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.
Thursday, December 23, 2004
Friday, December 17, 2004
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!
Thursday, December 16, 2004
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 15, 2004
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 08, 2004
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’.
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’.
Thursday, December 02, 2004
Speechless, part II
Here ya go.
http://www.365gay.com/newscon04/12/120104alabama.htm
"Where they start burning books, they end burning people."
http://www.365gay.com/newscon04/12/120104alabama.htm
"Where they start burning books, they end burning people."
Wednesday, December 01, 2004
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).
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).
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