Logic and Orgasm

Seasonal Affective Disorder

2011-12-17T00:40:00.000-08:00

These sappy sentimental christmas songs are totally frying my brain. I wish there more than four of them so that KOST wouldnt have to play the same songs over and over again. the fact that the same four songs are performed by the same four "artists" does not dispel the monotony. These sixteen songs are programmed with a fascist iron fist that would have made Mussolini proud.
I have some serious reservations about the content of these holiday season songs. "I saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus", warbled by the pre-pubescent King of Pop, was, in retrospect, a clear indicator of his severe emotional problems. Like The Who's Tommy, the poor boy witnessed something so traumatic, so heinous, there was no recovering from it. His brothers' refusal to believe him only served to add abandonment on top of the betrayal. Each of the eight times per day i hear this song, my hand positively twitches to call child protective services.
I still don't know the name of the next song, but it goes " do you hear what I hear", ad nauseum. I question the values put forth by the lyric' " a child, a child, shivers in the cold, let us bring him silver and gold." Why not give the kid a freakin' blanket, for crying out loud? what does a baby need silver and gold for? his college fund? Another example of throwing money at the problem, or the the outright, blatant materialism that has rendered christmas into the repulsive, violent free-for-all that has people exchanging blasts of pepper spray more readily than cards.
"Baby, it's cold outside" has nothing to do with christmas, and everything to do with sex. I have no problem with that. It's a really cute song, opprtunistic douchie guys macking on girls is what makes the world go 'round. The main problem with this selection is that it makes the other songs, i.e. Mariah Carey's "all i want for christmas is you" seem even more sucky , in comparison than, than they actually are.
The last song I will comment on will be "Have yourself a merry little christmas" by The Carpenters. This reading of the piece by the late, great Karen was probably intended to be "earnest"and "reflective", but instead comes off so flat-affect as to conjure up images of the gaunt, doomed, and anorexic Karen eschewing the christmas ham for yet another serving of salad and iced tea. A merry little chrstmas indeed. FML.

Conflict-A-chick OR my visit to Chic-fil-A

2011-09-27T15:14:00.000-07:00

I hate the South. Many of my closest friends happen to be from The South, but as evidenced by the fact that they are here and not still there, they obviously arent sold on the region either. As an elitist Jew from New England, I hate Hate and am prejudiced against Prejudice. The Book of the Law states that "the word of sin is restriction." As a Pagan and Hedonist, I believe everything and anything goes (in moderation) except for murder and stealing, and even then I am Pro-Choice and feel like Robin Hood had the right idea. So, there are no absolutes in my worldview, which makes for a lot of confusion, an abundance of drama, and the inability to please everyone, including myself. FML.

A fast-food chain known as Chic-fil-A has expanded into southern California in a big way, and all my southern expatriate friends, gay and straight, are performing cartwheels pf joy at the sudden availability of their wares. Chic-fil-A is apparently a Christian operation, shuttered on the Sabbath, and notoriously anti-gay. In spite of this, my southern gay freinds still wax rhadsodic over fond memories of chicken nuggets slathered in Polynesian Sauce. The loudest voices against the chain are my activist friends Mito Aviles and Chadmichael Christian Morisette; although I admire the pair and lend my support to their causes, they are vegan, and could never be seduced by the aroma of animal flesh no matter how noble the purveyor. My curiosity aroused, I climbed aboard my little electric scooter, and ventured off to the newly-opened Sunset and Highland store to see for myself what the fuss is about.

Arriving at High Noon, My little scooter bypassed the traffic jam of cars waiting in queue for the drive-thru and woefully insufficient parking lot. You can either drive-thru, get it to-go, or eat outisde at one of a handful of small tables. The building itself is aparently one oversized kitchen. There are four stations for ordering. The menus are well-organized, attractively presenting the chain's numerous permutations of chicken, chicken, and still more chicken. They offer a breakfast menu, and an array of sides and deserts, including cheesecake. Beverages feature tea and lemonade, which I wanted to try, but reluctant to transport on my scooter.The customer service is excellent. Like Starbucks, another behemoth I love to hate, they ask your name and attatch it to your order. You are never just a number at Chic-fil-A. I ordered one spicy chicken sandwich, a chicken club, a small side of waffle fries, and a small side of cole slaw. The bill came ro $13.25. The food arrived at the pick-up window with impressive speed.

Upon arriving home and plating the food, I was amazed at how pretty it was. The sandwiches looked nicer than they did on the menu. Crispy green lettuce, thin, flavorful tomato slices, tasty, aromatic bun, and the chicken itsef...well, it exceeded expectations. Probably the tastiest and most perfect fried chicken I've ever eaten. The waffle fries were fluffy and yummy. The slaw, although it resembled the KFC version, tasted really good. In short, this truly was the best fast-food I've ever had. My husband was impressed as well, downing the club sandwich with no complaints.

I suppose you might say I drank the kool-aid, or in this case, the sweet tea, but in all honestly, I'm sold. Chic-fil-A rocks. My question is, it necessary to be thecratic and reactionary in order to produce delicious, visually appealing, and reasonably-priced food on a mass scale? I've been a foodie for most of my nearly half-century on this planet and I must say, no other fast-food chain comes close to what Chic-fil-A offers in terms of customer experience and quality. I can only hope that Chic-fil-A will raise the bar for the industry. I do prefer to feel good about those to whom I give my business.

On the Kelly Thomas matter

2011-09-21T15:15:00.000-07:00

Two Fullerton police officers have been charged with involuntary manslaughter and the use of excessive force. The drama is just beginning; Rodney King revisited.

Police brutality has been an ongoing issue forever. Police are just like everyone else. Except they have guns and big sticks with which to beat you upside the head. And they have an impossible job dealing with societies' ills that society has no vested interest in solving. No doubt the deceased did nothing to deserve execution at the hands of a uniformed mob. He was just a convenient punching bag/scapegoat when they snapped. That there wasn't one of them to take a step back to say "enough" is my question. I guess more "sensitivity training" is in order.

Obit for Jani Lane

2011-08-12T14:17:00.000-07:00

Heard the news about Jani Lane yesterday; the former Warrant lead vocalist was found dead in a motel room in Woodland Hills, the latest casualty of the music industry machine.

He was not a happy man. He complained loudly and bitterly about the commercial exploitation of his song, "Cherry Pie", which became a meme that was the bane of his existence, and in his mind, the death of his career as a serious artist.. Never mind that "Cherry Pie" was the only Warrant song that I ever liked, because it was catchy, fun and deceptively simple in the way that only a skilled musical craftsman can deliver.

"Cherry Pie" didn't take itself seriously, whereas "Uncle Tom's Cablin", and "Heaven" did. "Where The Down Boys Go" was "Bye Bye Love" by the Cars with different lyrics. How could they get away with that, I often wondered. In an era of cheese, Warrant was less cheesy an Poison, for example, but a whole lot less fun. Until "Cherry Pie"... Wherein Lane penned a perfect pop song, no mean feat.

Lane lost control of his vision, his career, and apparently, a whole lot more. He turned to alcohol, which seems to be the answer to all of life's problems. Born John Kennedy Oswald, a most unfortunate moniker, he lived up to the name and pretty much did himself in. Another artist might have had taken a novelty hit like "Cherry Pie" in stride, rather than resenting it. One needs to take whatever successes we can get. Fate can be a capricious little bitch.

Lane was 47.

Video for "Quicksand" by LorE Denizen Project

2011-07-27T18:34:00.000-07:00

Just Sayin'

2011-07-12T18:27:00.000-07:00

So I'm wending my way thru the teeming sea of humanity at Hollywood and Highland when some rapper guy pushes a CD in my face, because, of course, you can tell just by looking at me that gangsta rap is my favorite thing in life, right up there along with torture porn.
Strike One.
" You like music?" he asks. "That's me!" he bragged, in a rapperly manner.
"I have my own CDs"' I replied, handing it back to him. In fact, I wished I had one of my own CDs to give him so we could do an across-the-board trade, and each have a colorful new beer coaster to take home.
"Are you from England?" queried Mr. Rapper, the easy tourist dollars apparently obscuring both the map of Israel on my face as well as my Boston accent.
Strike Two.
"Don't you like music?" he persisted, as he handed the CD back to me. I scanned the packaging and saw that he was also on iTunes. He obviously went thru Diskmakers, just like I did. "it's five dollars. Come on, help me out".
Strike Three.
"I have my own CDs I need to sell."' I countered, handing the laser-inscribed hot potato back to him or the second and final time.
As I made my escape past Elvis, the Transformer, and the busload of easily-impressed tourists from England, I wondered how many CDs he manages to sell in a day. Is this a viable marketing strategy? I'd rather perform on the 3rd St. Promenade, and let the people hear me first and make up their own minds.
Just sayin'.

On what makes a True Friend

2011-04-05T12:28:00.000-07:00

I am blessed to have a handful of True Friends, some of whom I spent time with this weekend. As I reflected on what makes these relationships endure, the answers became clear.

