Know what I hate?

I hate when insipid news “reporters” interview Hollywood “actors” (for the sake of argument, let’s say it’s Katie Couric interviewing Leonardo DiCaprio on this morning’s Today Show), and they’re sitting on a fake movie set (as if movie sets aren’t already fake enough) and they’re sitting on those fold-out director’s chair, and they’re making it sound like acting is a hard thing to do. Trust me, my acting never fails to get good notices in the press, and it’s NOT hard. It’s practically the easiest thing in the whole world, and I can’t for the life of me figure out why anyone should get paid millions and millions of dollars for doing it, since anyone who pursues it for a living is either hyper-narcissistic or has a low enough self-esteem that they would probably do it for free.

So the only thing easier than acting, I imagine, is my day job, which requires my attention for about 45 minutes out of every day, and the rest of the time I surf the internet or write things, and yet today I received my second raise in five months and a “performance bonus” of 500 dollars. Ho-hum. This coupled with my forthcoming national television appearance (Christmas morning, 9am EST, ABC networks, check your local listings) MIGHT be enough to give me a swelled head, but something is sure to happen soon to keep me humble, so never fear.

So I’m counting down the minutes until I can leave work early, and trying desperately to keep myself entertained until then. My favorite web diversion of late is Webshots, where you can browse thousands and thousands of pictures posted by people who, apparently, don’t know that posting pictures on the internet means that anyone in the world will be able to see them. Pictures like this, this, this, this, this, and this. I will freely admit that it gives me a certain voyeuristic tingle, similar to the days when I was working in a one-hour photo lab for a major Midwestern photographic specialty store. The workday there, while boring, was occasionally punctuated by a roll or two of film from a customer who was apparently unaware that their photos would be viewed by human attendants and, when particularly juicy, copied and posted on the staff room bulletin board. Customers like Mrs. K____, wife of Dr. N___ K____, the medical reporter for the ABC affiliate in Columbus, Ohio, back in the late 80’s and early 90’s. About once a month, Mrs. K___ would drop of a roll of pictures of her husband, sometimes fully naked and sometimes dressed in a Navy dress uniform, but always displaying his erect manhood. I don’t make this stuff up. Before you start forming a mental picture, let me add that, while Dr. K___ had nothing to be ashamed of in the manhood department, he looked like Alfred E. Newman if Alfred E. Newman had been smashed in the face, and was covered top to bottom in coarse red hair. There, go form your mental picture now. I’ll wait.

Dr. K___ lost his job, apparently, after he was caught illegally prescribing prescription laxatives or something to J___G___, the weatherman at the NBC affiliate. I was never too sure of all the details, but if you’re REALLY interested let me know and I’ll track them down.

That’s all. I’m off to whittle away my remaining hours and plan how to spend my performance bonus.

As Nana used to say: "Kids are Kids"

Charles Krauthammer says what I wanted to say the other day about Christmas and such, only he’s more coherent. That’s why he’s a professional columnist and I’m a weirdo who writes about buying comic books.

So last night I was at the National Cathedral’s annual National Cathedral School/St. Alban’s School Lessons and Carols service, in which every musical act at said schools gets to perform, so it should more accurately be called “One Part Lessons to Three Parts Carols”.

Tuition for the schools runs about $25,000 per year, which might lead one to think that the students come from DC’s better families. But apparently, money still doesn’t buy taste or class, or the ability to ensure that your children look like proper young ladies and gentlemen. Yet, WITHOUT exception;

EVERY young man had mussed-up hair, and looked as if he’d just come from snorting something in the boys’ restroom, and;

EVERY young woman under the age of 21 looked like a…well, Mother Rubble would say Street Walker, but I’ll just be straight with you and say they look like whores. They all had teased-up hair and caked-on make-up, and the tightest clothes imaginable, with the obligatory roll of fat poking out between their tops and skirts. And they all have permanent Paris Hilton-face, you know, the pouty look that girls make when they’re posing for the cover of a porno movie.

WHO is continuing to tell girls that this is a good look? I demand to know! I would have thought the fad would have burned itself out by now, or that girls of good sense would have asserted themselves, girls like Miss K at my office, who is young and drop-dead gorgeous (she’s a former model! ) and comes from California, and yet she wears her pants up around her waist as they should be worn, and wears little to no make-up, and if she has a love handle she keeps it to herself, and she has to practically BEAT the men off! Is this what the sexual revolution brought us, the freedom for rich children to look like trash?

Well, I’m done. I’m going shopping on my lunch hour, and then I’m all finished and ready to greet Mother Rubble’s arrival on Moday!

And the killer is....

THAT’S thirty bucks I’ll never get back.

I’m speaking, of course, of the seven-issue comic series Identity Crisis, which I wrote about a couple of months ago.

The series, by hot novelist Brad Meltzer (I mean hot in the pop culture sense, not in the Hugh Jackman sense) started off, as you may recall, with the murder of Sue Dibny, wife of the happy-go-lucky super-hero The Elongated Man. It was a classic locked-room mystery, no apparent clues and no apparent way for the murderer to get in and out. Sue was at home, preparing a surprise birthday party for her husband while he was out on patrol. The biggest surprise? After twenty years of marriage, she was pregnant. The only glimpse the readers got of the murderer was a hand holding a flamethrower and saying “Goodbye, Sue” before torching her.

As the series went on, we found out several heretofore unknown facts about the superhero community, including:

- that Sue Dibny had been raped by super-villain Dr. Light
- that the Justice League, in addition to regularly mind-wiping super-villains to make them forget sensitive information, mind-wiped Dr. Light to such an extent that his entire personality was altered
- that the Justice League, when confronted by an irate Batman (who objected to the personality modification of Dr. Light), mind-wiped Batman to make him forget the mind-wiping of Dr. Light

The reader was led to believe that a serial killer was on the loose…Jean Loring, ex-wife of shrinking super-hero The Atom, was attacked in her home, and plucky gal reporter Lois Lane received a threatening note indicating that the killer knew Superman’s identity. Jack Drake, father of Robin, was killed while defending himself against super-villain Captain Boomerang.

In the penultimate issue 6, we learned the results of Sue Dibny’s autopsy, which showed that she was NOT killed by the flamethrower after all, but by a brain aneurysm, an aneurysm caused by someone STANDING ON HER BRAIN (evidenced by a pair of tiny footprints which showed up in a CAT Scan). All evidence seemed to point to The Atom, who in fact had no alibi for the time of the original murder, and ended issue 6 about to get into bed with his ex-wife, with a leery grin on his face.

And so yesterday I was all jumpy and couldn’t concentrate, knowing that I would be leaving at 5:30 and going straightaway to the comic shop, and getting my grubby hands on the final issue, and finding out who the killer REALLY was, because I knew it WASN’T the Atom, and so the time finally came and I went and bought it and raced right home and, after walking Dino as I had promised to do, went right home and read it cover to cover, and then I cursed Brad Meltzer’s name and am forced to tell you that he is a hack, because the murderer is (stop reading if you don’t want me to spoil anything for you…)




Jean Loring. Yes, ex-wife of the Atom, who was attacked, as you recall, in her own home. She killed Sue by shrinking down to microscopic size using one of the Atom’s “spare costumes”, even though the existence of spare costumes was never established in the series. While microscopic, she used the Atom’s old trick of riding through the telephone lines, called Sue, and rode right into her inner ear, where she proceeded to accidentally grow too big and cause the aneurysm. She had intended, you see just to simulate a villainous attack. Luckily, she had enough foresight to bring a shrunken flamethrower with her, (and I quote), “Just in case.” JUST IN CASE!

So, having accidentally killed and then torched Sue, she staged an attack on herself, and then sent the note to Lois, and then hired Captain Boomerang to attack Jack Drake and left Jack Drake a gun with which to defend himself.

Her motive?

To get the Atom back.

Even though it WAS established, IN THE STORY, that the divorce was HER idea. Even though it was established, IN THE STORY, that the Atom still loved her and all she would have had to do to get him back was glance at him sideways.

So the entire series, essentially, with the introduction of legions of personality-altered super-villains, and a mind-wiped Batman, and oh, yes, the bastard son of Captain Boomerang who inherited super-speed from his as-yet unnamed mother, was all just a place to introduce these new concepts that will now, presumably, be explained in future comics! That’s like getting to the end of Citizen Kane, and you’re about to find out what Rosebud is, and then you find out you’re not going to find out until you go see, like, three or four other movies!

On the bright side, I have discovered “Astonishing X-Men”, written by Buffy creator Josh Whedon, which is really good, and actually has internal consistency, and if you like Buffy you should go and read it at once. And that’s that.

X marks the spot

So, I woke up all panicky this morning, because I haven’t done my Christmas shopping yet, and I usually have it all wrapped up by, oh, September 1 or so. But it’s been a lean year, so I’ve been waiting for this very day, December 15, when all the old bills were paid off and the new money started rolling in. So I go onto Amazon, which is where I do all my shopping, because you can find anything for anyone, and I complete my order, and then realize that Amazon cannot guarantee that my items will arrive by Christmas, only estimate. So then I get all panicky again, and start searching the Borders and Best Buy and Barnes and Noble websites, to see how much of this loot I can actually trot on down and pick up in person. And, as it turns out, I can get everything except one wished-for item, and the total bill, plus tax, will still be less than items plus shipping at Amazon. I’m a wonder, I am.

And all this talk of Christmas makes me think of the Cold Room, which I mentioned to LSBB the other day, and she got a creepy feeling because she kind of knew what I was talking about, until I described it in detail, whereupon she realized that she had blocked it from her memory.

