Thirty days after April Fool's Day, Editor & Publisher magazine named Orange County Register boss Nelson Christian Anderson "Publisher of the Year" for the entire nation.

Though you may have laughed, that wasn't the inadvertent chuckle line about Anderson, who could pass as the father of both unruly Senior Deputy DA Brian Gurwitz and twin Newport Beach Superior Court Judge Craig Robison.

The magazine, through some doofus named Mark Fitzgerald, went on to assert this absurdity: "It's no exaggeration to say that an amorphous area known for Disneyland, orange groves, and pretty much nothing else, became 'The O.C' in large part because of the work of Chris Anderson and the Register . . ."

Well, if we're noting Orange County characteristics while Anderson's been sitting at his desk in Santa Ana with a calculator and worry beads, why not credit him with our beautiful sunsets, sandy beaches and surfer waves too?

Or our insane traffic congestion, sickening bigotry, corrupt cops, certifiable politicians, money-driven school administrators, vicious gangs, lazy bureaucrats, unchecked pollution and a journalism community so emanored with the powerful that it's favorite position requires knee pads and spit or lube.

(I've seen countless members of Anderson's reporting/editing crew apply either substance to satisfy local powerbrokers. Except for Mike Schroeder and Donald Bren--kings of all OC kings--who apparently reach ecstasy merely by the Reg staff assuming the position. Of course, no offense intended to Mike or you Reg folks I love and respect. You know who you are...)

Editor & Publisher went on to credit Anderson for personally taking "a mediocre daily" paper and making it great.

Hmmm.

Three quick points: Anderson presides over a website so difficult to navigate it should come with four Excedrin tablets and a cup of water. His news boys and girls rely on police press releases, insider gossip and Republican Party talking points for "news." Much of the best Reg reporting each year is done in spite of management.

The book version of ¡Ask a Mexican! officially hits stores mañana, but a quick look through the SanTana Barnes & Noble reveals it's already in stock. In anticipation of it, I've done mucho interviews in the past week--and it's only begun. Below is a quick run-down:

San Antonio Current

Rocky Mountain Chronicle

Squeeze OC (yes, you read right: our sworn enemy is nice enough to cover us--gracias!

La Bloga (bad-ass blog devoted to Latino writers)

Reuters

More to come. In the meanwhile, buy my book!

Yes, OC Weekly investigative reporter Nick Schou got his mug shot in today's Los Angeles Times. No, he wasn't participating again in a riot, peeking inside an undercover DEA 18-wheeler or even driving solo in the HOV lane.

A year or so ago, Schou thought it'd be fun to perform his normal work duties, raise an infant son, pamper his beautiful wife, teach a journalism class at UCI and write a book. Sure, he looks like a zombie most days now and is often heard mumbling to himself, but he can point to all his accomplishments including the acclaimed, "Kill The Messenger: How the CIA's Crack-Cocaine Controversy Destroyed Journalist Gary Webb."

Back to why his pic appears in today's LA Times: He's one of the featured book authors at the paper's wonderful Festival of Books. See him at 1 p.m. in Moore 100 on the "Journalism: Getting the Story" panel moderated by Miles Corwin.

Schou isn't the only person who multitasks each day at OC Weekly's world headquarters. The unstoppable Gustavo Arellano will also travel north today but not to talk about food, sports, movies, his lovely girlfriend, tequila, Catholic Church sex scandals or his near monopolization of talk radio. He'll dish about the subject that made him nationally famous two years ago (with loving guidance, of course, from then OCW-editor Will Swaim).

Gustavo is the epitome of good timing. On Tuesday, Scribner publishes his book, "Ask A Mexican." Today, he'll be on the "Crossing the Border: Immigrant Lives" festival panel at 2:30 p.m. in Schoenberg Hall. In coming weeks, he'll face Sean Hannity on Fox.

Other OC-related authors featured at the UCLA-based weekend festival include Hugh Hewitt, T. Jefferson Parker, Barry Siegel, Barbara DeMarco-Barrett, Don Winslow and Jon Wiener.

This month Orange County's bumbling Transportation Corridors Agency (TCA) devised yet another new plan to solve its continual financial disaster woes: The government agency wants to change its name to the Transportation Corridor System (TCS).

Oh, and one other minor detail: They also want to spend an additional $4.7 BILLION in "speculative grade" debt for the 11-year-old 73 Toll Road that slices through Costa Mesa, Newport Beach, Irvine and Laguna Beach on the way south to I5.

Bend over baby: You're going to be paying even higher tolls!

A more accurate name for the new agency would be the Transportation Corridor Money Pit (TCMP) or the Agency for the Subtle Subsidization of Billionaire Real Estate Elitist Developers (ASSBREED), an explanation to follow.

In 1997, the Weekly predicted the 16-mile road would be a financial nightmare for at least four decades while the TCA, local politicians like Dana Rohrabacher and Chris Cox, the LA Times and the OC Register hailed the project as an international model. At one point, the Times put its banners on all the toll booths as a sign of support.

The mainstream media-political-corporate alliance that shilled for the 73 is one of the greatest frauds in OC history. At one point the road was supposed to cost less than $500 million. If the TCA borrows more money from Wall Street, the final cost of the project could someday easily exceed $15 billion. Talk about cost overruns...

The toll road was sold to the public as a way to decrease traffic congestion on the 405 and 5 freeways. It was a lie. The road was built at the request of Irvine Co. boss and political giant Donald Bren and his real estate development pals.

If the road has accomplished anything, it's this: it allowed Bren & Co. to green light dozens and dozens of residential and commercial projects they planned next to the passage. Massive amounts of new traffic from those developments quickly caused congestion on the road that was supposed to end congestion. Duh.

The same brain trust that sold us the 73 toll road wants to build another 16-mile toll road in South County.

If officials at the TCA, TCS, TCMP or ASSBREED continue their push for another publicly financed, private owned road (Wall Street investment houses are the owners until they bleed the road dry), at least be honest. It won't be to alleviate traffic. It will be to build more cookie cutter homes.

As the world continues to react to yesterday's LA Times column by sports god Mike Penner about his decision to become Christine Daniels, leave it to Orange County to dick (pardon the pun) with her courageous story. Daily Pilot publisher Tom Johnson used his column today to announce changes in the Times' Newport Beach-Costa Mesa daily embarrasment and couldn't resist the opportunity for a dig at Daniels. "And, by the way, if you hear that I'm vacationing to Ireland in the next couple of weeks, know it's just for some golf and relaxation. I'll still be coming back as the same old Tom Johnson," the grinning fool snarks. Listen, pendejo: the least you can do is show some restraint in dealing with a colleague who's so much higher in the Times' hierarchy than you that she could sneeze on you and you'd think it's rain. But really: you should grovel at her feet and beg she doesn't slug you in disgust. To paraphrase that gay guy in Car Wash: Christine is more man than you'll ever be, and more woman than you'll ever get.

