Today, I am not a Democrat. I am not a Republican. I am, simply, pissed off.

I was mad yesterday, when I learned Congress would not pass the bailout plan. I was mad today, when I learned Congress probably will pass a similar plan. I was made at John McCain for grandstanding; mad at Barack Obama for twiddling his thumb when the shit was about to hit the fan. I’m mad, mad, mad, mad.

Mostly, I’m mad at the greedy corporate fuckers (sorry, but I’m quite angry here) who were allowed—sans government regulation—to do whatever the hell they wanted to, RE: mortgages. After so many years of hearing certain politicians screaming for “smaller government” and “less regulation,” well, congrats! Y’all got exactly what you wanted—a potential Great Depression II: Electric Boogaloo. This is what happens when you let business people whose sole goals revolve around money, money, money roam free; what happens when the government refuses to step in and lay down proper restrictions; what happens with slick assholes driving BMWs and booking 1 pm lunch meetings at Per Se have a stake in the general good.

There’s no happy ending here—we’re screwed. The government will have to agree to a bailout, which—as my pal Jemele Hill accurately put it—makes me want to “throw up in my mouth.” The idea that we had to cut funding for youth programs for shelters; for public schools … yet we can come up with $700 billion in tax revenues to save the anuses who blew this … well, I’m devastated. And you probably should be, too.

 

This was posted today—sorta gives my side on things pretty nicely. 

 

Spent today celebrating Rosh Hashanah with the family. Like many Jews I know, I’m all about the traditional side of being Jewish—the gatherings; the history; the bond. And yet, to be honest, I spend most of these holidays questioning everything about myself and my religion.

To be blunt: Why am I Jewish? Is it because I was born a Jew, or is there truly a connection? How can I call myself Jewish when I believe, oh, three percent of what I hear in synagogue? Why—when there are millions of homeless across the world—do so many religious institutions (like the one I visited today) hold their meetings in lavish, expensive, over-the-top structures? Shouldn’t that money have gone to people in need? Couldn’t a congregation simply meet in, say, a Cosco warehouse? How can we Jews stand so strongly for Israel, yet so many drive these enormous, gas-guzzling monster trucks that—cha-ching—result in billions of oil dollars going to nations that wish to destroy the Jewish homeland?

Mainly, I guess I wonder whether I attend services because I hear some sort of spiritual calling, or if it’s just plain ol’ guilt? I mean, I certainly don’t believe that, if there’s a God, he listens to prayers from a synagogue or church and not from a living room. I certainly don’t believe rabbis or priests or ministers are any closer to God than John McEnroe, Walter Mondale or Mike Tyson (well, maybe Tyson). I certainly don’t believe in the literal tellings of Adam and Eve, Noah’s Ark, the burning bush, etc. So, again, what am I doing? And why, come day’s end, can’t I stop?

PS: Lately my 5-year-old daughter has been semi-obsessed with death, and it’s pretty awkward. My wife handles it well, because she doesn’t consume herself with humanity’s inevitable personal demise. Yet death freaks me out—and I don’t want my girl to pick that up. Anyhow, just thought I’d share …

Over the course of this week, Republican consultants will do their all to build up Joe Biden as the greatest debater the world has ever seen. He’s smart. Quick. Smooth. He’s been doing this sort of thing for 30 years, and there’s no way—no possible way—he should struggle with Sarah Palin. Even though I’m a liberal guy, I don’t blame the Repubs one iota for taking such an approach. It’s the same thing they did when George W. Bush headed into his debates vs. Al Gore—and, even though Gore won in a romp, many “experts” gave the debates to Bush, because he spoke clearly and made some jokes.

In other words, the s— works.

So if I’m Biden, here’s what I do: Nothing. Hammer Sarah Palin. Go hard after her record and her background. Don’t tiptoe around or worry about turning people off. Hell, if you must, take two seconds to say, “I’ve been warned by a lot of people that I need to watch what I say in this debate; that if I go after the governor too hard, it’ll turn voters off. Well, I’m rejecting that notion. Because, quite frankly, we’re not running for a city council seat here. This is the vice presidency, it’s serious stuff, and one should know whereof he/she speaks. I expect Gov. Palin to come after me hard, and I’m sure she expects me to do the same. We’re adults—we can take it.”

I touched on this once before, but I’m wondering if I’m the only person here who occasionally wakes up at night by the jarring thought, “Oh, crap. One day I’m going to be dead.”

It happens at like 1, 2 in the morning, shortly after I go to bed. I’ll be lying there, all quiet, my wife sound asleep, thinking, “This isn’t a hypothetical. This isn’t a possibility. This is—period.” Boy, do I hate those thoughts. Hate them. And yet, in the right frame of mind, they also serve as unrivaled motivators. Today I can choose to sit around and complain or gripe or do nothing, or I can take f—ing action. Run in the rain. Eat an ice cream sundae. Watch my favorite movie. Flop around with my kids. The cliche is, “Don’t forget to tell people you love them before it’s too late,” but I reject that concept. This isn’t about words. It’s about action. Jump out of a plane. Fly to Tokyo. Spit off a building. Read my book and buy it at full price (kidding). That’s what the thought of death—at its best—does for me. It drives me and inspires me.