The Cold Room, you see, was an odd little room, about 4 by 6, attached to the basement of our childhood home. It was a little room that was, well, cold. It had a wooden door with a latch, and you had to step up to get into it, and it was where Mother Rubble kept her onions and potatoes and empty mason jars. And in the far corner of the cold room was an old timety trunk, with old-timety Christmas decorations that were never used, and they smelled like Christmas (in retrospect, I suppose they smelled like mothballs and mustiness, but to me it was the smell of Christmas). Though LSBB is apparently blocking some secret fear of the cold room, Big Sister and I agree that it was a magical place full of treasures if one knew where to look.

And speaking of Christmas, why in the hell is everyone so up in arms about calling things “Christmas This” and “Christmas That” ? If your town puts up a tree in the public square, and calls it a “Holiday Tree” or a “Community Tree”, it’s STILL a CHRISTMAS TREE, and it’s up because it’s CHRISTMAS TIME, and EVERYONE has the day off whether they celebrate Christmas or not (except Safeway checkers and Church musicians), and putting up a tree (which originated as a pagan winter solstice celebratory tool) to commemorate what is, for all intents and purposes, a secular celebration of capitalism, hardly constitutes an endorsement of religion by the state. Especially when the “community tree” is flanked by a Menorah and a Muhindi, which are NOT re-named “Community Candelabra” and “Holiday Ear of Corn”. And if someone says “Merry Christmas” to you, and you don’t celebrate Christmas, just smile and walk on by, chances are very good that they genuinely wish you well and mean no disrespect. So everybody just settle down. If you really feel that a Christmas display on public property is exclusive, then pressure your town to build a display that includes all religions of the community. Putting a fake name on a Christian display still doesn’t embrace everyone, and pisses off the Christians.

And don’t think you’re off the hook, Christians. You can settle down, too. Boycotting stores because they haven’t put up ENOUGH Christmas decorations, why the very idea! And writing “Xmas” is NOT blasphemous, if you think it is you’re an idiot and you need to do some historical research on the early Christians and their symbols.

So there.

Speechless (literally!)

So, I’m back. The terribleness of the weekend, I could practically write a book, but beyond that, I’ve decided to stop bitching about the state of the nation, about which I can do nothing at the moment except bitch, and just write about any old thing that comes to mind.

Jet was gone all weekend at a work-related conference, staying at the rah-jah-jah J.W. Marriott in downtown DC, where our friend Uncle Mame works and made sure Jet was treated to the best of everything. So, I was at home alone with Dino, but without much time to sit and stew because I was performing in a sold-out cabaret of Noel Coward and Cole Porter songs, cleverly titled – wait for it – “Noel and Cole”.

Thursday night, I started feeling that terrible heavy feeling in my lungs, which means that a chest cold is imminent. Friday it was still there, but holding steady. Friday night I downed about a half-bottle of Robitussin, which not only kept me awake most of the night, but is apparently hallucinogenic. As I lay in bed watching a History Channel comparative biography of Hitler and Stalin (which I’m allowed to do when Jet is gone – watch TV in bed, that is), I was gripped with empathy for how horrible their respective childhoods had been, and convinced that if only I could invent a time machine, I could go back in time, kidnap them both as infants, and raise them up right. Then I was locked in a night-long debate with myself as to whether it would really do any good, or whether their evil was genetic.

Saturday matinee, worse. Saturday evening, I had to make several spur-of-the-moment exits off stage to get water, clear my throat loudly and disgustingly, and sneak back on without causing too much of a commotion.

Sunday I woke up with no voice, and had to muscle my way through two more cabaret performances as well as a Cathedral service in the morning.

It was murder, honestly, maybe the worst feeling in the whole world. The closest I’ve come to crying in public in a good long while. But to blow my own horn a bit, a fellow cast-member (who is also an internationally experienced stage performer and respected teacher) said the dramatic choices I made to get through said shows were smart and the sign of a true pro. So that’s that. I’m a true pro, but I still have no effing voice, and I’ve got gigs lined up every day from now through December 26, and what’s a girl to do?

I’ve been mainlining Mucinex and drinking, on average, a gallon-and-a-half of water every day for the past four days, with no discernible benefit. Last night, I tried Mother Rubble’s cure-all, a Hot Toddy (liquor, water, lemon juice and honey – though I suspect Mother Rubble used quite a bit less water than I did). I seem to remember having one once, going to bed, and waking up the next morning completely cured of all that ailed me. So I guess I made it wrong, because the result was that I was wide awake all night, swimming in a pool of my own sweat, and still have no voice today. Thankfully, I DID get to see an episode of my beloved Bewitched, and an Aunt Clara episode to boot! Unfortunately, I also saw an episode of Gunsmoke, from the 70’s when Marshall Dillon looked like a wax figure and Miss Kitty was, like, ninety years old, and I got engrossed, only to find that it was a Part 1, which means I have to wake up at 6 tomorrow so I can see Part 2.

I also saw plenty of "Girls Gone Wild" commercials, and I ask any straight men that might be reading to please write and explain to me what is appealing about young women pulling up their halter tops while staring blankly into space, or worse yet, gyrating their hips while making a face like they've just gotten a mouthful of iodine and are trying to scrape the taste off their tongues with their teeth.

So, I'm back at work, my first full day since last Thursday, and glad to be greeted with emails from oddly-named scientists from around the world! Here are my favorites so far:

Dr. Eberhard Fuchs
Dr. Electron Kebebew
Dr. Alison K. Death

Last night, Jet and I finished Gone With the Wind, which we’ve been watching in installments, and Jet now avows he’s never seen before in its entirety. It’s been quite awhile since I’d seen it, and it made me realize how political correctness has permeated the popular culture, as I was startled every time a character said “darky” - which was, like, a THOUSAND times. But I still love it, and many of you will remember that it’s Code Dependent’s favorite movie of all times and she could watch it a hundred times a day every day for the rest of her life. It also made me think, why the hell won’t they release Song of the South (also starring Hattie McDaniel)? It’s not nearly so offensive (I have a bootleg copy, of course, but would still pay good money for a restored version on DVD). The movie was released on VHS in Britain, and Laserdisc in Japan, which accounts for the ease of acquiring a bootleg copy. But, according to my sources, nervous Disney execs, planning the eventual video release in the US, had a notion to ask a prominent African-American celebrity to film a framing sequence that would place the film in its historical context. This being the mid-1980’s, the first person approached was Maya Angelou, who promptly refused and threatened boycott should it ever be released. This, apparently, is why Disney has pretended the movie doesn’t exists ever since.

But come on – if Maya Angelou isn’t out protesting Gone With the Wind, she CERTAINLY wouldn’t have a leg to stand on in protesting Song of the South, which as I said, is not nearly so offensive. I’m just sayin’.

Speechless, part II

Here ya go.

http://www.365gay.com/newscon04/12/120104alabama.htm

"Where they start burning books, they end burning people."

Speechless

Liberal bias in the media? I wish.

An ad from the United Church of Christ has been rejected by CBS and NBC because it’s “too controversial”.

The reason it’s controversial? Because it advocates inclusiveness for all, including gays.

Really, some days I just want to hang my head and cry. When they come for us, will someone hide Jet and me in their attic? I promise a share of the royalties from the subsequent publication of any diaries.

Here is a statement from CBS on the matter (emphasis mine, to illustrate how far the media has its nose up Dubya’s ass): "Because this commercial touches on the exclusion of gay couples and otherminority groups by other individuals and organizations, and the fact the Executive Branch has recently proposed a Constitutional Amendment to define marriage as a union between a man and a woman, this spot is unacceptable for broadcast on the [CBS andUPN] networks."

Suggested punitive-but-probably-pointless action: CBS and UPN (who also refuses to air the ad) are owned by Viacom, which also owns Blockbuster Video, currently under capitalistic attack by NetFlix. Write a nice letter to Blockbuster, including the cut-up bits of your Blockbuster card, explaining why you are no longer using Blockbuster and will be switching to NetFlix (or do as I do, buy any DVD you might even suspect you want, whether you ever watch it or not).

Gay, gay, gay

I don’t MEAN to always talk about gay things, but you know what they say, write what you know.

The Supreme Court has just declined, without comment, to review a challenge to gay marriages currently taking place in Massachusetts.

So, I don’t want to be overly optimistic. On the bright side, it could mean that Karl Rove gave a quick call to the court this morning, telling them it was hands off, which means that the Republican party is abandoning the religious right now that they won Bush the election. (Which the Republicans will do, I’m just not sure if it will be this soon or not.)

It could also mean that the court realizes that, absent religious feelings, there is no compelling reason, constitutional or otherwise, to prevent gay people from marrying. And by sidestepping the issue this time, they’re just delaying the awful truth from the rest of us, until such time as a couple wed in Massachusetts inevitably sues for recognition from another state.

On the dark side, it could mean that, by keeping the issue out of the courts (where it could only be good for gay people), the Republicans are gearing up to actually push for that Constitutional Amendment nonsense they’ve been yapping about. Which I don’t think would pass muster, but….well, I didn’t think Bush would win again, either. I guess we’ll just see.

Did everyone have a swell Thanksgiving? Jet and I hosted the ever-entertaining 23Skidoo and her husband for Thursday dinner, then watched our new Harry Potter DVD. Friday, we laid around on the floor and watched rented movies all day, then tidied up the house and hosted Jet’s new boss, Reverend ___ , who is gay but isn’t allowed to tell. See, he’s filling an interim position at Jet’s church, and when he came to town he told the diocese he wanted a job where he could be out, and they, essentially, laughed in his face.