But Johnson's insult against Daniels is far from the worst information in his column. Apparently, Page One--the hallowed section of any daily paper, the place where reporters reserve the best, the most explosive news of the day--will now host a weather box. A fucking weather box. What's worse, each day will feature a new kiddie artist. Really, Johnson: do you have so little respect for your reporters that you're allowing the paper to become the county's version of The Mini-Page?

Highly reliable law enforcement sources gave OC Weekly access to audio tape recordings from Sunday's police killing of two guests at the ritzy Laguna Beach Montage Resort & Spa.

The audio reveals that the city's police officers repeatedly pleaded with Kevin and Joni Park to put down a gun they'd brought to their $2,200-a-night oceanfront bungalow. Both ignored the police orders. Oddly, the woman even asked officers to call police.

The officers, who must have been spooked, told Joni that they were the police. But their word apparently meant nothing. The nude 48-year-old woman, who was covered in sun tan lotion, refused to put down her gun and screamed for the cops to shoot her. Multiple shots were heard as she fell to the hotel room floor.

If the audio accurately depicts the event, the shooting was likely legitimate. The question remains: Why did the Laguna Beach police stonewall for so long about what happened? It seems they had nothing to hide.

The second unfolding mystery had been: Who were the two celebrities staying at the Montage during the shooting? Sources say David Sedaris and Tom Selleck.

Gustavo's note: Today, LA Times sports reporter Mike Penner announced he was undergoing a sex-change operation and returning in a couple of weeks as a woman. Here is Weekly theater critic Joel Beers' take on it...

Nearly 20 years ago, when I was a fledgling professional journalist at my first paid gig at Orange County's last daily afternoon newspaper, the Anaheim Bulletin, I wrote a piece exploring the media's role, if any, in the suicide of former Angels closer Donnie Moore. It was my first "big" story for the paper, and I was understandably nervous interviewing people whose baseball cards I still owned: Reggie Jackson, Bert Blyleven, Carlton Fisk.

I worked hard on the story, and was proud of it. And that pride was vindicated when co-worker John Penner casually remarked to me after the piece came out that Mike Penner, his brother and LA Times Angels' beat writer, had told him it was one of the best pieces that he'd ever read in the Bulletin. (I believe Mike wrote for the Bulletin before moving on to the Times).

For a novice journalist, it was just about the greatest compliment I could ever have received.
As a daily reader of the Times sports page over the years, I've obviously read Penner's writing—and not just because he once gave me a wondrous third-party ego stroke. I just always liked the spark in his writing, his wit and his use of language. And I always wondered why he seemed to bounce from beat to beat but never got what would seem to me the choicest of assignment: columnist.

Penner's done a lot: covered the Olympics, wrote about media, NFL lead writer. But, after 23 years, it'd seem he'd be a dean of the Times sports section as opposed to just another very good writer in a section that has a lot of them. (His most recent post is Morning Briefing, which is a fun read, but still a bit slight for a writer of such talent).

But the bombshell he dropped in today's Times is as provocative, stunning and just flat-out jaw-dropping as anything I've ever read in a sports page. Penner, reciting the many roles and titles he's played in his 23-year tenure at the Times, says that he's going on vacation. When he returns, he'll come back in yet another incarnation: Christine Daniels. Penner reports that he's a transsexual sportswriter and that, after 40 years, "a million tears" and "hundreds of hours of soul-wrenching therapy" he's made the monumental decision to come out in print.

He doesn't give many details: whether he'll undergo surgery, whether he fears being ostracized in the newsroom or in a locker room, why he's changing both his first and last names. And he doesn't "need" to, since it's his body, his identity and all that.

But, since he/she did use the Times sports page as his official unveiling, it's natural to hope that some kind of update on the transformation, or process, will be forthcoming. He says that, "almost universally" friends and colleagues have been supportive. But sportswriters cover sports, which remains a testosterone-riddled, hairy-chest-dominated world. While there is no shortage of pretty feminine faces on NFL sidelines, TV sports anchor chairs and the like, they remain anomalies in a field absolutely dominated by men. Men who mostly cover other men in a protracted state of arrested development and who, one surmises, revel in a locker room mentality that might promote snapping towels at a colleague's private parts but who would blanch at the prospect of a thoughtful, measured discussion of sexual identity, gender identity and all the complications thereof. In other words: Penner will return to a good old boys club as a woman. But a woman with a big-ass asterisk in the world of sports and sportswriting.

Good luck to him/her. It took extraordinary courage to take this incredibly personal decision and write about it in one of the most public of forums. As someone who's followed his career for so long, I'm obviously fascinated by how he progresses. But I'm equally fascinated by how this agonizing struggle, and apparently liberating decision, has affected Lisa Dillman, Penner's wife the Times' main Olympics writer. She isn't mentioned in today's column, but maybe it's too sensitive a point. I don't know. [Editor's note: Dillman recently announced she's divorcing Penner.] But they still work together at the Times, and whether it's some weird sort of morbid curiosity or genuine concern, I'd love to know her take on all this. What's it like to live with a man who constantly wrestled with his gender and, compounding that, what's it like to be a female sportswriter married to a male sportswriter who wasn't so male after all? How much agony did she go through in the marriage, and in this decision process? Does she feel cheated in any way? What's it like to fall in love and marry a man who secretly wrestled with being a woman? It's salacious, yes, but also profoundly interesting. And these are writers. Good writers. And it'd be a great read.

Not that any of us "deserve" to know. It's obviously personal and private. But the fact Penner/Daniels has come out in public print, puts it in the public eye. And as awkward, uncomfortable and superfluous as this incredibly personal story might play on a sports page, it's still a fascinating one. While I'll be the first to pre-order Penner/Daniels' autobiography, I hope this isn't the last readers hear of this incredible story.

T. J. Simers writes ad nauseam about his family in his frequently engaging column, but not since Jim Murray's heartbreaking testimonials 25 years ago on his failing eyesight and the death of his beloved wife, has a sports column in the Times felt at intimate and naked as this one. The Times, for all its problems, still has one of the best-written and most comprehensive sports sections in the country. It's also suddenly—jaw-droppingly so—gotten far more interesting.

During his interview with OC Weekly, Austin touched on numerous subjects beyond his new movie career. There wasn't room enough to cover all of them in print; here, for the fans, he offers up some additional uncensored opinions.