So f— death. I’ll live.

(Now back to our regularly scheduled program)

This Thursday, 10.2, I’ll be appearing at Gelf’s Varsity Letters sports reading series; 8 pm at the Happy Ending Lounge @ 302 Broome Street. Info here.

I know … I know. It’s the same night at Palin-Biden. But, really, what would you rather witness? Two small-state nobodies talking politics, or Charles Haley penis stories?

Has been an amazing two weeks. Traveled to LA and Dallas; had about 100 TV, radio and print interviews; watched my book peak at No. 12 at Amazon and No. 7 on the upcoming week’s New York Times best-seller’s list; as I drove through Texas last week, actually heard Michael Irvin—on his radio show—refer to “Boys Will Be Boys” simply as “The Book.” Thrilling—all of yet.

Now, sitting here at my kitchen table back home in New York, I’m already starting to feel like Erin Moran, five months after “Joanie Loves Chachie” was canceled. The book is gradually slipping down the Amazon rankings, and soon the interviews will come to an end. At some point, “Boys Will Be Boys” will start selling for $2.23 used on Amazon. A new hot book featuring drugs and stabbings and masturbation will come along, and “Boys Will Be Boys” will be vapor. Sigh.

And yet, how can I be even slightly disappointed? I get paid to write books me a living! Me—some unexceptional kid from Mahopac, N.Y. who dreamed of this life. This coming weekend my name will be listed on the ultimate best-seller’s list, alongside such literary giants as Tori Spelling and Britney Spears’ mom. Hundreds of thousands of books are released every year; hundreds of thousands of writers wish they were in this position. I’m incredibly lucky.

Plus, come day’s end, it’s about the experiences; the highs; the joys. My highlight probably comes from last Wednesday, when I held a signing at a Barnes & Noble near SMU. Only about 12 people attended, but one was Kim O’Neill, the father of a boy I wrote of in “Boys Will Be Boys.” Kim’s 10-year-old son, J.P., died of cancer during the Cowboys’ run, and Troy Aikman once scored a touchdown in his honor. I used the story in my book, and semi-dedicated “Boys Will Be Boys” to J.P.’s memory in the acknowledgments. So when Kim arrived, introduced himself and asked to give me a hug, well, what more do I need to write? Pure bliss.

… that I would stop blogging politically. So I won’t blog politically. I’ll just offer up this link, followed by this one, followed by one simple thought.

C’mon now.

Woke up this morning at about 5:30 (well, 6, following a few blows to the ol’ snooze alarm) to make the remarkably boring 3 1/2 hour drive from Dallas to Ft. Hood. My publicist booked a signing at the world’s largest military base—said they’d have tons of books; would be an amazing venue; etc … etc.

I was there for two hours.

I signed four books.

Four.

Yes, four.

Really, four.

Not five.

Four.

Initially, I was pretty miserable. I was under the impression I’d be in a room, speaking to any interested soldiers about the ’90s Cowboys. Tell some stories, share some laughs, etc. Such was not to be. On the base they have their own version of a Target•K-Mart hybrid store, where items are somewhat discounted for military members. I arrived, and they led me to the front of the store. There was a table with, oh, 200 books, a chair and a big sign that read something like: JEFF PEARLMAN, AUTHOR in enormous letters. So for the ensuing two hours, I sat there, feeling as naked as ever. It was shaping up to be my worst nightmare as an author—the sympathetic stares; the one or two let’s-help-this-sorry-SOB-out purchases; the banal conversations just to make me feel slightly less loser-esque. Man, do I loathe that scene.

And yet, roughly midway through, something happened: I began talking to people.

There was the wife who worked at one of the store’s kiosks; whose husband will be deployed to Iraq in December, leaving her alone with four children. There was the soldier who, three years ago, thought he had completed his military commitment; who had entered the real world and never expected to return. Then, somewhat recently, he received a letter in the mail. “You are being recalled.” He’s leaving for Iraq later this month, for a year-long deployment.

As a loudmouth political junkie, I think/talk about the war quite often. But, in hindsight, I never before discussed it with the proper perspective. We think of the troops and utter “Support the troops” and argue whether they should stay overseas or come home. But how often do we—I—think of them on the personal level? They’re not “Troops”—they’re human beings trying to go about their lives under uncommon, unnerving circumstances. The kiosk wife was describing for me the fear—the absolute, unrivaled fear—of getting that knock on the door. Equally disturbing: Every so often, she told me, the wives are pranked with a fake, “We’re sorry to inform you, but your husband has died” phone call at 2 or 3 in the morning. When I asked, “Who would do that sort of thing?” she just shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t.”

I am a Jewish agnostic—whatever the hell that means. I usually sign books “Good luck” or “Go Cowboys!” or “Snoop Dogg forever.”

Today, however, for one of the few times in my life, I signed all four books with the exact same inscription: “God bless.

I would like to take the time to note that I DID NOT write the Herschel Walker conspiracy piece listed below. A nice man named Craig did, and I told him I’d be happy to run it. I only state this because, well, you all seem to:

A. Hate it.

B. Think it’s my work/opinion.

Truth is, I don’t agree with Craig’s take at all. But I wanted to give him a platform to state it.

-Jeff