downstairs three years prior, she had to admit she missed the sound of flipping pages as he read Rimbaud each night before bed. Oh well. For herself, she had the complete works of Christopher Marlow to keep her warm at night, and you can believe that Faust’s dealings with the devil was enough to keep anyone company!

When her lids finally felt sufficiently heavy, she dimmed the lights and pulled her satin night mask down over her placid eyes, and, as the sound of heavy rain drowsily continued the rhythms of classical music into the night, she slipped into slumber.

But then: pitter patter pitter patter… “Mommy?”

“Janie? What happened honey? Did the thunder frighten you?”

“No, but the lightening is really bright, mommy. I can’t sleep.”

“Do you want to crawl into bed with me?”

“Okay.” Pitter patter pitter patter…rustle rustle…

“Are you good, Janie hon?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Love you, Janie Wanie.”

“Love you, mommy.”

“You’re okay?”

“I think so.” And so the minutes ticked by. Now Gail was awake again, fully. Her mind began to race over the little events in her life, present and future. She had to host this month’s book club meeting. She thought she would have it in the garden. The baby blue eyes should be in bloom, not yet killed by the torturous summer heat. A little white wine and some cucumber sandwiches would be perfect. It should be darling, as long as Lilly finds it in her heart to keep her goddamned eyes in her head and off Gail’s cleavage. Honestly. It was a privilege to have a lesbian in the group—in fact it was a social goldmine—but was it worth it to be ogled in that manner? Still, Lilly IS a very beautiful and strong woman. Sometimes Gail would catch her mind wandering about her…Peter never thanked her for the nutritious meal she had prepared tonight. Gail knew that sprouts and bean curd was not his favorite dish, but she had worked very hard on the cream fennel sauce—he could have said SOMETHING. Gail thought she could hear him breathing, even all the way downstairs.

Wide awake now. Shit. She nudged Janie with her foot. Janie moaned, half asleep. Gail nudged her again, harder. “Janie, honey, are you awake?”

“No.”

“You must be excited for your classmate’s birthday party Saturday. Is she going to be nine years old now? Already?”

“Mommy, I’m sleepy.”

“Are you sure?”

“I think so.”

Gail knew there was nothing for it. If she was going to rest, she was going to have to put Janie to work. She’s old enough to pay her keep now, thought Gail, so she can help me sleep. “Do you want to nurse, honey?”

“Okay, mommy. Yummy.”

And as Janie rolled into her mother’s breast and curled into the fetal position, ready to suckle, Gail could already feel peace overtake her. Darkness overtook her mind.

At that moment, the incredibly intelligent race of aliens parked on the far side of Saturn blew up the entire planet Earth, having finally grown weary of the experiment they had begun so many billions of years ago. The whole thing was fucked anyway.

Once again, I am flummoxed by the scientific minds of this age. How did our modern brainiacs become so dorky? Ben Franklin had one hand on his kite string, and the other firmly clamped on a tit, but leave it to the nerds of today to build a female android that doesn’t even want her breast squeezed.

The video posted features a “fembot” built by some strange cat named Aiko who apparently likes his women in a wheelchair. He also seems to like them to be dour and unapproachable. It makes me curious to know what his past experiences with the ladies have been. I mean, why would you bother to make a prototype female robot that tells you when you are hurting it…unless your run-ins with women have always leaned in that direction? Imagine the thought process: “Hmmm…I need to have her react to human touch—to say something. But what? Well, what have I personally seen women do? What do they always say to ME? Oh! I know! “Stop it, you’re hurting me.” Yes, yes, that’s gold. Oh! And: “Let go of my breast.” Excellent. Hmmm…maybe one more thing. Ahhhh (snapping fingers), I know, “I would like you to leave now.” PERFECT.

If it were me, I would have had a shawl placed over her legs and would have added the phrase, “After my Bill died I never remarried. I was 17 at the time.” And maybe, “Please close the window, my ankles are so cold.” This is a must: “Your brother came by last week with that awful woman of his. I don’t know what he sees in her. He brought me some groceries but I don’t care for the supermarket he shops at. They never have the canned cabbage I like and the clerks are very very rude and it’s always so cold in the pie isle. Then he got so angry because the stove burner was on and he said I could have burned down the whole house but it gets so COLD in here and I can never find the thermostat. Are you still dating that Jewish girl? I wish you wouldn’t. Are you going to sweep the leaves out of the walk? Why are you leaving so soon?”

The future is brimming with promise.