On rumors of a WWE-brand beer: Oh, we were going to come out with a beer. And then we were in the middle of research & development and I even went down to Rochester, NY, to the place where we was gonna make the beer and participated in some of the testing and tasting and stuff like that. I can't remember what happened back then, but there was a difference of opinions between, I guess, me and Vince [McMahon] at the time, and we never came out with it, but were certainly going to. You never know… Maybe there's one down the road.

Kicking Donald Trump's ass at WrestleMania: Donald Trump was a class act. I think him doing business was good for us, and him doing business with us was good for him. It was to his credit that he took a Stone Cold Stunner. I take my hat off to the guy. He was wonderful to work with.

That scene in The Longest Yard where he beats Nelly up and uses the N-word: It was a very uncomfortable situation, because in using the language that I used, there was obviously a little bit of tension on the set. But that's what the script called for and that's what we did. It got a little old pretty quick. But it was all for the movie, and everybody after that point was happy-go-lucky again, but it was a tough day at the office.

Working with former WWE wrestler Nathan Jones again, this time onscreen: You know, Nathan Jones was a big Stone Cold fan. I remember when he came to WWE, he would stand in the middle of the ring before Monday Night Raw and he'd cut promos on me that he'd memorized for years and years and years. And when I went to Australia, there was Nathan Jones, he's trying to cut that same promo verbatim, word for word. It was incredible. It was funny. Nathan was a sweetheart of a guy… he's 6'11", 320 lbs. Yeah, we turned it up, when it was just me and him, we turned it up because we were both from the background that we have. Everybody else was treated with a little more care but me and Nathan Jones went at each other. But we took care of each other.

His "WHAT?" catchphrase, and how to counteract it: You know, there's a deal with that. I had so much fun doing that. Who would have known that it would have turned into what it would have turned into? All you do, if you're cutting a promo and don't want that "What!?!" chant to happen is you just change your cadence. You take out that little hesitation, that little pause, you don't give 'em room to insert that "What!?!"… and you continue accordingly. That's all there is too it. Pick up the cadence and hold back on the pauses.

Fellow Texan beer-guzzler and Smackdown superstar John "Bradshaw" Layfield: Let me tell you somethin'. We've been on so many overseas tours, where we're ridin' that tour bus and everybody's kind of goin' to sleep or playin' video games and me and ol' JBL are sittin' there sluggin' 'em back. And lemme tell ya somethin'… we never turned it into a contest because it would have been too brutal, but he's a guy who enjoys his beers just like I do. And when you're on tour, you're supposed to drink beer! That's what pro wrestling's all about! And he's a great, great drinking partner and I love to listen to him do his commentary on Smackdown. I think the guy's hilarious.

Potential wrestling mega-stars of the future: It remains to be seen. Right now, if Ken Kennedy can put it together, he's the guy that can do it. Right now, John Cena's doing wonderful, but at my level? He's not there… he's doing wonderful where he's at. But my level was the highest level that it's ever been and I don't see that happening in the near future. I want it to happen, though, especially for the lucky individual that it happens to.

Current WWE champion John Cena, and the mixed reaction he gets from fans: It's interesting. I've got respect for the guy, for the shoes that he's walking in. The girls and the kids love him, but your older guys seem to boo him. That being said, I don't care what they do… he's still their top guy. Right now, he's their top guy by far. To me, he's carrying the company and I think he's really responsible for the huge youth movement that they're seeing right now. Lots of kids. Probably the biggest kid fanbase that they've had in a long time. And he's great business for corporate sponsors, because he's got the good image, he says the right things, he looks the right way. He's got a lot going on for himself.

Brock Lesnar, "The Next Big Thing": He could have been, but he dropped the ball and decided he wanted to play football and was tired of livin' on the road. I like Brock. I wish him well. If he's happy with his decision, then more power to him. I tend to think that he'd like to come back.

The Rock's claim that it's important to lose as many matches as you win, to create a sense of jeopardy: First of all, that's bullshit. The Rock never went up to Vince McMahon and said, "I need to lose more matches." Ever. Now, I will say that when I first came to this company as The Ring Master, I got beat like a drum… and deservedly so. I was a nobody, I was a mechanic. And I was a guy… I could have good matches with top guys, but top guys needed to beat me. I loved being in the ring with The Rock. I have nothing bad to say about him, and nothing but good things to say about him, but let me tell you somethin'… there's no way that Rock ever went to Vince and said, "I need to lose more matches, so that people will think there's some jeopardy." I will guarantee you that.

Wearing a suit for the Hall of Fame, after refusing to ever do so in character: You go to the Hall of Fame, and I'm so happy to go every year, because of my love for the business and my respect for the guys who paved the way for cats like me and everybody else… Stone Cold Steve Austin is never gonna be a corporate guy in a WWE storyline. But in showing respect to the guys that were the best of the best, I'll wear a tuxedo any day of the week, to get out there and hang out with those guys, pay my respects and certainly, above and beyond, to be able to induct somebody into the Hall of Fame. It's a very big honor to be a part of that. You have to act and dress accordingly.

Former WCW head honcho Eric Bischoff,who fired him for not being marketable enough, and now says Austin should thank him for it: Well, I was mad when they fired me, but it was the best thing that ever happened to me. And he's right. Me and Eric buried the hatchet a long time ago. We're not around each other anymore, but when he was up on Monday Night Raw, Eric likes to drink beer, so we'd always have a few drinks after Monday Night Raw. The guy did what he needed to do back then, thought he needed to do and… they walked out, and it went really well for me. So I have absolutely no hard feelings towards Eric. He's actually a real funny guy.

The revived, McMahon-owned ECW: You know, I love all of the programming that the WWE tries to do, but it's such a diluted product from the original idea. That being said, the original idea being as violent and aggressive as it was, you know, I don't know how you run a promotion like that. I'm just glad that they've still got a show and the guys are still out there, getting a benefit from it, getting some TV time. I think there are guys that are always gonna have that kind of a ring style that's more conducive to a show like ECW, moreso than the traditional storytelling style, like a Ric Flair. So I think it's a good platform for a lot of guys, but certainly not too reminiscent of the original ECW...I'll never forget the day after I got fired from WCW. Paul Heyman was on the phone the next day. "Steve, come up here and go to work for us." "I can't, Paul. My arm's hurt." "You ain't gotta work, just come over and cut promos." "Really?" "Yeah!" There I was, the next week. Phildelphia. ECW was a good place for me. Someone finally put a microphone in front of my face and gave me camera time. Paul E. Dangerously, one of the best promos ever cut. He's puttin' me in front of the camera and says, "Go ahead." I said, "Well, I don't know what to talk about." He goes, "Just talk." And I did. We're coming out with a new DVD, coming out at Christmas, and there should be some of the promos I'm talking about on there. Things that were a big part of the Stone Cold that was yet to come. And Paul E. Dangerously, we used to travel together, me, him, Rick Rude. I loved the psychology of the business, his great mind and he was always good to me and ECW was a great place for me. And I'm grateful that he gave me that opportunity because it helped me to get into the WWF.

