Sometimes I get the impression that our old friend Orenthal James "O. J." Simpson just wants to end up at the top of an old oil refinery like James Cagney in White Heat, screaming at the top of his Hall of Fame lungs “Look at me Ma! Top of the world!” Then boom … infinity and vapor … melted down like a Heisman Trophy.

David Huckabee, the eldest son of presidential candidate Mike Huckabee, made headlines when he was arrested in April for having a loaded Glock pistol in his carry-on bag at the Little Rock Airport. Yeah, but that’s nothing compared to the stunt he pulled as an 18 year old, when he was fired from his Boy Scout counseling job for torturing and killing a stray dog he caught at Camp Pioneer in Hatfield, Arizona. First he hung the dog by the neck, slit its throat, then stoned it to death.

You would think that the biggest story this year in sports would have been Michael Vick and his massive screw-up, but luckily for him we live in an era when athletes massively screw-up all the time.

I’m not trying to play the elitist-snob game here, but I’ve never seen an episode of American Idol … but shit, with characters like Jessica Sierra hanging around, I think I have to mend my ways and check this show out! But the first order of business, get Season Four from Netflix for a better look at this femme fatale.

 
I guess you can say that Daniel Baldwin isn’t the best looking Baldwin, nor is he the Baldwin most likely destined for a career in politics. And you know that’s OK; it’s a terrible profession anyway.

Unfortunately, as I look closer at this mugshot, I have to add, oddly enough … and sadly enough… I can’t decide whether he looks more like my dad or more like me.





 At one point I thought Mickey Rourke was one hell of a weird but pretty interesting actor. With movies like Angel Heart, 9½ Weeks, The Pope of Greenwich Village, Rumble Fish, Diner, Johnny Handsome, they’re not all necessarily great or even good films, but sometimes it doesn’t matter,  I watch Mickey Rourke and I think to myself; “what the hell?’. (Actually way back in the day, before Amoeba-time itself, I used to work for the law firm of Parkinson, Wolf, Lazar and Leo in Century City. One day one of the attorneys walked up to me and said “Hey Whitmore, I just saw a movie starring Mickey Rourke and I thought the character he played reminded me of you. Have you seen the movie Barfly yet?”  What can you do? I lied and said no, then quietly walked away.) Anyway, I haven’t seen much of Mickey Rourke since his last mugshot … by the way; this arrest in November was for drunk driving on a Vespa scooter.

 

Well I wish I could tell you some interesting story or tidbit about the life of thespian/pre-teen role model Lindsay Lohan, but I can’t… anyway, here is her complete set of mugshots from 2007. Collect ‘em all, trade ‘em with your friends.

Here are some of my favorite Presidential campaign quotes, miscues, gaffes, and faux pas’ for 2007…

On Apr. 5, 2007:  Mitt Romney in trying, once again, to re-defend his undetectable machismo stated:  “I'm not a big-game hunter. I've made that very clear. I've always been, if you will, a rodent and rabbit hunter. Small varmints, if you will. And I began when I was 15 or so and have hunted those kinds of varmints since then, more than two times.” Later he acknowledged he had only gone hunting twice in his life.















April 18, 2007:  John McCain, not only proved he was an old rock and roller at heart but a fan of Dr Demento’s as well, when in response to the question, “When do we send them an airmail message to Tehran?”, he sang a parodied version of the old Beach Boys tune of “Barbara Ann”, crooning “Bomb, bomb, bomb ... Bomb, bomb Iran.”

Sept. 21, 2007: Rudy Giuliani, in a classic Rudy moment, explained why he interrupted a speech to the National Rifle Association by answering a cellphone call from his wife: “Quite honestly, since Sept. 11, most of the time when we get on a plane, we talk to each other and just reaffirm the fact that we love each other.” Giuliani answered: “Hello, dear. I'm talking to the members of the NRA right now. Would you like to say hello?” The next day the New York Times under the headline, “Just a Moment. It's My Wife. Again,” questioned whether Giuliani staged the call in front of an unreceptive audience, reminding readers that a similar scene occurred earlier in June during a speech to Cuban immigrants.

Not that anybody asked, but I thought I’d toss up a couple of my picks for the best photos of the year.

This image is of Mary McHugh at the grave of her fiancé, Sgt James J. Regan at Arlington National Cemetery. He was from Manhasset, New York. Sgt Regan was killed by a roadside bomb in Iraq.

After a record drought year, this past fire season was one of the most destructive and costly in Southern California history, photographer Karen Tapia-Anderson took this photo of 12 firefighters trapped atop a ridge in Orange County after flames jumped the road sending the fire up the hillside, prompting the firefighters to deploy their fire shelters. "We just remained calm, everyone did," one firefighter said after he was checked out by paramedics. All 12 firefighters were treated at the scene, none of them wanted to be sent to the hospital. 

A photo of the gruesome aftermath of Pakistan’s oppositional leader Benazir Bhutto’s assassination, the suicide attack left more then 20 people dead.

The legendary saint, Cab Calloway, brought into existence on Christmas, was never off the cob, he was the heppest cat, the gasser on the scene, and scribe to the Dictionary of Hepology, not just any book of lingo like some hincty gate-mouth might cop to, emphatically no! This man’s a poet! Hey, Calloway was solid, a ready cat with serious chops, never capped, I mean never capped. Cabell Calloway III licks hit all the armstrongs every time with those "hi-de-hi's," and "ho-de ho's, singing in that blip beat key, swinging overcoats growling some hip and hot gammin’ grooves. Be it a gutbucket blues, the ready racket on the main kick or just some clambake where he’s got this cat riffing on the doghouse - hitting all the basso notes, cool Gabriel wigging on a boogie-woogie and some Jack on skins mugging heavy, Cab always crept out like the shadow, stylish threads togged to the bricks, walking hand made, custom to the thread mezz ground grippers … on each arm, a fine righteous queen he dug the last black, each dicty dutchess fresh off the dreamers and lily whites. 

At one point Cab was collaring 200 g’s a year, that’s one foxy stack of fins. Platter gravy coming on like a test pilot, cuts like "Minnie the Moocher", “Reefer Man” and "St. James Infirmary Blues" were everywhere man, chicks breakin’ it up, dropping a nickel or a dime note just to latch onto the hippest cat who could send the coolest riff riding high. Cab the man was the man; kids come again to the Cotton Club in the Apple, rug cutters Trucking, Pecking, or bugging to the Susie-Q, never no fraughty issue here. That’s the Bible baby! Cab and the cats digging a mess, one riff after another, and every hot killer jam taking off, that combo was always bustin’ conk, breaking up the joint like gangbusters. Zazu-zazu-zazu-zay! No room here for icky squares who can't collar the jive. The jitterbuggers at the Cotton Club always had a hummer of a ball. Yeah! Whipped up! Jumpin’ and mitt pounding till the chimes say its way past early bright. Ow!