Scanner : brian fairbanks

"Fairbanks Man Gets Plea Deal, Wedding"

Brian Fairbanks — Fri, 10 Apr 2009 16:22:00 GMT

It's always disturbed me to open a link someone sends me to read this on a newspaper's website: "FAIRBANKS-- A man charged with sexual assault is getting married." Thanks, but I'd rather not have either of those crimes attributed to me in dictionary definition form (i.e. FARRIS-- A woman charged with maintaining a stable of bearded men received probation today.")

Seriously, though, check out "my" quote in the paper today: “I’m dumbstruck to even have my name put in this situation,” he said. “This doesn’t begin to describe the caliber of man I am.” That about covers it. It also reminds us of the time we e-mailed Anton Newcombe, he the famed frontman for The Brian Jonestown Massacre about his having been convicted of murder in Australia. (It's true-- a man named Anton Newcombe is a convicted murderer.) His entire response: "Woah. Trippy."

Anyway, the actual story out of Fairbanks, Alaska is bizarre enough to warrant its own post, even without my name:

A 32-year-old man was charged with forcing his girlfriend to have sex with him by knifepoint. The three felony accounts were reduced to three misdemeanors after a strange and unforseen twist: the girlfriend says she's "hazy" on the events and never said that the act was nonconsensual. Even these are not uncommon. What really shocked the judge was this:

The woman, who asked not to be identified, briefly spoke at Thursday’s hearing and announced that she and Pignataro plan to get married soon.
“It’s very unusual for someone at sentencing to announce they’re getting married,” Downes said. “That’s the first time I’ve heard that for 40 years I’ve been doing this.”

Pignataro briefly spoke, attributing the charges, his only run-in with the law, to problems with alcohol. He vowed to stay sober in the future.

So, there you have it folks. How did the Judge fall for that ol' trick? Slash your girlfriends tires, force her to have sex with her, and then make her tell the judge you're going to marry her "one of these days" so he can get off with time served. It's the Fairbanks way.

More on this case via Daily News-Miner.

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Important Music Trend: Olds Backed Up by Cutes

See You Next Year, Suckers!

Emily Farris — Tue, 30 Dec 2008 23:14:00 GMT

Tomorrow I, Scanner Emily, will take advantage of my ~~God~~ Rufus-given day off—well, my two Rufus-given days off—to drink too much and then recover from drinking too much (which may involve drinking too much again). However, there's no need to panic; as I've mentioned before, Scanner Brian needs to blog at least every other day to survive, so you'll be spending tomorrow with him. But when that lovemaking is all said and done, what will you do?

Do you plan to pay a ridiculous cover at some scene-y bar with the high hopes of having crazy New Year's bathroom sex? Or will you, like me, refuse to even step out the front door? Considering that The Ghost of New Years' Past has taken me on so many exciting adventures*, I'm happy to cozy up with a few close friends and more than a few bottles of bubbly. Perhaps it will still end in crazy bathroom sex. Wouldn't you want to have sex in this bathroom?

See you next year... when I'll hopefully tell you all about how the Kahlua ended up in the clawfoot tub.

*2001: On I-70 leaving the crappiest New Year's party ever
2002: Hugging a four-pack of Charmin on the D train, crying
2004: Getting punched in the vagina
2008: Passed out while the cat peed on me because I had closed off the litter box during my "party"

Related:

Hey You, Happy New Year

Back in Two and Two

My New Favorite Bad Christmas Song: Santa Lost a Ho

Emily Farris — Tue, 23 Dec 2008 22:02:00 GMT

I, Scanner Emily, am a fan of the classic Christmas carol. I still get chills every time I sing "O Holy Night" and save for "Grandma Got Runover by a Reindeer" am not so into the contemporary comedic Christmastime song; if I have to listen to anything written in the last 100 years, I much prefer something like Christmas in Hollis. So last week when the bass player in my band handed me a CD called "Charlie's Christmas Compilation" I was a little worried. He asked me a few times if I'd listened to it when I hadn't. I felt bad and was curious to hear what was on it, so I broke down and put it on. I heard a few songs I knew including Robert Earl Keen's "Merry Christmas from the Family" (another one I can't help but love because it rings so damn true), and a few I didn't, including what is now my favorite bad contemporary Christmas song, "Santa Lost a Ho" by the Christmas Jug Band.