TNA wrestling, and their six-sided ring: I think that shape of ring… Strike that… I don't like that shape one bit. It just ain't pro wrestling. I enjoy people tryin' things, but when things ain't workin', retry or go back to what wrestling was made to be, in a 4-sided ring. The old squared circle. That's what people wanna see. That's what pro wrestling is. Put Ric Flair in that ring. Could he have a match? Yeah, but I don't wanna see Ric Flair in a ring like that. I dunno what Dusty Rhodes'd do in a ring like that or Jake the Snake Roberts. I damn sure don't know what I'd do in it. That being said, I wish TNA luck, because I want competition. But I think if they got rid of that ring and went to a squared ring, they could have more success. And I'm glad those guys have jobs and I wish 'em all safe health, good health and lots of money. And I wish all the people behind TNA all the success in the world, because competition's only gonna make them better and the WWE better and it's gonna give more boys more jobs.

Party animal/prostitute/tree trimmer Gregory Pisarcik had hoped an OC jury would see him as the victim of his, well, dead victim, a retired gay INS agent. It didn't work out that way. More and more, juries here aren't buying the "gay panic" defense, and now the 28-year-old killer is in prison. But good news comes to those who wait.

Last week, the state court of appeal based in Santa Ana overturned Superior Court Judge Frank F. Fasel's sentencing decision. The appellate court said Fasel must reward Pisarcik two days of credit for time served in the OC Jail before he was shipped to prison. We can only guess what Pisarcik would do with those two new days of freedom.

In 2002, he picked up Narciso Leggs at a Laguna Beach gay bar, went with him to Leggs' Tustin apartment, stripped and then proved Hannibal Lecter a cuddly kitten. He viciously clubbed, hogtied, mutilated, robbed and then murdered the 55-year-old known for his sweet disposition and charitable attitude. Pisarcik wrote "FAGS DIE" on Leggs' back, shoved a huge industrial flashlight deep into his rectum, cut off his ears and urinated on the dying man. Next, he walked to the kitchen refrigerator, got something to eat and showered, forensic evidence proved.

Days after the killing, Ventura County cops saw Pisarcik driving Leggs' car. A dramatic, televised highway chase ended at a farm with the defendant surrounded, threatening suicide and smoking a final bowl of meth. When he was caputured, he told police, "Don't put me in with the homos. I'm not a homo. That's why I killed him. I am not a homo."

Of course, life now for Pisarcik is nothing but raining men. Even worse, the two days' credit the court awarded him is essentially meaningless. Judge Fasel had sentenced him to life in prison without the possibility of parole plus two years.

Now the punishment is life plus one year and 363 days.

Pisarcik had also asked the justices to overturn his conviction because of alleged "insufficiency of evidence" and prosecutorial misconduct by Deputy District Attorney Matt Murphy—one of the best homicide prosecutors in California. The state court entertained those arguments too, and then quickly dismissed them.

Don't miss out on Satoshi Kon's newest anime masterpiece, tonight at 7 p.m. at the Lido Theater, a full month before anyone else in the country gets to see it.

More info here, but it looks like tickets are only available at the box office, not online.

And no, Satoshi didn't pay us to plug his flick. It's just that damn good.

At the insistence of John Barnett, OC 's legendary defense lawyer, a San Bernardino County judge refused to allow opening statements Monday in the jury trial of Raymond K. Yi, a former OC reserve deputy who faces six felony charges for a 2005 gun-related temper tantrum on a golf course.

Barnett, famous for his defense in the Rodney King police brutality case and the Greg Haidl gang rape trials, urged a mistrial because of the potential "inflammatory nature" of the Seung-Hui Cho killing spree last week at Virginia Tech.

Yi--who is accused of threatening to kill other golfers--is also a native of South Korea.

But Barnett says comparisons aren't legitimate because Yi--who got his sheriff's department powers based on personal ties to Sheriff Mike Carona--had an excuse for showing his reserve badge, pulling a gun on a group of other golfers and promising to use it: he feared for his own safety.

The unarmed golfers who faced Yi's gun barrel have told a different story. They said Yi acted like a madman in an emotional meltdown.

The judge delayed the case for at least six weeks.

If convicted, Yi faces a maximum prison sentence of 10 years.

A guilty verdict wouldn't necessarily block Yi from future public service. If history is any clue, Yi could soon become an Orange County assistant sheriff or head of the reserve unit. Carona appointed Don Haidl (father of gang rapist Greg Haidl) an assistant sheriff despite the used car salesman's, uh, colorful background that includes three state corruption investigations.

George Jaramillo, Carona's longtime best friend and appointed No. 2 at the OCSD for six years, is now in jail for public corruption.

In 1999, Carona pal Jack Hanshaw--owner of an Orange County liquor store chain and a secret, major Carona donor for years--was fined $200,000 for attempting to bribe a federal court official. (Hanshaw is a "wonderful man," the sheriff's Yes Men insist.)

In 2000, the Las Vegas police vice squad arrested a member of Carona's handpicked dignitary protection unit (actually the sheriff's spy outfit) for soliciting a street whore.

In 2005, another Carona pal, a Las Vegas restaurant owner--was forced to return his official badge and gun not because of his mafia associations but because the media discovered he'd angrily tried to use his badge to illegally park in Newport Beach.

Defense lawyer Joseph G. Cavallo, Carona's drinking pal and a partner with Barnett in the Haidl rape case, faces trial this summer for somehow having the influence to operate an illegal inmate kickback scheme inside Carona's OC Jail.

Last year, California's generous attorney general agreed to dropped 16 charges against Carona Capt. Christine Murray if she performed community service chores for illegally pressuring public employees to deposit money in Carona's campaign account.

Weeks later, a member of Carona's secretive dignitary protection unit committed suicide after he was approached by state police investigators for dirt on OCSD shenanigans. Before he put the gun to his head, the last website he visited was my story detailing Carona's pictured association with Rick Rizzolo, a Las Vegas titty bar owner and now a convicted felon with impressive Italian American mob ties, according to multiple law enforcement sources.

Fourteen months ago, a foreign convicted felon with alleged ties to a high-priced auto theft ring crashed a $1.2 million Ferrari on PCH in Malibu while driving 162 miles per hour. At the time, Bo Stefan Eriksson also possessed a handgun belonging to the Orange County Sheriff's Department. One of Carona's reserve deputies, Roger Davis--a Newport Beach businessman--was friends with Eriksson.

