The War on Christmas

Sigh. There's a clever new email making the rounds this Christmas season:

Twas the month before Christmas
When all through our land,
Not a Christian was praying
Nor taking a stand.

See the PC Police had taken away,
The reason for Christmas - no one could say.
The children were told by their schools not to sing,A
bout Shepherds and Wise Men and Angels and things.

It might hurt people's feelings, the teachers would say
December 25th is just a "Holiday".
Yet the shoppers were ready with cash, checks and credit
Pushing folks down to the floor just to get it!
CDs from Madonna, an X BOX, an I-pod
Something was changing, something quite odd!

Retailers promoted Ramadan and Kwanzaa
In hopes to sell books by Franken & Fonda.
As Targets were hanging their trees upside down
At Lowe's the word Christmas - was no where to be found.

At K-Mart and Staples and Penny's and Sears
You won't hear the word Christmas; it won't touch your ears.
Inclusive, sensitive, Di-ver-si-ty
Are words that were used to intimidate me.

Now Daschle, Now Darden, Now Sharpton, Wolf Blitzen
On Boxer, on Rather, on Kerry, on Clinton!
At the top of the Senate, there arose such a clatter
To eliminate Jesus, in all public matter.

And we spoke not a word, as they took away our faith
Forbidden to speak of salvation and grace.
The true Gift of Christmas was exchanged and discarded
The reason for the season, stopped before it started.

So as you celebrate "Winter Break" under your "Dream Tree"
Sipping your Starbucks, listen to me.
Choose your words carefully, choose what you say
Shout MERRY CHRISTMAS, not Happy Holiday!

And my response. Feel free to cut and paste it yourself, should you choose:

‘Twas some weeks before Christmas, and all thru the town,
decorations were hung over trees not yet brown.
“Why the rush?” I did muse, “to be merry and gay,
when we’ve not even set our Thanksgiving buffet?”

Yet the ‘Christians’ were out, and they dared to declare,
“You won’t let us be Christians! It just isn’t fair!
We want to hear 'Christmas' when we go to the stores,
To buy our big-screen TVs and dress our daughters like whores!”

I puzzled a bit at their public distress;
Surely Jesus would not have endorsed such a mess?
It was He, after all, who was heard to intone,
“When you pray, go away, thou shalt do it alone!” (Matthew 6:5-6)

“You have every freedom in this land of ours,
To go pray in the courthouses, schools, even bars!
The problem, you see, is that if you had your druthers
You’d dictate the prayers that should be said by all others!”

“But our nation,” they cried, “is a Christian-y land,
We’re being oppressed, you don’t understand!
The Founding Fathers were God-fearing all,
They would want us to celebrate Mass at the mall!”

I puzzled some more, for a cursory glance
Through the History books showed a very slim chance
That the great men who founded our Nation would care
If you’re Christian or Jewish or something more rare!

Washington, Jefferson, Adams, and Paine,
State-sponsored worship they all did disdain.
One can imagine just how much more
They would have detested religion pushed by a store!

“Besides,” I then thought, “I’m as Christian as you,
but have many friends – Atheist, Muslim, and Jew.
My ‘Happy Holidays’ doesn’t slight your belief,
But acknowledges theirs – so what’s your beef?”

But my words of good sense fell on ignorant ears,
Who continued to rail against imaginary fears.
So to you, dearest friends, these four words I transmit;
Happy Holidays to all – even dumb hypocrites.

Ted's Haggard, pt. 2

And just when you thought the religious right couldn't be any more hypocritical than it already is.....

They knew he was gay all along.

The money quote: Sheldon disclosed that he and “a lot” of others knew about Haggard’s homosexuality “for awhile ... but we weren’t sure just how to deal with it.”

Ted's haggard

Well, anyone who couldn't tell at first sight that Ted Haggard is gay is at best stupid, at worst severely mentally handicapped.

Plus, I wonder why it's news anymore when a Republican and/or Fundamentalist Christian is revealed as a hypocrite.

Jet, however, has taken particular delight in this particular downfall, having spent part of his childhood in a non-denominational Fundamentalist "New-Life" -ish congregation. He had this to say:

Perhaps it is not a Christian thing for me to say, but I'm delighted that a man, who based his life on preaching and promoting a doctrine contrary to our healthy commitment, has been ironically brought down by the very vice he worked to suppress with hatred and criticism.

My Life's Purpose

Has been found. See here.

600

Feh. A milestone is a milestone. And because I'm now an "eductaor", the item that put me over the mark was 25% off at Borders.

Why I hate Heloise

The Florida Times-Union, Thursday, September 7, 2006: (I apologize in advance for the salty language. Reading Heloise sends me into a rage that cannot be described. I really may need medication for it someday.)

Dear Heloise: So often when we go to eat Mexican food, we do not eat all the chips they bring with the salsa. I always take them home, crush them and freeze them. They make an excellent topping for casseroles, squash, taco bake, hash browns or any of your favorites.
R. Neuse, Seguin, Texas

Well, Mr. or Mrs. Neuse, my first piece of advice is to stop throwing around phrases like "taco bake" like people will even know what the hell you are talking about. I imagine it could have easily been grouped under the all-encompassing "casseroles". Oh, and by the way, I weep for your dinner guests who are being served casseroles topped with old thawed corn chips that probably were stale before you even crushed them up and snuck them out of the restaurant in your pocketbook.

My other source of concern is, who the fuck doesn't eat all the chips they bring with the salsa at a Mexican restaurant?!? I can't get enough chips at a Mexican restaurant, they have to bring me three or four baskets before the meal is served, and at least two after.

And just when I thought I would never see anything as stupid as a reader writing to Heloise to suggest doing crossword puzzles in pencil, rather than pen....

Dear Heloise: I always have a pitcher of iced tea in my fridge. When I feel like having a cup of hot tea, I just pour a cup of iced tea in a cup and put it in the microwave.
Margaret Caswell, Waterloo, N.Y.

A quick Google search shows that a Margaret Caswell was a teacher at DeWitt High School between 1955-1962. If it is indeed the same Margaret Caswell, I think she may have since turned retarded. I mean, what happens if she uses up all of her iced tea making hot tea, and then wants iced tea all of a sudden? Besides, retarded people shouldn't be playing with microwaves OR hot liquids.

After the rains....

...the whole neighborhood smells like licorice. Very STRONGLY of licorice. I really have no explanation for it, unless the Maxwell House plant is adding anise to its coffee, or perhaps there's been an uprising in the harbour and angry natives have dumped a shipload of ouzo overboard.

Crikey.

All the menacing creatures he's wrestled to the ground without a scratch, and he gets killed by a stingray?

That's wrong, man.

Why couldn't something sting Paris Hilton, or Jessica Simpson, or someone equally as useless?

Is God Angry, part 2; or, A Question of Karma

In the past four days, I have been unexpectedly granted three different gift cards. The first was from the check out lady at Target, who, after ringing up Arrested Development Season 3 (which rocks, by the way) gave me a free five-dollar gift card, with which I bought Mars Attacks.

Later that day, while escorting Mother Rubble to the Gospel World store to look for stick on geegaws for her Worship and Music poster for the Church Talent Fair, I found a Barnes and Noble gift card with a remaining value of eleven dollars and forty cents on the ground, with which I bought Wicked, the book, which I read a number of years ago in the midst of a string of panic attacks, so I don't really remember what happened in it, not that my reading comprehension and retention is that great even in the best of times.

Today, after returning from my first day of teaching at my alma mater, I found a Best Buy gift card lying on the curb in front of my house. Remaining value, forty dollars even. Which means it's probably never even been used.

Is this bounty a gift from the heavens, a reward for being kind and good in the face of grief and despair? Or is it a cruel test, and am I stcking up more bad karma for myself by taking these cards as my own and wantonly using them for my own selfish ends?

I am hoping the former, as Jet and I will be going to Best Buy tomorrow just as soon as the termite men have come to do their inspection.

Could even a trickster god be cruel enough to plant a Best Buy gift card with forty dollars left on it in front of my house?

Just the Roof, please, continued

When Jet came home from work last night, Dill the Crooked Roofer was sitting across the street from our house in his dilapidated van, staring at our house.

Jet asked him if he needed to speak with him. "Not unless you have any money," was the reply.

The police, apparently, can do nothing unless and until he encroaches on the property or makes an explicit threat.

You should know, of course, that we have not paid Dill the Crooked Roofer the balance of our bill, and are suing him to get our deposit back. Which he should know about by now. Which means he is angry, and stupid, and likely possesses firearms.