I apologize that this video with a terribly long intro is the only version I could find to embed. Just don't pay attention to anything before :56. Then enjoy.

(That picture is for you, Brian Fairbanks).

Does the Establishment Clause Exclude Santa Claus?

The 10 Most Awesome Characters at the 1925 Office Christmas Party

Your Christmas Will Probably Be Better Than This

[Image]

While You Were Sleeping: Barack Obama's Big Move

Brian Fairbanks — Mon, 17 Nov 2008 14:08:00 GMT

Alan Greenspan reveals the man responsible for the grave economic crisis we're facing: it's jazz musician Stan Getz.

Apparently, I, Brian Fairbanks had something to do with that Oregon stripper mayor getting stripped of her duties. We don't understand this link either.

This guy won't be able to accompany his 17-year-old wife to her high school dances...

Five pieces of facial jewelry may be all that is stopping a high school senior from attending any school dances with the 19-year-old man she recently married.
Casey Engstrom, 19, graduated from Hubbard High School in 2007. He has since married Brittany, 17, who is still a senior at the high school. The young couple now lives a stone’s throw away from the high school with Casey Engstrom’s grandmother, but Casey Engstrom will not be permitted to attend any school dances with his new wife. Casey Engstrom has been informed that he is banned from such school functions because of skin-stretching jewelry in his lip and ears. [Link]

Cynthia Nixon got involved in a debate about her kids' school, with video.

Send folk singer Odetta a card-- she's in critical condition in a New York hospital.

A man listed a beat up, useless automobile on e-bay for a few hundred dollars and then all but forgot about it. When the auction closed at well over $200,000, it became clear that the car was only one of six of its kind ever made.

Can someone explain to us why the TRL finale was on a Sunday night? Anyway, it featured a stunning cast of music stars, including Eminem, Justin Timberlake, and Beyonce.

And Barack Obama had a busy Sunday: he resigned his Senate seat, gave the Democratic radio address, and addressed the nation... all on YouTube.

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Hot Teacher Caught After Three-Year Affair With Female Student

While You Were Sleeping: Nude Photo Hoax

Sloppy Seconds: Photos of New Planets, Yay!

Apology

Brian Fairbanks — Tue, 29 Apr 2008 16:54:00 GMT

I, Scanner Brian (note the difference in spelling-- there is another Scanner Bryan, with a Y, who is less offensive on these blog pages) apologize for the Neve Campbell post and any other indescretions I might have caused with my craziness.

You are always going to disagree with something I say if I'm writing about politics, but we can keep those disagreements civil, can't we? I will write stories about McCain, Clinton, Ron Paul (if he decides to continue running his kooky little campaign), and Obama, but I will not write about boobs if I don't understand the shape of them. I will not purposely set out to offend anyone, even George Bush (actually, I definitely aim to offend him.) I never intended to insult Neve Campbell or her boobs, although it was a pretty boneheaded post and came out as insulting, so I apolgoize to her as well.

Okay? Moving on....

Sincerely,

Scanner Brian (with an "i")

Scanner Confessions: The First Time I Got Arrested (Part Two: The Cellmate)

Brian Fairbanks — Fri, 18 Apr 2008 20:27:00 GMT

It began to dawn on me that I was under constant surveillance, even when taking a dump. Nope, I wouldn’t be having much more fun for a long time… not unless I turned gay and decided to enjoy picking up the Pert Plus...