Jet has heard from the grapevine that Reverend ____ was NOT the first choice for the job, but that at least one other was not chosen…for being GAY. Ha ha, isn’t the irony delicious! We were afraid this would all come as news to Reverend ____, but he seemed painfully aware of the political tenuousness of his appointment. (Incidentally, the only reason he isn’t out at the Church, apparently, is because “no one’s asked”.)

From the sublime to the ridiculous…LSBB has sent me this story, about how gay activists are trying to overturn conventional models of king- and queen-dom at homecoming celebrations.

I submit for you inspection a member of Vanderbilt’s homecoming court. (LSBB's comment: "It puts the lotion in the basket...or it gets the Homecoming Crown again."

Ummmm.....memo to all fledgling gay activists on college campuses nationwide: STOP IT. If you’re a male, you’re a king. If you’re a female, you’re a queen. The end.

Jesus, it’s no wonder the Fundamentalists hate us.

The empire is in decline, and the Colosseum is open for business

I hate the insipid Today Show, as you probably know if you’re a longtime reader, yet I cannot turn away. I will admit a certain fondness for Ann Curry – certainly linked to my affection for secondary characters in literature and film – but she’s so marginalized these days that it hardly makes a difference.

Anyway, “America’s First Family” continues to give me good reason to ridicule them. Witness this morning’s broadcast: is there so little going on in the world that we can justify devoting the first twenty-five minutes of the Today Show to an interview with barely-intelligible barbarian Ron Artest (who at least had the good sense to turn the unwarranted attention he’s getting for beating up a sports spectator into a plug for his forthcoming rap cd)?

Twenty-five minutes.

If I ever see Katie Couric in real life I'm going to smack her in the head.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

I’m a bit behind the times, but yesterday faithful reader 23Skidoo alerted me to a new scandal soon to embroil Both Sides Magazine, a hate-and-fear-based “Christian” publication whose editorial aim seems to be to drive a wedge between religious African-Americans and gay people.

The centerpiece of the magazine is a “Q&A” with well-known Fundamentalist rabble-rouser James Dobson of Focus on the Family (which, by the way, is of the devil) in which he quotes a “scientific” article by fellow kook Paul Cameron, claiming that non-HIV infected gay men have a life span of 42. (Gulp! I’ve only got four years left! I’d better hurry up with that uninhibited drug use and unprotected sex with multiple partners that the homosexual movement has been pressuring me to try!)

Cameron’s "research" consisted of comparing obituaries printed in gay newspapers in and around San Francisco, with obituaries from “normal” newspapers nationwide.

I’ll let you ponder that for a moment.

Suffice it to say that Cameron’s methodology and results were debunked, oh, about twenty years ago, and he has since been disowned by any professional scientific organization you would care to name. Yet this article continues to be quoted by the religious right as “proof” that gays are unhealthy.

The magazine also does its darnedest to disassociate gay rights and civil rights, claiming that Martin Luther King, Jr. would be aghast at the comparison (although his widow begs to differ).

23Skidoo has cancelled her subscription to the Post, as has 23Skiddo’s sister and her nice Irish husband. Their argument, and it is a sound one, is that the Post would never include an “advertisement” that, say, denied the Holocaust or proposed that blacks are less intelligent than whites.

I must admit to being of a mixed mind on the matter. Another friend (a gay one) points out that the Post regularly exhibits fair reportage on gay issues. Certainly, they are a business, and do rely on advertising revenue to pay the power bill, as well as keep their subscription rates reasonable. And just as certainly, this is America, where every view (no matter how reprehensible) has the right to be aired and/or printed. Where I’m wavering is, does it have the right to be read and/or heard?

It reminds me, as most things in life do, of a comic book. In this particular comic, Supergirl was called to a college campus where a Ku Klux Klan-esque group was staging a demonstration.

Also on the scene was Steel, an African-American super-hero (whom you may remember was the title character in a dreadful Shaquille O’Neal theatrical vehicle a few years back).
Steel advocated swinging his big metal hammer and knocking the hate group through the Hostess Twinkies ad and into next month’s issue. Supergirl stopped him mid-swing and argued that, this being America, they had the right to air their views, as long as they were not breaking the law in doing so.

I forget how it ends, but I seem to remember coming down on the side of Supergirl. But then again, the hate group she was defending wasn’t anti-gay, were they? (Sometime I’ll tell you about Supergirl’s boyfriend, Comet the Superhorse….a horse that could turn into a man with backwards legs, whose secret identity was a lesbian. All in color for a dime, folks!)

So where is the line between defending free speech and airing a differing viewpoint? How do I defend my right to say, for instance, that James Dobson is of the devil, without also defending James Dobson’s right to say that HIV negative gay men have a life expectancy of 42? To be perfectly honest, if not for the Post insert, I would not have know that Dobson was spreading lies and would not have had the opportunity to rebut them.

I certainly am not arguing that anyone who wants to cancel their Post subscriptions shouldn’t do so. That is the beauty of capitalism. But where is the point that I must, as a defender of my own ideals, deny myself something that I otherwise enjoy because one aspect of it is distasteful? Is simply registering my distaste enough? I mean, I would guess that my political views are about as different from Charlton Heston’s as they could possibly be, but I love me some Planet of the Apes and Ben Hur. Should I, in protest to Heston’s political views, refuse to support his artistic endeavors (and yes, I realize it may be a stretch to use the word “artistic”…..)

Peter David, author of the aforementioned Supergirl story, says “Once you take action to hurt someone simply because you disagree with them, you forfeit any claim to the axiom, ‘I disagree with all you have to say, but will defend to the death your right to say it.’ “ So is deciding to cancel a Post subscription taking action to hurt someone?

Would I be nearly as outraged if the Post had included an ad that said, say, James Dobson is of the devil? Is there really anybody that was equally outraged by the treatment of the Dixie Chicks AND Dr. Laura Schlesinger?

I don’t know. I’m just throwin’ it out there.

"If you cannot defend what - to you - is unpalatable, then you do not believe in free speech. You only believe in the free speech of those who agree with you."

- Salman Rushdie in "Dirty Pictures" (2000)

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Enough thinking. Little friend has found the best website ever. Pictures of celebrities looking trashy. Go. Laugh. Revel in our intellectual superiority.

And she had REALLY hairy legs, too

Another day, and the hypocrisy of America, for some reason, continues to astound me. People are up in arms about this Desperate Housewives-NFL business, yet the bikini-girl beer commercials and Livitra promos and cheerleaders dancing around like whores don’t raise an eyebrow? Not to mention the fact that football is an idiotic pastime anyway. There’s only one explanation for the uproar, RACISM, and I shan’t be convinced otherwise.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
So I’m at the comic book store yesterday, and I walk in, and there’s a group of grown men standing around arguing, and since the place sells all sorts of kooky subversive political tracts in addition to comics, I figure it’s a political discussion. So I ease my way up to eavesdrop, and I SWEAR TO GOD this is what I hear:

“If the Borg have a chance to establish themselves, the Empire doesn’t stand a chance.”

Yes, folks, they were arguing about who would win a fight between the Star Trek Borg and the Star Wars Empire. These things NEVER happen when Jet or someone is WITH me in the comic store, so I could share my glee. I suppose I should be thankful. The same thing used to happen in reverse when I lived in Miami, and I would go to the comic store alone, or even with Jet, and everything would be quiet and peaceful, but on the exactly TWO occasions when I was accompanied by my little friend Looper, the comic book man all of a sudden knew my name and was eager to show me a picture of a woman with hairy legs wearing a bikini. Honest, I don’t make this crap up.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
We live in a neighborhood with a couple of group homes for the developmentally disabled, and as far as I can tell they are harmless (and yes, when I say “harmless” I am including the young man who, when spotting Dino and I walking one fine evening, stood at his front door and barked at us until we were out of sight.) But I have to wonder how much close supervision they are given. For instance, one fellow, who is African American, about 6’3”, and cannot speak but can grunt and drool, is apparently free to walk around the neighborhood unaccompanied.

And let me tell you, try as I might to be open-minded, when you come upon a big drooling black kid on a dark street, it’s tough to not be scared.

I just wonder if it’s the wisest choice on the part of those in charge to let him do so – I mean, what if someone calls the police and he ends up in jail, and since he can’t talk they think he’s on drugs or something? I’m just sayin’.

Mom, meet Classy

Well, Sears and K-Mart are merged at last. Does this mean that Sears will start leaving their stock lying around in the aisles so you can’t navigate the store, and hire only one cashier per shift, who is illiterate and surly?

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Speaking of ill-advised matches, Star Jones, apparently the only woman ever to get married, wed banker Al Reynolds last weekend, and like most blushing brides, squeezed herself into a too-small dress (and undoubtedly a dainty pair of Payless shoes to match).

She also, in a showcase of tastelessness that surpassed anything anyone could have expected, even from Star Jones;

- Sent out “rule books” to all the guests instructing them how to dress and act.

- Employed a team of “hostesses” to turn away female guests who looked better than the bride(I am forced to assume, then, that there were no women present).

- Yelled at The View co-host Joy Behar, on the air, because she brought a camera. To a WEDDING.

- Didn’t pay for anything at her wedding, because she traded on-air mentions for free crap.

You go, girl.

Now, it’s too late for me to advise Star on what she should do, but I’m going to offer a word or two to any single ladies who may be reading.

If your fiancé…

1) has shared a home with other men on fire island
2) has stated, in the press, that you are “okay with” his past
3) attended, two weeks before your wedding, a gay-only Halloween party dressed as a male stripper
4) organized his own bachelor party, with a “Roman Baths” theme, and instructed all the guests (men only!) that they were to take off their clothes for the duration of the party and sign a confidentiality agreement...