Charles Gabbard--a convicted murderer, robber, thief and Carona breakfast partner--narrowly avoided charges for depositing $40,000 in illegal campaign contributions in Carona's campaign account after getting our sheriff to write an official letter endorsing a Gabbard invention. District Attorney Tony Rackauckas, who shares his top political strategist with the sheriff, also let Carona escape potential bribery charges for the transaction.

I'm sure it's a coincidence that many of the numerous Carona-related scandals involve money (or sex). Not that this may interest the local U.S. Attorney's office or Santa Ana FBI--the public's only hope for honest government evaluation of Carona's reign. To date, their indepth investigations into the sheriff's operations, pals and money flow has been all talk, no action. Then again, perhaps Carona is a squeaky clean politician who should have our sympathy for his inability to pick honest friends and assistants.

The best place to drink heavily at Fashion Island is...Red Robin. Unexpected, right? But a Jack-and-Diet there will run you $4.79 plus tax, and it comes in a full-size glass. Don't ask why the price is so strangely to-the-penny; just enjoy the fact that it's a cocktail cheaper than many beers. Other cocktails are similarly good value; a rather picky diner specified the ingredients he wanted in a Zombie, and ended up paying just $6, slices of fruit and all. But then he left half of it behind.

I'm not proud to admit I finished it after he left (with the bartender's encouragement, but that's no excuse). Needed the vitamin C from that orange slice and cherry (that is an excuse. Kind of a poor one, but it is, all the same).

In another liquor-related issue: it turns out that there hadn't been Absolut Vodka at the preceding parties because OCMA doesn't have a liquor license to cover anything more than wine and beer...and yet, last night's party was at American Rag, a clothing store, and vodka was being freely poured. Are we to understand that a clothing store has a liquor license that a museum can't get? Apparently.

The main movie of the night, previously much anticipated, was The ArtFusion Experiment, a film by and about tattoo artist Paul Booth, a guy who looks about 300 pounds, with an inked, mostly shaved head that has a small grouping of long dreads hanging out the very back, like a jack to plug him into the Matrix. The experiment mentioned in the title is one of collaborative, spontaneous art, where like minds get together and draw freehand, improvised images as a team. This can be done in tattoo form, or on paper – as previously mentioned here, Booth and company demonstrated their art the night before, on a willing victim.

Booth is great at what he does, and indeed he and other tattoo artists deserve to be recognized by the art world. With that said, the film isn't very good at all. It's possible to agree with every point it raises while wishing that it had more of a story arc, or had been better lit, or had maybe been made by someone other than its own subject. As a home movie, it beats "Dad grilling burgers in the backyard last summer," but as a theatrical movie, it's not worth paying for. Sorry, Kerry King of Slayer – it's cool you produced it and all, and you're playing to the choir here, but I'm just not digging the tune.

Someone still should do a documentary on tattooing – there's a huge market for it, judging by the inked crowd who turned out to a mall multiplex they'd likely never go near any other time. They deserve a good movie. Go make one.

We love KOCE-TV Channel 50, watch it for television genius (and Orange County Business Journal editor) Rick Reiff's wonderful coif, the in-depth author interviews conducted by Maria Hall-Brown, and the Register-friendly worldview of Real Orange. So it pains us to discover that KOCE president Mel Rogers is apparently a doofus.

In the latest issue of business mag OC 360, Rogers penned an article about Orange County's role in shaping America. "The soul of Orange County can be sought its history (yes, we have history)," Rogers begins. He goes on to claim, "Orange County is truly the prototype for the America of tomorrow. Its innovations and achievements, recognized or not, are or have been of national significance." From there, Rogers lists some accomplishments that prove our "subtle, almost viral impact on the rest of America."

We agree with Rogers' thesis--but the man gets most of his facts wrong. For instance, Rogers claims Orange County made surfing a "sport" and "created the industry and the youth oriented sports culture" now surrounding surfing. Sure, local businesses Quiksilver, Roxy, Hurley and many others branded the sport, but has Rogers ever heard of the Beach Boys or Duke Kahanamoku? Fullerton's Leo Fender wasn't the "father" of the electric guitar as Rogers says; sure, Fender's Stratocaster revolutionized rock 'n' roll, but the Fullerton luthier didn't invent the plug-in axe--that would've been Adolph Rickenbacker. And Rogers dismisses Knott's Berry Farm as "little more than donkey rides and fried chicken dinners" before the arrival of Disneyland, when any serious student of Orange County history knows full well Walter Knott had already rebuilt a ghost town and an old railroad to entertain folks on his Buena Park farm during the early 1950s.

But Rogers' most laughable entry is on our role in shaping the New Right. KOCE's head asserts that the American conservative movement "languished" until the John Birch Society moved from "Appleton, Minnesota" to Orange County. Besides getting the wrong Appleton (the Birchers remain based in Appleton, Wisconsin), Rogers messes up on the evolution of the far-right group. The JBS never relocated its headquarters from the Midwest to our land of plenty, and to attribute the rise of conservativism in OC to out-of-staters disregards such local conservative icons as James Utt, Walter Knott, the Catholic Church and Robert Schuller.

And speaking of Schuller, Rogers misspells the Crystal Cathedral founder's name by using one "l." Twice. Double d'oh!

Initial media reports about Sunday's improbable double killing at a ritzy Laguna Beach resort didn't mention who did the killing.

Call me jaded, but that's odd. Always pause when journalists fail to provide answers to the basics: Who? What? When? Where? How? In this case, the Who? and the How? were missing or wrong. Oops.

Based on Sgt. Jason Kravetz, a Laguna Beach police spokesman, first reports in the Orange County Register suggested that a "wild . . . crazy" married couple may have perished by murder-suicide in a $2,200-a-night bungalow at Montage Resort & Spa about an hour after sunrise.

That false version about the fate of Kevin and Joni Park—a Mission Viejo couple who owned a real estate firm—lasted for half a day.

By late Sunday afternoon the police story had changed. In her 4 p.m. Coastline Pilot story, Barbara Diamond wrote that "a middle-aged couple died Sunday in a room at the Montage Resort & Spa after gunshots were fired."

Note the Mayflower moving truck-sized room for ambiguity in Diamond's sentence. You have to wonder if she'd cover a highway road rage killing by writing, "A couple died after getting into a car."

But the murder-suicide ruse slowly faded. Kravetz told Diamond, "At this time I cannot confirm who shot who or even if the man and woman are dead from gun shot wounds."

Kravetz made that statement knowing precisely who shot who and with what, and the local media played along with the deceit.