Sigh.

Code Dependent has just posted her first new blog in two years. So no more grousing about how infrequently I post.

Unemployable, continued

Okay, I'm starting not to get the joke.

Yesterday, having filled out an online application for a temp company, and having an interview appointment automatically scheduled for me, I received a call from girl-at-the-temp-agency-with-a-perky-name-that-probably-dots-her-I's-with-hearts.

Perky: "Hello, Bamm-Bamm? It's about your appointment tomorrow. I just screened your application and I'm sorry to say you don't meet our core requirements."

Me: "And those are?"

Perky: "Mid- to upper-level management, and data entry."

Me: "...um, that covers three of the five jobs that are listed on my application."

Perky: "I'm sorry, but I screened your application and you don't meet our core requirements."

I repeat, this is for temp work. Which a chimp could do.

Oh, plus, I'm petty and vindictive. The company was Apple One. Spread the word.

Is God angry?

Six weeks after buying this house, we have a live termite infestation, any sign of which somehow evaded the pre-sale termite inspection.

I'm still unemployed and unemployable.

And here's the path of Hurricane Ernesto, set to hit our definitely-not-able-to-withstand-a-hurricane-roof at 8am on Friday - the day I'm supposed to start my one-day-a-week job, which is thus far my only form of employment:



I'm just sayin'.

Dog Park

One thing I WILL give this town credit for is its dog park, "a 42-acre swim and play park for people and their doggies (over 25 acres are currently fenced)! The park is the country's largest completely fenced dog park--a true heaven on earth for dogs!"

Heaven for most dogs, I suppose....Frito Joe for instance, who will chase and pester any dog no matter how big, and bark at the top of his lungs when he can't catch them, which he can't, because despite being slim and wiry he is composed entirely of sinew and is just a hair slower than every other dog in the park.

Poor Dino (the sweetest dog that ever lived on the earth in all of history), on the other hand, could take it or leave it (mostly leave it I imagine). When approached by another dog for a friendly sniff-up, she will curl into a ball, preferably under the legs of Jet or me. If we are not available, she will approach any strangers who happen to be standing by (because this is a dog park, these strangers are usually old men or lesbians, or old lesbians). If no legs are available, she will growl and snarl and make herself out to be the sort of undesirable cur that is unwelcome at the dog park, even though she is, as I mentioned, the sweetest dog that ever lived on the earth in all of history.

If pressed into activity, she will chase only Frito Joe, seemingly for the express purpose of preventing him from having any fun. As she can run roughly at the speed of sound, her self-appointed task is easily accomplished. She will carefully choose a moment when she is able to gain access to Frito Joe without having to touch or be touched by any other dogs, then take off like a discharged bullet, tackle Frito Joe to the ground, and resume her position of safety under someone's legs.

This isn't leading to any pithy revelation about real life, I just wanted to upload a picture of the dogs.

Limbo

Having spent the past three days back in DC, I am faced with the startling fact that, just like they say, you can't go home again. But I'm jaded and cranky and not at all prepared to embrace my new life and town. What's a boy to do?

Plus I'm still forty, and have no idea what I'm supposed to do with THAT knowledge.

Plus I'm apparently unemployable (see previous post). Okay, I haven't sent out, like, thirty-thousand blind resumes a day, like I've heard some people say they do, but I HAVE diligently scanned the newspapers and websites for local jobs that I am eminently qualified for, and been perky and affable in every interview I've gone on, and STILL nothing.

Well, except for the teaching one day a week at one of my Alma Maters, which gave my self-confidence a boost but is nonetheless an hour and a half away and will only net me a cool five grand a year, which is not going to be enough to keep my DVD habit going, and I already have the DT's from not having been to Best Buy in over two months.

Speaking of Best Buy, I would NOT be above working there, IF they were hiring, which they're not. Nor is Borders, or Barnes and Noble. The only box store offering the possibility of gainful employ is Michael's Crafts, but when I went in to ask for an application, after having been brusquely put off by the managerette, I inexplicable burst into tears and had to race back to my car. I suppose it was the possibility of having to scrawl my own name on my smock with a fabric marker that set me off, I don't know. Perhaps I'll go back this week. Now that I have one day of the week accounted for, I only need to find something for the other four.

Just to keep my options open, I DID ensure that I would have a place at the Cathedral should Jet and I suddenly return to DC, and was assured that I would indeed have a place - and all because I'm good and pure. I didn't even have to give out money or sexual favors. I also insisted that in the meantime, I be called back should anyone of importance die and have a service at the Cathedral, another assurance that was graciously granted me.

Oh, and lest I forget, Jet Screamer has started his own blog. Nothing much there yet, but keep hounding him, he's sure to have some juicy posts for us real soon.

Unemployable

How in the crap am I not qualified to be a bank teller?!? A CHIMP can be a bank teller.

Sigh.

Just the roof, please

When one’s business is named “Just So-and-So”…..”Just Cakes” perhaps, or “Just Rivets”, it would seem to imply that said business has made such an art of, say , cakes or rivets, that they’ve abandoned all other pursuits to ensure that their cakes or rivets are the cream of their respective crops.

Unless you’re in the South. Jacksonville, as we’re discovering, IS the South, unlike the rest of Florida, which is a giant beach town. Even the parts that aren’t on the Beach. Jacksonville is more accurately thought of as belonging to southern Georgia, and I mean that in the worst possible sense.

In the South, naming your business “Just So-and So”…for the sake of argument, I’ll say “Just Roofing”…means that you’ve so screwed up every other endeavor that you’ve only one endeavor to screw up. Like roofs. Specifically, our roof. Our historic pressed-tin roof that the city would only allow us to replace with another pressed-tin roof, which was supposed to be complete before we even moved in yet wasn’t even BEGUN until two weeks AFTER we’d moved in, and was supposed to be completed in four days but wasn’t NEAR completion for four weeks, and now may or may not be complete – we’re not sure because the city has halted all work permits issued to our roofer, Dill, and if we want the roof to be put on correctly we’ll have to hire another company to rip the whole thing off and start from scratch.

I suppose we should have taken a bit more notice when the crackerjack carpentry team next door kept ridiculing the progress Dill was making on our roof, or when they reported that Dill’s helpers were sitting up on the roof smoking pot every time Dill left the site. But it wasn’t until water poured from the attic into our upstairs hallway that we really started to suspect that something might not be kosher. Then when the city inspector walked up into the attic, whistled under his breath, and said “Oh, shit”. Oh, and of course, when we found out Dill’s State license had been suspended since March, with no one ever bothering to tell the city. Things like that really start to pique one’s interest.

Other than that, the neighborhood remains…interesting. We attended Jacksonville’s recent Gay Pride Festival with some neighbors we met at the neighborhood dog walk. Granted, Jet and I may be a bit biased, as the last Pride Festival we attended jointly was in San Francisco….but fifty middle-aged people milling around a street corner while a lonely DJ blasts music in their ears doesn’t say to me “gay”, “pride”, OR “festival”.

Jet and I have been traveling across the river to the tony part of town to do our shopping, except in the direst of emergencies, like when we wake up on Sunday morning and have no coffee. It was just such a Sunday morning recently, and I dashed down to the local Stab-n-Save to grab a can of Folger’s, arriving just in time to witness the after effects of a homeless person taking a shit right in the middle of aisle ten. Not the coffee aisle, thankfully.

Contrast this with events on the other extreme, like the well-dressed white couple that drives by our house in a golf cart, both of them holding full goblets of Merlot, announcing that they’re “snooping things out”. I don’t even know what that means. But I like to think I’m a little smarter than to drive the streets with an open container of liquor in a slow-moving vehicle. That’s just asking for trouble.

Oh, and did I mention I’m forty? What am I supposed to do now?

2 things you never want to hear from your waking or sleeping spouse

Waking: "Baaaaaaam! Frito Joe has an erection and he's doing something to the carpet!"

Sleeping: "Bamm, PLEASE! Don't kill those kittens!"

Moving Day

Well...not REALLY moving day, since we moved in last week to our stately home at 5135 Kensington Avenue, where gentle breezes carrying the sound of children's laughter sway the tall, majestic trees.

By day.

By night, the stifling, putrid air carries the sound of either firecrackers or gunfire (we haven't quite decided yet), the rumble of city busses (as our house lies on the temporary bus route), and the shouts and catcalls of the drunk, high, and indigent - or as Jet calls them, "the colorful foot traffic".