A true friend is interested in you, not only in what you can do for them, but in YOU as a whole person. A true friend values your friendship, and will demonstrate this by creating time to spend with you. A true friendship is a two-way street. A true friend won't want to leave you feeling hurt. A true friend will be in tune with you enough to be proactive, and think things through to avoid conflict and misunderstanding. A true friend will care about your feelings, and when conflicts arise, which they invariably will, as we are all human, will care enough to be open to discussion, and be motivated to seek a mutually satisfying way to work things out.

If any of the above is missing, then you weren't really friends to begin with

True Friends WILL have ups and downs together, but will be able to look back on things and laugh. True friends support each other in their growth and development, celebrate each other's triumphs, and console each other through the rough patches. It's a relationship.

You can't go by what people say, you have to look at what they do.

Love is action. People can say a lot of pretty words, and some people can talk a great game, but those words are hollow, empty and meaningless unless they are followed up by action.

Sometimes the action required need only be a simple gesture. It's the little things that mean so much.

Sometimes you really want to be friends with someone, and so you try to be friends, and you think you're getting somewhere, but if you find yourself asking why is this happening, and that happening, or -worse-why does this KEEP happening? ,-after you have made a sincere effort to address it, then the bottom line is, you weren't really friends to begin with..

Focus on the people who appreciate you. Be a true friend to them. Love, nurture, do, and care. Create as much beauty and harmony in your own little corner of the world as you can.

I want to be a true friend to my friends. if you harbor any secret resentments against me for any reason, as I know that I am far from perfect, then by all means, talk to me about it so I can clean it up with you.

LorE Denizen out. Always happy to share what little I know with others.

Like · · Share · Delete

Facebook © 2011 · English (US)

A few thoughts regarding Conan

2010-05-04T13:12:00.000-07:00

Let's get this out of the way first: NBC should have given Letterman "The Tonight Show"; he was Johnny Carson's hand-picked successor. Not giving Letterman the show so upset the natural order of things that late night hasn't been right since.

The kerfuffle with Conan and Leno was only the most recent temblor on the NBC faultline.

Conan went on "60 Minutes" with his tale of woe,carrying on much like Dave Mustaine in "Some Kind of Monster". Apparently 30+ million dollars, a sold-out comedy tour, and a new show on TBS will never make up for losing the helm of "The Tonight Show". It is an elite class, the handful of men that have hosted "The Tonight Show", although history will designate Conan as the George Lazenby of the crew. His bitterness and disappointment are understandable, to be sure, but at this point, playing the victim is unseemly.

Conan complained that NBC should have given him more than six months to develop "The Tonight Show". He felt the relationship had become "toxic", and questioned whether the network even wanted him around anymore. He didn't have anything good to say about NBC at all. To quote Monty Python, "moan, moan moan!"

Let me take you back in time, to 1993. Letterman's time slot was given to an unknown. "Conan who?". Some guy who wrote for SNL, who wrote the infamous penis sketch that got them in trouble with the censors. NO ONE knew who Conan was. His show was a disaster! He had trouble getting guests, No one wanted to go on his show! He was an industry joke, his program was that bad. Everyone expected him to be cancelled, but NBC kept renewing his contract thirteen weeks at a time, over and over again, until the format eventually gelled and the audience stayed, watched, and grew. NBC certainly believed in Conan then. When have you ever heard of that level of support? NBC took Conan from obscurity and made him who he is today, with a career that he can transport anywhere.

I figure that if I can remember clearly this period in Conan's career, so must a lot of other people.

Yes, what happened to him was ugly and awkward. However, if he'd said "OK NBC, it's been a good run, you did a lot for me, I don't want to go back to the late slot because that would be moving backwards, I'd rather move on to new opportunities"- taking the high road- he would have come off a whole lot better.

Meanwhile, all Conan can do is whine because he assumed "The Tonight Show" was his entitlement.

The Insanity Defense

2010-04-15T11:40:00.000-07:00

There is a new craze sweeping our apartment building, an exercise program by the name of "Insanity". The Alpha neighbor saw the infomercial one insomniac night, and recognizing this routine as something that would crush ordinary mortals, promptly ordered up the DVDs.

Never has a product been more appropriately named. Relentless, nausea-inducing, and utterly unforgiving, Insanity resembles a fetish film for exercise junkies. No one save professional athletes or Delta Force commandos would ever be called upon to demonstrate this level of fitness.

Sure, I'd like to get in shape for summer. For years I've subscribed to the idea that I can do whatever I want, resulting in two chins, two stomachs and Buns of Cottage Cheese, but I watch Insanity and know there's got to be a better way to go about it.

Truth be told, Insanity is very entertaining and inspiring in it's own hilarious and ridiculous way. I make no pretense of actually performing the routine as demonstrated by the superhuman freaksazoids caterpaulting about on the screen, but it is an ideal to aspire to -albeit very carefully.

BitchBook helps you complain and share with the people in your life

2010-01-26T06:42:00.000-08:00

Facebook is great for staying in conversation with your various communities. The more people you know, the more valuable this type of social networking site can be. The downside is how Facebook empowers these very same people to be obnoxious to an extent impossible to achieve the real world.

If I have met you, and you are my FB friend, rest assured that I really do like you. I want to know what you are up to, how you are doing, that you are well and happy and progressing through this adventure called Life. I don't need to see fifty-seven pictures of your head superimposed onto Fabio's body, nor do I care that you have reached the Heavenly Avatar Level in Bedazzled Berserk Jerk-off Blast-off. I don't care about the stupid games and apps. I only signed up for Restaurant City because I thought it was like Yelp!; you know, something useful. I don't give a rat's pitootie that you made 500 too many imaginary stuffed cabbages and now you have to give them all away, or that a mongoose and a chupacabra just wandered onto your virtual farm, or that a piranha has decimated all your goldfish and now your aquarium isn't so happy anymore.

A note to the girl with the relationship drama, if you are going to fight with your boyfriend please don't do it wall-to-wall so everyone can be all up in your business. You are giving me flashbacks to my bad second marriage and it frustrates me that I cannot help you because you have to live your own life and learn for yourself.

Don't even get me started on the photos of children, more children, and incredibly, still more children. Bear in mind that I have none of my own, and ponder the reasons why. Oh, I do like some kids. I love my toddler nephew, probably because his parents do not bombard me daily with incessant pictures of him with a face full of strained peas or having his diaper changed. Those photos are courteously and thoughtfully maintained on a separate and secure website.

My suggestion is that Facebook splinter into different sub-sites: BreederBook, DrunkBook, GameBook, and so on. Rants such as this one would be right at home on BitchBook, so until that bright day comes I'll be blogging right here at Logic and Orgasm.

Review of "District 9".

2009-09-02T16:57:00.000-07:00

"District 9" is another one of those smirkingly clever mash-ups of familiar devices and conventions that passes for cinema in these cynical, post-modern times. The film bears more similarity to "Scary Movie 6" and it's ilk than one would ever think possible.

The principal cinematic device of "District 9" is that is a mockumentary. The main character, Wikus van de Merwe, is kind of an everyman, that is, if everyman were exactly like Ricky Gervais in the BBC version of "The Office".

Sharlto Copley is note-perfect as Wikus, bringing just the right amount of pathos and strength to his role. Truly his performance is the reason the movie works at all. Itactually helps that Copley resembles an unholy cross between Luke Wilson and David Arquette.

Did you ever read Kafka's "Metamorphosis"? No? You don't need to. It's all here, approximately 30 minutes into the piece.

Eventually the movies descends into just another "Star Wars", right before it rips off "Iron Man".

Did I mention that it's also a "buddy film"? Yes, indeed.

One curious note about "District 9" is that even though the plot doesn't make any sense, you always seem to know what's going to happen next. This is actually a good thing.

I sense a franchise in the making. A sequel is inevitable. And a prequel, to learn all about the Alien's home planet and what made them think that coming to Earth could possibly be a good idea.

Crossing paths with Michael Jackson

2009-06-29T17:51:00.000-07:00

The Beatles were the first band I liked, but I discovered the Jackson 5 shortly afterwards. Only four years older than me, Michael Jackson was practically a peer. The J5 were everywhere. My classmate Sharon Brown (Johnny Brown's daughter) boasted of being their personal friend. My mother's boyfriend's son went to school with Marlon. Their Motown hits were funky, catchy, and cool. Just when they seemed to be all washed up, "Dancin' Machine" became a smash, replete with Michael's "Robot" signature dance move.

On the Jackson's summer replacement show (circa 1977) Michael did a skateboard trick routine which was one of the most amazing things I have ever seen. Someone should dig it up and put it on youtube. It was truly X-Games-worthy.

I had my own Michael Jackson sighting in 1982; serendipitous because if I had taken my usual route to my friend's house I wouldn't have crossed paths with Michael and his bodyguard. Why were they in Glendale? Back then Michael was a devout Jehovah's Witness, and had to hand out copies of the Watchtower to get to heaven.

"Billie Jean" was the single at the time, but I'd only heard it because the car I was driving at the time had only an AM radio, and KACE with it's heavy rotation of Grandmaster Flash and The Gap Band was the most interesting station I could get. It wasn't until "Beat It" was released, somewhat later, that Michael "blew up" to become the Icon we remember today.