…then he is GAY. You should NOT be marrying him. You should FORCE him to confront the truth about himself, because he’s only marrying you in a desperate attempt to “fix” himself, and it won’t work, and before you know it there will be children involved, and it will all be a big mess. And don't feed me the bullcrap about how he's bi. I guarantee he didn't sneak out on his boyfirend to sleep with you.

I might add that Star and Al were both raised in the Southern Baptist Church, which is a hotbed of gay men trying to pretend they’re straight and marrying women. I’m just sayin’.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Thinking of Sears made me think of Lazarus, the now-defunct downtown department store in Columbus, Ohio, founded in 1851 by Columbus’ first ordained Rabbi, Simon Lazarus, and closing last year after years of decline. The Christmas that I was finally old enough to ride the bus, downtown, by myself, and go Christmas shopping at Lazarus was a happy day indeed. Never mind that I was tall for my age, my voice hadn’t changed yet, I was wearing Mother Rubble’s overcoat because I didn’t have one, my hair was long, and everyone thought I was a woman. Honest. I was called “ma’am” twice by salespeople and got three perfume samples.

Lazarus had a lighted Christmas tree on top of the store that could be seen citywide, signaling the start of the Christmas season. Every year, the store filled its display windows with a themed animatronics display, and there was a little walkway set up around the perimeter so that children could get up nice and close and press their grimy noses against the glass, and watch the robotic elves filling stockings, and Mrs. Claus knitting, and the like. Inside, the entire sixth floor was transformed into Santa’s Wonderland, the centerpiece of which was the Magic Talking Tree, who would tell jokes and stories and, for some reason, had a giant Jabba the Hutt-like red tongue that would pop out at inappropriate times.

Lazarus invented the Secret Gift Shop, introduced in 1957 and copied by stores across the country. There young children could shop alone—no adults were allowed except for the staff members designated to work the area—and peruse the shelves full of plastic Faberge Eggs and polyester print ties and tiny bottles of “French” perfume, to delight their harried parents with on Christmas morning!

Lazarus also invented the extended holiday shopping season. Thanksgiving used to fall on the last Thursday of November, no matter how many Thursdays there were. In 1939, Thanksgiving fell on Nov. 30, leaving only a paltry 24 shopping days til Christmas. Fred Lazarus, Jr. proposed that the consumer economy could be helped, in most years, if Thanksgiving occurred on the fourth Thursday in November instead of the last Thursday. When President Franklin D. Roosevelt learned of the suggestion, he was enthusiastic about such a change, and in 1941 the change was accepted by most States across the nation. Thank you, Mr. Lazarus!

We’ll close today with a poem, author unknown, written in 1919 to celebrate the installation of central Ohio’s first escalator, installed – where else – in that bastion of innovation, Lazarus:

What's the crowd a pushin' and a shovin' over there?
Land! It's folks a ridin' up the escalator stair!
Ma's brought all the family in to take a little ride,
Cause they're simply goin' dippy
Bout that Escalator Glide!

Short and Sweet

After I posted a story about Aunty last week, I was let in on some late-breaking gossip regarding same. Mother Rubble has forbidden the full story to be aired for the world…suffice it to say the phrase “drunker than a monkey” was involved.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Much is being made in the online community about a photo of Vice War Criminal Dick Cheney inadvertently showing off his, errr, “assets”. Fuel was added to the fire when the original source, The Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, refused requests for reprints.

Well, Industrial Waste Bin has found the photo. After careful examination, I can assure you that anyone who thinks there’s any “substance” to it hasn’t spent any time around fat old men.

Trust me, it’s all balls. Take it from a fat old man.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
No draft? Ummm….okay, if you say so.

...and the Witchita lineman, is still on the liiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine...

I can hardly think straight today. My new co-worker, sitting behind me, talks all day on her cell phone, in Spanish, and in between talking listens to some retarded radio station whose playlist includes both “Witchita Lineman” AND “Hello Dolly”.

More encouragement in the “taking-back-moral-values” front, today from NYT columnist Frank Rich.

Oh good. Now they’re playing Judy Garland.

My other co-worker just returned from being stuck in the elevator, and so now I’m afraid to leave, which I have to do early, because I have to go to the National Cathedral and record a CD of patriotic and spiritual tunes. Recording. Three hours. With children. Don’t envy me. Plus, the Cathedral Choir Men Yahoo Group has been having a running argument all morning about whether or not its ungrateful to point out that the Cathedral provides us with food, but no time to eat it, and why they don’t provide low fat options for those with “special dietary needs”. Frankly, I think those girls need something else to think about.

I’ve been listening to conservative talk radio all morning, and the conservatives are up in arms that ABC is planning to show Saving Private Ryan tonight, unedited. From the uproar, you’d think they were showing Shaving Ryan’s Privates. Apparently, the problem is not the unrelenting blood and gore of the first twenty minutes, but the eighty-seven instances of the word “fuck”.

Hey, morons: TURN OFF YOUR FUCKING TV. If you’re afraid your children might accidentally hear a dirty word, then pay some fucking attention to what your children are doing and make them do something else for three hours. Or pick up a fucking book. Or go watch your fucking FOX News Channel (though I hasten to add, FOX is responsible for such highbrow, moral fare as “The Simple Life” and “Trading Spouses”. Enjoy.)

Jeez, you’d think people didn’t have a brain at all.

“You Light Up My Life” now. Help me!

I feel like I’m surrounded by crazy people all the day, because it's not just at work that I'm beset, but at home in the hood as well. Our neighbor, whom shall remain nameless (suffice it to say she’s at least fifty, lives with her parents, and is never seen outside unless she’s wearing a man’s t-shirt and sweat shorts), puts cat food in the sewers. FOR THE RACCOONS. We can hear her late at night calling out names like “Cletus” and “Mumaw”, and we’re not entirely sure if she’s calling cats or raccoons. In the morning, if she happens to spy Jet walking Dino, she will talk baby talk (not to Jet, apparently, or to Dino…perhaps to the ‘coons?) until Jet manages to get around the corner and out of her sight. I’m CERTAIN her house is filled with years’ and years’ worth of newspapers.

Speaking of crazy old women with cats, LSBB is desperate for me to write about Aunty, a relative of ours who is not REALLY our Aunt, but is Mother Rubble’s second cousin once removed, or something. Lifelong spinster, lived with the same woman for forty years…but that’s never spoken of. You get the picture. Mother Rubble has the biggest heart in the world, apparently, and still sees Aunty with some regularity, even though Aunty lives in the same town and didn’t speak to or call Mother Rubble for THREE YEARS, while Big Ray was passing from the earth and she really could have used the help and support, and has never offered ANY explanation for her odd behavior. This, after she decided one day to stop acknowledging Jet’s existence, which she demonstrated by bringing a friend to Thanksgiving Dinner and pointedly introducing her friend to every one in the room EXCEPT Jet.

No one, perhaps, has faced Aunty’s wrath more than LSBB, who at the tender age of six, when she was as precious as any angel, was sitting in an easy chair with her dainty child feet curled up around her, and Aunty screamed “Get your GODDAMMED FEET off the furniture”. I will re-emphasize, she was SIX. This was around Christmas time, and was the first time any of us had ever laid eyes on her. That was followed by Big Sister BB getting in an argument with Aunty and throwing a hairbrush at Aunty, hopefully with all her might, and Aunty setting about changing her airline tickets so she could leave right away. LSBB, bless her little heart, overheard the call to the airlines and went to tattle, so that Aunty could be talked out of leaving and Christmas wouldn’t be ruined.

Oh, she was talked out of it, all right. Whereupon Aunty cornered LSBB and hissed “Next time mind your own GODDAMNED Business”. SIX.

That day, my Mama socked it to the Harper Valley PTA

Okay, I KNOW I should be letting this election business go, but something in me has taken over – probably the insinuation (maybe imagined?) that because I’m gay and Democrat and live in a blue state that I’m not moral and don’t have values. Hmmmph.

So…Keith Olberman on MSNBC is slowly-but-surely investigating some voting irregularities in Ohio and Florida, especially in Warren County, Ohio, where officials “locked down” the administration building to prevent anyone from observing the vote count.

The county’s Emergency Services Director, Frank Young, said that he had been advised by the Feds to implement “safety measures”, thus the lock-down. Young claimed that every county had received the advisement (yet Warren was the only Ohio County to not allow its count to be observed).

Warren County, as it happens, was briefly the home of Little Sister Bamm-Bamm, and let me assure you that this chain of events is either the result of arrogant stupidity, or pure evil, and the discovery of either would not surprise me in the least.

Warren’s county seat is historic Lebanon, which you’ll know better as the filming location of the smash theatrical hits, Harper Valley P.T.A. and Wildcats. Every sweet shop and corner store in town has, to this day, a framed photo inside the front door proving that Barbara Eden and Woody Harrelson were there.

But much like Peyton Place, Lebanon harbors dark secrets. LSBB’s ex-in-laws, including her ex-husband, all live in a creepy collection of adjoining properties, and think nothing of barging in on each other’s privacy whenever they please. Ex-Mother-in-Law was particularly egregious on this count, and would often wake poor tired LSBB at an early hour in order that they could go to “Lowls” (Lowes), because all the men in the family “work so hard that we women have to do craffs” (crafts). Crafts, apparently, involve such creative ideas as yanking live ivy, bugs and all, off the chimney for use on the indoor banquet tables at the wedding reception.

Mother-in-Law also exhibits enlightened ideas on homosexuality (“Whatta they do, just lay in bed and shake each other’s things?”); Art and music (“Your brother sings real good, it’s too bad he’s goin’ ta hell”); and fine cuisine (“Have you eat yet?”)