Cell Numero Uno was mine, as well as the entire, otherwise-deserted cellblock. The peace and quiet, however, didn’t last long. About an hour after my arrival, I heard a fit of shouting and some sort of struggle. It sounded like the cops were wrestling some motherfucker to the ground. Great, I thought, With my luck, this guy's gonna end up my cellmate.

“Sit down, Mr. Bunk.”
“This is bullshit! It’s fucking bullshit!” he rasped.
The cop, apparently the one who hauled him in, was pushing Bunk around. “Have a seat.”
“But I didn’t do it. Listen to me-- this is fucked up! I was in the store, and I got this clock, I was getting it for a friend, and I didn’t have the money. So, I’m with the clerk there and I tell her, ‘I’m gonna be right back with the money. I’m just gonna put this here for one minute.’ And I put it in the bag-- right in front of her eyes!-- and left it and went out to the parking lot and got the money from my friend and as soon as I stepped back into the place, all these guys just jumped on me. I didn’t even take it out of the store!”
"Great, then plead ‘not guilty.’ Now, let’s get your fingerprints.”

Later, I heard him using the phone: “Honey? Yeah, it’s me. You’re not gonna believe this! Yeah, Manchester-- honey, no, don’t do this! Honey, we have to get married in three days, I’m not gonna skip town! Call that motherfucker, that bail-bondsman! Tell him! You tell him!”

He went on like that for ten minutes, telling her he loved her and all that hoo-ha and all the while, the cops are yelling for him to hang up before they yank the phone outta the wall. “Honey, please, baby! If I don’t make bail now, I have all these other charges and court dates and I’ll never get out of here.” He was whimpering and could barely get his words out. “Please, baby… Please! It’s a fucking larceny charge. Can you believe it? Neither can I, baby… I’m innocent this time." Pause. "Babyyy!”

Soon after, in walked Eric Bunk, a scruffy forty-year-old blond man resembling Jackie “the Jokeman” Martling of the Howard Stern Show. The cop escorting him was mid-insult: “I find it hard to believe you’re innocent with the rap-sheet you got.”

Eric muttered something to the extent of “eat my balls” and was thrown in the cell next to me. I couldn’t see him anymore, but I didn’t have to. Not like he could be doing very much unimaginable in that cell with a blanket, video camera, and toilet without a seat. He muttered for several minutes (“Can’t believe this… fucking clerk...") while I remained silent. He farted, grunting for emphasis. After another minute of muttering, he let out another fart. In fact, he must've farted a good half-dozen times in those first five minutes. Finally, mercifully, I heard him belch. “Hey, bro… How’s it going?”

I figured I’d show him how tough I was, how cool I could be. “Fucking pitiful. And yourself?” Hey, I sounded tough, at least.
“My sentiments exactly. Fucking pathetic. I’m a disgrace, my friend. I should be locked up, I deserve it.”
“So, you did it, then?”
“No, of course not.” Oh. Right. But he went on to tell me the whole story. Either he truly was innocent, or years of lying about his actions had molded him into a skillful, manipulative, and (almost) completely convincing liar. I laid down and listened to his woes, the prison pyschologist by default. When he started going on about his years on heroin, it reminded him that he needed to take his methadone. Whoops.

All of a sudden, Bunk started screaming like a tortured siamese cat, banging on the bars and begging at the top of his nicotine-stained lungs. But if the cops were around, they didn’t seem to think methadone withdrawal terribly tragic. Gradually, as he began to hyperventilate and dehydrate, Bunk sat back on his cot and resumed farting and and belching and wondering aloud what time it was. Another twenty minutes and he hit the hay, imploring me to wake him if I heard a cop moping around.

