Well, it’s pretty clear by now that bi-partisan support for health care ain’t gonna happen. Which means President Obama has two choices:

A. Still seek out the best across-the-aisle agreement humanly possible.

B. Go gangsta.

I vote for B. In the spirit of (egad) George W. Bush, it’s time for our president to start using up his political capital—before it’s too late. The Republicans want to leave 46 million Americans without health coverage? Let ‘em. The Republicans want to do nothing about spiraling, out-of-control health care costs controlled almost exclusively by private, multi-billion-dollar industries? Let ‘em. The Republicans want to continue to live on deception—Obama leading Grandma to the grave; Obama being a Socialist; Obama being a foreigner? Hell, let ‘em.

In the modern history of our country, I challenge anyone here—donkey or elephant—to name one truly impactful piece of social legislation spearheaded by Republicans. Rights for African-Americans? All led by the Democrats (and if you’re about to say, “Abe was a Republican,” well, he’s wasn’t a modern-definition Republican in any sense of the definition). Rights for women? All led by Democrats. Worker rights … union rights … minority rights … rights for the wrongly accused … gay rights … rights for the underpaid … etc … etc. All 100% Democratic initiatives. In other words, when we are looked back upon, oh, 100 years ago, the George Wallaces of our time will all be Republican. Cutting taxes for the wealthy—big Republican priority. Taking care of those in need—not so much.

So, if I’m Obama, I say, “F%$# it.” Spend all your time generating a Democratic coalition. Make it your bill, with your goals, your desires, your plan. Ignore the Republicans, and let them whine and complain and make more and more crap up. Be certain every American is afforded health coverage, and make it clear—crystal clear—that th Republicans weren’t interested.

Yeah, it might fail. But it’ll be just in cause.

Among journalists, there exists an unofficial code. Actually, scratch that. There exists an understanding.

Writing can be hard. Daunting. You’re in the flow, you’re out of the flow. Things go well, things go crappy. Phrases come easily, phrases don’t come at all. We struggled with blocks, distractions, locks. Sometimes we have 20 minutes to write 1,000 words in a noisy press box … and it’s cake. Other times we have four days to write 500 words on Chipper Jones … and it’s torture. Anyone who has done this for more than a few months probably gets what I’m saying. Being a writer is blissful pain. That’s how I describe it. Blissful pain.

Anyhow, today I received an e-mail from a fellow journalist in regards to my Brett Favre column that ran on SI.com. (Here’s the link to the piece). This is what he wrote:

Jeff,

A few points re your Favre Viewpoint piece on SI.com. Before I start I’ll preface this by saying I’m a journalist who’s interviewed Troy Aikman, Wayne Gretzky, Lewis Hamilton and other sports notables. So maybe take this as constructive criticism. Or don’t, it’s up to you.

First, you write that Farve is like other star athletes who think they “walked on water” just because they could “throw/hit a ball really hard.”

A statement like this doesn’t really belong on SI.com, now does it? It’s the same lame argument used by people who don’t understand sports. Physical ability, raw talent, and competitive drive are really all any athlete has–or can hope to have–and Favre is a legend because he has more of each than probably any quarterback alive today. To you and my grandmother, he just throws a ball “really hard.”

Oh, and before I get to point No. 2, “walked on water” is a tired cliche. And don’t even get me started on “peeps.” Also, Lance Armstrong doesn’t ride a Huffy, but I understand you were going for irony. Good job there, I guess.

Second, the position you take on Favre is predictable and boring. I’m pretty sure I yawned twice while reading your piece. I know I’ll never get that three minutes of my life back, and it makes me kind of sad.

Third, you miss what’s really going on here. Farve is creating incredible drama for the upcoming season by preparing to take on his former team as the leader of a hated division rival. He’s no Benedict Arnold, as you imply. He’s mother-fucking George Washington in a red coat.

I won’t use his name, because it wouldn’t be cool. However, his letter—in my opinion—violates … something.

