ON MANOR'S MIND       

Although there are maybe three or four people who didn't immediately rush out to learn everything they could about Philadelphia after being informed it is my birthplace, here's a quick refresher, lest anyone forget the following historic detail.

In May of 1985, in an attempt to roust "radical MOVE" members out of a West Philly row home, Mayor Wilson "Don't Call Me 'Johnny'" B. Goode okayed a true brainstorm:  a police helicopter would drop a parcel of the highly explosive C-4 on top of the armed-and-barricaded-in MOVE members' crib; their roof-mounted turret leveled by a small blast, no doubt the "troublemakers" would surrender peacefully.

There was, however, one teensy-weensy detail law enforcement didn't take into account.  The MOVErs had large drums of fuel stored on the premises.

 Oops.  B-A-N-G.  Moments after the C-4 was set off, an entire city block began burning to the ground.

On national television.

Most of the MOVE members--including five children--were killed; 62 families lost not only their homes but also all they possessions; and, the City Of Brotherly Shove looked to the world like a poe-lease state run by an inept administration.

If you'll excuse the pun, Mayor Goode took a lot of heat over this incident.

[sidebar:  Not that I personally had any wishes of harm to come to His Honor, but had an assassin pulled a gun on him, I would have gotten a good sick laugh had one of the local tabloids run the highly ambiguous headline "Goode Shot."]

Wild Willie, in essence, owes the city one--and I know just what should have been done to even the score:  They should've reinstated him as Mayor for one day and have him drop C-4 smack dab in the middle of Philly's Live 8.

No more self-righteous Linkin Park.  No more xenophobic hick Toby Keith.  No more "Screw my long-loyal bandmates, I'm going solo" Rob Thomas.  Peaceniks turned into pizzas.  Do-gooders turned into doughy goo.

And the downside to this is???

Okay, I'd hate to have seen femme flesh as delectable as Destiny's Child go up in flames.  But that was a sacrifice I was willing to make!

Best of all, only a jackass would be so naive he'd fail to recognize 90 percent of the live audience were there solely to be entertained, completely feigning concern for the cause.  If anyone can come up with an explanation as to why the world would not be a better place after hundreds of thousands of insincere phonies with lousy taste in music got incinerated, I'd love to hear it.

No doubt Live C-4, as it would come to be called, would turn some of the toasted into supposed martyrs and inspire memorial hacky-sack marathons around the country.  I have a counter for that as well:  appoint Mr. Goode one-day Director Of The FBI, get him a squadron of fighter pilots, and bombs awaaaaaaaaay !

"But, Stately, what about all those starving people in third-world countries?" junior Geldofs whine.  I say, if they're that hungry, they should get in their cars and go to McDonald's, just like we do.  None of them have jobs, so it's not like they don't have the time.                                                                                       "Hiya, starving folks!"

On top of everything else, just think of the message Live C-4 would send to the rest of the world.  Without knowing a one of us, foreigners hate Americans--except for when we're picking up the tab.  Then, we're more popular than wrap-around sunglasses at a nudist beach.  But have you or anyone you know ever received so much as a single "mucho danke" note from a thankful non-American?  No, and you never will, because these foreigners are a bunch of ingrates.                                                                            

No festivities means no funds raised, right?  Thus--and it's about stinkin' time--our message to the moochers becomes "Guess how much Americans are coughing up this time--NOTHING, suckas."

In fact, I suggest taking this one step further, and having Goode bomb....

*Any sports announcer who has rattled off stats regarding the all-time rivalry between the two squads--as if a team without a single member on the current roster has one iota of relevance to the game being discussed.

*Everyone with a "fauxhawk," that bit of business whereby a geek will goo up the top of his hair on both sides to form a Mohawk-type peak down the middle.  In other words, poseurs disguising the Squaresville hairstyles they wear at their office jobs sucking up to The Man, attempting to look "freaky"...as if being so is something one switches off and on.

This all reminds me of The Night Punk Rock Was Murdered.  One of the late-night news programs (a la 20/20) in the late Seventies ran a feature on what was then a new phenomenon, and as usual, the cameras locked on the more flamboyant characters, conveniently ignoring the college-kid-looking youths making up a large percent of the punk scene in those days.