I have been playing GTA IV for a couple of weeks now, and I must concur with most of the critics: not only is it the best of the Grand Theft Auto franchise, but it could possibly be the best game of all time. Only continued playing will decide for me whether or not it is better than the excellent Tom Clancy Splinter Cell series, all of which are very near and dear to my heart.

I’m not going to bore the shit out of all of you with a review. If you want to know more about the intricacies of the game, there are a ton of websites out there that can help you, written by people who are vastly more knowledgeable on the subject than I. The voice acting is terrific, the motion capture and physics engine are sublime, the sandbox is vast, the game itself has been refined and perfected over the past versions, and the satirical social commentary is dead on. Enough said.

However, as good as it is, many rail against GTA IV and its maker Rockstar Games for the blatant violence and sexuality that has always been associated with the title. But I say take your Puritan values and shove them deep into your anal cavity. The world needs GTA IV, if only to keep the tempers of people such as myself at bay. Where else can you purposely chase down a person who has bumped into you on the street and put a bullet in his head? And, after having gained the attention of the local authorities, highjack a candy apple red convertible and go screaming down the streets until you lose control and smash into a hot dog stand, watching as you fly through the windshield as the proprietor and his cart explode in a huge ball of fire. As you skid across the concrete, your own blood spraying, you see the cops encroaching, so you pick yourself up and open fire, taking down like three of the fat little fuckers as you race to a nearby cab, punch the cabbie right in his glass fucking chin and haul his dumb ass out, screaming at him to stay the fuck down, and you screech off with the passenger still inside; she’s some uptight bitch just wailing and wailing like a nutty banshee and you don’t know what’s driving you crazier, her big mouth or the cop sirens and the helicopter chopping overhead, so you stop the car only for a moment to give her the chance to escape, and then, as she frees herself and runs down the street with her waving arms in the air and crying for help, you back the cab over her just for the fuck of it. Of course, this little pleasure only gives the pigs a chance to catch up with you, and they smash their cruisers right into the cab without a second thought, making demands over loudspeakers for you to get the fuck out of the car NOW NOW NOW, and you’re all like, yeah, right, asshole. Not in this life! You’re gonna have to KILL ME YOU FUCKING PIGS! So you put the cab in gear and crash your way out of the poor-ass excuse for a blockade that the police made around you and quickly as you can program the GPS to get you to an auto-shop, and quick. The traffic is heavy, but seeing as the coppers are much less willing than you are to drive at top speed down the sidewalk while helpless, innocent victims fly like squashed melons in your wake, you can kind of be thankful for it. You reach the body shop, the garage door comes down, you pull out a moment later with a gleaming, new, blue sedan, and the sun is shining, and the world is normal, and the cops are gone, and the only sign of your rampage is the distant sirens of the ambulance dealing with the bodies you left in your wake.

All of that action, without even starting a mission. Now tell me honestly that the thought of getting away with something like this has never occurred to you.

I can’t wait to beat a hooker to death with my bare hands. Eh, maybe tomorrow, after I take my girlfriend out for a round of darts at one of the local bars.

So, yes, it’s a pretty cool game. I’m enjoying it.

Lately there has been a plethora of articles from the New York Times website describing the habits, follies, and hardships of the upper crust, and every time someone in the desperate bullpen of Jose el Retardo’s editorial department runs across one of these tasty items, there is much retching and shouting, and without fail, our lazy yet trusted janitor—lil’ Tommy Lyon—must be called in with his steam carpet cleaner to suck the pools bile from under our Ikea desks. We’ve talked about it before; you can read a previous article by clicking here, or view our brother site Medium Happiness for their take on the subject. Today, we spied another article regarding the plight of the modern rich and how life for the financially advanced can be a precarious balance. Check it out here: http://www.nytimes.com/2008/06/01/fashion/01rich.html?em&ex=1212552000&en=d3fe3d03622d334b&ei=5087%0A

It would appear that the worst-case scenario is unfolding before our very eyes in this, our moderately decent nation: the super rich are becoming slightly less super-rich in recent months, and their egos are taking a real beating. I for one was absolutely shocked to find this article, because I must say, I thought the upper classes had been doing just fine; but little did I know the hits they have been taking—not only in their pocketbooks, but in their personal relationships and, perhaps most importantly, in their sense of self. Take a look at this frightening quote from the Times article:

Interviews with the people who actually see the bank statements, like divorce lawyers and lenders, say their clients are definitely living on less than they did a year ago, regardless of how expansive the definition of “less” may be. Hairstylists and private jet rental companies say the wealthy are cutting back on luxuries like $350 highlights and $10,000-an-hour jet rentals. Even nutritionists and personal trainers notice a problem. The wealthy are eating more and gaining weight because of the stress.