Michael and his bodyguard were tailed by a little blond monkey-wrenching boy. As we passed on the sidewalk I heard the following exchange:
boy: I'm gonna tell EVERYBODY you're here!
Michael: Oh no, please don't.

Michael was dressed very simply, in brown cords and a polo shirt. Facially, looked like he did on the cover of Thriller. He didn't seem gay at all, which surprised me. His vibe was incredibly low-key, bland and dare I say?- ordinary. I briefly considered asking him if he'd heard from Sharon Brown, but I decided to simply walk on by and give him a little space. To be honest, I felt sorry for him. His witnessing expedition was ending in disaster.

When I emerged from my friend's house twenty minutes later, Michael was long gone but the street was filled with hundreds of people, a scene very similar to the crowd that gathered outside UCLA Medical Center when word broke that he'd been taken there.

Farrah Fawcett passed away the same day, in relative peace and comfort, knowing full well how dearly she was loved. Michael died under circumstances so fishy that a cottage industry of conspiracy theories has already mushroomed in less than a week.

Yes, he possessed extraordinary talent, and had an extraordinary career, but at what cost? The poor man never knew an ordinary life,
and fate wouldn't even afford him the dignity of an ordinary death.

Fast Food

2009-06-22T15:55:00.000-07:00

Out at the drive-thru
You can eat for a buck
'Cause when you're that hungry
You don't give a fuck.
And William is happy
With minimum wage.
He's flippin' burgers
With kids half his age.
They call it "depression,
But it won't get me down;
As long as there's fast food
There'll be jobs in this town.

Jeff needs a drink now,
Been a helluva day,
And he knows a twelve-pack
Makes it all go away.
Old Pete sees their faces,
He knows all their names.
Their poisons are different,
But their reasons the same.
They call it "depression",
But it won't get me down;
As long as there's liquor,
There'll be jobs in this town.
As long as there's fast food,
There'll be jobs in this town.

Mr. Policeman,
Give us a break.
There's only so much now
That we're gonna take.
The cop hears the message,
The word on the street,
And he hears the music
And he feels the beat.
They call it "depression",
But it won't get me down;
As long as we're angry,
There'll be jobs in this town.
As long as there's liquor,
There'll be jobs in this town.
As long as there's fast food,
There'll be jobs in this town.

Lisa's an addict,
Her future is lost;
But she's too far gone now
To measure the cost.
And Jimmy's got something
He knows that she needs,
So it's a fair trade now,
"Good deed" for "good deed".
They call it "depression",
But it won't get me down;
As long as we're desperate,
There'll be jobs in this town.
As long as we're angry,
There'll be jobs in this town.
As long as there's liquor,
There'll be jobs in this town.
As long as there's fast food,
There'll be jobs in this town.

Laurie Dennison 2009

"Slumdog Millionaire" seemed eerily familiar...

2009-04-26T13:26:00.000-07:00

I finally saw "Slumdog Millionaire".

I was rooting for it to win the Oscar because everyone else seemed to be. From all accounts it was the "feel good movie of the year".

So I finally got to see it.

No one told me it was it a modern-day adaptation of "The Thief of Bagdad".
One could even call it "The Thief of Mumbai", or rather, "The Thief of Mumbai and his Kid Brother the Nerd".

As a modernization of a very old story, it was superb. Very cleverly and skillfully done. Set in a time and place and told in a way that that makes sense yet retains all the elements of the original fable.

Perhaps it's genesis had nothing at all to do with "The Thief of Bagdad", but it's also a quest film, with the hero having to survive many ordeals, the prize being the hand of a beautiful woman. This is archtypal epic myth/fable/legend stuff that we've seen 1000 times before.

Mining the archetypes as it did, the film moved me. I was teary at the end. Of course I cried at the end of the first "Crank" movie, so go figure. I suppose Jason Statham is our modern=day Douglas Fairbanks-style swashbuckling hero. He's one action hero who can truly act. Someone please give him a movie as meaningful as "Slumdog." Please. so we don't have to bother with subtiltles.

More thoughts on the OctoMom

2009-02-28T14:30:00.000-08:00

What is most disturbing about the OctoMom is that she is going to get her way. Through her benefactor, Dr. Phil, who will probably co-produce the inevitable reality show, she will be able to keep her enormous brood, financed by the kindness and compassion of others. Her personality disorder notwithstanding, the OctoMom is telegenic and bright. People are emotionally invested in her unfolding saga.
I suspect there is something else driving this story. OctoMom is everywhere lately. The media is really pushing this. I wonder what it is that she is designed to distract us from?

What a weird week this has been, and its not over yet...

2009-02-10T17:14:00.000-08:00

Item 1
I think the fertility doctor that implanted the Octomom's embryos should have to support the unfortunate brood until adulthood. That's only right. Shouldn't prospective mothers be vetted? Perhaps a cursory trip to the tiny flat where they all live atop one another like urchins in a Christian Children's Fund commercial, subsisting on $400 bucks per month on food stamps would have been wise. An hour spent thinking this through a year ago would have saved this man his professional career today. And what of the babies? The Octomom, glamorous in her Angelina Jolie fright mask, allegedly wanted a TV gig to finance her ever-expanding family. Her previous performance was "With Six You Get Eggroll". Her sequel is "Eight is Enough". The mash-up resulting will be a slowly unfolding documentary of investigations, prosecutions and the already overburdened county system moving in and dismantling this frankenstein of a family.

Better living through chemistry? Just ask A-Roid.

Item 2.
These men who are distraught after losing their businesses need a ray of hope in this cold, cruel, recession environment. Let's create a new game show for the family to enjoy. Let them cage-fight each other in the exciting and spectacular Business Opportunity Bowl! This way, instead of killing their families an/or themselves, they can take their frustrations out on each other, get their 15 minutes of fame, all while competing for some great prizes! The last man standing receives start-up capital for another new business he can run into the ground. Ah, the American Dream keeps getting sweeter all the time.

Your Tax Dollars at Work

2009-01-26T16:19:00.000-08:00

LIVE LARGER WITH SPARGER!

XMAS TIME IS HERE!

2008-12-10T11:49:00.000-08:00

Palin morphs into Tina Fey at Veep debate

2008-10-02T21:30:00.000-07:00

Sarah Palin aquitted herself nicely tonight with her Vice Presidential debate performance, which to me appeared to be a carefully assembled, hastily prepared cornucopia of schtick. I saw through her every gag, speech, and punch line. Yes, her spunky Alaskan frontier gal persona has it's charm, but as a the star of a sitcom, not the person one heartbeat away from the Presidency of the United States of America.

Expectations for Palin had been very low. I figured that as long as she didn't drool at the podium, or go into a stress-induced episode of Tourette's it would be hailed as a victory indeed. She came out swinging with a friendly "Pleased to meet you!" and "Can I call you Joe?", delivered with such disarming charisma that if she had been able to do any more than recite memorized talking points, pander to Joe Sixpack and wink at the camera she won have won the thing hands down.

At points throughout the debate I felt as though life were imitating art. What Palin did, said, who she was "being" during the debate was so absurd that it merged into parody. She is already such a caricature of herself that I literally watched her morphing into Tina Fey.

Pat Buchanan and other pundits think she did just great. She is marvelously telegenic. She is relateable because there is something about here that seems very familiar. I say this because she reminds me of someone but I can't quite figure out who. Was it a teacher? A boss? A pastor's wife? A TV character? Do I have Sarah Palin totally collapsed with Tina Fey?

Our politician process has become a circus, a bizarre twisted perversion of the vision the founding fathers put forth. Did they ever expect politics to become entertainment? Perhaps a seditious cartoon or limerick here and there, but would Thomas Jefferson or even Abraham Lincoln give kudos to a debater for skillfully ignoring a question? In my opinion, this hubris would be Palin's achilles heel. The fact that many people are satisfied with, or even enthusiastic over her performance is a litmus test of our nation's lowered expectations. The bar has been lowered for Palin to an extreme I have never seen before on a national stage. She may be great as a mayor or even governor but she is totally out of her league in Washington. What would make anyone think that you could pluck a girl off off a glacier and plunk her down in the middle of a presidential campaign and she would hit the ground running? Not even Reese Witherspoon would star in that movie. That we should cut her some slack because she's still green is not the point. A real Vice President should be expected to hit the ground running, and have a command of the details. A real Vice President should be able to articulate the planks and specifics of their ticket's platforms. A real Vice President should be fully equipped to lead, as would the president this nation so desperately needs, from a position of wisdom.

That Palin, this empty, although fashionable, suit, would be foisted upon the American people is a cynical gesture beyond Chauncey Gardner. Do we live in a such a fantasy world that his choice would be desireable? Acceptable? That the SNL sketch has become reality is the new great cosmic joke.

The creepiest joke of all is that this makes Tina Fey Palins's surrogate.

The Red Corner or the Blue Corner?