To begin with, he’s right. “Walked on water” is a cliche. A lame one. However, when you have, literally, 40 minutes to formulate an opinion and write a piece, things tend to slip by sometimes. It happens to absolutely everyone. Everyone. I assure you, were I to take the time to scan the works of Steve Rushin or Jon Wertheim or E.M. Swift or Grant Wahl or … anyone, I’d find the random misplaced cliche. We’re only human.

Second, I will never understand e-mails like this. You’re a journalist, not a fan—do you really care so much about the issue that you need to write a peer a snarky e-mail? And the friggin’ smugness of it all. Insufferable.

I know … I know—not a big deal. I can deal with letters from readers (usually). But other journalists … meh.

Plus, I looked up his work. To be polite, this probably wasn’t the guy to be writing such a note. Oh, well.

Brett Fave is back. I can’t believe it!

For football fans, it’s a dream come true! In fact, I’m so excited that I’m using exclamation marks like my mother does when she writes e-mails! Man, this kicks ass! Favre! FAVre! FAVRE!

Glub.

Let’s be honest here …

A. What a joke. Forget the fact that Favre was, at best, bad for the New York Jets last year. Forget the fact that the Vikings have two young quarterbacks, Sage Rosenfels and Tavaris Jackson, who will now be spending their winter holding clipboards. What irks me to no end about this is the ego. You’re Brett Favre—the greatest quarterback in Packers history … and you sign with the Vikings!? Such disrespect.

B. ESPN makes me want to vomit. Not always, but certainly in their Favre coverage. Favre, Favre, Favre, Favre, Favre, Favre. The guy is a 39-year-old washed-up quarterback. We only care because you keep insisting we care. So stop! Really, stop!

C. Just being honest—I’m now rooting for Michael Vick much harder than I’m rooting for Favre. Vick’s story is redemption. Favre’s story is that of a grating old man who won’t go away.

D. I don’t think the Vikings will be very good. Same old story—great halfback, mediocre receivers … no QB.

E. Yeah. That’s about it.

I’ve posted this photo. It’s my brother David and me. Or I. Or me and my brother David. Crap—I always get that confused.

Hairstyling provided by Joan Pearlman (she bribed us to sit still with pieces or orange Trident gum). And, yes, we still own the outfits (David’s on the right).

Growing up in Mahopac, N.Y. in 1970s, my best friend and I were KISS fanatics.

It started with Destroyer—an all-time legendary album with an all-time legendary cover. I vividly recall sitting in my living room, listening to Detroit Rock City while staring at the image of Gene, Paul, Ace and Peter walking atop a burnt-out city. The music got me. The imagery got me. The videos of Gene spitting blood … of Ace playing a fiery guitar … it got me, too. Hell, Gary Miller, my next-door neighbor and childhood best friend, still laugh over the time when we got in a fight while playing KISS in my living room. Gary wanted to be both Gene and Paul, which I thought was unfair. Tensions escalated, and it ended with one of us falling through a glass door.

Ah, memories.

It goes unsaid that I have a certain place in my heart for KISS. So it also must go unsaid that, in 2009, KISS makes me want to vomit. A band that has always preached fan loyalty has completely betrayed that trust—times 1,000. Sure, they’ve sold us every plastic piece of s%$# with their images on it for marked-up prices. Sure, they’ve put out some tragically horrific albums. But most members of the KISS Army could accept those transgressions. What they can’t accept—or shouldn’t accept—is what the band is doing now. Or, better said, what they have become.

For any die-hard rock fans, KISS is Gene—the demon; Paul—the star child; Ace—the space cadet; and Peter—the cat. Yet, in order to keep the sales a comin’, KISS has replaced Ace and Paul … while keeping their face paint. Their current guitarist is Tommy Thayer, a former studio musician unworthy of wearing Ace’s paint. And while Eric Singer, the drummer, replaced Eric Carr when he died (and is, in his own right, a top-notch musician), he has no business being dressed as the cat. It’s disrespectful, crass and—most of all—wrong. To the ex-members, sure. But primarily to the fans. To us.

Now KISS is releasing its first new studio album (on sale only in Wal-Mart) since Psycho Circus came out 10 years ago. The members are praising it as their best work since Destroyer, which is a friggin’ joke. KISS hasn’t played with heart and gusto in years. They’re old, tired and—to be honest—annoying.

