What an idiot! That is my phrase for today, though it's interpretation is open for discussion.

Am I talking about referee Koman Coulibaly, who apparently blew a big call in the 86th minute of today's FIFA World Cup match between USA and Slovenia? Certainly a pivotal mistake, as the TV replays show, but certainly losing out on a couple of extra pool-play points is not going to ruin the world.

Am I talking about the riotous Lakers "fans" who set fire to a parked car after Game 7 of the NBA Finals last night? Bingo. How one, or in this case a group, could be so stupid amid the LAPD ramp-up of the last couple of days to quell any uprisings, not to mention the controversy centering around the Arizona immigration law, be so stupid or so belligerent is beyond me.

I, for one, find the new Arizona policy to allow law enforcement officials to stop at random anyone who they think might not have the proper papers especially perilous not just for the issue of authorizing blatant racism but the glimpse at a potential police state it offers up to our society. We already know the history of racial profiling against blacks that has occurred for centuries in this country. Certainly Hispanics and other "minorities" have suffered the same. But what is especially appalling to me is that, in today's society when we're supposed to be educated and enlightened, this law was perpetuated by today's new fringe of the scared and the over-reactive conservative right, all under the guise of curbing illegal immigration.

You might as well roll the clock back to the mid-19th century when any "foreigner" could be run out of town, whether you be black, brown, yellow or white (can anyone say Irish? What about the Italians?)

What's next? Where do we stop at making a snap judgment about a person by the color of their skin? What about the color of their eyes? "All those with brown eyes and curly hair, get against the wall!" I'd be one of the first picked out undoubtedly along side Hispanics, Muslims, Arabs, Persians, Native Americans... the list goes on and on. (Oh, and I'm of Irish descent, raised Catholic but now agnostic. So much for appearances.)

Still, there we had TV news cameras last night trained on gangs, truly so, as described by Merriam Webster, "A group of criminals or adolescent hoodlums," of young men AND women, many of who were undoubtedly of some kind of Hispanic origin, lighting fires, turning over Cal-Trans equipment and acting like complete idiots. But make no mistake about it: there WERE other races involved. Still, in light of the Arizona law, I shuddered to think of all the "Look, I told you so" and "See, that's why we need an immigration law" comments that I knew were being uttered by many all across the nation. Some TV viewers simply made up their minds that, if there were people with brown skin running around the streets of L.A. starting fires, they were all "Mexicans" or "illegals."

What is even more unfortunate than the racism that still permeates our society are those who help to propagate such hatred by the sheer force of their stupidity.

Oysters on an Oil Shale

One of my little pleasures in life has become an occasional order of freshly shucked oysters on the half shell from a favorite eatery, Rock N Fish, in Manhattan Beach. I never gave it much thought as to which ocean waters they were derived; I simply gobbled up the critters with a helping of Tabasco, horse radish and lemon juice.

That was, however, before the BP oil disaster in the Gulf. I must admit I haven't been out for oysters since the deep-sea oil rig aptly named the Deepsea Horizon blew up and began spewing millions of gallons of crude into the ocean. If I didn't know any better, I'd say it was all a bad blockbuster movie. I wish.

A mile deep, literally thousands of species from plant to animal to mammal to fish are in danger if not already dead. I'm not positive where Rock N Fish gets its oysters, but The Economist reported this week that the Gulf supplies most of our nation's supply. In fact, some 20.6 million pounds of the fat, sweet stuff worth $60.2 million was pulled from the waters off of Texas, Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, and Florida in 2008. I'm sure Rock N Fish pulled its fair share.

I remember my trip to New Orleans last spring and the awesome oyster houses in the French Quarter. They have all now been harmed to such a degree that the entire region has found itself decimated economically once again for the second time in five years. Like with Katrina, the Gulf states have a long, tough road to hoe before their residents realize any sort of rebound.

The at least $20 billion wrestled from BP's shareholders today by President Obama for an escrow fund will help the locals keep food on the table, and in doing so Obama well may have begun to save some face amid what is generally perceived as all too tardy of a response to the worst ecological disaster in our nation's history. I could have done without Obama's added comment, however, that "BP is a strong and viable company, and it is in all of our interests that it remain so." I agree that what the world economy does not need right now is the collapse of one of the largest employers and most profitable in the world. But this will also make us think a bit more about our environment, consequences and the irresponsibility of big business.

