urious French protestors continued to riot over the weekend, gently overturning traffic cones and unleashing salvos of pithy wit at assembled riot police across some of the roughest neighborhoods in all of Paris. The riots began the previous week in the Seine-Saint-Denis suburb northeast of Paris, sparked by what officials believe was a disagreement over food.

“Those incorrigible police buffoons know nothing of fine chocolate!� said impassioned teenage rioter Jean Touloc, only in French.

The urbane French police were overwhelmed almost before the rioting even began, requiring the French Army to be brought in last week. The army surrendered four hours later, and plans were being drawn up for a transitional government when some joker switched out the treaty-signing pen with a novelty model that laughs electronically when you try to write with it. The rioters, perhaps correctly believing that they were not being taken seriously, stepped up their boisterous chants of “We beg to differ!� and their disorderly milling-about.

The riots reportedly got out of hand on Saturday, when protestors began hurling water balloons in the general direction of riot police. French officials, however, claim that the reality wasn’t as bad as these reports imply, since the balloons were actually filled with a very pleasant brand of spring water flavored with a spritz of lemon.

Police attempted to crack down on the rioting Sunday, bringing out a top-secret book of salacious insults on loan from the French armed forces. The crowds were clearly humiliated by these witty rejoinders, but in response began a menacing chant that translates as “You are wrong, we are right, let’s not argue, let’s not fight,� which spread like wildfire all across the Parisian suburbs.

Within hours, however, the chanting had escalated to the inflammatory “You’re not right, we’re not wrong, won’t you come and sing along?� and French officials were considering turning to the UN for help, the nation’s domestic situation cart-wheeling dangerously out of control.

In a last-ditch effort to salvage the French state, president Jacques Chirac went on national television late Sunday night to beg for an end to the verbal violence, acceding to the protestors’ demands and stunning the nation by admitting that yes, perhaps there are some varieties of milk chocolate that are not entirely without their charms, reversing the government’s decades-old hard line stance.

The immediate reaction to Chirac’s broadcast was a positive one, with riot officials quickly retracting a statement made my one rioter hours earlier that the hats worn by the police were neither tasteful nor well-made.

“Really, there’s rioting, and then there’s going too far,� explained riot Treasurer Philippe LaRoc. “And those hat remarks were really full-well out of line. Let’s bring this all to a close before someone says something they’re really going to regret later.�

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Did you know ALF is coming out on DVD? No kidding, ALF, the show with the puppet doing vaudeville. I hated that stupid show, and not just because they wouldn't hire me to play the title character. But they're not the only one. What's Happening?, Magnum, P.I., The Dukes of Hazzard—these aren't what I'd call classic shows. Okay, I'll give you Dukes, except for the Coy and Vance years. But I'm sure you know where this is leading—Where's my show?

Maybe it only lasted three years, but there's a lot of classics that lasted less time than that. What about Sledge Hammer! or The Richard Pryor Show? Those lasted less time than my show and they get the honor of DVD release. I don't really see the difference. Are you TV types trying to say Who's Your Daddy? doesn't rate? I talk to people all the time who remember that show. Not my creditors, but people on the street and stuff remember it. I always get, "Hey, you're the Who's Your Daddy? girl!" Or, "Wow, I just caught the Who's Your Daddy? girl shoplifting in my store!" Does that sound like a show nobody remembers?

Don't lecture to me about costs. We already filmed the shows, and I know I'm not getting any revenue from them sitting around in your big-ass TV vaults. We had this discussion before, TV biz, and you didn't want to air them on TV Land or Nick at Nite. So let's forget that battle. What about DVD? You can release all the seasons in three cheap box sets, make everybody a cool little cash, and you're not taking up expensive airwaves with them. Jiminy, I saw Who's the Boss? sitting on a DVD shelf at the local store, you can't tell me people were standing in line to get that? At least give me a goddamn shot.

I got bills, bills, bills, guys. It's not like anybody ever died from releasing a TV series that wasn't a ratings blockbuster. That first year TV Guide called us a "show with promise"… you don't hear that but two or three times a year from them. Sure, I got caught in that crack den during the summer (once again: just visiting some friends) and the show took a dive from there, but still, that first season brings back some awful good memories for me. I bet I'm not the only one.