Her children are either simpletons, or evil, or most likely, evil simpletons. Ex-husband, an attorney, is forever attending “political meetings” late at night, and has been caught red-handed in shenanigans such as fiddling with official court documents relating to he and LSBB’s divorce and not living up to arrangements that he agreed to.

His grandfather, whom every other male in the family is named after, was about a hundred and twelve years old when I saw him for the first and only time, and wore a JET BLACK toupee. And thought no one knew (do they ever?).

Anyway, it’s a place where liberal outsiders are NOT welcome, which is why LSBB got out, and anything that lends credence to my irrational hunch that they are evil and not to be trusted is welcome news, indeed.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Two money quotes from a New York Times piece by Gary Hart, because I refuse to let evangelicals continue to claim Christianity as theirs alone:

Liberals are not against religion. They are against hypocrisy, exclusion andjudgmentalism. They resist the notion that one side or the other possesses "the truth" to the exclusion of others.

If faith now drives our politics, at the very least let's make it a faith of inclusion, genuine compassion, humility, justice and accountability.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

And finally, because I have nothing else today, a Sinclair Lewis quote that a friend/mentor/Canadian was all fired up about last night:

When fascism comes to America, it will be wrapped in the flag and carrying the cross.

Preach on, girlfriend

An astonishing sermon yesterday at Washington National Cathedral, which caused several mid-sermon walkouts, but also produced a standing ovation.

The full text can be found here.

Highlights (emphases mine):

"It is, therefore, a self-serving and cynical ploy to remain ignorant of the nature of sexual attraction. Same-sex love is neither a lifestyle, nor an option, nor a perversion, but a gift as irresistible as any person’s gift of hope and desire. Desire for a member of the same sex is no more a choice than desire for a member of the opposite sex. In both cases the longing for the other arises from depths that do not yield to, but determine, human will. Attraction testifies to the urgency with which we want to be made whole, to find flesh of our flesh facing us, since even God knows that it is not good for human beings to be alone. The crucial point here is to understand that God intends to sanctify, not overthrow, what God has made. It is blasphemous to cut off faithful witnesses to God’s power and grace to reconcile all things.

As I come to know myself, what I discover about how I am made is the natural category that I inhabit. Natural categories cannot be condemned; only behaviors can be condemned. While love cannot be chosen, it must be guided. How to discipline desire into virtue is a challenge as old as philosophy; the solution has never been to deny and condemn. Permission to be but not to act is pernicious; it is a counsel of despair. Sexual behaviors can be reprehensible and abusive and self-destructive in either heterosexual or homosexual forms, but desire that longs to express itself as tenderness and nurture and delight and union is, to that extent, like God’s longing for us. The Church ought to consider itself obligated to provide guidance for virtuous and godly living that allows all its members to grow into the full stature of Christ—but it cannot do that by telling an entire population that any and all expression of its affection is condemned. That not only puts God to the test, casting doubt on God’s redemptive power, it also abjures the Holy Spirit, given to the Church to guide it into all truth and to discern what makes for the building up of the entire Body of Christ into an edifice of praise to God."

And....

"The Church has no more persuasive witness to the unalterable and unequivocal power of God’s redemptive love than the testimony of Lesbian and Gay Christians who have heard, in spite of the contempt and double-dealing and evasion and bigotry indistinguishable in the Church from the same in the surrounding culture, that in spite of that, God’s promise is sure, God’s forgiveness pervasive, God’s love enduring, and God’s life unending, in all of which we participate, not through any merit of our own, but by the same grace received by all the saints in ages past. "

Looks like common sense is rearing its head in the wake of the elections. Stay tuned.....

In a lighter vein, Jet and I insist you race to the new release shelf at Blockbuster, tonight, and rent Girls will be Girls. So funny, that Jet insists it be bought. Hurry!

Zookeeper Blues

Little Friend has written to inform us that Ohio, although they ratified homophobia, in the same stroke passed a tax levy to benefit the Columbus Zoo. Meaning they care more about animals than their gay friends and neighbors.

Well, fine then. Since this is war, I’m now forced to divulge a piece of celebrity gossip in return.

Anyone who watches David Letterman will undoubtedly know of “Jungle” Jack Hanna, “America’s Favorite Zookeeper”. I will admit he did a lot to turn the Columbus Zoo around when he became its director in 1978.

I share an alma mater with Jack, though rumor had it he never officially graduated, but the college claimed him as an alumnus once he became famous. They did the same with John Glenn. And Agnes Moorehead, though she actually did graduate by all accounts.

So there Jack was, running the Columbus Zoo, and hosting an insipid local television show with his teenage daughter Kathy, who wore too-tight sweaters and had high teased bangs and had that raspy cheerleader voice that makes girls sound dirty. And along came Mona Scott.

Mona Scott was part of the ultra-popular Mona Scott-Doug Adair news team on Channel 4, having come from a successful run in Cleveland. She and Doug presented the image of a perfect married couple and handled all the fluff stories that serious reporters disdained.

Well, one day, Mona Scott disappeared. Just wasn’t there anymore, leaving the pathetic Doug to carry the torch alone. The papers reported that she had gone to Florida to be with her sisters, and rumors flew about a possible nervous breakdown.

And in fact, when I moved to Florida years later, she popped up briefly on the morning show on Orlando's Channel 9.

But now the real story can be told. According to my sources, Mona Scott and Jungle Jack were embroiled in a torrid affair. They had agreed that they would leave their respective spouses and run off together.

So Mona told Doug she was leaving.

And Jack backed out.

And that’s the story of Jack and Mona. I’m only telling you what I heard.

Mona, apparently, lived happily ever after and now writes a grammar column for a local newspaper.

Jack, of course, is Jack.

More later. If you're bored and your computer has Quicktime, go watch this music video. It does this whenever it is told.

An activist is born

The dark pall hanging over Democratic-leaning DC has affected me at last, I’m officially depressed. Generally depressed because of the election, naturally, but specifically depressed about how Bush’s victory is being credited to “moral values”, whatever the hell that means. To be even more specific, moral values relating to abortion and homosexuality.

Now, I’ve never had an abortion, and will never face the choice to have one, but it IS a choice, and it SHOULD be, and being pro-choice DOES NOT MEAN YOU ARE PRO-ABORTION. It is, I would think, and agonizing decision. People don’t just wake up in the morning, jot down their grocery list, and then trot off to the clinic to have an abortion before their morning tennis game. If you really believe there are people like that, then you are a moron, and if there ARE really people like that, then THEY are morons.

Now about the gay thing – well, I just don’t know what to think. I KNOW not all Republicans are Evangelical Christians – in fact, Jet’s father is an atheist, and Mother Rubble is a Lutheran, the most liberal denomination this side of reform Judaism. I know the vast majority of Christians in America would find little in common with the fundamentalist right. But Jesus Christ, what’s going on with these State amendments?

I can understand the touchiness about the word marriage, I really can. I don’t need to have a document that says “marriage” on it. Were that the only issue on the table, I could probably even contentedly go quietly about my life and not bother about it. But these state measures that passed this week are really frightening, from a gay person’s perspective. Most of them not only prevent gay marriage, but prevent civil unions as well (which, remember, President Bush has now come out in favor of). The most strident measures would prevent any two non-related people of the same sex from entering into any legal agreement that, say, dealt with inheritance of property. The people that voted these measures through not only want to keep us from marrying, they want us not to exist, and they want a Biblically-based legal system, whether you cotton to their version of the Bible or not. Ironically, these are the same people who see nothing wrong in toppling theocracies in other parts of the world. Start shakin’, Iran!

Am I being alarmist? Here’s a letter written to the level-headed Andrew Sullivan:

“I wonder if you noticed that yesterday all eleven states that considered the question of gay marriage voted to ban it. ALL ELEVEN. I think this sends a very clear message -- true Americans do not like your kind of homosexual deviants in our country, and we will not tolerate your radical pro-gay agenda trying to force our children to adopt your homosexual lifestyle. You should be EXTREMELY GRATEFUL that we even let you write a very public and influential blog, instead of suppressing your treasonous views (as I would prefer). But I'm sure someone like yourself would consider me just an "extremist" that you don't need to worry about. Well you are wrong -- I'm not just an extremist, I am a real American, and you should be worried because eleven states yesterday proved that there are millions more just like me who will not let you impose your radical agenda on our country."

What the fuck?

The calm, reasoned response: What did gay people ever do to you? Here’s my “agenda” for today, if you want to label it “radical” and “gay”, go right ahead:

6:30: Wake up
6:45: Iron clothes for work
7:20: Shower
7:50 Leave
8:30-4:15 – Work at first job
4:15 – leave for second job (which I need to have in order to pay all my bills)
8:00 – arrive home, walk dog
8:30 – make and eat dinner
9:00-10:30 – watch TV (because I have no disposable income to go out and do something fun, and I’m too tired anyway)
10:30 – greet Jet as he comes home from HIS second job, give him a peck on the cheek before he going to sleep to start over again tomorrow

Radical, isn’t it? It’s true, I am eager to impose my agenda on the whole country, the whole world, in fact. I want to force children everywhere to live my swinging lifestyle of WORKING TWO JOBS AND HAVING NOTHING TO SHOW FOR IT.