The people in the Gulf have endured all too much and don't deserve this current onslaught of sludge, and neither do the birds, the fish, the sea turtles, the children on the beach who just want to go swimming in the ocean this summer, the generations of animals and humans alike who will be paying dearly for this blunder. But what I really hope comes out of this, is that we wake up and realize that we must find an alternative to big oil and -- certainly -- to deep sea drilling.

That and I can dine on my lovely oysters once more without asking the waiter for unleaded.

A Scary Moment That Reaffirmed My Faith in People

New Yorkers are often characterized as the rudest people on Earth, with Parisians perhaps coming in No. 2. I had never been to the Big Apple before my recent trip to attend a media publisher’s conference, but I’d been to Paris twice, just having returned, actually, last month from 10 days in the City of Love.

I’ve known many people, especially Americans, who consider the French rude. I don’t know quite how many of these experts on French culture have actually been to France, but my dealings have for the most part been very memorable. So I wondered what my latest impression would be upon visiting NYC for four days, as I probably have run across even more who can’t stand those from the Five Burroughs. I don’t doubt some of that has to do with the Yankees.

While there were no ballgames in my itinerary (the Mets were in town against the Padres, and the Yankees were down I-495 facing off against the Orioles), the inherent traveler within me made sure to take in the sights, sounds and tastes during my abbreviated trip. Most of my days were spent in seminars, but, as it is the “city that never sleeps,” I took the subway and/or walked everywhere I could. I am lucky enough to have several friends who live in Manhattan, so I enjoyed getting together with them. Plus I had a great tour guide (thanks Caroline!).

But around every corner, I thought to myself, “OK, I’m bound to meet some of these infamous ‘Rude Yorkers’ I’ve heard so much about. I won’t lie, there was a slight “misunderstanding” with a certain “gentleman” at an ice cream parlor in Chinatown who tried to cut in front of us, but, other than that instance, I was pleasantly surprised at how accommodating and darned nice the people were whom I ran across. Part of this had to do with the fact that I’m somewhat travel savvy, having been to 15 countries and counting: definitely not as many as some people but more than many others.

Yet one incident, on my last day, proved to me that most New Yorkers are caring, concerned citizens. A friend and I were walking on the Upper East Side along 5th Avenue about 68th street when we saw a commotion about 100 feet in front of us. A man as stiff as a board ,his tatted arms locked in the shock pose, forearms close to the body but wrists out, was lying face down on the sidewalk as two people bent over him. As they rolled him over on his back, my first thought was, and I actually said it out loud, “Oh my God, is that guy dead?” The man, who looked to be in his mid-30s, like me, was having a grand mal seizure, and as a woman and an older gentleman turned him over, I could see blood coming out of his mouth and his eyes rolled back in his head.

The woman, his wife, was crying but not quite hysterical though definitely frightened. The first thought to go through my head was not to subdue him. I also looked instinctively looked around for something to put in his mouth so he wouldn’t bite off his tongue, but there was nothing. And by the amount of blood, I thought that might already be a moot point. I knew this because of my personal experience with epilepsy, which was certainly the cause of the man’s seizure. But then again, who knows. I went through a spell when I was about 6 or 7 years old when a team of doctors thought I was epileptic. I had developed a tick one summer and my parents took me to be checked out. EEGs showed what appeared to be a dark spot, possibly a scar, on my brain, often a sign of the disease. For the next year or so I was poked, prodded and tested, put on some pretty harsh medication and trained on how to deal with the condition. Then, one day, poof! The brain shadow disappeared. My tick went away. We still don’t know what happened, but I’ve been “fine” ever since. Well, I guess that depends on who you talk to.

But, back on scene on the Upper East Side, it became apparent that the older gentleman knew what he was doing, simply staying with the man to make sure he didn’t hurt himself.
My iPhone, I had noticed earlier, was teetering on the brink of a dead battery and battling for a signal, but I instinctively reached for it, at the same time calling out to the now 10 or 12 people gathering at the scene amid high-end jewelry stores and clothing boutiques if anyone was calling 9-1-1. An older lady with a thick Jewish or Russian accent I immediately noted indeed was on the phone summoning help, explaining to the dispatcher that the man “was having an attack.”

Others quickly blurted out, “He’s having a seizure,” which the woman relayed, explaining the man’s state. Meanwhile, his wife and now three other men including a delivery worker on a walkie-talkie radio were helping. I heard a siren and stepped out onto 5th Avenue to see if I could tell where it was coming from. Just then, an ambulance appeared but headed west on 67th Street. I yelled out but they didn’t hear me.