They say it will get better. Soon. The people next door say it's already unrecognizable from when they moved in four years ago. Floozy Flingland's boyfriend C-Lo has a friend here who says much quicker than five years. But Jet and I have had a hard week, so we're having trouble accentuating the positive right now.

How hard? Not, like, death and destruction hard, just inconvenient hard really. Which is bad enough when coupled with a last-ditch but futile effort to not even move away in the first place, and the constant struggle to force one's mind to believe that this will all probably look really good in hindsight.

So, to summarize:

July 8: We pack up in the morning with the help of our dear friends, choking back tears all the while, and once the dear friends left us alone we cried and cried. And cried. Well, Jet mostly, as I'm stoic and believe that feelings are like treasures, to be buried. We wasted no time in getting on the road once we were packed, as we had already rented back from the new owners for two days, and had promised faithfully to be out by sundown.

Another neighbor reported that Pedro and Inez, the new owners, descended on the house like a swarm of locusts once they knew we were gone. To rid it of our evil, I'd imagine.

We stayed the night in Swampscent, North Carolina, and had to take a smoking room as that was the only way they would let us bring Dino and Frito Joe.

July 9: We continued the drive to Bremerhaven, where Jet will soon assume his glorious new position (I may have failed to mention that, in the interim between getting hired and starting to work, Jet has already been promoted to a position of some authority by his new boss, Johnny Depp.) The drive was arduous, especially for Jet, who was driving the moving van with our girly pickup truck in tow. At least I had the complete works of David Sedaris on CD to keep me company. Of course, I DID have Dino and Frito Joe, who need constant attention and talking-to in baby language, so I reserve my right to whine a little.

We arrived at sundown at the Marriott Residence Inn, which I can HIGHLY recommend for anyone who may be traveling in the near future. It does cost a little more, naturally, but as a wise charwoman once told me after I complained about the bathtub ring in my room at the Dollar Inn in Jeffersonville, Ohio; "You get what you pay for".

I will now insert an interesting anecdote, that being that Jet once found Nancy Marriott's wallet in a practice room down at the college, and turned it in, and did not get a reward, even though Nancy Marriott could buy and sell us all.

July 10: We sat around all day, as the closing was delayed by 24 hours, through no fault of our own.

July 11: We dragged poor Dino and Frito Joe all over the town, to lots and lots of places that they weren't allowed into. We were hopeful that we would be able to unload a few of our precious belongings before the closing, but naturally that would have been logical and simple, so it wasn't meant to be. Finally, at sundown, we were handed the keys and started to unload.

Now the house, viewed in isolation, really is lovely to behold. A two-story frame vernacular built in 1909, all the original woodwork throughout the house has been restored. There are three bedroom, two updated baths, and a room downstairs which we can teach from. Even an upstairs walk-out balcony, of which I've always dreamed.

But the neighborhood. I mean, we KNEW we were buying into a transitional area. I guess we just thought it would be a little further up the scale than it actually is.

Our neighbors, Skipper and Prison Doctor (who are separated but still live together, we think, or not - it's hard to tell and you KNOW how we hate to pry) told us that we should leave nothing on the front porch that we didn't want to see stolen. Even though we have a latchable gate and several hundred watts of motion-sensitive security lights. "Surely," we thought, "no one would be foolish enough to try and steal our giant fifty-pound statue of Buddha. It will certainly be all right here on the front porch."

Well, it WAS all right, for nearly a week, until said security lighting was actually installed and activated.

But here's the thing - why would anyone who doesn't care about the teachings of Buddha want to have a Buddha statue?

And anyone who DOES care about Buddha's teachings wouldn't steal, right? Especially not steal something that weighs fifty pounds and is awkward to carry and will not be easy to make a quick getaway with, after setting off motion-activated lights...

...and yet the thoughtful thief, perhaps in an effort to balance out his or her karma, took the time to close and re-latch the gate behind them.

Anyway, back to our story.

July 12: Mother Rubble, Code Dependent, and Nephew Ratched arrived to help us finish unloading the truck. Which is a lucky thing, as without their help our piano would still be sitting out in the street - or, perhaps, being wheeled down the street with a Buddha statue perched on top.

Mother Rubble actually didn't do much lifting, but once the air conditioning broke down she was happy as a clam, and she loves the hot.

Yes, I said the air conditioning broke down.

The day we moved in.

July 13-17: A blur, really, as the air conditioning was still broken, and the hot makes me woozy. Evidently, we moved some things around, and unpacked some boxes, and set up some bookshelves and such. I DO recall going to church, as Jet laid twenty bucks in the collection plate, leading me to think that's things would surely get better after such a generous tithe.

Well, the air conditioning is working now. But then Buddha got stolen. So I don't know what to think.

Snarky Reviews: Superman Returns

Saw my first summer blockbuster of the season last night, as I am wont to do in summer blockbuster season (X-Men 3 doesn’t count, as it wasn’t summer yet, and it wasn’t a blockbuster….though it was fine.)

So, Superman Returns. I’m going to tell you all about it, so if you don’t want to know what happens, just scroll up to the top of the page, the right hand corner, and click “next blog”.

Still here? Okay, then – Superman Returns apparently constitutes a bit of revisionist history, a world in which Superman III and Superman IV: The Quest For Peace never happened. Which is fine by me, and I would imagine fine by anyone who saw Superman III and Superman IV: The Quest For Peace. The events follow Superman II…rather, I should say, they pick up five years after Superman II, as the opening credits inform us that Superman has been in outer space for the past five years, looking for his home planet of Krypton (yes, we all remember that Krypton exploded, as does Superman himself…why exactly he went to look for it is never quite explained).

Superman II, you’ll recall, involved Superman giving up his powers and sleeping with Lois Lane. This becomes an important plot point later, so don’t forget it.

True Superphiles will also instantly realize that the five-year gap conveniently allows for the events of the film classic, Supergirl, which I saw in Chicago on Thanksgiving Day almost 22 years ago with JubJub, who will be visiting this weekend with her new boyfriend Babaloo.

But I digress.

After the five-years-later explanation, and a dizzying ride through space while the credits roll, we pick up at the Kent farmstead in…well, I don’t know where it is. Kansas? Indiana? Someplace flat and expansive. Mother Kent (Eva-Marie Saint) is puttering around her kitchen, which apparently hasn’t been updated since about 1927, judging by the antique ice box with a Marconi wireless perched precariously on top. Her scrubbing of the laundry on a washboard is interrupted by a fiery meteor which lands in the back forty, so she hops into her Model T pickup and heads out to find:

1) a giant smoldering crystalline something-or-other, and
2) her adopted son Superman (Brandon Routh), naked and stumbling around the field

She takes him home and spruces him up, whereupon he plays a mean trick on the family dog, has a flashback to his childhood, watches the news, offers no explanation about where he’s been, mumbles something, and leaves.

We then head to Metropolis, where Supes has re-donned his Clark Kent disguise and assumed his old duties as a mild-mannered reporter for a great metropolitan newspaper (I won’t bore you here with my treatise on how, psychologically, I believe that Clark is the authentic person and Superman the disguise, which puts me in opposition to pretty much everyone else in the world). Clark’s hopes for picking up his life exactly where it left off are dashed when he discovers that Lois Lane (Kate Bosworth), his former paramour, is living with the boss’s nephew (James Marsden), has an asthmatic out-of-wedlock child (Tristan Lake Leabu), and is about to accept a Pulitzer for her opinion piece “Why The World Doesn’t Need Superman”. Whoops.

Before he has time to brood about it, however, he’s called upon to save a crashing plane-connected-to-a-space-shuttle (don’t ask) which just happens to include passenger Lois Lane. He saves the plane in a spectacular display of special effects wizardry, sets it down on the pitcher’s mound of Yankees Stadium, and if you don’t get a lump in your throat as the crowd erupts in cheers then, my friend, you have no soul.

Meanwhile, Lex Luthor (Kevin Spacey), his gun moll Kitty (Parker Posey) and three (maybe four, I had trouble telling them apart, except that one had a video camera) generic stoolies are planning their revenge against the newly-returned Superman. Revenge includes picking up on Lex’s obsession with beachfront property from the 1978 film. Only this time, Lex has stolen power crystals from Superman’s long-abandoned Fortress of Solitude, which he is going to use to create a new continent in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, flooding all of North America and leaving a huge, craggy, crystalline continent that no one would want to live on in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.