I remember turning to my peeps and claiming the piece was the official beginning of the end, as no doubt the West Coast trendies would see punk as merely a new fashion trend and co-op the whole thing.  Sho' nuff, a couple of weeks later, the pics started trickling in from L.A.  As predicted, there they were, noted scenesters such as Rodney Biggenheimer, all decked out in leather jackets and Destroy T-shirts...yet still sporting perfectly blow-dried, long layered locks, looking like they just finished touring with Queen!!!

The message was the same then as it is with the fauxhawk today:  We'll dress the part but lack the guts to make an actual commitment.  In two words, spineless frauds.

*France.  They're overdue to once again be leveled by another country anyway--so I say let loose the B-52s and create some real French fries!

*Hulk Hogan.  Mere non-followers of wrestling regularly assume I must be a staunch supporter of Hulk Hohum--which is akin in wrongheadedness to thinking a Biblical scholar must really be into the best-known angel of them all...who would be Lucifer!!!

Freakin' Barry Manilow is more popular than most musicians in your record collection.  Does that mean I should take it for granted you love BarrMan?  If that's actually accurate, please send in your home address...so we can add it to the Drop C-4 Here list.

*Anyone who puts any credence in a film-ad rave by Larry King.

*The Massive Implant-Bag Factory.  Ladies, boobs that start out at the collarbone, don't jiggle and often show ridges on the side or scar tissue are NOT attractive.  And don't give me any crap about "needing" them for your profession--that is, unless your job description is "vacuous two-bit whore."

I've heard all the excuses; including the classic "My old man wanted me to get them."  (Now there's a guy who personifies "true love."  Gee, I hope he was okay with the excruciating pain the operation delivers.)

What it all comes down to in reality is outdoing the other self-absorbed women in the competition to get the most attention.  Here's a little tip for you, honey:  You want to be attractive?  Try the novel idea of becoming conversant in a subject other than yourself.

*Hat-wearing rock stars.  A stylin' chapeau may have been cool on Jimi Hendrix in 1969; but you're not Hendrix and this ain't the summer of love, jerkwad.

Worse yet, post-Seventies corporate rockers can't even come up with original headgear despite there being 3.8 skillion types of lids in the charted universe.  Marc Bolan (left, T. Rex) in a top hat in 1972, cool; Slash in a top hat in 1992, tool.

*NBA carpetbagger Larry Brown's house...while his chief apologist Stephen A. Smith is visiting.  

After trading away countless top-quality players who excelled elsewhere, then mortgaging my beloved 76ers' entire future in a failed bid for personal glory--a run at a championship they had no chance of winning--because he knew he would be long gone by the time said future arrived, gloryhound Brown claimed he was burnt out on coaching, and weaseled out of the remainder of his contract.

"Miraculously," something like a week later, the charlatan had recuperated" enough to sign a multiyear contract with the Detroit Pistons...which he also didn't fulfill.  

While in Motown, the laconic con man did virtually the same act he pulled in Philly (and most assuredly will do with the Knicks), complete with annual mid?winter "I don't know if I can do this anymore" kindergarten-level attention ploy.  Oh, and in the midst of this, he was convincingly outcoached in the 2004 Olympics.  

None of the above fazed Smith.  Despite 19000-plus fans booing Brown every time he returned to Philly after the swindle, Smoochin' Stephen continued to kiss the coach's kiester, going so far as to write "You've got to love Larry Brown" in a spring 2005 column...in the Philadelphia Inquirer.

"And after I'm done screwing THESE guys..." 

Smith was once a pretty decent columnist; but after about five minutes of face time on ESPN, he morphed into a pompous loudmouth who went from offering thought-provoking opinions to making grand proclamations (and even stooped to playing the race card.)  On top of everything else,  he adopted a voice so squeaky, he should gargle with WD-40.                          

Mr. Goode, please make Brown's pool area the target.  That's where Stephen Anus Smith will be waiting to watch Larry walk upon the water.

*All "redeveloped" sites erected over the rubble of once-proud porno palaces, unconstitutionally zoned out of existence by puritanical prudes who just can't mind their own goddamn business.

*Producers of any reality show exploiting the disturbed.  If Jessica Simpson (left) and the Osbournes want to wire their homes, that's fine by me.  None of them belong in an institution.  But pointing a camera at Anna Nicole Smith, Joanie Laurer (Surreal Life) and the tag team of Bobby Brown & Whitney Houston, waiting for them to do something bizarre so that ham-and-eggers can feel superior to the faded stars, is as mean-spirited as inviting special-ed students to a party for a few cheap giggles.