I'd jump at the chance to do DVD commentary, if you're wondering. Get the show creator, Nills Fiberglass, me and him will sit down and jaw on forever about how it all came to be. I actually did a hell of a lot on the show, which is why they legally have to retro-credit me as creative consultant. And don't sweat about Brad Van Danner dying last year, I visited him a while back and recorded our conversations. We didn't talk about the show, but I've got enough stuff that sounds like we were talking about it. Lines like, "I can't believe how much it hurts" and "To think of what I could have done with my life instead" are vague enough, we could fit them in anywhere.

So give the people what they want. And by people, I mean me. I need some dough, and I hear the Seinfeld people are getting a major cut of their DVD sales. Not that I want to ride that death ship. You can deal me out, settle up with me ahead of time for a good two or three hundred bucks, forsaking all future royalties. But I'm telling you, it's a good idea. Hell, you'll never know until you try it, so let's do it. Give me a time and place, I'll show up with enough anecdotes to choke James Lipton.

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The smell of exhaust, the thunderous roar of engines, the crashing plang of crashes. The air of the Daytona 500 still lingers, and though as of press time I can't declare the winner yet, aren't all we NASCAR fans the real winners?

The think-tank "steering" NASCAR, so to speak, has been increasing efforts to publicize the variety of NASCAR fans there are out there, and to broaden the appeal to those who believe it a sport for the trailer park set. But those like yours truly have known for years that NASCAR speaks volumes about the human condition. Man and machine in a life-or-death struggle against other men and machines; it is the essence of what it means to be a sentient being in the twenty-first century.

It is time NASCAR "outed" those cowardly intellectuals who still publicly deny their affection for the sport of stock car racing. Not to cast unkind dispersions on those doubtful souls, it is difficult to acknowledge just how much we love the thrill of car racing when it is so sadly stigmatized in our culture. The tragic assumption is that NASCAR appeals only to the undereducated working classes, the passive drones lacking upward mobility, the drunken and shirtless, but we can finally reveal the brilliance of NASCAR and our enthusiasm for it now that we've found safety in numbers.

I remember as a youngster, sitting in front of the fire and listening to the melodious voice of announcer Rudy Skaggs as he provided commentary on the Daytona 500 over the a.m. radio. My parents listened along as well, smiling joyfully, as mother carved her decorative wax candles and father worked on his novel. Though I mostly cheered for Dale Earnhardt (before he was Dale Earnhardt Sr.), I admit it was a joy simply to hear anyone win.

The ecstasy never diminished. I went away to college at Cornell and labored intensely toward my philosophy degree, but the weekends were spent with my NASCAR enthusiasts group, other students of philosophy, the humanities, the sciences, business, or refrigeration repair, watching the bouts on the television and discussing the nature of modern man and his relations to technology, vis-à-vis the loss of humanity and the mistakes of unwelcome pit stops later in the race, all between commercials, of course.

Would that I were one of those pilots of the gods! That could accelerate my own chariot adorned with logos by Quaker State and Tide, edging ahead of the greatest athletes of all time, such as Richard Petty and A.J. Foyt. If only the nerves of steel were mine, the lightning reactions needed I owned, and I had a driver's license. But lacking these, I am fortunate like the rest of us to be a spectator at this, the greatest test of human and engine endurance the world has ever seen.

The Daytona 500 of 2004, as tradition dictates, has drawn the most notable celebrities. Ben Affleck, LeAnn Rimes, and the president George W. Bush. Only the noble game of stockcar racing could attract such individuals of diverse backgrounds and professions—the men and women at the top of their respective fields. Of course, in the presence of such newspaper-worthy names, other intellectuals are unfortunately disregarded, but I understand many others turned out for the event. Placido Domingo, Susan Sontag, Joyce Carol Oates, George Will, Noam Chomsky, Ben Kingsley, John Updike, Ralph Nader, all are fans of the sport of kings. Unsurprisingly, I might add; for aren't we all?

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