“I got larceny five: conspiracy. Conspiracy from hiding that clock in the bag. 'Hiding.' Humph!” He ripped open a nice burp. “Ah Christ, I got eighteen charges already. I just got out of jail the other day, served three months for robbery.”
We were eating our McDonald's Cheeseburgers and drinking our watered-down, warm-ass Diet Cokes. (It's now ten years later, and I've never eaten an American McDonald's burger since. That's what jail does to you. - Ed.)
“Bank robbery?!”
“No, chief. I stole some shit from Bradlee’s. My fiancee needed a new coat for her birthday, on a Thursday, but I didn’t get paid till Friday.”
“That’s bullshit, though. That’s only petty larceny. What the hell’s this robbery shit?” My foul mouth, which I had been improving on over the summer, came back strong. Ah, jail...
“Well, they say it's because I punched the security guard in the face when he tried to grab me. Now I got possession charges and this… this bullshit they throw at me now.”

I wondered what time it was, but at the same time didn't care. Finally, Bunk stopped and tapped on the bars. “Hey, buddy?”
“Yeah?” I said, sitting up.
“Are you innocent?”
After a moment, I said, “I may be an innocent, but I'm not innocent.”
I don’t think he understood what I was getting at. “Oh, I get ya. Pleadin’ not guilty, eh?” I didn’t say anything and there was more silence. “This your first offense?”
“First time they caught me.”
“Good boy,” he said. I could picture him grinning that Jackie Martling grin. “You're seventeen, huh?” I could tell he was getting misty-eyed. “Yeah, I been in and out of this place since I was your age. Twennyfive years, my passion’s always been the criminal life. Hey, so what? Fuck it. I never ruined anybody’s life. The heroin I got arrested for? I never sold heroin to anybody, so it’s all on me. Only thing I regret was the security guard. Poor guy, just doin’ his job, ya know? I didn’t even keep running when he hit the ground. I kept looking over him when the rest of 'em were hitting me in the chest." He chewed his burger and scrunched up the wrapper. "Poor guy, man, poor guy.”

When I finally made bail in the morning, Eric began screaming again. In between pleadings for another phone call, he called after me, “Take care of yourself, brother! Don’t let 'em get you!”

The cops hadn't found my drugs, although they were right under the shotgun seat. My father found them early the next morning, knowing better my hiding spots. I don't know what happened to Eric Bunk, whether he got married or did time instead. But I remember what he said and thought of him often for the few next years, which were just as out-of-control as my seventeeth.

“What are you doing here, kid?”
“Larceny six,” I repeated.
“No, what the hell are you doing here? Stealing isn’t a profession, get a job.”
“My parents put all my money in the bank.”
“All I’m saying is… Don’t end up here at my age. Don’t be a loser like me.”

I've been in trouble with the law several times since, but never again have I spent a night locked up and I've never done anything illegal that harmed anybody else. When the cops ordered me out into the no man's land between Mexico and America, their hands on their holsters and the German Shepherds barking and sniffing, I couldn't help it: I started laughing. Because after 12 hours of being locked up in Connecticut with only McDonald's for “food,” and only a fartknocking cellmate to keep me entertained, I was pretty sure I could handle whatever I had coming to me...

Top Photo by Rob Jenga. Prison cell photo by Metro UK.

Previously: Scanner Confessions: The First Time I Got Arrested (Part One)

Scanner Confessions: The First Time I Got Arrested

Brian Fairbanks — Thu, 17 Apr 2008 15:00:00 GMT

“Hey, guess where I am?”
“I dunno,” he said, pausing for effect, “Jail?”

I, Scanner Brian, decided to speak out after reading of Sheila's recent brush with the law on Gawker and, admittedly, mostly thanks to the recent story of the handcuffed burglary suspect who escaped custody by stealing a police car.

The story of my first arrest and night in jail is far less Bourne Supremacy than that, certainly compared to the time I avoided arrest in Bay St. Louis, Mississippi for driving stoned out of my mind while trying to find my mentor, Stephen Ambrose's vacation house at four o'clock in the morning... well, actually, you just heard that whole story.