2007-05-14T21:41:00.000-07:00

We watched the De la Hoya-Mayweather fight and it wasjust like being in the Matrix. By now everyone takes it for granted that Mayweather won this one hands-down, but that is NOT the fight we saw. Listening to the announcer call this fight was like HBO had already written the script and what the men in the ring were up to was irrelevant. I know this kind of media manipulation goes on all the time, but this was very blatant and rather sloppy. The action in the ring should at least resemble the commentary. We shall not be purchasing the rematch, nor the final installment in the franchise, Mayweather-De la Hoya III. With this fight, the sport of kings degenerates ever closer to wrestling and god forbid, roller derby.

Poor little (skinny) rich girls

2006-12-12T16:59:00.000-08:00

Thanks to Nicole Ritchie, for finally putting Glendale on the map. I don’t mean Rand McNally or Thomas Bros, no siree, I mean the the notorious MAP emcompassing the glittering venues of every Lindsey Lohan car crash, the swanky club from which Brandon Davis emerged labelling the aforementioned Lohan a “firecrotch”, and the rehab center where the famous friends all retreat for rehab, which I imagine to be a large, pulsating, Prada-clad puppy-pile.

Ritchie was spotted driving the wrong way on the 134, a freeway I happen to know backwards and forwards. She was processed as being five foot-one and 85 pounds, making her THE poster child for anorexia. I too was once anorextic, weighing 85 pounds, in 1976 when I was fourteen and only four foot ten; I still resembled a refugee from the kind of famine-plagued African nation now favored by Madonna and subsized by Product (Red).

Nicole is one sick poor little rich girl. That pot was probably a prescription to give her the munchies so she’d eat something, for crying out loud. That vicodin was probably to numb the pain of her long bones clanging together like so many wind chimes on a blustery day. This woman is a train wreck. She’s Courtney Love-scale sick. For those of you in the UK, she’s Pete Doherty-scale sick.

What I really want to know is what all these trust-fund twits are doing driving their own cars? Are they afraid of some suicide jockey taking them out a la Princess Di? Please, please, please someone, hire them chauffeurs. Lindsey Lohan should be slapped with a citation for even thinking about getting behind the wheel. We once saw Colin Farrell stranded on Franklin Ave with a broken-down Jaguar, and no man ever looked so helpless.

You special folk need someone to handle all the tiresome, mundane things the fabulous simply don’t have space in their brains for, what with all the whirlwind bed-hopping, all-night partying, and photo-shoots. You need a chauffeur/personal assistant, someone to remind you when to eat, negotiate the papparazzi, manage your love lives, and most important, keep your famous faces away from the scandal sheets. If you don’t know anyone capable of taking this on, call me. I’m right here in the heart of good ol’ Glendale.

The Bell Tolls

2006-12-09T15:18:00.000-08:00

My six regular readers may remember that I am an afficianado of "Coast to Coast AM", that nightly roundup of metaphysics, ufology, science, pseudo-science, and just a big enough dollop of conspiracy theory to make it all a yummy alternative radio sundae. "Coast" tends to break stories at least ninety days ahead of the mainstream media. I can safely say that I know more than the average person about Roswell, EVP's, and the face on Mars. That the average person doesn't give a rat's ass about any of the above topics is completely beside the point. The fact is, inquiring minds want to know. We want to know about stuff. Stuff out there. Where? There. Somewhere. Something different. Something new. Something else.

The man who assembled this cornucopia is named Art Bell, and he is one of the great personalities of broadcasting. From his home in Pahrump, Nevada he produced and engineered the show himself: twisting knobs, taking listener calls without a screener, cuing up the bumper music all the while chainsmoking like a sonofabitch. Boy howdy, that man can multi-task. I love radio, and good radio done by someone who loves radio is pure joy to listen to. There was a time when I considered Art Bell to be hands down the best interviewer in the business. Lately, however, I've detected a change, and one not for the better.

Art Bell is becoming more and more like Howard Beale, and not the messianic "I'm mad as hell!" Beale, but rather the somber harbinger of doom he became the moment Ned Beatty got to him. He is so freaking depressing I can't stand listening to him anymore. According to Bell, everthing sucks, everybody sucks, the world is going to hell in a handbasket, evil is running amok, and to steal a phrase from Genesis (the band) There's not much love to go around. I don't know what he's got to be so damn depressed about. He has a new wife and a baby on the way. He doesn't have to live in the U.S. anymore. Why bring a new life into a world you feel is doomed? That makes no sense. Is this just a new shtick? If so, I don't find it entertaining.

Of course, Bell has a long track record as a Cassandra. He and his bud, abductee Whitley Strieber, wrote "The Coming Global Superstorm", on which "The Day after Tomorrow" was based. That "Superstorm" contained zero Jake Gyllenhaal looking dreamy and way more mass death and cataclysmic horror I am certain. Perhaps Art Bell has always been a gloomy gus and as I was chronically depressed and paranoid to boot he just seemed normal.

I've never been happier than I am now. I dont believe that things are getting worse. We just hear about it more. The media hypes up every little thing to keep us continually whipped up into fear. Our collective adrenals are shot from being freaked out all the time. I no longer buy into it. We create our own reality. I am interested in media content that empowers and inspires me. I am creating the possibility of a late-night radio show about trasformation and transformational things. "Coast" does indeed do many wonderful shows like this but I want more. I want there to be a show where people share about how their lives have changed for the better and how they are bringing that positive energy to the world around them. A show that leaves you peaceful and assured that all is well. A show that will make it hip to be whole. Where are the media conglomerates? You have the money, I have the vison. Let's talk!

If O.J. did it...and other travesties

2006-11-20T20:25:00.000-08:00

After a shitstorm of complaint even worse than what Michael Richards received after his Laugh Factory appearance, Fox announced today that they are cancelling their ill-conceived O.J. book and TV special. This corporate decision, grounded in reality, actually restores my faith in human nature and "the system" as a whole. The midterm election results and Henry Kissinger's blunt obvervation that the Iraq situation is just too fucked up to be won in any way resembling victory as we know it are also signs indicating the weird dystopian demi-monde in which we've all been imprisoned has finally busted open, making way for the light of truth and beauty to shine through. Yes, nasty, vengeful and bloodthirsty as the average american may be, twisted, craven, and voyeuristic to the marrow, no one, I repeat, NO ONE, wanted to see O.J. Simpson's forensic musings on the murder of the mother of his children and her most unfortunate friend. Fox grieviously misculated the vileness and dispicability quotients of the american people, apparently believing that since they saw value(hint: money) in this kabuki theater patty-cake, did-he-or-didn't he, book and interview twin promotional retch-fest then we would all eagerly buy into it, or at least enough of us to make this puppy fly. Thanks to the celestial force that still resonates in the hearts of most of our population we recognize when something is just too damn wrong to condone. Elvis himself could rise from the dead to conduct the interview- clutching a notarized letter from Nicole and Ron themselves stating O.J. didn't do it, and we'd still turn away, repulsed. Sometimes there is an injustice so grave, so deep, so personal, that we can't get past it. I don't know why we feel this way about O.J., but we do. Maybe it's the documented spousal abuse, or the fact that the kids were sleeping upstairs while Nicole and Ron were butchered. Mybe it's the sad, shocking way the prosecution bungled what should have been an open-and-shut case with a defendant practically screaming consciousness of guilt.Scott Peterson murdered his wife and unborn child on Christmas eve, but society has gotten closure on his sorry ass and we've moved on. We still aren't complete regarding O.J. We may never be.

Star Water Gate Trek

2006-10-30T00:04:00.001-08:00

Here's a little something I came up with the other day while on the way to to The Cofee Bean and Tea Leaf. Seems like merely the suggestion of hypercaffeination generated a hypnotic Pavlovian euphoric high stimulating my right brain into mashing up The Watergate scandal with the cast of the original Star Trek. Oh just watch it you'll see what I mean.

"Live to Win" by Paul Stanley

2006-10-22T17:45:00.000-07:00

Well now we know what Paul Stanley has been up to for the past twenty-eight years whenever he wasn't putting on his makeup and heels and dancing around the stage like a gay gypsy on crack. He though KISS-FM was all about him and his band so he's been monitoring the station 24/7 in between TIVO'd installments of TRL. Unwilling to wait for reincarnation as a young blonde gentile girl, Stanley Eisen has seized the initiative and given the world it's next Ashlee Simpson CD. Every one of these ten tracks would be at home on top-40 radio if performed by a blonde WASP under the age of 25. Now I have met Paul Stanley and he's a pretty nice guy. He's one helluva performer and clearly puts a lot of time and energy into his craft. Most of these songs are damn good as conventional music goes: hooky, melodic and slick. Unfortunately, this CD does not rock. Nope. Not even a little. Sorry. This collection comes off so vanilla-bland that the Scissor Sisters sound like Slayer in comparison. With apologies to Gino Vanelli, this is product unbecoming for anyone sporting chest hair, let alone the testosterone-soaked sasquatch-style carpet Phyllis displays at every opportunity like a preening peacock at the apex of mating season. That being said, people who like Paul Stanley will surely buy it, and then surely complain about it, because that's what THEY have been up to for the last twenty-eight years.