After much hand-wringing and soul-searching on the parts of Lois, Superman, and Lois’ live-in boyfriend - interspersed with gee-whizzical scenes of Superman saving people and stuff – Lois ends up trapped on Lex Luthor’s yacht with her asthmatic out-of-wedlock child, headed out to sea with Lex to create his new continent. Which, incidentally, will be laced full of Kryptonite so that Superman can’t stop him. They are rescued by Lois’ live-in boyfriend, but not before one of the generic stoolies has a piano thrown at him by the asthmatic out-of-wedlock child, pretty much confirming everyone’s assumption that Superman is Lois’ baby daddy. Superman then arrives to save all of them, then gets weakened by Kryptonite, then gets shivved by Lex Luthor, then gets rescued by the people HE had just rescued. Then he flies up into the sky to soak up some sunlight and flies back down to Earth to beat Lex and – wait for it – lift the entire new continent up into space and fling it toward the sun.

Then he plummets to Earth, powerless, and dies. Or not. It’s a tense few minutes.

Lois manages to get into the hospital with her no-longer-asthmatic out-of-wedlock child, where she kisses Superman on the lips, reveals that he’s her baby daddy, and then goes on about her business. Either the kiss or the revelation of parentage does the trick, because next thing you know the big blue is up and around, creeping into the kid’s bedroom while he’s asleep to whisper some mumbo-jumbo about the father becoming the son, and other useless drivel you’ll recall being uttered by Dead Marlon Brando earlier in the film.

So, there we have it. The movie ends with Superman flying off to stop some more deli robberies, leaving Lois living with her child and her boyfriend who is not the father of her child, but still thinks he is. It’s a pretty big genie they’ve let out of the bottle, it will be interesting to see how they follow up.

Performances: I was awfully worried when Brandon Routh first appeared on the screen. He mumbled and appeared to have little idea that he was in a movie, or even awake. But he grew on me. His instructions were apparently to “channel Christopher Reeve”, a challenge he accepted with gusto. His speech patterns and mannerisms might as well be Reeve himself. And actually, I like his Clark Kent better than Reeve. More natural, less of an obvious put-on.

Kate Bosworth. Sigh. She gives it her best shot, but she’s far too young to be playing Lois Lane, especially a Lois Lane that has a five year old child and a Pulitzer. She’s far from the worst Lois Lane (hello, Teri Hatcher) but I fear it won’t be a high point of her career, nor a character-defining performance like Margot Kidder’s.

Kevin Spacey. Parker Posey. I want to like them both, especially Posey, but…well….they just…they both seem to play the same character, no matter what movie they’re in. Spacey the smarmy ham, Posey the crazy chick. There is nothing remarkable about either performance, certainly nothing unique that they bring to their characters. Lex Luthor should be terrifying in his evil, and he’s not. And, I certainly never thought I’d pine for Valerie Perrine’s Miss Tessmacher, but there you have it. I do.

James Marsden has his role as a pretty face down pat. Actually, I was pleasantly surprised to find that, unencumbered by his X-Men Cyclops shades, he can turn in a moving and subtle performance. He might have actually been a good Superman, if not for the fact that he appears to be about five-foot two. And as I mentioned above, he’s awfully pretty.

Dead Marlon Brando appears, to what purpose I still don't know. Honestly, his face is obscured by so much digitized vaseline-lens effect, it could have been anyone spewing metaphysical drivel with marbles in their mouth.

There is one perfect match of character and actor, Sam Huntington’s Jimmy Olsen. Perfect. He needs more to do in the sequel.

There are nice cameos by Noel Neill and Jack Larson, Lois Lane and Jimmy Olsen from the 1950’s television show. Larson, as you’ll recall, is now an acclaimed playwright, and was the longtime partner of James Bridges, director of The Paper Chase, The China Syndrome, and Urban Cowboy. But you knew that.

Gripes: The costume. He looks like a Nicaraguan hooker. And Routh has this weird sort of love-handley thing that doesn't lend itself to wearing bikini trunks.

The hair. Director Bryan Singer is gay, so one would think he could employ a decent hairdresser. Kate Bosworth looks like she combed hers with an egg-beater. And Routh's...well....look, I KNOW Superman's hair in the comics is black with navy-blue highlights. That's because it's a comic book. That does NOT mean you have to dye his hair with jet-black shoe polish, and give him a wig like a 70's porn star. The movie-going public WILL accept a Superman with a weight line and a haircolor that occurs in nature.

The child. Are there no longer child actors that look and act like children, instead of like Damien?

The Christ symbology. Okay, I get it. You don't have to freaking pound me over the head with it.

So…not the best movie I’ve ever seen, certainly far from the worst. I give it a B+. Review over!

Now – get over to Monk-E-Mail and amuse yourself the rest of the day.

Dogs at work

It's National Bring Your Dogs to Work Day, and so I've brought mine, which I planned to do even before I knew it WAS National Bring your Dogs to Work Day, because everyone in the prestigious scientific society where I work is gone to Boston for the Annual Meeting, except for me, Palsy, Poinsettia, Wendy the Lost Girl, Pregnant Rebecca, Sinthia, and the Phantom of the Eighth Floor, who hates dogs.

Dino is a perfect lady, of course, and Frito Joe is well-behaved unless I decide I need to go to the bathroom, or to the kitchen, or the fax machine, or anywhere besides my cubicle, which has been cordoned off with two recycle buckets and a trash can to keep the little darlings from running around the office.

Thus far we have endured a building-wide fire evacuation, an impending thunderstorm, and queen-of-inappropriate-discussion Palsy wondering aloud why Frito Joe was interested in her crotch, since "I'm not on my cycle". Classy.

What the - - -

First, I was horrified.

Then, intrigued.

Now I'm just jealous that she'll probably make more money this year than I will in my whole life.

The Integrity of Ugly

Everyone in the apartment complex I lived in knew who Ugly was. Ugly was the resident tomcat. Ugly loved three things in this world: fighting, eating garbage, and, shall we say, loving. These three things, together with a life spent outside, had taken their toll on Ugly.

To start with, he had only one eye, and where the other should have been, was a gaping hole. He was also missing his ear on the same side. His left foot appeared to have been badly broken at one time, and had healed at an unnatural angle, making him look like he was always turning the corner. His tail had long been lost, leaving only the smallest stub which he would constantly jerk and twitch. Ugly would have been a dark gray, striped tabby except for the sores covering his head and neck. Even his shoulders were covered with thick, yellowing scabs.

Every time someone saw Ugly, there was the same reaction...That's one UGLY cat! All the children were warned not to touch him, the adults threw rocks at him, hosed him down, squirted him when he tried to come in their homes, or shut his paws in the door when he would not leave. Ugly always had the same reaction. If you turned the hose on him, he would stand there, getting soaked until you gave up and quit. If you threw things at him, he would curl his lanky body around your feet in forgiveness.

Whenever he spied children, he would come running, meowing frantically, bumping his head against the ir hands, begging for their love. If you ever picked him up, he would immediately begin suckling on your shirt, earrings, whatever he could find.

One day Ugly tried to be friendly to the neighbor's huskies. They did not respond kindly, and Ugly was badly mauled. From my apartment I could hear his screams, and I rushed to his aid. By the time I got to him, it was apparent that Ugly's sad life was almost at an end. Ugly lay in a wet puddle, his back legs and lower back twisted grossly out of shape, a gaping tear in the white stripe of fur that ran down his front.

As I picked him up and tried to carry him home, I could hear him wheezing and gasping and I could feel him struggling. It must be hurting him terribly, I thought. Then I felt a familiar tugging, sucking sensation on my ear. Ugly, in so much pain and suffering, obviously dying, was trying to suckle my ear. I pulled him closer to me, and he bumped the palm of my hand with his head, then he turned his one golden eye towards me, and I could hear the distinct sound of purring.

Even in the greatest pain, that ugly, battle-scarred cat was asking only for a little affection, perhaps some compassion. At that moment, I thought Ugly was the most beautiful, loving creature I had ever seen. Never once did he try to bite or scratch me, try to get away from me, or struggle in any way. Ugly just looked up at me completely trusting in me to relieve his pain. Ugly died in my arms before I could get inside, but I sat and held him for a long time afterwards, thinking about how one scarred, deformed little stray could so alter my opinion about what it means to have true pureness of spirit, to love so totally and truly.

Ugly taught me more about giving and compassion than a thousand books, lectures, or talk show specials ever could, and for that I will always be thankful. He had been scarred on the outside, but I was scarred on the inside, and it was time for me to move on and learn to love truly and deeply, to give my total to those I cared for. Many people want to be richer, more successful, well-liked, or beautiful. But for me? I will always try to be Ugly.

