill:

A soldier fighting in a war with aliens finds himself caught in a time loop of his last day in the battle, though he becomes better skilled along the way.

It sounds like a real oater. . .

Chumbawamba Breaks Up Into Chum, Ba, Wam, and Another Ba

Chumbawamba is breaking up? Darn. Next I suppose we will hear about Tom Cruise and Sherlock Katie Holmes’ divorce. The details on Chumbawamba:

After 30 years of getting knocked down, Chumbawamba are not going to get up again. The art-punk band are “finally at an end”, they announced, following decades of “ideas and melodies, endless meetings and European tours, press releases, singalong choruses and dada sound poetry”.

Chumbawamba, now a Chum, a Ba, a Wam, and another Ba

While best known for their 1997 hit, Tubthumping, Chumbawamba have always been much more subversive, eclectic and political than that single might suggest. From a split-7in with Noam Chomsky to their dousing of John Prescott at the 1998 Brit awards, the group experimented with preconceptions of punk rock, pop music, activism and celebrity – while remaining staunchly, unapologetically leftwing.

Noam Chomsky? These clowns sang Tubthumping (I Get Knocked Down) which was essentially radio pap. Anarchists. . .

Cruisin’

Remember this:

Tom Cruise going crazy on the Oprah Winfrey Show

A photographer has reenacted this scene and other famous ones, except with children:

Tom Cruise and Oprah, Tricia Messeroux photograph

The tiny scoop:

Tricia Messeroux, a photographer based in Long Island, N.Y., is making a splash with her photo project, “Toddlewood,” wherein she casts kids ages 3 through 6 to recreate classic Hollywood moments.

And a hilarious observation from the comment section:

The boy portraying tom cruise is to tall.

Is this art project creepy or funny? Apologies to a certain blogger for the Cruise. . .

Goofing on a Military Chaplain

Bless me Father, for I have sinned. I am guilty of a transgression and not of the normal type. This one is extra special. A unique one.

I am on the phone. With the new Chaplain from a base across town. Our Navy command does not have its own, so we “borrow” a Chaplain from another base. The Admiral wants to meet with him and since I met Chaps at another event, I offer the Command Master Chief to make the arrangements.

Bear in mind that the Chaplain has one ribbon. He just graduated from seminary and arrived in San Diego for his first Navy posting. He did not go through OCS, but a kinder, gentler version. Up in Newport, Rhode Island. (I think they go through fork-and-knife school with the doctors.) The conversation goes something like this:

Me: Hey Chaplain, NavyOne here. We met at that dedication last Friday?
Chaps: Sure, NavyOne how are you?
Me: Good. Yourself?
Chaps: Fine.
Me: I wanted to schedule time for you to come on base to meet with our senior leadership, the Admiral in particular.
Chaps: Alright.
Me: How is next Wednesday?
Chaps: That works.
Me: I will get you a visitor’s pass.
Chaps: Okay.
Me: (Smiling) Um, the uniform of the day will be Choker Whites.
Chaps: Great! (I pause, surprised with his enthusiasm.)
Me: Awwww, just wear your normal khakis.
Chaps: If Choker Whites is the uniform, no problem.
Me: I was just kidding about the Chokers.
Chaps: Oh.
Me: (Feeling guilty) Sorry about that.
Chaps: No problem.

Nice kid, the Chaplain. Can I call the Chaps a kid? Sure, why not?!? How many Hail Marys did I earn for that one? (Completely unrelated side musement: Do some of Tim Tebow‘s long bombs count as Hail Marys?)

Top Gun: Val Kilmer and Tom Cruise in Choker Whites

Ladies, the sad truth about Choker Whites: they are uncomfortable. I know we look Top Gun-ish in them. But come some hot summer day and you swelter in all that polyester.

Every uniform I wear has polyester in it. We have become grudging friends. Me and the polymonster. But the stuff does not breathe.

Later, still feeling guilty about goofing on the Chaps, I email him. And offer to answer any curious questions he may have about the Navy, San Diego, anything. He still has not emailed me back.

At a bar-b-que, I see the Command Master Chief and tell her the story. She grins and says: C’mon sir, you should have let him show up in his Choker Whites!

Fact: however many Hail Marys I owe, the CMC owes double. . .

Madonna, and the 1%, in a Taxi Cab

N Training

New York City- I board the N Train in Queens, sit down, and close my eyes. It is not dangerous this, I know the subway like the back of my hand.

The N and the R lines have seats, versus the 4, 5, and 6 (which run down Lexington or up into the Bronx.) The Lexington cars have grey benches. Seats are more private. They have a slight curve to them, differentiating them from the long, unsegregated bench.

I have my headphones on. And some old music soothes me. iPods are but a future memory in those days, the 90s.

NYC Subway Sandwich Map

We grind through all the Queens’ exits before ducking low low under the river, heading in. To the City. And more stations.

We round that curve, lurching to the left with a screech.

Riders start to fill up the train as we move through midtown. Suddenly, we chug. As in, not moving fluidly. But in little jerks. Like Tom Cruise. Dancing. To a stop. And then we start up again.

We pull into the next station. And wait. Without moving. This had happened before. We wait more. This has not happened before. Not this long.

I have music, but most of the riders don’t and they exchange looks, as in a secret Santa gift swap. Wide eyed. Surprised with each other.

Rawr Godzirra!

The announcer, the conductor, comes on. Above us and orders us off. For some reason, which I do not hear. We are told there are no downtown trains available.

We stream out of the exits onto Broadway, hundreds of people. Acting in our own Godzirra movie. All we need is a giant lizard.

A guy near me turns around. Anyone going to the Village? 

I am, I reply. And so does a businessy woman to his left.

Let’s get a taxi. And he whistles one streaming downtown.

Madonna in a taxi cabby, New York City

I sit in the front and they plop into the back. Where to, the cabbie asks in a Russian accent, with that eastern hardboiled look. Like he has something other than blood, maybe a vodka-infused borscht, pumping through his arteries.

The Village, I reply. 5th Avenue near the Park. The passengers in the back mumble approval.

He grunts and veers into traffic.

How is your day going? the lady asks him.

Oh, good.

Busy? I inquire, to which he bobs his head. I stare out the window.

Had any celebrities recently, the male passenger asks. I think it an odd question, but remain mute.

Yeah, Madonna. About a month ago. Where you are sitting, he says, jerking his thumb back at the woman.

Get outta here, the male passenger rasps. I want to take him up on his offer.

Greenwich Village, My Arch Enemy

I could not see her behind me, but I hear the poor business-lady shifting uncomfortably in her seat.

We drive downtown, through traffic. No one says anything else. Our taxi has turned serious.

And soon the arch of the Village looms and we pile out. Standing, we split the fare three ways.

We should have split it four ways, with one share being Madonna’s. She ruined our small-talk and she is part of the 1%, right? Heck, she should have paid it all. And given us stipends. And paid our college loans. After all, we are living in a material world. . .