Xnay on the ubblingclay of those cute little baby harp seals

2006-09-20T14:12:00.000-07:00

Our friend V. is passionate about putting an end to the Canadian Seal hunt and the slaughter of all the cute baby seals. The
aforementioned "hunt" is so outrageously heinous that I personally can't look at it or even think about it, but if you are strong of stomach check this link and boycott Canadian fish, Canadian Club, Canadian Bacon, Canadian anything until this pointless and inhumane savagery ends.

Livin' Larger with Sparger

2006-06-21T18:34:00.000-07:00

It took ten years plus the Landmark Forum to help me get over the break-up of my first band, Urban Nightmare (see "A Dull Patina" trailer on the sidebar). Finally free from self-sabotaging trauma, I can enjoy the fruits of my creative labors with my new band, Sparger. Here is our first "publicity" picture:

One could argue that if I'd been really serious about the pictures I'd asked my brother Moosh to take I'd have done my hair and not worn shorts and flip-flops (been a prima donna like Sebastian Bach on "Supergroup").One could also argue that my brother Moosh might have have pushed the hair and wardrobe matter a little more forcefully, (like the design team Heatherette, also seen on "Supergroup"). But maybe it's my casual Californian nonchalance and well-developed deltoids that Moosh appreciates about me the most, so why hide my light under a bushel?

Good picture, but it needed a little pizazz. I thought I'd tweak it a bit in iphoto. Fifteen or so minutes of obsessive-compulsive tinkering produced an artistic rendering of the photo truly redolent of the dark, sweaty, claustrophobic, literal garage where all that magic happens.

Oh much better. You can almost HEAR the music just looking at our picture, trying to figure out what the @!#$ this is or what was I thinking?

Sparger will be coming to a garage near you. If you are in the SoCal area and would like to have Sparger perform at your gargage, drop us a line at loredenizen@hotmail.com. A Sparger website with mp3's will be coming soon.

Summer Movie Season

2006-05-11T18:38:00.000-07:00

Summer movie season is almost here, bringing with it a thriller which is sure to be a blockbuster,"Snakes on a Plane". This is about as "high concept" as a film project can get, and we all know what that means: someone dreamed it up while he was high. The genius behind this movie just had to be a man. The average female brain could neven pair together "snakes" with "planes"; there's way too much penile symbolism. But why stop there, when it's still so subtle? Why not just go balls out and have a rocket impale the beleaguered airship, causing it to dive nose-first into the mouth of an erupting volcano? Wouldn't that be more fun for the whole family? Put it out as a bonus on the DVD.

And what treats lie in store for us after the certain success of "Snakes on a Plane"? "The Poseidon Adventure" has been revisited, looking for all the world from the trailer as a shot-for-shot remake of the original. Why not have a double-feature with "Spiders at Sea"? You thought a computer virus can negatively impact your company's bottom line, but you never imagined "Worms at Work" Here's a supernatural/science fiction horror opus, "Chupacabras in a Church". Atomic reptiles storm a department store in "Lizards in Lingerie". Think of the possibilities! Summer seems endless again, until the Holiday season once more draws near, this time with snowdrifty, sugarplummy promises of "Bad Santa IV" and some new dreck starring Ben Affleck.

Gilmour Girl

2006-04-21T18:17:00.000-07:00

REVIEW OF DAVID GILMOUR CONCERT, GIBSON AMPHITHEATER, APRIL 20, 2006

L.A. area boomers received a musical blessing last night, a veritable gift from one of the the most glorious gods of the gilded prog-rock pantheon, the one, the only, David Gilmour of the heavenly avatars known on this sphere as "Pink Floyd". As we entered the holy place (the Gibson Amphitheater) we were sanctified by the perfume of a thousand marijuana pipes furiously sparking. Not since my last OTO initiation have I seen such a smoky room. The effect was rather like being inside a giant bong. The insane cat lady nearly burned our apartment building down and there wasn't that much smoke. The music emanating from the holy of holies (aka the stage) was so beautiful, so ineffably and unutterably gorgeous that erogenous zones were activated that, even at my sexual peak, I never know I had, all my chakras were balanced, and suddenly, my "third ear" opened and I was enlightened.

After the intermission, I was pretty tuckered out, but after "High Hopes" I was into it again. "Damn, you're good!" I exclaimed, as multitudinous plumes of cannibular incense wafted upwards and the heavenly host geared up for another majestic opus from his 40-year career. Unfortunately for the spousal unit and I, morning comes early. Soon it as past it my customary bedtime. It became clear that Gilmour was going to play until midnight. As designated driver, I wanted to beat the 15,000 heshers out of the parking lot. Sadly, we had to leave early, just as David Crosy and Graham Nash joined The Master for a heartbreakingly note-perfect rendition of "Comfortably Numb". Sigh.

It was very generous of David Gilmour to play for three hours plus and give his fans what they wanted, nay, what they CRAVE. He obviously loves his audience as much as we love him. I hope a DVD of the "On an Island" tour is released soon so I can relive the experience. I shall have to create my own opium-den-like, smoky atmosphere. I just hope I don't burn the apartment building down...

The Sacred and the Profane- "Big Love" on HBO

2006-03-21T16:42:00.000-08:00

I don't watch "Desperate Housewives". I never watched "Carnivale", though Zen Cat from Water Lily Alley was a devotee. "The Book of Daniel" was a hoot, and I would have watched more of it than the pilot if it the show hadn't been left to languish in the Friday night Time Slot of Death. I'd buy the DVD set if the network has the balls to put it out. But I digress. An unholy blend of these aforementioned series, has sprung fully cooked from the creative cuisinart of HBO. The name of this chimera is "Big Love", and this putative Mormon dramedy follows "The Sopranos" on Sunday nights.

My knowledge of Mormonism is limited to what I gleaned from years of reading about Donny Osmond in Tiger Beat , supplemented by the counter-witnessing Christian propaganda of Dr. Walter Martin's "Mormons at Your Doorstep". Based on the little I know. "Big Love" seems totally bogus. It's as authentic a look at the life of a Mormon as "I Dream of Jeannie" was the life of an astronaut. It makes Mormon Polygamy look like some kind of weird sex cult, which it may be for all I know, having missed that installment of "America Undercover". Bill Henrickson (Bill Paxton) is nothing if not eclectic in his Mormon practice; the dogma he subscribes to seems cherrypicked for his own convenience. He doesn't go to church, and he eschews "the garment". Paxton must be a confident man indeed to agree to so many nude scenes. Unless he's wearing a fig leaf on the set, the cast and crew ought to be able to sketch his manhood from memory with all the detail and precision of a Michael Jackson accuser.

Strangely enough, I've found "Big Love" to be kind of a turn-on. This man has his own harem. What a guy! Bill may be a studmuffin, but taking on three wives is an act of hubris that surely will prove to be his own undoing. Conventional, traditional marriage is itself such a challenge that many unions fail. Any one of those three bitches would be tough enough to deal with , let alone all three. Their incessant sexual demands are the only thing about the storyline that rings true. The inavoidable jealousy, uncertainty, and absence of intimacy inerent in a polyamorous relationship (especially with an insufferable chauvinist like Bill) all but compels the participants to overcompensate with sex, sex, and more sex. The thrill is starting to go for our poor Bill, who finds himself relying on Viagra to perform. I anticipate future episodes where Bill builds up a tolerance to the little blue pills, or they contribute to a heart attack, or he falls into the pit of a deep, black depression when he finally realizes the prison he has fashioned for himself as a sexual slave/human ATM. The episode in which the wives' moon cycles coincide and all three women PMS and go on the rag at the same time will be the one where Bill finally puts the shotgun in his mouth.

I predict that there will be no second season for "Big Love". Now, if it were about a woman with three husbands with plenty of full-frontal nudity, then we'd have ourselves a show! Alas, this will never be. "All My Children" and Erica Kane's string of lovers and husbands is about the closest we can get to this ideal. It's all about men and their fantasies. "Big Love" is basically a fantasy, albeit a messy and unpleasant one. Reveling in sexual variety while being slowly crushed to death at the same time boils down to the Freudian theme of Thanateros. It's sex and death. Only for the Henrickson's, it's sex, death, and the afterlife on a planet of your own. Like I said before, I don't know much about the Mormons, but I don't think this program is doing them any favors. Chalk up another victory for the Christian Right.

"The Sopranos" - A Sick Season Six

2006-03-13T16:33:00.000-08:00

Time was when your favorite band would reinvent itself from one album to the next; The phantasmagoria of Pink Floyd from "Dark Side of the Moon" to "Wish You Were Here" or "The Wall", or The Beatles from "Rubber Soul" to "Revolver" and "Sgt. Peppers". Even Judas Priest found new ways means of expression from "British Steel" to "Point of Entry" and "Turbo". The impetus was creativity, and I do believe this phenomenon is called "artistic growth". This kind of evolution hasn't translated well to the TV realm. Most attempts at the reinvigoration of popular shows results in the proverbial "jumping the shark", or bringing in a Cousin Oliver to help run the show into the ground. Rare is the series that, a la "Six Fix Under", grows with it's characters while still mainting integrity. I'm not sure whether or not this explains what's happening with "The Sopranos", although every season of this mafia chronicle has grown progressively creepier and more horrific than the one before.