--Author Unknown

Okay, so...

...I may have failed at my New Year's Resolution to post every day. Okay, yes, I HAVE failed. I'm a big fat failure. What are you going to do, fire me?

I have no excuse, really. Just, you know, busying myself with preparations for moving and such, to accomadate Jet's new job.

Oh, by the way, Jet has a new job. And so we'll be moving. Next month. To an historic house that needs no improvements, in a hip urban neighborhood. Every gay man's dream.

So, I'm off this afternoon on the final leg of a tour with the National Cathedral Choir, which has frankly been the bane of my existence for the past two weeks. I really like the IDEA of singing at the cathedral, but the reality of not sleeping in my own bed and being surrounded by fourth-grade boys and/or high school girls is another matter entirely. Plus, apparently, I'm not as young as I like to think I am. According to my body.

Not that it was entirely bad, as last week in Chicago I got to see our dear friends JubJub and Bette-Midler's-Secret-Daughter, but I would have just as soon gone to Chicago just to see them, and be done with it.

Then Mother Rubble, in Ohio for her High School Reunion, met me in Indianapolis along with cousin Shella, and put me to shame with the results of her new health kick. Advised me that I better start walking those dogs a few more miles a day than what I been a doin'.

Speaking of those dogs, the cruelest blow was that travel on Sunday prevented me from attending the Adopted-from-the-pound Reunion picnic, which disappointed me to no end. But a kindly stranger took pictures for me, which I spent a long time yesterday making into a Warhol-esque print that I will further refine as soon as I don't have to rely on my work computer's substandard graphics software, then market and sell on posters, t-shirts, and calendars:

Submitted without comment

Go Go Porno Rangers

You know how you fantasize about something for a REALLY long time, and then when it finally comes true, it's really just not as exciting as it was in your fantasies?

Yeah, me too.

My Second Meme

Thanks to Drew for the tag.

Here are the rules: Drew poses a question to me, and I answer it. Then I pose my own question and tag others; then they ask their own question and tag others, and so on... just like a seventies shampoo commercial!

Drew's question to me is “If you could go back in time and relive any moment in your life exactly as it originally happened, what would you choose to experience again? (Note: You cannot alter the out come; you'd just relive the experience).”

Okay, I thought and thought, and had a lot of trouble coming up with something that I wouldn't want to fiddle with and change a little, either the circumstances or my reaction to the circumstances...so I finally settled on this:

When I was sixteen, my great Uncle B____ passed on. He was the brother of my grandmother, Mrs. W____ (the one with the castle down the street - see below). An interesting character, he; never married, but was "engaged" to the same woman for over sixty years. His fiancée was the youngest child of the richest family in town, and years later found out that the woman she believed to be her mother was actually her grandmother - her real mother was her "sister", Princess. And yes, Princess was REALLY her name.

But I digress.

Uncle B___ lived on a farm, though WHAT exactly he farmed I never knew. He occasionally had sheep in his barn, though they weren't his as I recall. There was corn, I suppose, possibly other grain crops, but when I was growing up we were never there long enough for me to properly explore the fields - not like the heady days of Mother Rubble's youth, when all the cousins in the family would gather and spend the entire summer there.

The farmhouse was where Uncle B___, Mrs. W____, and all their siblings had been born and raised. The farm sat a little ways out of town, along a creek where Mother Rubble used to fish - though by my day, the creek was obscured by a highway and an abandoned Drive In.

The house was a standard late-19th Century design, with a ground-floor living area and a large, usable attic space. In my youth, when we would visit the farm, visitors entered through the back door, which led to the kitchen. Adjoining the kitchen was the indoor bathroom (a later addition, naturally) and the "dining" room, which was piled high with papers and magazines and was where Uncle B___ slept. And until the day he died, those were the only three rooms of the house I had ever seen.

After his death, the contents of the house were to be sold at auction, so Mother Rubble and Big Ray and I went up one Saturday to clear out anything of value that the family might want to keep. While Big Ray and Mother Rubble were busy collecting little treasures like paper bags full of money that were hidden in the dining room, I had a chance to explore the parts of the house that I had never seen.

The upstairs room, once the children's sleeping quarters, had only an old rusty bed frame and a closet full of family photographs - the old-timety photographs where no one ever smiled, and had vacant, expressionless yet luminescent eyes, like Melissa Sue Anderson on Little House on the Prairie. Of particular interest was a photograph of Aunt O___, grandmother's oldest sister, who died of scarlet fever at age sixteen. In contrast to the other photos, hers depicted a bright, lively girl with thick ringlets of blond hair falling about her shoulders, as delicate as a china doll. I imagined that, had she lived, she would have become an international beauty and sailed back and forth to Europe with her financier husband.

The true treasure, though, was the front parlor. Its existence was completely unknown to me (remember, I had only ever entered from the back door - the front porch was overgrown with weeds, so I had never even crept up and looked into the front windows). The parlor probably hadn't seen a human being since about 1940, and looked as if it hadn't been altered for about thirty years before that. There were a few pictures on the walls, which were covered with a patterned Victorian-era wallpaper. There was a high-backed, red-upholstered settee of some sort, with low, round-topped table. Also an upright piano, with stacks and stacks of sheet music, primarily early 20th-Century popular songs. And a bookcase - the bookcase!

I pause here to inform the reader that I am obsessed with historic ephemera - obsessed - which is to be borne in mind as you read on.

I suppose it would be really swell to, say, be in such a situation and stumble upon a first edition Tom Sawyer, or Of Human Bondage, or something, but I infinitely preferred what I DID find - a collection of MacGuffey Readers, Farmer's Almanacs from the late 1800's, and lots and lots of popular fiction of the turn of the century, tales of hardscrabble orphan boys traveling the world on steamer ships, and rose-cheeked maidens suffering some sort of cruel existence until the day when they can be married to their true love.

And then, the find of all finds, the very mention of which made Mother Rubble drop something breakable, make an inhuman sound, and rush into the parlor; behind the other books, obviously quite intentionally placed there so as to be concealed, was a huge, illustrated, wood-bound German Bible, the Bible of Wilhelm Forster (1749o-1815), an ancestor who was the first Lutheran missionary in the Ohio Territory. The Bible had been a point of some contention in the family for years and years - everyone wanting it, no one knowing who had it - and the person that DID have disavowing any knowledge of its whereabouts.

So that's it, that's what I would re-live, my day of uncovering hidden rooms, family secrets and commonplace reading material of a bygone era.

Now for my question, which is multi-part: You wake up tomorrow morning, and can have TWO super-powers of your choice. 1) What would they be; 2) How would you use them, and; 3) why would you use them that way?

I'm tagging LSBB, Doc Johnston, Li'l Erika, and Niece Ratched.

The Castle Down the Street

Six doors down from my mother’s childhood home was a castle, with a carriage house at the gate. As it was still the home of my grandmother during MY childhood, I had many occasions to pass by and daydream about what it might be like to live in a castle. The property was surrounded by a six or seven-foot high brick wall, and a clever and limber child (I remain clever, but not so limber) could shimmy up the wall and peer over into the property. If you walked around the corner, you could peer through the iron entrance gates, although the view of the house was blocked by the carriage house from this angle.



By my time the house had been long abandoned – and before I was quite an adult, it had been carved up and made part of a soulless condominium development. Occasionally, pre-development, there would be a car parked outside the house, and all the neighborhood children would become very excited at the prospect that someone was moving in, or even better, that the mysterious long-absent owners had returned from their years-long world travels and come home to live out the rest of their days.



Code Dependent snuck into the house once – I can’t recall all the details, but I’m going to go ahead and make up a story, and say she snuck in there to make out with a boy. If I recall her report correctly, there were still plenty of fine draperies and the like, even though the house was unlived in.

The entire neighborhood, including my grandmother’s house, was built along the crest of a hill that gently sloped down toward the Scioto River. The owner of the castle was Sylvio Casparis, who founded the Casparis Stone Company in 1892, which merged with three other companies to become the Marble Cliff Quarries in 1913. The quarries could be seen from the top floor of the castle, so he could keep tabs on any shiftless laborers to make sure they were earning their penny a week.

Barely a stone’s throw from the castle was the home of Samuel Prescott Bush, ( yes, THAT Bush – he was W’s great-grandpappy). He was president and general manager of Buckeye Steel Castings Company (Buckeye Steel) on Columbus' south side (external and internal views on the right).