If your heart didn’t just break, you might want to try going back and re-reading that quote one more time. They are so stressed out that they are eating more and gaining weight. GAINING WEIGHT. This is unhealthy to the extreme, and sends these unfortunate wealthy souls into an inevitable shame cycle, from which it may take days or sometimes weeks to recover. Conversely, when you or I run into times of financial adversity, we cut back on the extras and generally tend to LOOSE weight, which is fantastic. It’s almost as if having less money to spend is a good thing for you and me—it’s downright healthy. We look better, feel better…our work uniforms fit us better, giving us greater mobility—which, through the added exercise, takes off even MORE pounds. We can’t go wrong. Hell, no wonder our federal and local governments are constantly striving to ensure that the rich get richer and the poor get poorer. Like it or lump it, it’s the only way to make absolutely certain that a proper balance is established, and that a general sense of public well-being is maintained. If you cannot find the sagacity in this sound and prudent policy of fiscal disparity, then I pity you, sir.

I can tell from your smirks that many of you—the faithful readers—are skeptical of my concern for America’s distressed well-to-do. I am asking you as a friend to withhold your judgment until you have read this passage, from the same clipping:

“Even if they’re not in danger of not paying their mortgage, there’s still a psychological change,” said Chris Del Gatto, chief executive of Circa, which has watched its business jump by 50 percent in the last year as wealthy clients sell their spare diamonds and Rolexes. “The economy is an issue even for people who don’t need the money.”

Can you imagine how it must feel to lose your spare Rolex? It must be like selling off your own organs. In many parts of the world, the poor will sell their children into slavery or prostitution in order to make ends meet, but again we see the same pattern of underlying benefit for the underprivileged. Anyone who has raised or been around children knows how much of a monetary and mental toll they can take on a household. By selling the child, the parent makes a few extra dollars, while at the same time cutting expenses. Win/win. Meanwhile, the child learns priceless job skills (free of charge, btw) that they will keep for a lifetime, and are immediately given a gift that can never depreciate: job security.

But a Rolex…ahh…this is not something so easily disregarded. How could one forget the moment of purchase? The expectation of extreme consumerism, the elation and discovery at the time of procurement, the weight of luxury, and the glory of fine craftsmanship—one does not embark upon this humbling responsibility of sumptuous ownership lightly. One enters such a relationship with a lavish object assuming it will be for life…and yet…one day you awake and find you must part with this item so beloved, and most likely at half its original price. It’s demoralizing and criminal, and we must find some way to put a stop to it before anything worse can happen.

Oh, but wait. Something worse IS happening:

On a spring afternoon, a half-dozen hairstylists to the very wealthy talked about how customers are stretching their $350 highlights and $150 haircuts to every eight weeks instead of six weeks. Some women are cutting out highlights entirely, saying they would “rather be brunettes.”

Rather be brunettes?! You must be joking! I almost threw my computer out the window at the very thought. With any luck it would have crushed a hobo. I would have ran downstairs, taken the change cup from his cold, stiffening hand, and personally delivered the money inside to Ted Kennedy. My lord, it makes me so angry. It makes me INSANE. I hear people all the time prattling away on the television about fighting for public education funds, about revitalizing the docks with scenic public parks, the rising costs of public transportation and fuel prices, and everybody so goddamned concerned with the healthcare needs of a growing population of blue-haired old bitches whining and crying about “my brittle bones” this and “my swelling prostate” that. OMG people, FUCK that! There are very rich women out there threatening to no longer be blonde. People, can you even imagine what kind of chaos could follow? Can’t you see that money and good looks is the only thing keeping most of these power couples together? I suppose you assume that the rock-solid marriages of the rich can withstand any petty beatings we dole out. They can not.

The drop in wealth has also exposed other personal problems, like bad marriages. Money—which bought jewelry or extravagant vacations—helped smooth over many of these difficulties, said Kenneth Mueller, a psychotherapist in the East Village who works with many Wall Street bankers and real estate developers. Now, he said, his clients “catastrophize” smaller bonuses or shriveling stock portfolios.

The marriages of the rich are falling apart, and new alliances will never be formed because of yet another trickle-down effect of the crises of the American wealthy:

Clay Burwell, a personal trainer to many Wall Street executives, said that his clients were also feeling the toll. A year of eating more, drinking more and working longer hours has started to hurt their health. “They come into the gym with a dark storm cloud over their head,” he said. “They look like hell.”