Continued from the excerpt at the top, direct from the writing journal I had at 17:

“But aren’t your parents in Rhode Island?”
“Yeah, dickhead. Do me a favor, I can’t talk long, call Justin, tell him I’m in jail, make sure if I don’t call him tonight from home to come down with his attorney to the Manchester Courthouse tomorrow morning at nine-thirty, so we can discuss the case.”
“Hey, you shit! Stop being so selfish. I wanted to go see Return to Paradise tonight!” He laughed to show he was only joking… but I knew the truth.
“Hey, buddy?”
I ignored the stunning realization that my friend probably cared more about a screening of a bad Kate Beckinsale movie than my well-being. “What?”
“I’m sorry, dude.”
“Don’t worry, it’s my fault, I should have known better.”
“Couldn’t you have… Did you have a chance to get away?” 
“Yeah.”
“Why didn’t you? You had a car…”

He was right. I could've gotten away. I'd felt the tap on my shoulder the moment I stepped into the department store's music aisle. But I lost my cool as panic washed over me: my hands began to shake and my teeth chattered and the security guard squinted at me knowingly. He was blond, mid-thirties, in a light blue shirt, smiling politely and affecting an air of complete casualness but for the walkie-talkie clipped to his belt. “Excuse me. Did you just return a backpack?”

I said no and resumed shopping as if my illegally obtained store credit still existed. He went away. As soon as he rounded a clothing rack and headed toward the cashier, probably to ask her why she had pointed me out as the culprit, I barreled through the nearby emergency exit door. The alarm sounded behind me, but it felt like it was following me all the way out into the mammoth parking lot.

My face burning with Fear of the Blue Shirt Man, I raced toward my father's Plymouth like a madman, or more likely America's Most Laughable Criminal, pressing my baggy jeans to my waist to keep them from sliding down. In ten seconds flat, I was at the driver's side door with my key out, jamming it into the lock. Not looking back but feeling every second rush by, I screamed for the inanimate object to get into the proper fucking keyhole. “Come on! Come on! You piece of shit."

I heard his sneakers coming, slowing from a sprint to a cautious jog. “Hey,” he said, not even out of breath, “Where are you going?”

The other security guards were already blocking the car's exit from behind before I could get the key in the ignition. Blue Shirt Man squinted at me. I was seventeen-years-old, no more skillful than a dimestore hood, caught resisting arrest and trying to return a boatload of merchandise without actually purchasing it. And though they didn't know it yet, there were drugs in the car, under the passenger seat, just waiting for the cops to pick them up with a chuckle and a "lookee here." I turned back to Blue Shirt. Defeatedly, with all that I had left, I told him, "Fuck you. I'm seventeen, bitch."

And then I went to jail.

To Be Continued... in Part Two: The Cellmate...

Photo of the author at age 18 by Michael Edwards.

Scanner Emily and Scanner Brian Are Getting Married!!!

Bryan Christian — Thu, 03 Apr 2008 14:09:00 GMT

Or... something...

Does it count if you borrow someone else's ring? Let's say... Scanner Bryan's?

Dr. Shrill: The New Scanner Video Column

Brian Fairbanks — Wed, 02 Apr 2008 18:30:00 GMT

Thanks to everyone for making our drunken orgy in the tub a big success yesterday. We're going to make a regular habit out of goofing on "Pot Psychology" and various Nerve Video Blog features while Scanner Emily is recovering from her wounds.

Two things:

1) We need better titles. "Bathtub Bloggers" is fine for now, and "Dr. Shrill" always works above a post of the super nice and super relaxed snooze-inducer pictured above, but this is going to be a long running and widely distributed cult classic of a weekly column, so we're going to pick the catchiest title and reward its creator with a collection of nude photos. Don't worry, they won't be of us.

2) Submit questions! Either in the comments section of this post or at our new dump box: scannerquestions@gmail.com. Ask us anything, even if you're not serious. Unlike our advice columnists, we don't care if your e-mails are fake... unless of course it's obvious. So, be creative, surprise us, offend us, arouse us. Especially that.