The home, built in 1908, was sold in 1929 to Detroit socialite Anna Dodge Dillman, the wife of Columbus-born silent film actor Hugh Dillman and widow of Horace Dodge, founder with his brother John of the Dodge Automobile Company. Mrs. Dillman (inset, lower left), the wife of Columbus-born silent film actor Hugh Dillman and widow of Horace Dodge, founder with his brother John of the Dodge Automobile Company. Mrs. Dillman was one of the country's wealthiest women in the mid-1920s, and with Horace built the splendid Rose Terrace home in Grosse Pointe Michigan. Mrs. Dillman bought the Bush home for her husband's family to live in, and in the late 1940s sold it to the Carmelite nuns. By my day, the original house had been incorporated into St Raphael's Home for the Aged, but the home has since moved and the house is being developed for a dreaded condo development.

My grandmother’s house was built on property that had once belonged to the Aladdin Country Club, and the former site of the clubhouse was in the woods just behind her house. The indentation of the clubhouse’s foundation could still be seen, as well as the circular gravel drive seen in the picture below.



Of course, the woods, foundation, and circular drive are all gone now....condos. Not to mention, my junior high band teacher bought my grandmother's house and has built it up so that you couldn't even get to the woods if they WERE there.

If you’re waiting for this all to tie into some profound analogy to my life, stop holding your breath. I just found the pictures online and have nothing better to do.

Are you a sissy?

Explained at last, the time-honored rite of passage for 2nd-grade boys everywhere....The Sissy Test!

Step 1: Rub a spot on the back of your hand with a pencil eraser 200 times.

Step 2: Immediately run your hand under ice-cold running water.

Step 3: If you flinch or yelp, you are a sissy.

Step 4: The next day, proudly show the scar on the back of your hand and assure any non-witnesses that you did not flinch or yelp.

ALTERNATE METHOD FOR ADULT MEN WHO ARE PUSHING MIDDLE AGE

Step 1: Get such dry skin in the winter that you absentmindedly scratch at the back of your hand all day.

Step 2: In the course of performing your morning toilet, run your hand under ice-cold running water.

Step 3: Flinch and yelp.

Are YOU surrounded by Muppets?

I am, apparently. I scored as Farscape. And I never even watched the show.

My First Meme

I've been tagged by Drew, and am eternally grateful. And to think, before I started reading random blogs last week, I didn't even know what a meme was!

These are the rules.

1. Thank the person that tagged you. Thank you, Drew.

2. List 5 random/strange/weird things about you. See below.

3. Tag 5 other people. They will be random people, maybe, unless I try tagging Code Dependent. Or Plate-Of-Shrimp, both of whom could use a good kick in the ass to start blogging again.

So here are my five things:

1. Since Jet and I have been together (13 years as of Feb. 10, but don't feel obligated to send a gift) we have always lived within five miles of US Route 1. This is in two different states, four different cities and seven different domiciles. Now, facing an imminent move to a new city through which Route 1 runs, I am under the obsessive belief that we must continue to live within five miles of it. I'm also planning to drive the length of it one day and write a coffee table picture book about my travels.

2. I don't have any desire to be the boss of anything, ever. I used to really beat myself up about it, but after taking a Meyers-Briggs test (I'm solidly INF, usually followed by J but sometimes P, depending on the day) I realized that that's just the way I am, and it's okay to be that way. Besides, quite selfishly, after accepting myself for being that way I realized that being second in command is often a much more powerful position than being in charge. All the power, none of the blame.

Not that I couldn't be an effective leader if I HAD to be, mind you.

3. On a similar note, I am obsessed with secondary characters in television, movies, comic books, etc. The more of a cipher they are, the more I like them. I am compelled to learn every bit of minutiae there is about them, and sometimes, to create an imaginary background for them out of whole cloth. I suppose this proves to myself that even though I don't want to be the boss of anything ever, I'm still an interesting person. You can read my top ten list of secondary characters here and here, though in re-reading it I'm reminded that I forgot to add Ann Curry to the list.

4. When I'm alone in the car, or sometimes the shower, I practice my half of important conversations that I anticipate having. I have a scenario for every possible reaction from the other person, and in my practice I am always calm, cool, and have an unlimited vocabulary.

And yet, with all my practice, I am still awkward and fumble for words when having the conversation in real life.

Practicing conversations sounds like a good idea when I read it in print, but it doesn't feel like such a good idea when, say, you accidentally dial your home phone while you're in the car having a practice conversation, and your home answering machine picks up and records you talking to yourself for a good long time, and someone, say Jet, listens to the message, and then you have to explain to Jet that you often hold practice conversations with yourself.

5. Billy Baldwin stole a cab from me once.

Senator Speedo

My dreamboat State Senator, whom Jet and I used to frequently spot tooling around in his convertible roadster, did the right thing yesterday by saving the life of his fiercest political opponent.

I guess he's not entirely a dick, then. Good to know.

What am I doing wrong?

Okay, I know I've been gone awhile, but I've been busy trolling the internet to read other people's blogs, to see if if I could sort of hone my style, since I get no comments anymore and I suppose it must be my fault. And what I find is that most people are so desperately unhappy! Wives whose husbands ridicule them day at night and shout obscenities at them, and men in their fifties who are married with children and just now figuring out that they're gay, and people who have emotional meltdowns at work, like, three times a week, and the like.

Turmoil I can't even imagine, which means I'm either extremely stable, or in extreme denial.

But really, if Jet and I have a disagreement, we just work it out, and that's that. One of us will compromise, and then get our way the next time. Or, more likely, we will each give up SOMETHING for the sake of a peaceful resolution. Done. Neither one of us has any concept of dragging an argument out to ensure that we get our own way.

That just seems like common sense to me, why wouldn't EVERYONE do it?

And when something is wrong at work, which of course it sometimes is, I can't imagine having a meltdown about it, or hurling obscenities, or anything. I mean, either find a way to solve the problem or suck it up, it's really that simple, isn't it?

Am I missing something?

Adam Sandler is a retarded moron

There, I said it, and I don't care who knows it.

Hollywood Reporter is....well, reporting that Adam Sandler, in his never-ending crusade to latch onto the latest movie-making trends and taint them with his "talent" forever, will soon start filming "I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry", wherein he and Kevin James play firefighters who pretend to be a gay couple in order to receive domestic partner benefits.

Look, Sandler, we're happy with the whole "Hollywood loves the gays" thing, when it actually produces something positive and enlightening, but YOUR moron help we DON'T need.

Startling Predictions: the poster is going to have big, block letters in fire engine red, a dalmation is going to be the ringbearer, with the ring on a pillow in its mouth (this will also be on the poster), and Kevin James at some point will do an embarrassing dance lifted straight from the choreography of the fat guys who dance at football games. Eugene Levy will cash a paycheck to play either Sandler's distraught father or a bumbling fire chief who gets involved by futily trying to get them thrown off the job. The dog will bite him in the nuts and/or he will be saved by the titular characters in the least threatening onscreen fire ever. Many firehose jokes are sure to be included and some ex-Maxim model "actress" will play the girl whose very existence threatens to out ('unout'?) them.

It will gross a billion dollars domestically and set gay rights back to pre-Stonewall levels, and spawn a sequel starring Queen Latifah.

Mark my words.

Some good advice from the business world

Okay, if your wife calls all hysterical because the baby’s umbilical nub has fallen off and been eaten by the dog, it’s probably a good idea to take your phone off SPEAKER so the whole office can’t hear it.

Yes, it really happened.

The Inevitable Consequence of a LIfe Devoted to Pop Culture

So last night I dreamt that I was a cast member on Saturday Night Live, and Heath Ledger was the guest host. And after the show, or perhaps before, Heath was kind enough to indulge me in a photo shoot of the two of us, wearing cowboy clothes and cuddling together on a billowy satin sheet. Nothing sexual, you understand (he's not my type) just lots of cutesy, "look-at-us-aren't-we-clever-and-entertaining" sorts of shots, the kind that might be taken as publicity for a TV show.

Oh, and the photo shoot was taking place in my old elementary school. Weird, huh?

Hooray for Hollywood

Little Sister Bamm-Bamm and her boytoy Ragu are fresh back from Hollywood, where they attended the premier of the smash new musical "Rock of Ages", starring Tenacious D alum (and special friend of LSBB) Kyle Gass ....and, "smash" might be a bit premature since it got a lukewarm reception from Variety but, oh well.