Crafty Montage officials enhanced the misleading BS through late Sunday night. They issued a press release claiming "there was a fatal domestic dispute involving two guests." And what role did the cops play in the incident? According to the statement, it was simple: "The officers quickly secured the guest room and the surrounding area."

See? It's safe again. Come back and check out our Epicurean Adventure room specials! Starting price for the three-night package is just $25,000!

In the Monday morning Register version of the story, Kravetz finally identified the shooters: cops in his own department.

And he added, "Fearing for their own lives and the lives of other visitors and hotel guests, the officers ordered the person [the woman] to drop the weapon, and only fired after the person failed to do so."

If the truth was otherwise, surely the police can be counted on to tell us.

Ponder this: You could fly from California to the other side of the planet in the time it took the officers to drip bits of the truth about how their colleagues allegedly killed the couple.

So now we've got an explanation why one of the two was killed, though it's still a state secret how many bullets were fired into the hotel room or how many struck the couple.

For all I know the shooting was righteous. But why did they kill the man too?

Back to the Kravetz: "Apparently, he had it [the gun] at some point, too, and pointed it at the officers."

Hmmm.

In a Monday press conference, the story evolved further. The police released one-sided information damning the couple. The dead couple had had the audacity to possess a weapon and--I quote here from the Reg--"a box of documents," although Kravetz "would not say what type of documents were found."

Holy shit, Batman. Documents. In a box. Shoot to kill!

More to the point, Laguna Beach police also claimed "the couple took turns aiming" the gun at officers before they were shot, according to an LA Times report.

I've covered crime for two decades, and that's a new one.

Perhaps the woman pointed the gun at officers, got shot, and on the way to death, tossed the weapon to her husband, who grabbed it, aimed it back at officers and was gunned down before he could shoot.

You know, like how Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt performed a similar stunt in Mr. & Mrs. Smith.

2:30 p.m.: Arrive at Fashion Island, having gotten the proper directions this time, and only had to make one drastic, corrective U-turn. Find the courtesy lounge. Marvel at the array of free brownies and donuts. Despair that there is no free booze...and considering the lounge closes at 6, there probably won't be.

2:45 p.m.: Have lunch at Wahoo's Fish Tacos -- "wet" burrito with green sauce. Register severe disappointment when said sauce turns out to be made not from green chilies, but some kind of cilantro and sour cream concoction. Finish burrito as a single tear of disappointment slowly ambles down my cheek.

3:30 p.m.: First movie of the day: Heather Henson's Puppet Dreams III, a compilation of new puppet shorts put together by Jim Henson's daughter. Some of the shorts are utterly incomprehensible (Susan Simpson's "Boll Weevil Days"), some pretty damn funny (Jeanne Stern's "Les Maloventures de Zut-Alors," Richard Mansfield's "The Tale of Mr. Fox"), one is like an extended Tool video (Paul Kloss & Matt Acheson's "Sin Eater"), and one is perhaps the best 4.5 minutes committed to celluloid all year -- a Brazilian film entitled "Tyger," in which a large tiger rampages Godzilla-style through a major city, and in his wake the city turns into a jungle and people are transformed into animals. Gorgeous stuff from director Guilherme Marcondes. Before the movie started, however, we got a whole bunch of commercials again. Note to fest: this is overkill, and counter-productive, because I now hate Karl Strauss beer's ad so much that I will never buy one. It's fine to introduce each film by thanking the sponsors, and completely expected to begin with several title cards listing all sponsor names and logos (might wanna check the spelling of "Chipotle," though). But in between that, to have commercials for a Jaguar dealership, Absolut vodka, the OC Post, Central Park West Apartments, Karl Strauss, and a twofer ad for Farmer's Merchant Bank and Body Glove? Too much. Filmgoers, you might want to think about coming in ten minutes late, as long as you've secured tickets earlier.

5 p.m.: Need a drink. Decide, in the interests of journalism, that Absolut's new premium brand "Level" needs to be sampled. Find bar inside restaurant that shall not be named. Note the irony that bartender needs stepladder to go up a level to secure bottle of Level. Taste Level, figure out that tagline "beyond smooth" is more or less accurate -- Level is sweet and doesn't burn at all. Feel craving for apple martini, and hope to try it with new Absolut Pears, but notice latter unavailable. Drink more anyway. Get frustrated that there are two bartenders, only four customers at the bar, but service is super-slow nonetheless. Angrily leave a mere 10% tip. That'll learn 'em!

6 p.m.: Check out Broken English, a Zoe Cassavetes film about how hard it is for Parker Posey to find a good man in New York. You can tell it's a Cassavetes film because everyone smokes and drinks constantly, but obviously not a John Cassavetes film because they don't seem especially damaged by such behavior. Also, there's a plot. Posey's dating woes ring painfully true to some of us, except that in real life she probably has no such troubles, but then the movie decides that the perfect solution is to hook up with a skinny French guy who's passionate about women in a way that no mere American mortal can ever be. Great, keep stoking that fantasy in women's minds; bad enough that most of us already don't live up to their high standards. Most unintentionally funny scene is when Posey is on a date with a pretentious actor (Justin Theroux) -- they go to a really fancy sushi place, but appear to be eating California roll and dyed-pink ginger. Any serious high-end sushi chef would have kicked them both to the curb the moment they asked for a roll of any kind.

7:30 p.m.: Go to mall food court. Get free samples from every stand. Buy nothing. Leave satisfied.

8:00 p.m.: Wonder why almost everything is closed at 8 p.m. on a Saturday. Go to Borders (open late). Flip through Entertainment Weekly's summer preview. Start thinking about OC Weekly's summer preview. Breathe sigh of relief remembering the deadline is some weeks off yet.

8:30 p.m.: It's time for Death Note, most anticipated film of the fest (by me). Movie does not disappoint. Japanese horror-comedy-cop flick about a young law student named Light who finds a book created by Ryuuk, god of death. Write anyone's name in the book, and they die. If you like, you can be really specific about how they die, but the only catch is you have to know the person's real name and what they look like. Light decides to play vigilante, and starts offing the world's criminals, which catches the attention of the cops and a mysterious mastermind named "L." Meanwhile, Ryuuk, who's 9 feet tall, and looks like an F.W. Murnau rendition of David Bowie playing the Joker, just hangs out with Light, eating apples and being invisible to everyone else. Bonus points for having the Red Hot Chili Peppers' "Dani California" play over the end credits for no discernible reason. Movie is over two hours, ends inconclusively, and leaves you wanting more. Fortunately, the sequel screens tonight.