I recall that ages ago, when this sad saga debuted, the show was surprisingly entertaining, given the subject matter, and almost lighthearted in tone (between the killing, extortion, and beatings). Over the years, the anxiety factor has been ratcheted up so high that what I viewed last night only superficially resembles the show I fell in love with. The quick cuts, short scenes, and remorseless, epic bloodletting of this season's debut give promise that the final eight episodes due next year will be a non-stop art-house montage of cruelty, madness, and gore, splattering and cascading into rivulets, eddies, and veritable whirlpools of blood.

The Sopranos is an evil show, and it's popularity the barometer of a decadent and dying empire. Why am I still watching? Because it's good. It's really good. It helps me feel better about my quiet, law-abiding little life.

Oh, Judas Priest!

2006-02-17T23:01:00.000-08:00

I never really listened to "metal" until I hooked up with Urban Nightmare (see "A Dull Patina" movie trailer on the sidebar). Dean and Brent introduced me to Metallica, Iron Maiden, and the unpeakable pleasures of the amazing Judas Priest. Rob Halford, the vocalist for "Priest", was arguaby the finest singer in rock. His range was unbelieveable; Halford's voice was an awesome instrument, full, round, pleasant, and with personality to spare. It mattered to no one that he was the gayest man in music this side of The Village People, Judas Priest rocked! Glenn and KK were the archetypal dual-lead guitar team, their contrasting styles complimenting one another perfectly. Where most bands have one song template they rewrite over and over again, Priest possessed three. Each album was different. They could be catchy and poppy ("Livin' After Midnight") or they could bludgeon your skull in full-force ("Painkiller"). There was a time when I found their music so satisfying that I would have been happy playing nothing but Priest covers.

We missed our chance to see them, as Rob left the band in 1992. Years went by. Rob dabbled in other bands, "Fight", and "Two". He came out of the closet, which must have come as no surprise to fans literate enough to read his lyrics. "Spread-eagled to the wall, you're well prepared to take it all". Seriously, those songs were NOT about girls! Priest went on with their replacement singer, but it was the end of an era for me. I moved on to Soundgarden, Disturbed, and System of a Down.

Now Priest are back, and although we considered seeing their show, we never actually moved beyond the consideration stage to the hard work of purchasing tickets and travelling to the teeming and beer-soaked arena full of aging heshers reliving their misspent youth; we kind of felt bad about that. I worried that we might have missed something. I was surprised when our friend Jay said that Rob wasn't the performer he used to be, but the VH-1 concert video of their recent tour reveals the sad fact that this is true. Rob can't sing like he used to. I am so glad we saved our hard-earned money by staying home.

The spousal unit was disappointed with Rob's poor vocal showing. He wondered why Rob ever agreed to rejoin the band on tour. My thoughts were that no one really expected that much from him anyway. After all, he's well into his fifties. There was just so much money to be made. Here is my scenario:

Glenn and KK bite the bullet and pay a visit to Rob at his rancho in Arizona. They are led by Rogelio, the ecuadorian houseboy, into the tastefully earth-toned living room where Rob, dressed in a caftan, sits painting his nails.

Glenn: 'Ello Rob.
Rob: Go away.
Glenn : We need you to come back to the band.
KK: Come home to Judas Priest.
Rob: Piss off!
Glenn: Rob, there's just so much money to be made.
KK: Huge, enormous piles of money
Glenn: Massive, billowing mountains of cash
Rob: Yeah, but you've got the Ripper
KK: They won't pay us that much with Ripper
Glenn: The fans want to see us with you
Rob: But me voice is pretty much shot
KK: Doesn't matter.
Rob: Doesn't matter?
Glenn: Our fans just want to see us back together
KK: It's an easy gig, really. All you have to do is just show up.

That's it in a nutshell. All Rob had to do was just show up, and the people came, and were happy, because Priest was and is a great band even if Rob's voice is shot and he hides from the audience. Does he still ride a Harley onstage?

The 48th Annual Grammy Awards

2006-02-09T20:38:00.000-08:00

We watched bits and pieces of the Grammmy Awards. This is one awards show I haven't been interested in for years and won't be interested in again until my song is nominated. My brother Moosh was going to be there, as a "seat-filler", and magically inventing the possibility for me to be there next year, with my song, winning the Grammy. :-D

At the risk of sounding like an old fart, back when I was a kid, music was GOOD. Stevie Wonder, who did everything himself without benefit of Pro-Tools or even a functioning pair of eyeballs, swept the Grammys year after year with ground-breaking, brilliant collections of songs that continue to stand the test of time. Simon and Garfunkel were kings. And the Beatles...and Barbra...Neil Diamond...I could go on and on. But I gave up on the Grammys in 1979 when A Yaste of Honey ("Boogie Oogie Oogie") beat out both The Cars and Elvis Costello for "Best New Artist". The disconnect between art and commerce was too much for my idealistic little mind to handle. Now that I get that The Grammy Awards have become The People's Choice Awards #2, I choose to ignore the show because it's just plain bad.

I love U2 but I wouldn't have given them another five Grammys. "How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb" contained only two listenable tracks. Was there no other product worthy of these prizes? If Justin Timberlake has released a CD in 2005 would the Grammys have gone to him? And will John Legend ever become one? Who is he anyway? Jesus, am I getting old. I don't know who the fuck anyone is anymore and I can't stand the shite the kids are listening to. It's all bunch of whining and they tune their gee-tars funny.

Mariah Carey performed a number that honestly was the best thing I'd heard her sing in years, and I'm sure the dogs of the world enjoyed it too, as it was in the key of Canine. Sly Stone was underwhelming. I kind of felt bad for him. It seemed like he can't handle being in front of an audience anymore. He beat a hasty retreat that looked to be premature, leaving his all-star-jam backing back to gamely cover for him, pretending as though they rehearsed it that way. Maybe they did rehearse it that way. Maybe the director said, "Now Sly is a nororious flake, so if he doesn't come out onstage, just keep playing, and if he walks off the stage, just keep on playing, and if the motherfucker FALLS off the stage, JUST KEEP PLAYING".

We did see the irrepressible Kelly Clarkson win for Best Pop Performance or something. I think she is just terrific and would have made it big with or without "American Idol". Her handlers are doing a superb job with her and continue to find great material for her to record. I am creating the possiblility of her winning again next year with my kick-ass song...that's a win-win proposition!

Knockin' (Cowboy) Boots - an alternative look at "Brokeback Mountain"

2006-02-08T11:59:00.000-08:00

WARNING - Do not read this if you haven't seen the movie yet. I will ruin it for you.

"This is just like 'Same Time Next Year'", exclaimed the Spousal Unit, about halfway through viewing "Brokeback Mountain". That just about sums up the movie's plot, unless like me, you are a sucker for subtlety and a doyenne of deeper meaning. Like all great art, "Brokeback Mountain" works on a series of levels. The "Big sweeping, rhapturous love story" of which one reviewer gushes is only the most superficial layer of the piece. In fact, there was precious little "love" to be found in the picture, in my estimation. As the vast majority of it's audience believe that what is depicted here is "love", that would go a long way toward explaining our skyrocketing divorce rates and the continued popularity of "The Jerry Springer Show".

"Brokeback Mountain", while being a tasteful and sensitive mainstream portrayal of "gay" themes, beautifully shot and directed, with extraordinary performances by a first-rate cast, is actually the film the Religious Right wants you to see, a cautionary tale of sin and it's consequences, a veritable "Reefer Madness" for the "Queer-Eye" age.

My best friend in High School turned out to be gay. His name was Niq Shelbi, and he managed to realize every woman's dream of marrying a rich man and is now living in a Swiss Chalet. But back then he told me in his infinite wisdom "If you know they're straight , leave them alone". Everyone seems to take it for graned that Ennis was gay from the get-go. On the contrary. However, Jack was gay from the very first time we see him. He checks out Ennis. He poses seductively to see if Ennis will "bite",which he doesn't. Ennis doesn't even look up. But we know, since this is tale about gay cowboys "in love", that it's just a mater of time before Jack seduces him. This is foreshadowed symbolically by Jack "capturing" Ennis in his rearview mirror. In fact, this "capture" theme is reiterated time and time again throughout the film. Jack "playfully" ropes Ennis with his lariat, and let us not forget how he steals Ennis's blood-stained shirt - thems black magick there, pardner!

Ennis is an easy mark. Uneducated, unsophisticated, Ennis has led a difficult and lonely life. Jack may have been the first, or closest, friend he'd ever had. He is still a virgin, evidenced by his admission, "You may be a sinner, but I ain't had the opportunity yet". But "Jack Twist" is a name for an imp, and when Ennis gets too drunk to ride back to his post, Jack makes his move. Jack has obviously done this before, as he orchestrates and choreographs their first encounter.

The rest of the story looks to me like the anatomy of a repetition compulsion. Ennis is so traumatized by what happened that he can't get over it.Sex with Jack left such a deep and powerful "imprint" on his psyche that he has trouble performing with anyone else. He felt that his life was stolen away from him. "You're the reason I'm like this!" Ennis cries in aguish. "No one! Nowhere!" The two are doomed to spending the rest of their lives trying to recapture that brief moment of idyll, that magical, fantasy time on Brokeback Mountain, before reality came crashing down around them.