You find addled celebs slurring their words hilarious?  We'll pack enough C-4 to aerate your place, too, Ace.

*"American Idols."  Has it really come to this:  one is defined as worthy of idolatry because he or she oversings pop tunes they didn't even compose?!?  Is the public in such a rush to put each other on pedestals, this is all it takes?  Apparently so, if record and magazine sales are any indication.

Must be a real treat for someone who's busted his hump for ages in obscurity or made massive personal sacrifices "for the good of the country" to learn he's not the idol of anyone, but a teen who belts "Don't Cry Out Loud" on TV is.  That news comes after learning he doesn't even qualify, this distinction drawn by such important cultural contributors as Paula Abdul and Randy "Ever Heard Of Me?" Jackson.

Here's a wonderful message to send America's yoots:  Never mind such deadbeats as MLK, SWM, Bill Gates, Betsy Ross, Bruce Lee or Rosa Parks.  We should all strive to be just like Kelly F'n Clarkson.  Surely, she's someone who will be the covergirl on U.S. History books for decades to come.

*Nancy Grace.  The Headline News axe-grinder should be known as Nancy DISgrace for her "guilty until proven innocent" coverage of the Scott Peterson and Michael Jackson trials.  In fact, the absolute highlight of the latter was tuning in to watch the biased blonde perform a major meltdown after Jacko's verdict came in.  I only wish I could have seen her stage-dive onto barbed wire the second OJ got acquitted.                                                                        Nancy DISgrace is more like it.

Of further interest is helmet-haired Nance's habit of chewing the end of a stick-pen.  They may as well run a "Has castration fantasies" graphic onscreen, along with an animation of her slicing a cucumber!!!    

Hubba Hubba Honey...sorta, sorta.  I didn't pay much attention to Madison Michele when she began appearing as a TV Guide Channel hostess.  That may have had something to do with her looking like one of those conservative cuties who were on the high school drill team and would have nothing to do with me (then, but sure wish they had me now.)  Your basic "not my type" type.

One eve, however, Double-M was assigned to red carpet duties on one of last year's 237 televised awards shows, her hair all vamped up. a sleek dress cut down to there.  In a word:  yabbadabbahoochiekoochie!  One glance and Mr. Manor was mad for Madison.

Turns out, upon paying closer attention I learned Miss Michele is quick with a giggle, having none of the snobby pretense of the Squaresville rah-rahs I initially mistook her for.  (Sorry, kiddo.)  In fact, Madison is as much at home "on location" on the stinky, sweaty set of some island-based drama program as she is at a glitzy Tinseltown fete--maybe even more so.

Okay, we've got a pulchritudinous package of beauty and personality who, due to the incredibly shallow taste of the general public, has failed thus far to attract the substantial fevered following she deserves.  Isn't that the exact description of an ideal Hubba Hubba Honey candidate?  Why, yes it is; however, Madison has one small but glaring flaw.  It's on the third finger of her left hand.

If you are not among us international celebrities, you may as well stop reading this here, as the following is tailored strictly for the famous.  Nothing personal, but if you're not a somebody, you're a nobody.  Now where was I?  Right....

Fellow celebs, I cannot overstate how important it is to avoid the whole "I have such a deep love affair going with (my significant other)" public pronouncements, the ultimate career-momentum killer not involving kiddie porn.

You see, the standard schmuck on the street actually harbors the ridiculous notion that--get this--we sex symbols might bottom-feed low enough to hook up with them!!!  I know, I know, is that the silliest thing you ever heard, or what?  

I kid you not::  commoners really think we would stoop to socializing with the--dare I say it?--the unheard of! Couldn't you just do a spit take?!?

Please, my peeps,  take it from someone who knows:  the untalented masses live in a dream world--and the best way we can exploit them is to allow the saps' fantasies to continue.  Whether you're a Jude, Colin, Angelina or Stately, creating an illusion of availability will keep the suckers fawning at our feet forever.  So, skip the salute to your soul-mate when kibitzing with Konan and Kimmel.  Rather than deny it, publicize you are prone to grope the gardener or nail the nanny.  Divorcing?  Fax a copy of the paperwork to the National Enquirer ASAP.

And, by all means, bag the wedding band, Madison.