Also, part one screens again on Tuesday at the Lido Regency. No US DVD release is set yet, but a Hollywood remake would seem inevitable. Just don't lose Ryuuk -- he's awesome and a toy of him needs to be made. Maybe a Beanie Baby.

10:15 p.m.: Attend after-party at OCMA. Enjoy four bowls of free pasta. Realize only available beer is Karl Strauss, creator of annoying movie ads. Rationalize it's okay if it's free, because none of this writer's money is going to them.

10:40 p.m. Check out ongoing performance art piece -- three tattoo artists collaborating and improvising a new design on the leg of one lucky victim. It's a skull. Big surprise. What, you expected they'd draw a teddy bear or something?

Midnight: Hit the dance floor. Enjoy the moment as attractive woman ropes me into threesome dance with her man, who gets gay-panic when she does so.

1 a.m.: Leave sober, having only had two Strauss beers and not enjoyed them much. Not because of any ad-based bias; just more of a liquor kinda guy.

Every two years Ysa D. Le and the volunteers at the Vietnamese International Film Festival do an extraordinary job showcasing the latest in Vietnamese film talent. As residents of Orange County we are blessed to have this weeklong event based here. If you're interested, hop over to UCI on Sunday. The last set of films begins at noon. There is an awards ceremony at 6 and the world premiere of Dust of Life at 7 p.m.

Congratulations for another great festival to Ysa, To-Phuong Tran, Jenni Trang Le, Linda Trinh Vo, Helena Tran and Hang Nguyen.

Never trust Moviefone's directions. As an OC noob, I actually expected to get the correct map to Edwards Island Theaters, but the step-by-step instructions left me in the middle of Newport Beach before giving up. Fortunately, I found the Lido Theater, and the owner was more than happy to give me directions for a small fee of $25 that he waived (just for me, I'm sure).

So I made it to the theater well on time -- though a rather odd planning quirk of the festival meant that the will-call desk and the press desk were each on opposite sides of a teeming throng of rich people (dress code was specified as "black-tie optional," so like every other day of my life, I exercised the option not to wear one). This wouldn't be so bad if I had known precisely which desk to go to, or if the people at the desks themselves didn't keep telling me I should be at the other one. But we worked it out, and I only had to push through the throng three times or so.

Nobody ever cares about the opening speeches at film festivals, but here's a synopsis for those who weren't there:

Greg Schwenk, festival director (paraphrased): "Hundreds of people helped make this happen, and I shall thank each and every one of them by name right now!"

Sports Agent Guy, allegedly the basis for Jerry Maguire, and whose name I've forgotten already: "One day this festival is going to be bigger than Sundance and Cannes!"

Chad Lowe (synopsis): "Hey, I'd come down here more often, but man, that freeway traffic sure is bad! Cannes and Sundance are way too corporate. You guys have a purer love of film." The man knows his cheap pops, and we welcomed them.

Then, what sucked is that even though Greg Schwenk had already named every single sponsor, we got commercials for each one on the big screen. Hope that doesn't happen at every screening. It was longer than your average TV commercial break. But finally, Chad Lowe's movie Beautiful Ohio started.

Review to come. For now, let's talk about the after-party, held in the courtyard of the Fashion island mall outside Bloomingdale's, which had installed a runway and prepared a fashion show of some kind for us that nobody seemed to pay much attention to.

 Every year around film festival season, Absolut Vodka busts out a new flavor, and this year it's pear, which is their best choice since Kurant. Unfortunately, there wasn't a wide variety of mixers -- an apple martini made with Absolut Pears ought to be good, and I always like trying flavored vodka with Coke, but no, just cranberry, orange, and soda here. Cranberry works okay, subsuming its flavor almost totally to the almighty pear.

Food = outstanding. I've been to many festivals where some fancy restaurant is advertised as the caterer, only to have them serve just the three crappiest things on their menu (the worst ever was one party I shall not name where all they gave us was polenta, a cheese biscuit, and some endive thing, each totally flavorless and supposedly made by a great restaurant).

Anyway: tuna tartare with wasabi cream. Crab cakes and sea scallops. A chocolate fountain with mochi dippers. And some awesome white trash food too -- pulled pork barbecue, and deep-fried macaroni and cheese. It seems that anything, even county-fair-type food, can be made swanky if you serve it on a black plastic plate and stick a toothpick in it. Not that I'm complaining; the barbecue odor brought back pleasant memories of my uncle's restaurant in southwest Virginia. The only difficulty is trying to eat all this stuff standing up.

At the Thai food booth, I asked the guy what he was serving. "No question, just eat!" he yelled back. "If you like, come back for more and I tell you!" As a fan of live sushi, I was mildly miffed that he didn't trust me to eat weird food...and disappointed when I came back and he told me it was chicken and tamarind-flavored noodles.

Biggest celebrity sighting of the night, other than Beautiful Ohio's Chad Lowe and Michelle Trachtenberg: Robert Davi, who'll always be Franz Sanchez from Licence to Kill in my mind. You cannot miss that face.

You've got to wonder how state assemblyman Todd Spitzer--a former Orange County supervisor, prosecutor and LAPD reserve officer--tolerates continual Sacramento BS even within his own Republican Party.

McClatchy news reported today that GOP Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger--who oddly still enjoys The Terminator image--"personally asked" officials at San Quentin Prison to delay construction of a new death chamber that was set to premiere this May.

Schwarzenegger's excuse? Spitzer--rightly frustrated by the new hurdle--speculated to reporters that the Gov made the move to avoid offending Democratic legislators.

Who's girly now?

California's death row--filled with sick monsters who make Hannibal Lecter look like a pussy--is overflowing worse than the 405 and 55 interchange during rush hours.

The state has s-l-o-w-l-y w-a-i-t-e-d to execute many of these death row folks. It's not uncommon for inmates to sit, sleep, play, eat, pose and watch TV for decades. Meanwhile, justice is mocked.

Democrats are reportedly upset that the original costs of the new death chamber have doubled to $725,000. They say they want to talk about it, but somehow I'm guessing that cost isn't really what's bugging them.

Those of us who've seen the handiwork of these killers know this expense is worth triple the price.

Take Anaheim native Eddie Morgan, for example. In 1994--a mere month after his release from prison for a series of vicious Orange County rapes, the undeniably studly Morgan picked up a beautiful Asian woman at a bar near The Block in Orange. He dragged her to an enclosed area next to the outdoor mall's parking lot and then tried to impress Jack the Ripper.

Taking his time, Morgan beat, savagely raped, and then mutilated his 23-year-old victim, Leanora Annette Wong. Much of the horrific murder was captured by a surveillance camera.

You would vomit if I described the crime scene.