Once again, I don't consider this a story about Love. It's really about addiction. These men were addicted to each other, and to a specific time and place. If they'd really been in "love" the story would have been quite different. They would have moved to San Francisco and opened a cowboy bar with replete with mechanical bull for Jack to show off on. Both the men sufferred for their actions. Note that closeted, self-loathing Ennis gets to live (if you call that a life), but the impish, duplicitous Jack Twist ends up dying.

There, my six regular readers, is why I say "Brokeback Mountain" is a cautionary tale from the old-school. Any more tragedy and it would have resembled something out of Tennysee Williams. I always felt that all Blanche Dubois had to do was plead the blood of Jesus and everything would have been a-ok. Ennis del Mar just needed a good therapist, or the Landmark Forum, and he could have gotten his life back on track.

In no way am I detracting from the tremendous cinematic achievements of this film. Oscars should certainly go to Ang Lee and Heath Ledger for their extraordinary work. What I read into it is merely what I read into it. The film is without spin and the story unfold in a matter-of-fact and non-judgemental way. I do believe, however, that if the interaction between these characters resonates with popular notions of "Love", then we as a people are desperately overdue for a discussion about the subject. Of course, there have been myraid films about toxic heterosexual replationships, for example, "Closer", which chronicles a four way mind-fuck so hateful and nasty that it makes "Brokeback Mountain" resemble "Little House on the Prairie". In this respect, progress has most definitely been made.

The Crazy Box in the Corner

2006-02-02T19:56:00.000-08:00

I returned to work today for the first time since taking the Landmark Forum. The working portion of the day was easy. The hardest part was dealing with the TV in the breakroom.
After three and one-half days of non-stop personal transformation, a television is nothing but a crazy box in the corner from which emanates, like the whiff of a soiled hospital gown, demented, burbling, foaming-at-the-mouth insanity. Why does anyone watch the news? Why do they even call it "news", because there is nothing "new" about death, destruction, war, and horror. Even the perils of Identity theft are as old as the Bible (Jacob and Esau). The Avian Flu is a hoax, and politics has become indistinguishable from the parasitical entertainment industry that surrounds it. How anyone can tolerate more than a fraction of this drivel is beyond me.

Following the news, at my place of employment, is the long-running soaper, "All My Children". I would rename it "All My Clients", because every personality disorder known to modern psychiatry, and a few yet-to be discovered, are acted out in full, resplendent grandiosity by the erstwhile denizens of Prozac Valley, PA. Although it's possible that it may only be unententionally funny, to me the show plays like broad farce. Where else can you find a character lovingly referred to as "Janet from another planet?". The writers have got to be high on Starbucks and Twinkies to consistently keep coming up with material like this, as full-tilt hysterical as Erica Kane having a hot flash. Don't even get me started on the acting, which is singularly atrocious, even for this dubious genre. Yes, David Canary, Walt Willey and Michael E. Knight are wonderful,truly fine performers, but that just makes everyone else come off even worse. Jeff Branson, as the hapless Jonathan Lavery, is utterly unconvincing as a brain tumor survivor. He is, however, totally authentic as a classically-trained thespian happy to have a steady gig doing anything, anywhere, which is about how I feel when it's time to get back to work.

Zen and the Art of Following The Lakers

2006-01-23T18:20:00.000-08:00

Phil Jackson is known for being the Zen Master Extraordinaire, the wizard who has won more games than any other coach in the NBA. He is noticeably different from the other coaches in the league. While other coaches prowl, scowl, and even scream, Phil is usually seated, observing, and calmly taking notes. Win or lose, Phil's demeanor remains the same. While meditating on Kobe's amazing 81 point tour-de-force, it occurred to me that Phil is, by extension, teaching us all the art of Zen. To be a Laker fan one must maintain that quintessentially Buddhist mindset of non-attatchment. You can't get too excited about them, because they WILL let you down (and how), but you can't count them out either, because they WILL surprise and delight you with dazzling play against the toughest opponents in the league. Not to mention that what Buddhism requires of our minds is consistency, which is the one thing the Lakers need most.

Alito Dab'l Do Ya

2006-01-11T18:32:00.000-08:00

I've spent the last two days listening to the Alito Confirmation Hearings. The hot air spewing forth from the Senate Judiciary Committee will surely exacerbate the Global Warming crisis no cares to face. Neither as slick nor as brilliant as the Stepford Chief Justice John Roberts, Alito managed to squirm and sidewind his way out of answering many questions. Alito certainly does stand out as a legal mind, for his bizarre dissenting opinions revealing him as way out of the mainstream even amongst his fellow judges on the Third Circuit Court. It's amazing what this man believes to be constitutional. What amazes me even more is how his backers simply gloss over his ethics violation, as if it were merely a "youthful indiscretion". The questioning went something like this:

SENATOR PRO-LIFE FROM A RED STATE
"So why didn't you recuse yourself from the Vanguard Case?"
JUDGE ALITO
"Senator, I simply wasn't focused on recusal"
SENATOR PRO-LIFE
"I'm okay with that."

This must be some kind of GOP "Old Boys" morality, because for us plebes, excuses like that just fall flat. Try this the next time you're caught for speeding:

OFFICER WIGGY
" Did you know you were doing 80?"
ANYONE WHO ISN'T CURRENTLY BEING CONSIDERED FOR THE SUPREME COURT OR HAS DIPLOMATIC IMMUNITY
"But Officer, I simply wasn't focused on my speed."

The cops aren't going to buy it. Neither should we.

TV Shows We're Not Watching

2005-12-23T18:17:00.000-08:00

TV is indeed a vast wasteland. Thelemites don't watch TV, and that is part of their charm. However, we do own a large and impressive HD-ready set, and sometimes find things to see that are indeed worth watching. Until we lose interest...

30-MINUTE MEALS WITH RACHAEL RAY
(AKA "Cooking Bitch")
She is the anti-Martha, an adorable, if overly perky, yenta-in training who throws together, in real-time,meals that are blissfully recognizeable as normal food for normal people. Her "thing" for mini-cheeseburgers aside, Rachael's shows are full of practical ideas, methods and tips that you can put to use for yourself and your family right away. Anyone who loves food can't help but love Cooking Bitch, which is why she has not one but FOUR shows on the Food Network,ten cookbooks, and inspired a lovesick David Letterman, never to be upstaged, to chow down an entire stick of butter on camera.

We still tune in from time to time. We fear that Cooking Bitch will soon become overexposed.

STRANDED WITH CASH PETERS
A highlight of the Travel Channel, this program's conceit is to take Cash Peters, an amiable fop,and throw him out into the middle of a vacation hot spot with no money, car, or hotel reservations, forcing him to cadge food and lodging from the kindness of strangers. The people he meets are always happy to lend a hand, and I presume this stems more from the desire to be on TV than any genuine interest in the man's welfare. If Mr. Peters were actually stranded in Downtown Glendale without his producer and cameraman in tow there is no way anyone would treat him to steak dinner at Damon's, and he would probably get thrown out of Jax. Homeless people should take a cue from "Stranded", and working in groups of three, get a camera and clipboard and pretend to to be filming a reality show. They'd live really well, and get to travel to boot. The beauty part is, once the townspeople caught onto their scam, they'd already be on to the next port of call...

We watched this twice.

ANTHONY BOURDAIN:NO RESERVATIONS
(aka "Freaky Freak travels the world")
Also on the Travel Channel, this show appears to be similar in concept to "Stranded", except for the personality of it's star, chef and author Anthony Bourdain, who is never far from a cigarette or a shot of the exotic local firewater. Where Cash Peters frets about what the locals might do FOR him, Tony Bourdain worries about they'll do TO him. Exuding darkness and danger from ecery pore. Tony is a really scary guy. I imagine that, back in the day when he was a chef, he was the type who'd blow snot into your spaghetti if you dared to send it back. Horrors.
There is a radio travel-show parody on "Grand Theft Auto-San Andreas" that features a demented host who travels to exotic lands to have sex with the locals. NO RESERVATIONS comes pretty close, no pun intended. I'm sure that the best parts of the show end up on the cutting room floor.

We watched this twice.

MY NAME IS EARL
(aka "Earl")
This was the funniest, most inventive network sitcom we'd seen in YEARS. The message was terrific as well, with small-time crook Earl becoming conscious and systematically working through his Karma by making restitution to the people he had wronged throughout his life. In fact, I told everyone I knew all about what an amazing show this was and how they needed to check it out...and then they jumped the shark. Well not quite, but the show instantly commenced to suck something fierce. I started to notice that Tuesday after Tuesday had gone by and we hadn't been tuning into "Earl". Whatever. I just passed a billboard advertising that "Earl" has now moved to the Thursday night lineup. We never even knew the difference...

THE GHOST WHISPERER
(aka "Ghost Bitch")
This is a great show as network series go. Jennifer Love Hewitt is adorable as a psychopomp who leads troubled spirits Dr. Phil-like through their unfinished business on Earth. I don't know why, but "Ghost Bitch" always makes me cry. The issues they wrestle with are always intense, and usually unexpected. The last episode we watched I didnt even see because I was busy trying to beat the spousal unit's high score at Lumines. Fuckin' crack game. Even so,only paying half-attention to the tube, I once-again found myself tearing up at the conclusion. Fuckin' crack show.