The angry, radical response: Listen up, fundamentalists. I am gay. I am a Christian. I have taught your children, and will continue to do so. I have been employed in churches of any denomination you could name. I was not the only gay employee, I was not even the only openly gay employee, and guess what? The church leadership doesn’t care. They will allow you to believe they care, so they can have your attendance and money, but once you work your way up the church hierarchy homosexuality loses it’s importance, as it should, since it has abso-fucking-lutely nothing to do with how we do our jobs. We are in every segment of society, every branch of the military, every firehouse and police station and restaurant and school and Wal-Mart and guess what? We are invisible. You’ll never know when we might accidentally brush up against you, or serve you dinner, or sell you a car, or (*gasp*) look at your ass when you’re jogging through the park. And whether you say so or not, I am married in the eyes of God, to someone of the same sex, and there’s nothing you can do about it. And my marriage is built on respect and love and commitment, not on societal support or tax breaks. And guess what else – Karl Rove and the neo-cons are going to cut you loose the second you cease to be useful, which would be about NOW, since Bush has won the election (and, I repeat for emphasis, come out in support of gay civil unions). So keep pushing for that theocracy, won’t you? The last time an Imperial Superpower decided to become a Christian Nation, we called it the Dark Ages. Enjoy.

The rest of you? When you go and vote for these sorts of things, read them VERY CAREFULLY. If you earnestly, in your heart, have a problem with two men being together and calling themselves married, and the semantics is your only bone of contention, then I can meet you halfway. If, however, you care so much about what I do in my own home that you would enact legislation to prevent me from doing whatever it is you imagine I'm doing, then I think we might have a problem.

And those of you who are sensible and fair minded, apparently we've seen that being sensible and fair-minded isn't enough, maybe. When you hear hatred spewed, whether against you or your neighbor, stand against it in thought, word and deed.

Well, there, that wasn’t as hateful as I thought it would be.

Now, a couple of cogent points from our loyal readers.

Debritaconsuela (a native Buckeye, as am I): All this scuttle about how Bush won because of "moral values" just has me stymied. You can run, you can hide, but you cannot escape the hillbillies. What is a nation to do? How does a nation with such great freedom ever get to a point where great thinkers are able to exhibit high mindedness, and cultural promotion? How can the greatest nation on earth evolve if voters do not allow higher thinking to be exhibited in our campaigns? I left my tiny rural town in Southeastern Ohio many years ago to escape the ridiculous rhetoric of uneducated, bigoted, small-minded people. And now over 50% of our people are happy to be led by the King of Small Mindedness. Ugh. Europe anyone?

Europe doesn't want us, sorry to say. Go take a gander at the BBC News Message Boards.

23Skidoo relays a message from her brother, a Southern Progressive Christian: We have got to start showing that it is not the Christian thing to do to say, "it's my money not the govenrment's." According to the Bible, we are given everything by God. It's God's money, that's why you Tithe and that's why you share it. I really think we let Christians off by letting them claim the moral high road. Democrats need to do a better job of educating. There's nobody getting the actual message of the democratic party out in the South. It's the recycled crap you hear on crossfire. I mean the actual stuff verbatim.

Hear, hear. Mobilize, brother, mobilize. I echo Skidoo’s summation that "we can win the morality debate if we engage in it."

And finally, a nice wrap-up from Little Friend of LSBB: Ohioans are insane. Right on, girlfriend!

Hoist up your britches

A special message of hope for LSBB's Little Friend, who had such an unfortunate polling place encounter which, unfortunately, lent credence to my theory that many Republicans are moral hypocrites: If there's a bright side, Bush has four more years to foul things up, and will be increasingly unable to avoid accountability for his administration's policies. If we don't devolve into a cultural Civil War, I predict a Democratic Renaissance in the next four years, and to be blunt, this loss may be just what the party needed to kick itself into high gear once and for all.

In the meantime, we will have to endure more bloodshed in Iraq, more fiscal irresponsibility, and possibly a pseudo-theocracy. But we will endure. I still believe that people are good at heart, and so should you all.

. . . .

Sigh.

Election trauma stories!

This, from a little friend of LSBB's.....

"It took me 2 hours and 10 minutes to vote. I was called a bitch by a man who appeared well to do in his 50's or 60's because I wouldn't let him cut in line.Then he said I must be a democrat.I said "Of course. Because only a Republican would call a stranger a bitch and try and ditch her after she's been waiting for more than an hour in line."

From the swing state of Ohio. Stay tuned!

Election Day Distractions

Jet and I went to vote bright and early, and of course it all turned into a big misadventure. My address change, which was supposed to happen automatically when I renewed my driver’s license in AUGUST, had never been processed by the board of elections, even though I called a month ago to ENSURE that it would be processed by election day and was told that it would be. So after standing in line for an hour in my lovely, quiet, tree-lined neighborhood polling place, I had to drive to my old neighborhood and stand in line there for an hour and a half, and was given a different-colored card from everyone else so that the poll attendants would be alerted that there was something “funny” about me. But, I got to see lots of people from my old apartment building that Jet and I didn’t really know but made up imaginary lives for, like Old Mrs. Creeps, and Eek the Neighbor, and Pretty Indian Girl, and Melting-Hair-Pomade Man.

So, there it is, I’ve cast my votes. Let’s hope it’s all settled by tomorrow, but I’ve a nagging feeling in my stomach that it won’t be.


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

A young reader alerted me to the fact that this past Sunday saw the publication of the worst Family Circus comic EVER.

And I missed it.

But I found this one, drawn by 7-year old Billy while he was running around the neighborhood with black dashes trailing behind him. Enjoy.


“Jeffy, you dumbass! I’m gonna tell Dead Grampa on you!”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

CONTEST! The first one to send me a clever interpretation of my dream wins a prize. Here it is:

I went to a baseball game with Jet, Jet’s boss Mr. Dithers, Little Sister Bamm-Bamm, and LSBB’s boyfriend Kid Mickey. Jet was mad at his boss; LSBB was mad at her boyfirend. I was mad at no one. We sat in the bleachers, and the bleachers suddenly rose up to the top of a high platform (similar to Disney/MGM’s Twilight Zone Tower of Terror) where there was a Mexican Cantina, so we could all enjoy margheritas and fresh salsa and didn’t have to watch the stupid baseball game. Thoughts?

Down the Hatch!

Happy October surprise!

I’m writing from the comfort of my luxurious new desk chair, bestowed upon me unexpectedly by the major scientific society where I work, which is like sitting on a little piece of heaven itself. This is in addition to my raise of two weeks ago, and another review with possibility of another raise in four months. Guess they haven’t noticed that I spend the majority of my time writing things and surfing the internet.

Despite the frantic spin underway by the Republicans and their minions, it’s beyond me how anyone could see the Osama bin Laden video and NOT be reminded that not only has he NOT been brought to justice by the current administration, but in fact has apparently built an in-house production studio, complete with news-desk set, blue-screen backdrop and scrolling sub-titles.

And it doesn’t seem to have made one whit of difference in the polls in any case. More and here.

I dream of the day when I’ll have lots of pithy political insight to share, but today’s not that day, as I’m sore and cranky and hopped up on Benadryl. But tomorrow, I’ll be attending an election-watching party with lots of Capitol Hill ex-staffers, and hope to glean enough interesting tidbits to make it worth your while.

CELEBRITY DIRT: Little Sister Bamm-Bamm, whom you’ll recall recently took a phone order from former pop idol Richard Marx, today spoke with another notable Richard, Richard Hatch. At first, she thought it might be Survivor-Winner, Give-all-gay-men-a-bad-name, Should-know-better-than-to-parade-around-naked Richard Hatch, but then she discovered it was actually Richard “Apollo” Hatch, of TV’s Battlestar Galactica.

Now, I’m a Battletstar Galactica fan from way back, and in fact have been slowly making my way through the series on DVD. Even Big Sister Bamm-Bamm has mentioned her fondness for Mr. Hatch’s Richard Chamberlin-like allure.

But oh, how the mighty have fallen...

His credit card was declined.

For ONE HUNDRED AND FORTY NINE DOLLARS.

I mean, there are probably a million different explanations, so I don’t want to start any unfounded rumors. LSBB has his home number, and she’s to call and find out what’s what. And I’ll report back as soon as I know. But heavens, I imagine even I could cough up a hundred and fifty bucks if I had to.

In the meantime, have a sniff around his website. He talks about how he never really liked fame and fortune, and willingly left Hollywood.

Then he proceeds to talk about the SEVEN Battlestar Galactica novels he’s written, his continuing efforts to get someone to produce BattlestarGalactica: The Next Generation, and signs his name “Richard Capt Apollo Hatch”.

Cut the cord, Rich. And pay your credit card bill.

....well it's no wonder, with that crazy wife of his

Wanna see George W. Bush give a “one-finger victory salute”? Go here.

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Anyone see the Today Show this morning? Republican lap dog Rudy Giuliani knows whose fault it is that all those tons of explosives went missing from Iraq…

…THE TROOPS.

Yes, those darn troops. First Abu Ghraib, now this. Good thing they keep screwing up, otherwise the administration might actually have to take responsibility for something.

Idiots.

Which reminds me, have you heard about this Vaccine A business? The theory is that the government added squaline (an accelerant) to a bunch of Anthrax vaccine, then injected it into the troops going to Iraq for the first Gulf War, with full knowledge that the long-term effects were unknown. Trouble is, squaline seems to cause a whole host of auto-immune deficiencies, and could be behind Gulf War Syndrome, which the government has yet to acknowledge even exists.

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On to happier things, like titillating gossip about whom in American History might have been gay. I needn’t go into the oft-repeated rumors about bachelor President James Buchanan and his live-in bachelor friend William Rufus King (whom Washington wags of the day called “Miss Nancy”, “Aunt Fancy”, and “Mrs. Buchanan”), need I?

Well, now there’s a resurgence of rumors about Honest Abe, also a proponent of sharing beds and nightshirts and such with other men, only this time it seems someone was diligent about their research. The ribald poetry angle is new to me, and I try to keep abreast of these sorts of things. Sort of makes one wonder where the term “Lincoln Logs” came from.