Fattened, ugly, mousey, and not quite as rich as before, these titans begin to crumble. They fail to procreate (decimating the nanny industry), severing chains of sovereignty forged in a time when people knew their place. Despondent, with nothing better than a cheap Timex strapped to their wrists to count off the dreary seconds of their now-paltry existences, the once-affluent begin to disband and walk among us, the filthy and undeserving proletariat. And so comes crashing down around us the nobility of America.

I hope you’re all happy.

We here in the editorial offices of Jose el Retardo have a new favorite commercial, and for this we need to thank the good people over at Barilla Pasta.

Art lives where you find it, and it is the fool who will discard the television commercial without first mining it for all it is worth. Granted, most times we can immediately dismiss a TV commercial after a single viewing having found absolutely no redeeming qualities; but if we are persistent, if we remain vigilant, a gem is revealed—something complex, something open-ended and alluring, something mystifying to its audience while at the same time illuminating aspects of the human condition. With their advertisement “Sisters” for Barilla Plus, the pasta with a heart, Barilla Food Service takes its audience to this enigmatic place: where commerce meets culture.

The storyline, a sweeping and perplexing romance scored with the haunting and majestic tenor vocals of Andrea Bocelli, is anything but simple. I have viewed this commercial countless times, and I am left with the impression that the art director in charge wanted to leave the ad as open-ended as possible. Who is the handsome neighbor? Why is this young bachelor playing that weird, Italian blindfold game with the blonde woman’s children? The ad opens with a wide establishing shot of a cozy Italian bungalow in the middle of absolutely nowhere, yet the mother character calls this man a neighbor. Where does this man live? Is he the Author Fonzerelli type, living above the garage? Or does he typically drive miles out of his way to play with other people’s kids? Could it be that he has been brought there solely for the introduction to the mother’s sister, who we see driving up to the house in the opening shot? But that couldn’t be the case, because the mother clearly states early in the commercial that “the children ADORE him.” He’s been there before. So, possibly the hunky bachelor has his sights on the mother—that would explain why he would play games with her children. But we also see, VERY briefly, the husband (I think the producers have made a smart move here; an introduction of a husband could only smash the fantasy for women waiting anxiously over their morning coffee for a morning romance fix; it’s a sad reality), so is this handsome stranger languishing in sorrow for the woman he loves? Not likely. The bumbling husband wouldn’t have much of a chance against this his formidable neighbor…not the way mommy swoons when Mr. Dashing takes his blindfold off. And so, right off the bat, mystery.

From there we move into the kitchen, with the sisters working diligently over the meal to be later enjoyed by all in the airy and rustic dining room. The sister says, “Barilla Plus…you’re such a good mom.” The mother blushes and turns her head. Does she never get a compliment out of that tubby husband of hers? No wonder she’s spending all of her afternoons watching the bachelor play with her children! And the sister is shameless. Please. It’s only pasta. It couldn’t possibly counter all the crappy stuff the mother does, like yelling at the kids while she gets drunk off of Italian wine, crying over her dead-end marriage, pining for the handsome stranger while he blatantly plays slap and tickle in the back yard.

And then the dining room. Again, we barely see the husband, but rather focus immediately on the two sisters ovulating over tall, dark, and handsome while the music swells.

The mother is setting her sister up with this man. But why? To put an end, once and for all, to the painful love she holds in her desperate heart? Did she bring up the idea of a threesome to the sister and the dashing man, and find that they were both INTO IT?

My god. I have barely touched on all of my questions.

Last night, making my way with the amiable KTray to the NYC Chinatown restaurant Dim Sum Go Go to meet our mutual friend LP (KTray, I’m sure Jose readers will be looking for a review soon), I found I wasn’t sure where I was going or how long it might take to get there. This is a common side-effect of New York City living, but last night it was alleviated greatly with the help of one of the greatest companies of this, or any, century: Google. I simply reached for my excellent Motorola Q 9c, opened the Google Maps program I had previously downloaded and installed on my Q (for free, of course), turned on the (free) GPS function included in the Google Maps program, plugged in the address of the restaurant, and arrived at my destination in no time at all (sort of).

It made me so happy I cried. I love you, Google.

I’m not a complete fool. I know that no company could possibly be perfect. Anyone who has the brilliance to start, grow, and maintain such an undertaking must be off balance in some way, and Larry Page and Sergey Brin are certainly no exception. Read this fairly humorous site for more on that: http://www.aaronsw.com/weblog/googlife. Nevertheless, compared to what other companies are up to in the world, Google does seem to be a kind of utopia for those geeky enough to land a job there, and the products they produce, as a whole, are infinitely more useful to the world than those of, say, Philip Morris.