When it comes to my music, I happen to be a loyalist. I hate Hall without Oates. I think Styx, sans Dennis DeYoung, doesn’t work. I would never go to a Fugees concert without Lauryn Hill, and if Tribe Called Quest ever replaced Phife, well, they’d lose me. Blind Melon, one of my all-time favorite bands, came out last year with a new CD—led by a singer named Travis Warren. It didn’t work.

But what KISS has done is completely revolutionary. The biggest sell-outs have sold out bigger than ever.

What a joke.

Regarding my post from earlier today on the Cosi manager who calls female employees by anything but their first names—well, I’m a bit surprised by the reactions.

I understand the people who say, “Let it go this time.” They’re probably right. But that, in the year 2009, there are men who still think it’s acceptable to call women “Sugar,” “Honey,” “Babe,” “Baby,” “Ass Cheeks of Love”—no. You’re wrong. Factually wrong.

I know … I know. I’m a liberal New York know-it-all. Certainly true. But I also know that:

A. Sexism is alive and well.

B. It’s not easy to speak up, especially when you’re a 17-year-old woman trying to get through the day and snag a paycheck.

C. Sometimes we have to speak on behalf of others.

Perhaps this isn’t that time. But perhaps it is. One of the commenters from the earlier post was right—a man saying, “Hey, that’s bulls&^$!” is much more powerful than a woman doing so, because the idiot manager will automatically assume, “Hell, just another oversensitive chick.” It’s no different than the impact a straight male has speaking on behalf of gay rights; or the white person speaking up for blacks; or the black person speaking up for Hispanics; etc … etc.

Anyhow, I’m babbling.

I’ll probably just move on with life. But it’s an interesting dilemma.

(And Kranepool, this is no possible way the women you work with like you calling them “honey” or “luv.” Trust me.)

Hate to be the book whore of the day, but just wanted to say that the paperback version of Boys Will Be Boys hits shelves tomorrow.

I’ve written four books now, and—being 100-percent honest—I consider this one to be my best. Also is, hands down, my biggest seller, peaking at No. 6 on the New York Times list. Surely, some of that doesn’t have to do with Charles Haley’s penis.

Anyhow, it can be ordered everywhere. And if anyone wants to buy a signed copy, just drop me a line at anngold22@gmail.com. As always, thanks for the continued support.

Now back to our regularly scheduled programing …

So I’m sitting in Cosi, the spot where I often come to report and write (Sadly, today it’s the spot I’ve come to transcribe tapes. If you’re an aspiring book writer, and you’re under the impression that it’s all joy joy fun fun, well, it ain’t.)

Anyhow, there’s a manager here. His name is Rob. I might be off, but Rob seems to be a capable leader of the restaurant. It’s relatively neat, the service has improved, regulars come every day, etc. Best of all, he allows me to sit here for most of the day, purchasing little more than an iced coffee while abusing the bowl of free salty bread scraps. How can I complain?

And yet … it has been brought to my attention that big Rob calls many of the young women who work here Honey, Sugar,  Baby, Sweetie. Man, do I f%$#ing hate this. Hate it. So wrong. So, my question for y’all is whether I should:

A. Say something to the man.

B. Do nothing and mind my own business.

C. Write an anonymous letter.

Most of the women who work here are 17-, 18-, 19-, 20-years old, and they deserve more than some outdated schlub treating them with such disrespect.

Word

Rare are the opportunities for musicians to completely f^%$ up a classic song alongside the original singer/writer. Yet here, on Live From Daryl’s House, the usually excellent Daryl Hall does it. I beg of you, for entertainment purposes, click on TEARS OF A CLOWN and tell me if I’m wrong.

Anyone who knows me knows I’ve lived my life as a Hall & Oates die-hard. But, well, damn. What the hell is Hall doing? And, along those lines, why in the world is he wearing sunglasses indoors? Dude, it’s not 1985 anymore, when one could at least argue that the look was cool. And you’re not at a funeral or a wake, where at least the glasses have a role. You’re performing alongside one of the top 10 singers of all-time. Show some respect …