Squirrel commits grand self-sacrifice; insurance agents stymied.

During the months while I had yet to settle on a host,  I still gathered articles that caught my eye.

Hopefully,  I assumed,  some would have staying power as fuel for discussion.

Others are just too damned odd to pass up.

Last October in sunny Bayonne, New Jersey, the Millar family had a combustible experience of the rodent persuation. High above their driveway, a local squirrel decided that the high voltage line leading to a neighborhood transformer would make the consummate snack.

Inevitably, said squirrel goes a bite too far and lives out his last moments as a cathode for the power grid of rural Hudson County. Fully engulfed in flame, the electron-enamored rodent fell from the line onto the windscreen cowl of the Millar’s 2006 Toyota Camry.

Apparently, an incendiary squirrel must back some serious BTUs under it’s furry hide.

The fire was sufficiently robust that the plastic trim pieces melted, allowing the body of the squirrel to slide under the hood and burn through something containing a petroleum-based fluid. It was never clear whether the fuel line was severed or if Rocky burned through the brake fluid reservoir, but suffice to say that the car was declared a total loss shortly after firefighters doused the blaze.

The last report I could find mentioned nothing of either a complaint against or settlement from the local utility.

Despite this, there was a poignant footnote. As part of their Halloween decorations, the Jersey Journal reported that the Millar family had erected a small tombstone, presumably for their dearly departed firestarter.

God damn it, not again…

Apparently, old boy Nader doesn’t know when to say when.

On Meet The Press this morning, Nader announced he would again run for the Presidency, despite damning evidence that his 2000 campaign split the Democratic vote and handed victory to Bush in the highly contested Florida election.

When the recount was halted, Bush won Florida by 537 votes. Nader received nearly 3 million. Yet with all the lucidity of an ostrich with a sand-ensconced cerebellum, Nader refused to admit the obvious, passing the buck to then Secretary of State Katherine Bush.

In the most galling example of self-indulgence, Nader claimed he drew more votes from the GOP than he did from the Democrats. Using voodoo statistics as his post-hoc rationalization would be comic if the stakes weren’t so dear this time around.

Cloak and dagger politics aside, Nader is once again in prime position as a loose cannon and a hopelessly defunct politician. Expanding on his candidacy announcement, Nader dusted off the same old saws from 2000 — repealing the Taft-Hartley Act (to give labor unions free rein) and the blithe expansion of Medicare as a knee-jerk solution to national healthcare. Both show the same lack of basic political awareness that lead Nader to his ineffectual and reckless candidacy in the first place.

Time to fire up the printing presses, gentlemen.

Ralph, don’t run.

Challenger #43 sells for $228K

Less than a month after the first production 2008 Dodge Challenger SRT8 was sold at Barrett-Jackson, the 43rd car off the line has sold for $228,143.43 in a charity eBay auction this afternoon.

In a nod to the Petty racing dynasty, the car wears the unique blue hue made famous by the KIng’s STP-sponsored racer and will be the only production car to do so. Proceeds from the sale will go to aid the Victory Junction Gang Camp youth charity.

The all-new 2008 Dodge Challenger SRT8 features the familiar 6.1L HEMI V8 engine mated to a five-speed automatic transmission, wrapped in an exterior design that picks up many retro cues from the 1970 Mopar classic. The final production models – which will include a V6 model – will be making their worldwide debut March 6th. In the meantime, you can head over to eBay and check out the auction page.

Time for the backstory…

Some of you know me from Mr Murdoch’s insidious empire (whose grasp I resisted for years), others from facebook and yet more from CSUN and parts elsewhere. As a journalist by trade, I’ve been eager to get back into the pattern of writing on a daily basis while making the transition back into the working world full-time.

So why not start earlier? In a nutshell, it all came down to my finickiness in finding a host.

MySpace had an enviable captive audience three years ago, but ever since Moneybags Murdoch showed up, any motiation to improve the site evaporated. Reluctanly, I joined last fall only to confirm my worst suspicions. An awful interface filled with spambots and phishers was just the start.

Facebook is starting down the same path. It’s the chain-letter apps that force you to spam your friends in the pursuit of amazing discoveries like a movie clip message or bumper stickers (when there aren’t even any damn bumpers). Or – joy of joys – what hallucinogenic drug I most resemble. At least the UI is decent.

So anyway, I’ve spent the winter searching for a decent place to write and here we are.

As time goes by, I’ll be throwing out my two cents on life in the 818, making the move from college to career and all sorts of shit relevant at some distance to either.

Oh and the title? It’ll explain itself.

There’s no better way to start…

than with some tawdry beer-hall scuttlebutt.

In another case of “Damn it, I should’ve got a picture.” I had the joy of watching Andy Dick get flung out of my local watering hole like a frisbee.

On Wednesday night at White Harte, Dick had been camping out at the bar with a very meager entourage, knocking back shots like they’re going out of style. Aside from a few equally sloshed patrons, he goes largely ignored.

We were near the dartboard, about 30 feet away from it all.

Between the six-odd pints of Guinness and U2 blaring, I never heard what he said that started the whole thing. But as I was prying my cellphone loose to snap a pic, he groped one of the barmaids. She slaps him; he tries to lunge after her.

At that point, a bouncer pops out from the back room, grabs Dick by shoulder and whips him through the door and out onto Ventura. I figure Dick only weighs about 130 lbs, so it must’ve been like tossing a sheet of paper.

Moments later, a throng pours into the room to watch Dick shuffle away into the shadows. Such are the vagaries of fame. Forgotten for his achievements (and yes, the jury is still out on those), lampooned for his fallacies.

Unremarkable, you say?

Certainly.