And we'll have a special guest and more insanity for you on Friday...

Bathtub Bloggers: You've Got Questions, We've Got Answers

Brian Fairbanks — Tue, 01 Apr 2008 21:35:00 GMT

All right, Scanner Readers.

You've been well-behaved little deviants today, sending us your questions and humoring us with your tales of woe. Now, as promised, your reward, complete with special treats...

WARNING: You are about to waste ten minutes of your life. Enjoy!

Sloppy Seconds: The Truth About Tori Spelling

Brian Fairbanks — Mon, 17 Mar 2008 21:20:00 GMT

Finally, someone with some ethics is stopping all this celebrity snooping-- not that we're going to. Staffers at UCLA Medical Center in L.A. had the pain brought to them when it was revealed employees had been illegally accessing Britney Spears's records.

At long last, the breaking news you've been waiting for: Gary Busey apologizes for giving mouth-to-mouth rescucitation to Jennifer Garner's neck during the Oscars. His excuse: "I got very excited." We thought it was pretty exciting ourselves-- we didn't know our testicles could so quickly retract into our stomachs.

A woman killed her husband because he didn't want to listen to a Bruce Springsteen CD. If it's "Human Touch," we can definitely relate.

Morning sex can save your marriage-- and sheds at least 300 calories. (Only 300? Must be that infamous "under three minutes" kind.)

Let's not forget the political sex story buried by the liberal media: GOP Senator David Vitter's numerous visits to hookers. The La. Republican told the New Orleans Times-Picayune that his and Spitzer's mistakes are all but unrelated and should not be linked. After all, Vitter committed his faux pas "a long time ago," a.k.a. "in 2007."

Tori Spelling's boobs are fake. If you had to read that sentence to discover this information, clearly you did not see the above picture. To further insult you, they're remaking 90210.

And the headline of the day: Condi Waxes Brazillian [via Wonkette, of course.]

[Photo: PR Photos]

Oregon Stripper-Mayor Stripped of Power: Let Freedom Reign!

Katie Halper — Thu, 28 Feb 2008 14:00:00 GMT

Arlington, Oregon Mayor Carmen Kontur-Gronquist was stripped of her political power through a recall vote on Monday, after 3-year-old pictures of Kontur-Gronquist wearing (not too skimpy) underwear surfaced on the internets and web e-mails like MyFace. With all due respect to my esteemed colleague, Brian Fairbanks, the "world is NOT on the warpath against female politicians". The Mayor Stripper was on our warpath against America. Not only did she harm the the mayorlty of America forever through her stripping policies, she harmed Arlington Oregon through her golf policies. At the end of the day, according to the recall cheerleader Ron Miller, this was about something much bigger than washboard abs and amazing arms: "the recall vote was also about some of her decisions as mayor.... That included her management of the city golf course."

Mayor Stripper, have you no shame? She shows no signs of remorse: "I wouldn't change anything. I wouldn't. It is what it is. I'm proud of myself for doing what I did...for hanging in there." And even worse, she's selling signed copies of the photos on ebay. And is she giving the proceeds to a worthy charity? Like the golf course? No. The morally bankrupt mayor-stripper is donating the money to the local health department. I'm going to be sick.

Video of the Day: No You Can't

Emily Farris — Fri, 15 Feb 2008 20:41:00 GMT

In response to the now-famous "Yes We Can" Barack Obama video, the people formerly known as the Billionaires for Bush have released "No You Can't." We bet you didn't know that our senior national political correspondent Brian Fairbanks was a Billionaire for Bush. And he's too shy to tell you that he was a co-creator of this video.

Well, well, well. It looks like somebody had a good time last night.

Emily Farris — Wed, 13 Feb 2008 14:49:00 GMT

Oh we did. Thanks to everyone who came to Scanner's Stories of Love and Hate at Rififi last night.