Despite ignoring my sure-fire advice on how to meet a celebrity (which involves going to The Brown Derby for lunch, spilling food on a celebrity, inviting them back to your hotel, disguising yourself with a fake nose and then lighting said nose on fire) they still managed to spot and mingle with lots and lots of B-and-below level celebs, and even a couple of A's.

We'll start with the two I'd be crowing about if I were them - Kathy Najimy and Jonathan Silverman. Kathy's husband is in the show, and Jonathan - well, I don't know what he was doing there, I suppose it's none of my business, really. LSBB reports that Kathy Najimy is funny and nice, just as I've long suspected.




Kathy's husband Dan Finnerty, as I mentioned, is in the show. I don't know why he's flipping off the camera, it doesn't seem awfully polite to me. Although, I'll allow the possibility that it's an eccentric habit, much like that of my father, who only refrained from flipping off the camera if the photo was taken at church (and even then I'm not sure what he might have been doing behind his back).




Emily Mortimer. I have no idea who she is.



Ditto with CC Deville of Poison and Jack Blades of Night Ranger. Though I have heard of Poison and Night Ranger.



And, from the "THEY still get invited to things?!?" file....Fred Dryer, of TV's "Hunter", and Toni Basil, of "Hey, Mickey, You're So Fine, You're So Fine You Blow My Mind" fame.

Fred Dryer, former football player, has a giant wiener. I've seen photographic proof.

Toni Basil looks like she smashed into Bjørk and the two of them merged into a single, unattractive being.

Remember - breathe!

A message from "celebrity" and acne sufferer, Jessica Simpson:

hello friends,

it's jess! i just wanted to let ya'll know that with everything we go through in life, the good, the bad, the ugly, the sad, the right, the wrong, the think we don't belong, we all have to allow our hearts to remain open to create who we are. find that for yourself no matter what. take the advice from the wisdom of those we love. remember that bad company corrupts good character. and breathe to allow yourself the freedom to just be. getting to know yourself is so important. spend time alone with your thoughts for this creates a world of true serenity. do not be afraid. inner beauty, outward charm. greet everyone we meet with a smile (unless it is paparazzi.haha), a smile is contagious. i love you guys so much and appreciate the support through all the unfortunate pain of loss. what doesn't kill us makes us stronger. carry on. soar. glide. fly. this is a wonderful life.

love,
jess

I hate her with the heat of a thousand suns.

Free

My workplace is obsessed with food. Hardly a day passes without an email who's subject line promises "Beef Stew in 8th Floor Kitchen - Help yourself", or a chirpy message from my arch-nemesis, Ned Noxley, promoting the hellish "Baked Goods in Meetings Dept".

Management struck quite a blow last week with the announcement that popcorn would henceforth be banned: “At this time, because we have been unable to avoid burning popcorn, we will no longer have it available in the kitchens” (‘we’ in this case being CRYSTAL IN SOCIETY SERVICES, who apparently cannot make a bag of microwave popcorn without burning it, since she has done so THREE TIMES, twice causing the evacuation of the entire building. Oh, by the way, microwave popcorn is the EASIEST FUCKING FOOD IN THE WORLD TO MAKE.)

Anyway, today I was greeted by a strange sight in the 9th floor kitchen – a lone box of Barilla Ditalini, with a post-it note attached that said “Free”. I’m not sure if it’s a political statement, a modern art installation, or a sad reflection of a co-worker’s need to bring a 39-cent box of pasta to work in order to get rid of it. What am I to think?

This just in

A Psychological Study finds Bush backers more biased against blacks.

In other news, studies indicate the Pope may be Catholic.

This Modern World

Wow, cutting and pasting someone else's work sure makes things easy on me!

Why didn't I think of that?

Real life Super-Heroes.

In Indianapolis.

And I'm not even kidding.

Still waiting for the morning I wake up with superpowers, myself.

And speaking of infinite....

...I think I'm a Deist. What do I do next?

Crisis on Infinite Earths (and I'm not feeling so hot myself)

An offhanded reference to “poor Superboy” in an email, and I’m barraged by questions about what it meant, by people who didn’t understand the significance of my grief. Well, here we go. You asked for it.

As you may or may not know, I have been a lifelong devotee of DC Comics, a respected and powerful comics publisher since 1935 (you’ve surely heard of a few of their characters: Superman, Batman, Wonder Woman, et al). I never cared much for DC’s Johnny-come-lately competition, Marvel – call me naïve if you must, but as an eight year old child, I was always a bit more taken with Superman juggling the moon than with Spider-Man worrying about how he was going to pay his rent.

(Besides, Spider-Man is a fucking idiot. If you don’t believe me, pick a random week and read his eponymous newspaper strip, where you’re likely to find him, say, flying to Los Angeles but forgetting that he has his Spider-Man costume IN HIS CARRY-ON.)

Anyway, DC comics started the super-hero craze in 1938, with the publication of Action Comics #1, and the debut of Superman.


Batman, Wonder Woman, Flash, Hawkman, Green Lantern, and a slew of other costumed vigilantes followed in his wake, and lasted through about 1951, when the Golden Age of the superhero died out to be replaced by cowboys, giant gorillas, and sometimes, cowboys fighting giant gorillas.


So, super-heroes died down for a while, but then in 1956 DC decided to try and refurbish a few of their bigger second bananas from the 30’s and 40’s. Beginning with The Flash, and followed in quick succession by Green Lantern, the Atom, and Hawkman, they soon repopulated their fictional universe with heroes who shared the code-names of their Golden Age counterparts, but little else.

The problem, of course, was that the big guns, and a couple of small guns – Superman, Batman, Wonder Woman, Green Arrow, and my boy Aquaman – had NOT ceased publication for those few years. So, while you had a Flash with a different identity than that of the 1940’s Flash, you had a Superman who was STILL Clark Kent, a Batman who was STILL Bruce Waye, etc…who had interacted with the 1940’s characters and were now interacting with the new characters as well.

DC’s solution was to create a multiverse, and if you’re unfamiliar with quantum physics I’ll summarize: theoretically, an infinite number of universes could exists within the same space, but each universe would have its own unique vibrational rate, so the different universes couldn’t interact – unless, of course, you live in a comic book, in which case interacting with a parallel universe is as easy as flipping on a light switch.

The fun began with a meeting of the Flash with his 1940’s counterpart, which established the existence of Earth-1 (the “modern” Earth, where super-heroes had arisen fairly recently) and Earth-2 (the “Golden Age” Earth, where the heroes had arisen in World War II and were now nearing retirement).



Quick on the heels of that story came the first meeting between the Justice League of America (Earth-1) and the Justice Society of America (Earth-2), where it was established that while some heroes had counterparts that were clearly different people (Flash, Green Lantern), other heroes (Superman, Batman, Wonder Woman) had counterparts who were nearly identical, except for the age difference. This led to several intriguing-but-barely-investigated story possibilities – for instance, the Earth-2 Batman retired, married Catwoman, and had a daughter who became a super-hero herself.

Internal consistency problem solved? No, for the parallel Earths conceit soon got out of hand. Earth – 3 was introduced, a world with no super-heroes, only super-villains. Earth-S was introduced to house Captain Marvel and company (you may know his better by his magic word, “Shazam”), characters acquired from the defunct Fawcett comics. Another set of acquisitions from Quality Comics (Plastic Man and friends) led to the creation of Earth-X, a world where the Nazis had won World War II. And so on.

For their fiftieth anniversary in 1985, the powers-that-be at DC comics decided that they were going to “clean house”, and did so with the 12-issue limited series Crisis on Infinite Earths (the title being an homage to what were then annual meetings between the Justice League and the Justice Society, which always had “Crisis” in the title).


The story, in short: A galactic villain, the Anti-Monitor, decides that all universes composed of positive matter (in other words, all universes) need to be destroyed, and so he sets about doing just that. A lot of hullabaloo ensues, involving every character that DC had ever published, and in the end all the superheroes travel back to the beginning of time and change history, so that instead of a multiple universes being created, only ONE universe was.

The resulting single Earth, in the present, is an amalgamation of the previously-parallel Earths, supposedly preserving the “best” of all realities: The Justice Society did fight during World War II, but without Superman, Batman and Wonder Woman, who according to the new history had not debuted until the modern era.