That’s all I have. Good Day, and go vote!

In the Green

So who knows what to make of President Bush’s statement yesterday that he supports gay civil unions? (Gee, fellas, sorry about that constitutional amendment business, heh heh!) Regardless of his intentions, the result has been to finally draw out the fundamentalist Republican base as the hate-filled morons they are, and reveal that their goal is not to “defend” marriage, but to demonize gay people and prevent them from having any civil rights, ever.

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Tip of the day: If you need to get someplace in a hurry, absolutely do not drive behind any of the following people:

Taxi Drivers in and around Washington, DC
Any man wearing a hat (baseball caps excluded)
Anyone with a bumper sticker indicating that they are a veteran of any branch of the armed services
Anyone with an American flag affixed to their car (Regrettably, this includes beloved Mother Rubble)

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While stuck behind slow drivers this morning, I happened to think of our friend Miss J, who is, I am convinced, Bette Midler's given-up-for-adoption daughter. (Before you ask, there is plenty of evidence to support this, and yes, Bette Midler really did give up a daughter for adoption). Anyway, she appears in an Altoids print ad (Miss J, not Bette Midler) and here it is.

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Jet and I are gearing up for an intensive evening of laying under the covers reading comic books, which we’ll do after attending Floozy Flingland’s recital (at 8pm in the Gildenhorn Recital Hall at the University of Maryland, if you’re free). After that, we will go home to Dino and act like fat pimply-faced losers who live in their parents’ basements for twenty minutes. (Maybe I shouldn’t be so quick to cast aspersions, as I am fat, was once pimply-faced, and lived in my grandmother’s basement for awhile…but I’ve just updated my C.V. this morning and am feeling really full of myself).

It is rare that Jet will get more excited than me about a comic book, but today might be it. It’s the return, you see, of Hal Jordan, the greatest Green Lantern, ever (not that I necessarily think so, I’m just reporting what others have said).

‘Bout ten years ago, ol’ Hal went a little crazy, after an intergalactic terrorist blew up his hometown, and as many crazy people do, he went mad with power, murdered the person who taught him everything he knew, absorbed the Central Power Battery on the planet Oa, and became a bad guy. He was replaced as Green Lantern by the young, hip, cute, and recently revealed as half-Hispanic Kyle Rayner (below).

Then he tried to go back to the Big Bang and re-start the Universe.

Then this giant space creature that looked like fake vomit snuffed out the sun, and the Earth had just about had it, until Hal re-ignited the sun in a final act of selflessness, which seemingly did him in.

Except then he came back as a re-animated corpse which housed the supernatural Spirit of Redemption.

Still with me?

Meanwhile, Kyle Rayner started being written by Judd Winick, whom you may remember as a cast member on Real World: San Francisco. As every story Judd writes has to revolve around someone being gay-bashed or having AIDS, and Kyle was neither gay nor had AIDS, he was pretty much made irrelevant in his own comic book.

Also meanwhile, the Cartoon Network started up a Justice League cartoon, and in the interest of political correctness shoehorned in an African-American Green Lantern, which meant that the comics had to shoehorn him into the comics, further simarginalizing poor Kyle.

All this while, fat pimply-faced losers have been generating petitions in their parents’ basements demanding the return of Hal Jordan, The One, True, Green Lantern. I won't bother to point out that Hal Jordan himself is actually a revised version of the Golden-Age Green Lantern, and the reason that there are so many different Lanterns - see picture, below - is that he's always been a boring character and hasn't been able to sell a series on his own in a good thirty years. I'm just sayin'.

So, in six issues, we are promised that all these loose ends will be tied up, Hal will somehow justify murdering his friend or turn out to not be a murderer at all, and somehow stop hosting the Spirit of Redemption, and be alive, and not evil, and be accepted by the hero community as a good guy again, and leave room for the black guy who is still on the cartoon show.

Yea, comics!

If Ashlee Simpson fell down in the forest, would she make a noise?

God works in mysterious ways.

I wrote, briefly, about Jehovah’s Witnesses last week (nothing bad, mind you, but probably mildly irreverent). The post subsequently, and mysteriously, disappeared.

Then Sunday morning, on my way to church, I was tracted by a Jehovah’s Witness – tracted is probably not a real word, but I mean to say I was given a tract, a copy of Awake! magazine. Aside from the cover story (“How to Be a Good Father”) there is a wide range of topical articles (“Teens Ask: How Can I Avoid Pre-Marital Sex?” and “Reaching Pygmies With Bible Truth”) with lots of highlighted text boxes outlining the salient points (“Discussing your problems with your parents can help you stay chaste” and “Adult Pygmies average 4-5 feet high!”). There’s even a personal witness story involving chorus leader Fred Waring, who is a much-beloved figure in the history of the Bamm-Bamm family.

Depending on how vulnerable I’m feeling on any particular day (i.e. how much time I have on my hands to sit and obsessively ruminate), I’m likely to interpret this chain of events as a sign that God wants me to:

a) be a father
b) stop having sex
c) become a Jehovah’s Witness, or
d) minister to Pygmies

I’ve been able to eliminate b, c, and d this morning; b) because I don’t want to, c) because I’ve come across a bushel of websites to help “ex-Witnesses” in their recovery process, and d) because I can’t travel someplace where there wouldn’t be showers or Cottonelle Flushable Moist Wipes. So that leaves a), and I think I’ll wait a while to see how Dino turns out before making THAT level of commitment.

Ascribing universal importance to everyday coincidences is the reason I can’t read fortune cookies or horoscopes anymore, and why I must divert my attention during the day with mass media. I trust if God ever really wanted to get in touch with me, he would have sense enough to appear on a television show, or insert Himself as a special feature on a DVD.

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I fell asleep after the news segment on Saturday Night Live this weekend. And so I WAS going to write about how retarded Ashlee Simpson looked during her first song, because she was OBVIOUSLY lipsynching, and her “choreography” consisted of marching back and forth in a straight line. (I mean, isn't the point of lipsyncing to free your body up to do a showy dance?)Imagine my dismay at learning that I missed her comeuppance.

I have it in for that Simpson family anyway. I don’t know why, I just do. I can’t stand the sight of that simpleton Jessica and her lunkhead husband. (He’s SO handsome, why the hell can’t he shave once in a while?) I can tell you one thing, she and her husband do a new version of “A Whole New World” on the new Special Edition Aladdin DVD, and if she sings with as much sterno-clydo-mastoid tension as she lipsyncs with, she’s got about two years of vocal production left before she ruins herself (Mariah Carey, anyone?)

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Jet is headed off to evening opera rehearsals for the next month, and so I’ll be watching lots and lots of horribly written and acted shows and movies that he doesn’t enjoy, and will have lots to tell you. Last night, on our final evening of relaxation together, we watched Goodbye Mr. Chips, and also a bit of a documentary on bush pilot Tom Claytor, who left home in 1990 with the aim of flying solo around the world, and has not been home since. He flies somewhere (usually a place inaccessible by any other method), works a while, learns the language, then moves on. Nothing funny to add, just interesting if you’re into that sort of thing. Plus he’s pretty easy on the eyes.

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Code Dependent fell off a horse. Read about it here!

The Death of Science and the Niemenschmeider Sisters

Forget Zogby and CNN, self-proclaimed prophet John Hogue has predicted Bush will win the election. By his own account, he has correctly predicted the results of every Presidential election since 1968 (with the exception of 2000, when he predicted Gore would win by 500,000 votes – which Gore technically did, though he didn’t become President…) Hogue then goes on to predict lots of icky things for Bush’s second term.

Okay, so he’s a kook…. it makes for interesting workplace reading.

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PIPA, the Program on International Policy Attitudes at the University of Maryland has issued a report finding that a majority of Bush supporters believe things about the world that are objectively untrue, while the majority of Kerry supporters dwell in the reality-based community.

The dittohead apples don’t fall far from the administration tree, I suppose. This news comes at the same time that the administration has decided to stand by its approval of a book, on sale at National Park gift shops, that states Noah’s Flood formed the Grand Canyon.

What exactly is the process by which one claims political asylum in, say, Denmark?

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Little Sister Bamm-Bamm, who is an avid concertgoer, was at a Cake concert last night (the band, not the dessert) and ran into our old neighbor Leeza Niemenschmeider (name changed to protect the innocent). The Niemenschmeiders lived behind us in our childhood neighborhood, separated by an alley. They had a strange little house, which was tall and narrow, and always under renovation because Mr. Niemenschmeider would start projects that he never finished. I mean, literally, their kitchen cupboards were being re-faced for, like, twenty-some years.

There were two older Niemenschmeider sisters, slightly older than me, and Leeza, who was LSBB’s age. The oldest, Carrie May, was smart and sensible, and about four feet tall when she reached adulthood. The middle girl, Janice, was tall and dark, and had that “fast girl” sort of look when she reached high-school age. Leeza sort of split the middle, though according to LSBB she hasn’t aged well (more on that later).

Their mother, Hyacinth (Hy for short), was the neighborhood babysitter-slash-busybody. When I was four, Mother Rubble took up a job at the Highlights for Children plant, and I had to go to Hy’s house for half-days til I started kindergarten. The Niemenschmeiders had all sorts of neat things that we didn’t have at our house, like Don’t Break the Ice and Mousetrap, and a sit-n-spin, and Hy always tried to get me to do puzzles and things that were educative, but I was always more intent on watching television – and let me tell you, it was a constant battle. The morning line-up on the local CBS affiliate included Captain Kangaroo, Luci’s Toy Shop, The Lucy Show, and Gomer Pyle USMC, and as I recall there was some intricate set of negotiations to go through – like, I could watch Lucy and Gomer if I didn’t watch BOTH Captain and Toy Shop, unless Toy Shop was doing a live telecast from the State Fair, in which case I could watch the whole line-up. But then I had to take a nap so Hy could watch her “ladies’ programs”.