We learned what happens when your boobs come off with your bra (or maybe we already knew that), why Scanner Bryan would get divorced but won't, how Bobby Tisdale almost lost a testicle to Connie Chung, and so much, much more. If you're lucky, maybe we'll repost some of the stuff up here.

We laughed, we cried and we fought off a cold with whiskey. Lots of it. Have you ever had a hangover and a head cold all at once? Yeah, us neither, but now that we've experienced it, we'll not make that mistake again... except for, you know, drinking our way through Valentine's Day. Then maybe it will all go away at once? Here's hoping!

[Image via icanhazcheeseburger.com]

Ten Reasons to Join us at Rififi Tonight

Emily Farris — Tue, 12 Feb 2008 18:34:00 GMT

You know we want you to come to Rififi tonight. We want it real bad. For those of you who are still on the fence, here are ten reasons to make you come.

10. Red Hots (if we can find them, they're Scanner Emily's favorite V-Day treat).

9. Chocolates.

8. Nicole Ankowski.

7. Katie Halper.

6. Bryan Christian.

5. Brian Fairbanks.

4. Will Doig.

3. Bobby Tisdale.

2. Scanner Emily got dumped a year ago today. She'll be reading a piece about that. And if you don't show up, that will be two years in a row that this was a really fucking terrible day for Emily. Show us some love.

1. Because it's Tuesday and it's fucking cold outside. Come in and let us warm your hearts with our stories of love (and hate). And then stick around for the after party.

Scanner's Stories of Love and Hate: A Pre-Valentine's Day Reading of Sorts
Featuring Nerve.com's Scanner Bloggers and Special Guests
Tuesday, February 12, 8 p.m. (TONIGHT!)
Rififi, 332 East 11th Street, NYC
$5

Featuring Bobby Tisdale, Emily Farris, Will Doig, Katie Halper, Bryan Christian, Brian Fairbanks and Nicole Ankowski. We promise chocolates, red hots and maybe you'll laugh so hard you'll pee your pants. Or cry. Or neither and then you can eat chocolate and scowl. Then stick around for the after party.

Scanner Emily Gives a Hot, Sticky, Sweet Welcome to Bobby Tisdale and Brian Fairbanks

Emily Farris — Tue, 22 Jan 2008 16:14:00 GMT

In my ongoing effort to surround myself with men whose names begin with the letter 'B', I've invited my friends Bobby Tisdale and Brian Fairbanks to join us here at Scanner for a while.

I love them both, for sentimental reasons, and soon, you will, too.

I love Bobby Tisdale because he's pretty famous, and it makes me feel really good about myself to have famous friends. I love Bobby Tisdale because he's enriched my life with Sunday night BINGO at my neighborhood bar. I love Bobby Tisdale because he's hilarious, even though he calls me "Sissy." Mostly, I love Bobby Tisdale because he loves to cuddle and I'm so looking forward to his regular feature, Bobby Tisdale's Cuddle Fest 2008. In between posts, you can stalk him and all that good stuff on his MySpace page.

I love Brian Fairbanks because even though I was just a stranger (sort-of, but we didn't know it at the time), Brian sold me a ticket to a sold-out Wilco show on Craigslist at face value when everyone else was charging hundreds of dollars or only offering tickets in exchange for blow jobs. I love Brian Fairbanks because when you google him, the top hit is an author whose book is called "Brian Fairbanks is Gay." He's promised this is not him. Mostly, I love Brian Fairbanks because his favorite picture of himself is of his interview with Dennis Kucinich for Consumerist, and I'm thrilled to have him covering the presidential campaign as whatever awesome political correspondent title I'm sure he'll make up for himself. Also, you should know he's in love with Chelsea Clinton. Feel free to give him shit for that.

All told, be nice to these guys, give them big, warm welcomes, and try to keep Scanner Bryan and Scanner Brian straight, if it's not too much trouble.

P.S. I'm convinced Brian Fairbanks' first (and still unpublished) novel caused Columbine. Ask him about that later.