The Anti-Monitor is finally destroyed by the last remaining “stragglers” from the multiverse, who didn’t fit in the new history: The Golden-Age Superman from Earth 2; Alexander Luthor (son of Earth-3’s Lex Luthor, that world’s first and only super-hero); and the Superboy of Earth Prime (Earth Prime being, supposedly, “our” Earth). Once the Anti-Monitor is disposed of, Alexander Luthor takes the stragglers (along with the Golden Age Lois Lane) off into some sort of ambiguous “paradise”, presumably never to be seen again.

Still with me? Because now is where the fun really begins. Everyone at DC comics circa 1985 apparently had their heads up their asses, or was on drugs, or something, because no one apparently thought ahead to how such a radical change of fictional history would affect the fictional universe as it moved forward. Their first editorial mandate was that all the super-heroes WOULD remember the pre-Crisis multiverse - but a few months later it was decided to revamp Superman, giving him a completely different origin and toned-down powers, and making him the only living survivor of the planet Krypton – which meant that he could not remember having once been MORE powerful, nor could he remember his cousin Supergirl, who had died with great fanfare during the Crisis itself. So, all of a sudden, NO ONE remembered their pre-Crisis life.

Which meant that for all intents and purposes, no story published in the previous fifty years had really "happened".

While the revamp of Superman still had him debuting “several years ago”, the revamp of Wonder Woman had her debuting concurrently with the present – meaning that she now debuted after her own teen sidekick, Wonder Girl.

Batman inexplicably became a psychopathic asshole, who despite hating everyone and everything, was still unwilling to put a bullet through the head of the mass-murdering Joker, who crippled Batgirl and murdered Robin.

Hawkman, who was shown in several post-crisis stories as the same lovable galoot with a mace that he had always been, all of a sudden was also shown to be debuting in the present…which meant that he was not only invalidating all his pre-crisis appearances, but several post-crisis ones as well.

Essentially, the advice to creators seemed to be that they could do whatever the hell they wanted, without worrying about how to explain it.

(For the record, I will here state that the concept of parallel Earths never gave me one iota of confusion, even as a young child – as evidenced by the fact that I have written up to this point without needing to surf the internet for reference).

Now, twenty years later, and with a whole slew of continuity nightmares on their hands, DC has decided to revisit the whole mess with Infinite Crisis, a 7-issue “sequel” (currently on issue 4). The whole DC line has apparently been gearing up for this for quite a while, with lots of intentional continuity screw-ups which will apparently be explained, and lots of bloody super-hero deaths, and an apparent avoidance of any post-crisis editorial lapses (in March, the entire line-up – every title DC publishes – will “jump ahead” one year, so that creators can have a fresh start without screwing things up).

Infinite Crisis, so far, has revealed that the Earth-2 Superman, Lois Lane, Alexander Luthor, and Earth Prime Superboy have been not in paradise, but someplace where they could observe the amalgamated Earth, and boy are they pissed! Most especially Superman, who feels that the modern heroes have strayed from the classic ideal and really made a mess of things. His plan is to somehow “re-do” the crisis, so that instead of Earth-1 being the template for the amalgamated Earth, it will be Earth-2.


Unfortunately for Supes, Alexander Luthor has some sort of other plan which has yet to be fully revealed, and he’s duped Superboy into being his patsy. In issue 4, for example, Superboy-Prime is sent out to talk to the current Superboy (who is not Superman as a boy, but rather a clone created while Superman was dead – still with me?) and ends up accidentally killing about ten people, by knocking their heads off, ripping off their arms, that sort of thing.

Whoopsie!

At the end of issue 4, Alexander Luthor succeeds in splitting the amalgamated Earth back into Earth-1 and Earth-2, though as I hinted earlier, that doesn’t seem to be the complete goal of his machinations (though Golden Age Superman thinks it is).

So, we’ll see. I can’t see how they could possibly put the genie back in the bottle at this point, because they’ve had a whole bunch of characters start remembering their pre-Crisis lives, and now there appear to be two Earths again, which I can’t imagine being an editorial goal, but the only way out of it is to do a universe-wide memory wipe again, which would sort of be a cop-out.

Oh, yeah, and poor Superboy.

Because no one asked...

...here is a listing of all the DVDs I own.

Don't tell Jet, but including the wish list and all the bootleg DVDs, it's almost 600 items!

Since joining Netflix, I've cut way back on movie purchases, but I'm quite sure that someday I'll own DVD season sets of every television show I've ever liked in my whole life.

I mean, really, when something like THIS can be on the market, the sky's the limit.

Awwwwwwww !

If it was still alive, I'd want to adopt it. Honest!

Denmark, Schmenmark

Code Dependent has gently suggested that my obsession with Denmark be redirected northeast, to Norway, due in part to Filius Sororis' own obsession with Denmark's once-conjoined Northern neighbor.

I suppose my recently-discovered affections COULD be transferred with little trouble - after all, I have always liked the Norway pavillion at EPCOT (with one notable exceotion - see below).



The pros:

1) Vikings!

2) killer sweaters

3) An only slightly less-attractive Royal Family

4) I'll likely be performing a commissioned work by a Norwegian composer next year, and may be going there anyway, so I may as well get used to the idea

5) Norway pisses Condi Rice off like sweet little Denmark never could


The cons:

1) Norway claims a 100% literacy rate, but I have my doubts. As you know, I work at a major peer-reviewed scientific publication, and last year saw only 10 submissions from Norway, as opposed to 77 from Sweden, 63 from Denmark and 45 from Finland. Makes me think all the smart people are fleeing the country

2) The only actual person I've ever known from Norway is a dumbass, and mean

3) Norway's traditional Christmas dessert, "rice cream with red fruit sauce", looks like bloody vomit

4) Jet and I ate once at the Akershus in EPCOT's Norway pavillion. The waitress, who insisted on talking to us through our entire meal, had a voice that sounded like a dolphin squealing mixed with shattering glass

Well, so I guess my cons are a little superficial, hmmm?

Hulp, ben ik bezeten door het Deens!

I can't explain it, so don't ask me - but I've been seized by a sudden and inescapable obsession with Denmark.

It's a little disconcerting, frankly. I don't care for Hans Chrisian Andersen stories, and I'm not even particularly fond of the breakfast pastries.

I'm not Danish, nor are any of my kin - and yet, even a cursory examination of the Rubble traditional dietary habits will reveal several curiously Danish-like elements such as kale, pickled herring, and slathering every sandwich with butter no matter what else goes on it.

I AM Lutheran, as are 96% of Danish nationals.

And I DO like Legos (product of Denmark!)

Perhaps it's the uniformly attractive Danish Royal Family (well, except for Princess Elizabeth - she looks as if she's been kept away from the public eye for quite some time.)

Or maybe it's my envy and admiration of Denmark's 100% literacy rate.

Whatever it is, I'm about through with it, so any advice on ridding myself of this compulsion is welcome.

Things I don't understand the appeal of

Number 1: iPods

And the Oscar goes to...

....Heath Ledger, if there's any justice in the world.

Which there isn't, so it probably won't.

So, yes, we've seen Brokeback Mountain, and...well....

Feh. Not the best, not the worst movie I've ever seen. Towards the "best" end, I just don't seem to be as crazy about it as everyone else in America. Even though I cried at the end.

I also cry at the end of The Color Purple, even though I've seen it a billion times, and aven though it's completely manipulative, and even if the last five minutes is ALL I WATCH.

Anyway, I digress...

If you've already seen the movie, go ahead and highlight the missing text below to see what I think. If not, just skip ahead, and if you choose to highlight anyway don't blame me for spoiling anything.

First of all, Brokeback is NOT about "gay cowboys" as 1) there are no COWS in the entire movie, and 2) neither of the leading characters ever self-identifies as gay.

Second of all, I suppose that what keeps me from giving it a glowing review is the fact that these two men are irresistably drawn to each other over the course of twenty years, at the expense of their families and careers, and the payoff seems to be getting drunk and having hot gay sex. Now, I'm not one to pass on either, but there's more to romance than THAT. I wanted to see a little more of what made them SO in love with each other.

In short, I came away feeling that if they HAD been able to be together, it wouldn't have worked out very well.

Plus Jack Twist was a cheater.

Plus Heath Ledger has a weird chest hair pattern. Kind of like he spread Elmer's glue on his chest and rolled around on some SOS pads.

Plus this picture of Heath Ledger naked is nowhere to be seen in the whole movie!

But that's just my take.
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High school dropout-turned-Nostradamus scholar John Hogue has issued his predictions for 2006. Fascinating, prescient, ridiculous, or a logical extension of current events - depending on your point of view.

I just wish he'd get an editor. Valerie PALME?