I turned my attention back to the man, who was no semi-conscious but still seizing, though the spell was starting to die down. His lips, chin and cheeks were bloodied. By now, tears were streaming down his wife’s face, though her eyes still shielded by designer sunglasses. By her accent, I gauged that she must be Italian, and her husband, now lying on his back and trying to get up but being held down by his Good Samaritans, was asking in broken English, “What happened… let me go…” The scene was surreal, as now a good two dozen people stood around, each new arrival asking, “Did anyone call 9-1-1?” “Is help on the way?”

The man was sweating and still bloody. I was holding a bottle of water, and felt stupidly like a spectator at a ballgame, so the thought entered my head that water might be good to rub on his face. I opened my mouth, and of course it came out like I was suggesting he take a drink of water. That probably would not have been a good idea as he could choke. “No, no, he could choke!” a woman said. I wasn’t about to argue with her that that was not what I meant. I just left it alone as everyone’s nerves were frazzled.

At that point, the worst appeared over as he was now half sitting up telling his wife “No way, you’re not going to the hospital with me. I’m fine, I’m fine.” Then, two female NYPD officers turned the corner and were on scene. Still no paramedics, but things seemed to be in control so we walked on. My friend and I were still in a bit of shock over the events, but we both commented how great it was that so many people showed concern for this man and his wife.

Art Imitates Life Imitates Art?

My apologies to Oscar Wilde, but he obviously never met Charlie Sheen. Or watched his TV show, for that matter.

Besides making me laugh out loud, which, let's face it (if you know me), is not that hard to accomplish, much of the allure surrounding the CBS comedy "Two and a Half Men" is the fact that it's obvious to most viewers over the age of 30 that co-star Sheen is not acting when playing the role of Charlie Harper. Aside from the uncanny first-name thing, Sheen also seems to re-enact much of his 20s and 30s (and, so far, his 40s), which he spent in an almost constant Hollywood haze of women, booze and drugs.

Hats off to him for surviving this long, and having a grand old time doing it, but I always suspected that the show's success had a lot to do with our society's love affair with having a front row seat to a train wreck. Except, in this case, we could do so under the guise of good ol' fashioned vaudevillian humor. What made the show ever more cute, besides the precocious young nephew Jake played by Angus T. Jones -- that is until Jake grew into a grunting, disgusting, idiotic teenage sloth, and then he just bugged, which might just be the writers' poking fun at the spiraling downfall of our youth and society (but that's for another blog, another day) -- was that Sheen was obviously playing with his reputation as one of Hollywood's premier bad boys.

The joke was that he was now a respectable husband and father. Kind of.

Regardless of what actress and ex-wife Denise Richards may have to say on the subject, of course, as we all know, Sheen wasn't reformed. Alas, he's headed back to jail after he pleads guilty to misdemeanor domestic violence against his new wife (and apparent party bud) Brooke.

Now I'm not one to judge, just making some observations here like any decent journalist, and for not knowing the guy I find him very likable in a self destructive way. But the Christmas Day incident that gave rise to the charges plus another curious occurrence in February of someone apparently stealing one of his cars and plunging it off of Mulholland Drive into a canyon all curiously unraveled amid a contract renegotiation for a few more seasons of "Two and a Half Men" plus some serious dough to the tune of $1 million per episode. Sheen was using the bargaining chip that he might just walk away from the top-rated show after seven seasons to get back into movies.

Sorry, Charlie, but aside from your cameo in "Ferris Bueller's Day Off" as -- tah-dah! -- yourself, (again), and, of course, "Wild Thing" in Major League and "Wall Street," you're not getting a get-out-of-jail-free card because of your two-steps-backward roles (with Emilio) in Men at Work and Terminal Velocity (oh, yes, and Hot Shots! Part Deux).

But, in the end, he renewed for even more money. All despite his legal troubles. Good for him I suppose, but maybe it was all just a ploy to convince the producers that he still had it in him. OK, make no maybe about it. That perhaps was his best acting job of them all. But then again, inspiration comes in many different forms.

I'd bet a round of shots that the beverage Sheen is almost constantly seen pouring for himself on the TV show is, like himself, is very much the real thing. And Sheen is making quite a lucrative living at being himself.

Now, Oscar, that's art.