Microsoft will never be able to topple Google. They are smarter than Bill Gates, they are leaner and more flexible, their products are far less bloated than Microsoft’s, and not nearly as interdependent upon one another as the products served up by Apple and that rotten liar, Steve Jobs. Even as I type, the Times has published and article outlining Google’s plan to offer smelly Yahoo their ad placement technology, which could potentially net Yahoo an extra BILLION dollars a year, effectively keeping them from making any deals with Microsoft, as well as pouring more dough into the coffers of Google. The deal would also most probably cement Yahoo’s position behind Google in the internet search game. You lose again, Bill and Jerry.

And so they should. Google understands the world in a way their competitors do not. This fundamental quality in their thinking makes them, for the time being, impossible to beat. I use gmail for my webmail client, and I have no complaints because it simply works and it works simply. I use Google for my search engine, and it is hands-down the most thorough and straightforward. Sure, there are paid ad placements, but they are easy enough to identify and avoid, and no where near as distracting as all the useless articles cluttering Yahoo’s undignified mess. Google Maps and Google World are ubiquitous for finding point B, my Google reader delivers all the latest blog nonsense my friends concoct, Google analytics tracks the health of my own site, Google docs helps out every person who can’t scrape up the $350 for a new copy of Microsoft Office. YouTube is owned by Google. They have a pretty damn good calendar program. There is photo editing, sharing, and organizing via Google’s Picasa software (which I recently downloaded and was delighted to find it was far more intuitive and less clunky than Adobe’s own Bridge software). And a hell of a lot more. And I can bring it all together with my iGoogle home page. Click here to see an amazing array of free stuff for you to do to make your life more interesting (as long as you own a computer).

And every single bit of it is free to anyone with an internet connection. That is fucking amazing. Google, you have my vote for president of the world.

Yes, yes I do. And although I believe he deserves some kind of psychiatric help as fast as humanly possible, I hope like hell that the machine does not crush his monster spirit.

I’d like to give a big shout out to Chrystal for bringing this gem to my attention.

Los Angeles, CA (JeR)—As horrified fans and well-wishers looked on, an exhausted and distraught Paula Abdul made her way from Fox LA Headquarters to an idling limousine early this morning with what looked to be multiple injuries to her face and extremities. She was escorted by several armed Fox Security personnel, the very same who ushered her from Fox studios on Tuesday after Abdul had made her supposed leap forward in time to witness American Idol contestant Jason Castro’s abominable interpretation of megastar Neil Diamond’s 1980 hit, September Morn.

“We’re all so shocked,” said one fan, as tears coursed down her stout cheeks. “She’s always been there for ALL of us, but who will rescue her?” The flustered devotee then turned to a friend and exclaimed, “I just want to die.”

Sentiments appeared to be uniform in the crowd of onlookers, and as Abdul’s car sped away, many milled about aimlessly for well over an hour, wondering how they would piece together their desperate lives; lives now placed in jeopardy by a callous media corporation and a world unconcerned with the fate of one frail, petite celebrity burdened with the proof of one of Albert Einstein’s greatest puzzles.

Some were angry, and they demanded satisfaction for the scientific community who apparently has been robbed of their chance to observe one of the most historical and mysterious phenomena of the millennium—perhaps of all time: that of Abdul’s evident ability to time travel.

Said one: “Look, it’s obvious what happened. Fox was terrified that Abdul would eventually spill the beans about all the future American Idols to come and they decided to shut her up! They beat the shit out of her! And of ALL the reasons they could have picked to beat the shit out of her, they choose the most despicable!”

Another chimed in, “The fact that Jason Castro is still in the competition after last night’s laughable vote-off is proof enough. We’re not stupid. We know when we’re being led off the scent. We can’t let this happen!”

“Kill Castro!” was the chant that later rent the air of Century City, and by noon, effigies of Castro burned in the streets. They were soon met with strong opposition from pro-Cuba factions, and soon all of Los Angeles was ablaze.

Jose el Retardo now believes that our inside source to Fox, who informed us of Abdul’s location yesterday, is now missing and presumed dead by the Los Angeles Police Department, who declined comment. When pressed, a fatigued desk officer only said, “Well, when a man’s head is sent to the station without the rest of his body attached, we generally operate under the assumption that the man is dead.”

Abdul was not available for comment. Jason Castro was also missing, but only presumed stoned.