Though Morgan begged for mercy at his sentencing, knowledgeable sources told me that he bragged about his savagery to other inmates inside the OC jail.

A judge sentenced him to die for his act more than 4,000 days ago.

Thanks for letting unrepentant psychopaths like Morgan continue to share our oxygen, Gov.

When his alcoholic mother irresponsibly leaves the house for the weekend, eleven-year-old Lenny "borrows" his mother's handgun for some afternoon fun. Annoyed by having to watch over his younger brother Joey, Lenny plays a hideously mean prank, convincingly pretending that he's been shot dead by Joey. Convinced that he has become a murderer, Joey runs away to Coney Island, where his grandfather used to live and work as a sideshow midget. There he begins to eke out a new existence with money collected from recycling soda cans. Meanwhile, Lenny realizes his mistake and starts searching for his sibling.

A remake of the 1953 Academy Award nominee of the same name, this new Little Fugitive updates the story with more profanity and references to dangers like pedophilia, but it also captures a neo-realist spirit that has all but vanished from contemporary cinema, save in the films of David Gordon Green and a few others. Aging carnivals are most often the uninspired backdrops for horror movies, but director Joanna Lipper has done her homework on the history of the place, and makes deft use of old anecdotes accompanied by archival footage, none of which feels like an unnecessary tangent from the main tale. The addition of the boys' incarcerated father, as played by Peter Dinklage, similarly adds to the tale.

I haven't seen the 1953 film, which was apparently quite period-specific; judging by some opinions posted online, fans aren't happy that it has been remade. But even if Lipper's film doesn't measure up to its predecessor, it's still a whole lot better than most of the movies currently playing the multiplex near you.

LITTLE FUGITIVE plays Sunday at noon, at Edwards Island. Tickets and more information HERE

In the late 90s, Orange County Congressman Robert K. Dornan couldn't stop himself from noting his fascination with then-President Bill Clinton. After watching a news clip of Clinton jog in shorts with a Secret Service detail in tow, Dornan quickly transformed into a political Steven Cojocaru, the effeminate red carpet fashion critic who served a wild stint on NBC's Today Show.

The Republican congressman known as the most homophobic member of congress at the time critiqued Clinton's allegedly "silk" jogging shorts as "girly girly." Then Dornan let this slip: Clinton, he said, had "beautiful white doughboy thighs."

After the comment, Loretta Sanchez pounded Dornan for a second time in the 1998 congressional elections.

But it's now clear that there is an eerie connection between the last two Santa Ana/Anaheim/Garden Grove congressional representatives and male thighs.

In the current issue of The Hill, a Washinton, D.C-based newspaper that covers Congress, the following quote is attributed to a supposedly "joking," definitely single (divorced) Sanchez: An extra perk of walking each moring around the National Mall is the chance to watch "Marines run in their short shorts."

We can only guess at the excitement the Democratic congresswoman felt during her trip to Iraq in March.

Southern California's reputation for shallow lives will be enhanced this summer by the Fox Reality Channel. Go Go Luckey Productions (producer of Laguna Beach on MTV) says it plans to place private "confessional booths" in several So Cal bars including the lovely Mosun in Laguna Beach, Anaheim's J.C. Fandango (near Cal State Fullerton) and Hollywood's Cabana Bar.

Club goers--intoxicated? high? just out of jail or fresh from plastic surgery?--will be encouraged to spill their beans to a Fox camera for about 10 minutes. (No word yet if barf bags will be supplied.) Thirty of the most "saucy" spillages will be broadcast on the web channel, foxreality.com, for a national audience beginning May 30.

Watch and drink a shot each time you hear the words "like" or "totally;" and two quick, consecutive shots if you hear, "Oh my gosh!" or "That's insane." If you hear, "Oh my gosh, that's, like, totally insane," you must drink the bottle.

On second thought, this isn't a good idea.

If there's one thing the Anti-Immigrant All-Stars are good at, it's at spinning wild, wacky conspiracies about Mexicans. The latest going around, as I reported last week, was a supposed Mexican shit epidemic plaguing the streets of Dana Point. As the article points out, none of the day laborers interviewed for the story admitted to the dumps, had ever heard of someone defecating, and even agreed anyone who did such a deed should get deported.

But such frankness didn't sway the folks over at ALIPAC (Americans for Legal Immigration Political Action Comittee). They reposted my story today, calling it  "the first time we have received a newspaper article about it that documents this concern." It then provides YouTube links to a "possible illegal alien" caught crapping on a security camera, a George Lopez bit about Mexican farmworkers shitting in produce as part of a plot against America, and a clip of Mexican rock dinosaurs El Tri singing a song about "defecating on America."

YouTube appears to be down at the moment I blog this (probably because of all the traffic caused by that Virginia Tech monster), so I couldn't see the videos in question. But the motivation is clear: all these videos, coupled with my article, are proof of the Mexican shit attack. My only response to ALIPAC: how stupid are you pendejos to be listening to El Tri?

(More to come once those pinche videos work...)

SanTana is a city of many ignoble stats: the country's youngest, most-Latino, most-crowded, most-Spanish speaking big city and also the toughest to live in. One of California's fattest. A mini-Mexico where a campaign sign can hang for months after an election and no one gives a damn. Where gang shootings seem to be a weekly occurrence.

But thanks to Latina Magazine, SanTana can finally boast some good ranking news. This month's issue features a survey of America's 25 healthiest city for Latinas that places SanTana at número 15. Among the surprises: the city has a violent crime rate "39 percent lower than average, relative to population" (according to FBI statistics) but also has one of the lowest college-graduate rates in the country. Other cities of note: Anaheim is #19, Long Beach is #22 and L.A. ranks dead last. Biggest surprise in the survey: Riverside is #5. We love our Latina (full disclosure: your humble wab is a contributor and has a write-up about his book in this month's issue), but the lovely New Yorkers that run the mag obviously haven't visited Sodom-by-the-Desert.

Food critic Jonathan Gold of our sister paper LA Weekly has won a 2007 Pulitzer Prize for criticism, it was announced today.

The Pulitzer Board noted Gold's "zestful, wide ranging restaurant reviews, expressing the delight of an erudite eater."

The two other excellent nominees were both from the Los Angeles Times.

Congratulations to Jonathan for earning this news organization's FOURTH Pulitzer Prize.

(The Orange County Register has won three.)

In 2000, Mark Schoofs of the Village Voice--another sister paper to OC Weekly--defeated the Washington Post and the Associated Press to win the Pulitzer Prize for International Reporting.

In 1986, the Village Voice's Jules Feiffer won for cartooning and in 1981 the paper's Teresa Carpenter won for feature writing.

Longtime courthouse observers can't remember the last time