They also had a beagle that barked ALL THE TIME with NO provocation, who was good only for one thing, to have litters of puppies, by which we got our beloved mongrel Socks, who despite his maternal parentage was a giant sheepdog-looking thing.

Funny and gross story: when Leeza was being born, Carrie May and Janice came to spend the night at our house. Carrie May, despite being smart and sensible, decided to teach me the secret way she had to wake up Janice from a deep sleep, which involved sticking her finger up her own butt and then holding it under Janice’s nose. I don’t make this stuff up. Why do you think I have to change names?

Later, I developed a sort-of crush on Carrie May, and for at least a solid year would “help” her on her afternoon paper route. She and Janice both had routes for the Columbus Dispatch, which was the evening paper when Columbus was a 2-paper town, and their father had built them giant wheeled carts, painted orange, with which to deliver their wares. Janice was mean, so I preferred to aid Carrie May in her rounds (which actually involved me pretty much just walking alongside her, and collecting a quarter at the end for a candy bar or a pair of wax lips).


Carrie May Niemenschmeider

LSBB was also taken to Hy’s house when she came of age, and remembers Hy being quite a bit meaner than I do. Maybe she was harder on girls, being the mother of so many herself.

LSBB also faced the wrath of the Niemenschmeider daughters. Once when Janice was babysitting, and LSBB was tinkling before bedtime and asked if she could sing on the toilet because it was her favorite thing (oh, the preciousness!), Janice said NO!

Janice Niemenschmeider

Leeza was also particularly torturous to our little LSBB. LS took her revenge by pulling a chair out from under her while she was practicing flute (which, I might add, was a legacy instrument, passed down from Big Sister BB to me and bought for a good price by the Niemenschmeiders). This brazen act of defiance resulted in Mother Rubble having to be called home from the Highlights for Children plant in the middle of the day, and I imagine was near the end of our association with the Niemenschmeiders.

Leeza Niemenschmeider

Hy Niemenschmeider remains the best source of gossip from the old neighborhood, as she knows everybody’s business and is quick to report it. Mother Rubble, whenever she passes through town, always drops in on her unannounced.

So, LS happened upon Leeza last night, and she has crow’s feet and a hot boyfriend (I guess the town gossip that she was a lesbian are false), and was dressed like she just finished a leisurely game of tennis at the club, and she was drunk, and apologized for being mean so much. Warms the heart, doesn't it?

Elongated Man's wife is dead, and I don't feel so good myself

I can hardly manage to get through the workday today, I’m all on pins and needles until I can get to the comic book store today and get my grubby paws on Identity Crisis # 5 (of 7). Identity Crisis is a glitzy new ground-breaking series by award-winning mystery novelist Brad Meltzer. It revolves, so far, around the murder of Sue Dibny, the wife of The Elongated Man (The Stretchable Sleuth!), a one-time member of the Justice League of America. A classic locked-room mystery, where the murderer got in through a fool-proof security system, while Elongated Man was off staking out a crime scene.

Oh, and it was the night of his surprise birthday party.

Oh, and his wife was pregnant, and was going to surprise him with the EPT home pregnancy test that showed positive.

Oh, and as it turns out, the grieving Elongated Man and his ex-Justice Leaguer cronies have apparently been harboring a secret for years, the fact that Sue Dibny was raped by the villainous Dr. Light, and in retribution the super-heroes used magic to alter his personality and turn him into a goofball. And in fact, may have turned a whole bunch of other super-villains into goofballs.

It’s a far cry from the days when Lex Luthor would build a super robot worth billions of dollars and then use it to steal a thousand bucks from the First Metropolis Saving and Trust, but there are so many delicious teases so far that I can’t put it down! Like, another super-hero’s wife was attacked but survived. And, like, Dr. Light remembers Batman being at the scene of the rape, but the other super-heroes DON’T remember him being there. And, like, Lois Lane just got a note from the killer indicating that she’s next on the hit list (although my money’s actually on Jimmy Olsen getting it). And we’ve yet to get the results of Sue Dibny’s autopsy, which I’m sure will show that she wasn’t pregnant at all.

Jet is patiently indulgent of my obsession, as long as he doesn’t have to go into a comic book store WITH me, as they are always poorly lit and in disarray, and have disturbing names like “Collector’s Crypt” or “The Closet of Comics”. Which is a shame, because every time I go in, there’s a heated discussion about who would win in a fight between Snuffy Smith and Catwoman, or if Robin has to shave his legs, or if Wonder Woman’s a lesbian, or something of the like.

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Dick Cheney, who incidentally is a war criminal, continues to warn of the imminent danger of nuclear or biological attack to places like Waterloo, Iowa, undoubtedly high on the terrorist “must-strike” list.

Ummmm….where exactly does the “America and the world are safer with Saddam Hussein out of power” part come in?

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I have come to the unhappy conclusion that I’m addicted to sleep aids. But only on Mondays and Tuesdays.

My drug of choice is The Science Channel, which is where they shuffled off all the programming from The Discovery Channel once The Discovery Channel started showing Trading Spaces and Monster Garage 24 hours a day.

During the week, The Science Channel has theme nights, much like The Mickey Mouse Club but with heavier textbooks. Monday is “Prehistoric Planet”, with shows about cavemen and dinosaurs and such, and Tuesday is “Cosmic Odyssey”, with lots of things narrated by Patrick Stewart and William Shatner.

We have an odd cable arrangement, in that we have analog cable in the bedroom and digital in the living room, and The Science Channel only comes on digital. Since Jet disdains having television on while he’s trying to sleep, I have gotten into the habit of leaving halfway through The Daily Show and trotting out to the sofa with my pillow and blanket, finishing the Daily Show and then switching straightaway to The Science Channel. Whereupon I fall into a sound sleep immediately (it often takes me a half hour or more to fall asleep in the bedroom with the television off.) At 2:10 am precisely, Dino comes to check on me (or to try and get me to play, I can’t quite tell ) and I go back to the bedroom and sleep soundly the rest of the night.

So there you have it. I’m a dirty addict. I can abstain Wednesday through Sunday, so far, as the themes are stupid and I tend to lie awake fuming that there isn’t something more intriguing for me to fall asleep to. Am I wrong for being so blatantly indulgent?

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You’ll be gratified to know that all the young, healthy members of Congress have managed to get their flu shots. The CDC considers them at high risk because “they shake hands a lot”.

Turn your head if you’re averse to obscenity.

Assholes.

Thank you.

The Circus is a Wacky World

I long for the day when I can give you hard-hitting, up-to-the-minute Hollywood gossip, but for now you’ll have to settle for a tidbit about the Landers sisters. For those too young to remember the 70’s, or had dates on Saturday nights when Love Boat, Fantasy Island, and BJ and the Bear aired, the Landers Sisters are America’s home-grown answer to the Gabors – that is, a mother and her two daughters who all look roughly the same age, are famous for doing nothing, and parlay that fame-for-nothingness into guest shots on bad TV shows. Between them, they have racked up one each of Buck Rogers and Battlestar Galactica; three Charlie’s Angels; four Love Boats; and a whopping eight Fantasy Islands.

According to their website, principal production on their new feature film, Circus Island, is finished “on time and on budget!” The film, again according to the website, is “A feature film in which two estranged sisters reunite, and due to life's circumstances, are forced to blend their very different backgrounds and families to live together under the Big Top.” My sources close to the production tell me it also manages to seamlessly incorporate a love triangle and manatee rehabilitation, does indeed take place on a “circus island” (!) , and is staggering in its awfulness. Which means it’s not to be missed. Make your mental notes now, as it most assuredly won’t be distributed to theaters and will probably have to be tracked down, at great trouble and expense to the connoisseur of horrible film.

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I know I told you a couple of weeks ago that I hate Heloise. But I really hate Heloise. This morning’s column had a letter which began, “Dear Heloise, what to do with all those leftover hard-cooked eggs?”

Who the f*&# has leftover hard-cooked eggs??!? Why would you go to the trouble of boiling eggs if you didn’t have an immediate use for them? And even if you’re, say, a working gal on the Adkins diet, and you cook up a bunch of hard-boiled eggs to take in your lunch pail, wouldn’t you, like, only boil a dozen or so? At two a day that would last a week, WHY would you have enough left over that you would need to worry about “what to do” with them?

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I’m about to sound really racist. So if you don’t want your image of me marred, stop reading.

So, I was driving to work this morning. I was cut off three times, by three different people who then proceeded to get in front of me and drive really slow. I was delayed by having to wait for someone to move who had driven out into the middle of an intersection as if there was no traffic coming in either direction, which there was. And I was almost hit by someone who decided to turn left from a lane that was not the left turn lane, even though they had plenty of opportunity to get into the left turn lane.

Here’s the racist part. All of the above were Hispanic. And though this was a particularly bad day, I have noticed that Hispanic drivers are especially aggressive.

So why, is it a cultural thing? Do Hispanic countries have unusually lax driving laws? I’m not trying to sound like an idiot, or be insulting, or say that ONLY Hispanics are bad drivers (and honestly, they’re not bad, just aggressive). I just really want to know if there’s some sociological explanation for my observation, or if it’s all in my head.

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Number 1 in a new ongoing series of untrue things that will make my head blow off if I hear one more time: "Terrorists hate Freedom".

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That’s all for now, keep those cards and letters coming, and be sure to check today’s Found Foto!