We might have watched this as many as six times.

Another State-Sponsored Homicide Adds Weight to the Wheel of Samsara

2005-12-14T14:05:00.000-08:00

"That's not a tookie, that's a fracker!" I am quoted as saying at the age of three, much to the mirth of the cadre of relatives who left me scarred for life. This anecdote also demonstrates that, even as a toddler, I already had a highly developed need to be "right".

Tookie Williams was no cookie, and god forbid anyone refer to him as a "cracker". He is off the planet now, offered up as a burnt sacrifice to the hordes of angry law-and-order white men out for "justice", which they confuse with blood. I don't know if Tookie commited the crime for which he was executed; he maintained his innocence until the end. No doubt he did innumerable bad things for which he was never caught. He did a lot of good things, too. That his life served as a cautionary tale was never in question, but what message does his execution convey? Don't screw up, don't get caught, and get real - expect no mercy. Perhaps once the Bible-thumpers who run this country finally choose between the Old or New Covenant for our theocracy we'll get a clear sense of what to expect, free from mixed messages of "forgiveness" and "redemption".

I seem to recall that Jesus, victim of the biggest frame-up in history, granted salavtion to Barrabas, a bona-fide "bad guy", in the middle of his own execution. Yes, in the very midst of dying an undeserved and excruciating death nailed to a tree Jesus found space in his brain to give a convicted murderer the benefit of the doubt. This is because Jesus was enlightened and able to look into Barrabas' heart. All the Governator could say was that Tookie didn't mouth the right words of contrition. He had no idea what might have been in Tookie's heart. Of course, W said that he looked into Vladmir Putin's heart and concluded that he was a good guy, so perhaps this looking into hearts business is a very specialized field that shouldn't be left up to amateurs. That said, I prefer to leave the vengeance up to The Lord.

A Well-Cured Ham

2005-11-12T17:32:00.000-08:00

NATURAL CURES "THEY" DON'T WANT YOU TO KNOW ABOUT
by Kevin Trudeau
(As seen on TV!)

We are fast-approaching critical mass with the internal cleansing and natural cures. I just finished reading Kevin Trudeau's book, and everyone around me seems to be cleansing, preparing to cleanse, or at least thinking about the urgent need for cleansing. Everything Kevin Trudeau says about health and nutrition is true. It's important to point out that none of the ideas he espouses are his own, although through his considerable resources and media savvy he's managed to propel them out from the shelves of the health food stores into something approaching the mainstream.
Kevin was a convert to the religion of Amway while still in his teens. This is a man who has been in sales all his life. Reading "Natural Cures" is like taking a lesson in Hypnosis 101. It takes him 300+ pages to say what could be conveyed in a pamphlet. He waits until page 159 (because if you're still reading that far you're committed) to drop the bombshell that he's a Scientologist. All this aside, everything he says (and says and says and says again) is right and good and true.
"Where are the cures? He doesn't give us any cures!" I hear people complain, but there are no "magic bullets". It took years for you to become diabetic and morbidly orbese, so expect that it'll take at least a few months worth of herbs, organic produce and colonic irrigation to restore your body to a semblance of healthy balance. And since balance is really what it's all about, Kevin seeks to keep his bank balance healthy and vibrant by establishing himself as the internet portal of choice for those interested in alternative health. And what is wrong with that? It's the essence of capitalism. A web site with directories of nautral health practitioners and links to products and services would be well worth paying for. Someone let me know as soon as he gets that up and running, okay? Thanks. :-)

Amazing Jewish Rock Stars

2005-10-01T16:15:00.000-07:00

Yes folks,it's amazing how many jewish rock stars there have been. Rock stardom is clearly a viable path for the sons and daughters of Israel. No wonder I was convinced that I too would reach those rarefied heights.

BORN TO BOOGIE - T. REX

Like most of America (according to the websites I've read today) I never paid much attention to T.Rex. Yeah, I bought the single "Bang a Gong", but was dissapointed to find that the flipside, "Telegram Sam", was essentially the same song. I hate a one-trick pony. But we have a great digital-cable company that allows us to check out free concerts from bands we wouldn't ordinarily bother with, so I thought what the hell, let's check old the crusty old dinosaur...led by a jew savvy enough to make the most of his shortcomings, Mark Feld (Marc Bolan).

Upon first viewing "Born to Boogie", I knew almost nothing about T. Rex, and certainly had never seen a "live" performance by the band. My initial impressions were that the drummer was doing a bad impression of Mitch Mitchell, the conga player was totally in love with Marc, and that Marc was trying to simultaneously emulate both Jimmy Page AND Robert Plant. The music was a weird, unsettling bastardization of electric blues, the familiar and expected one-four-five progression coming down and then suddenly veering away in some self-indulgent, psychedelic pretense of originality. The bass player was truly fantastic, and single-handedly added whatever mystical element it was that rendered the music listenable. When the music worked, it was fun, but when it didnt work, it was just plain WEIRD.

The acoustic set was an interesting contrast. Nothing particularly original there either. Bolan's acoustic songs reminded me of Donovan. He did come up with a few good lines here and there, with some really beautiful imagery. I can't for the life of me remember what they were, but they were DEEP. I had to listen for it very hard, but the 5% of brilliance I was able to detect actually transmuted the other 95% of pure unadulterated shite into a positive experience for me. I then realized that this little poseur was actually a crazy genius poet, whacked out of his mind on drugs, just trying to be the best kind of rock star he could be. Bolan's earnestness was touching, really.

One of the most disconcerting things about the show was the wild-eyed, whacked out way percussionist Mickey Finn would STARE AT MARC THE WHOLE ENTIRE TIME, as if he were vampirizing energy from the man. It was creepy, man, way creepy. Apparently Marc hired Mickey for looks istead of musical talent. I figure the conversation went something like this.

MICKEY- Well, what do I do here?
MARC- play the bongos, man.
MICKEY- Yeah, but what do I do onstage?
MARC- Just watch me, man. Cue off of me.

So that's what Mickey did. He got into the habit of watching Marc, and never stopped. He might have been in love with him too. Those things happen (Boy George and Jon Moss, anyone?)

Mark Feld was rather unwholesome for a teeny-bopper idol. Most of his songs were simple, raunchy little ditties about sex, sex, and more sex. He moaned orgasmically in just about every song. He was impossibly cute. I say that because no one can really be that cute. His cuteness was merely an illusion, impossible even for himself to maintain. He learned many tricks living with that magician in France, and this must have been one of them. One minute he would glow with youth and beauty, and in the next frame he was hollow-eyed and dissapated. He didn't age all that well, and didn't live beyond his Saturn return. Typical rock star achetype...

THREE DAYS - JANE'S ADDICTION

I remember when Jane's Addiction was the hottest underground band in L.A. It wasn't long at all until they were signed and went on to mainstream success. They'd be just another noisy hard-rock band if it weren't for the downright weird vocal stylings of Perry Farrell, possibly the most jewish rock star ever. Gene Simmons, who was born in Israel, isn't even as jewish as Perry. Not since Borscht-Belt comedian Jackie Mason has there been a celebrity as unapologetically -in your face -jewish as Farrell, a man so artsy-fartsy that he took the word "peripheral" and fashioned himself a name from it.

Like his predecessor Mark Feld, Peripheral knows a lot about magick, especially the kaballah. I'm just guessing here, but I think peripheral is very influenced by sacred music. Notice what he does with his melodies. If there is a "right" note to sing, he always sings an interval above it. It's very deliberate. If he wanted to sing something "normal", he could. He's doing something magickal with the music, to effect a kind of group trance effect. And it worked, clearly it did. I never really cared for their albums, but seeing what they did onstage, peripheral is quite the magician, and so incredibly jewish it's just unreal.

NO DIRECTION HOME- BOB DYLAN

Unfortunately, we missed the first half of this fascinating documentary. I will pick up the DVD today. Run, do not walk, to your favorite media emporium and get it-It's that good!

We were astonished to see that so much footage existed from this pivotal time in Zimmerman's career. His press conferences were a hoot. When he refused to answer questions about his music, I think he really was speaking his truth. I believe that he really didn't know wat to say. Unlike the other jewish rock stars who deliberately calculate every move for maximum effect, Zimmerman was DIVINELY ANNOINTED with a genius and charisma from on high. Although baffled by it, he was compelled by the muse to do what he had to do.

All the controversy over Dylan "going electric" went way above my head at the time, as in 1966 I as only four years old. It's easy to see, through the clips shown in the film, why the audience grew so attatched to Dylan's solo acoustic performances, and felt so violently betrayed when he dared to "go electric". Although the songs were still somewhat the same, the purity and intimacy was lost with the big,noisy rock band. It's also easy to see why he couldn't go on performing solo acoustic shows indefinitely. The crowds were too big, and their demand was depleting him.

The only musician of recent times important enough to compare with Bob Dyan is the late, great Kurt Cobain (not a jew), a young man also burdened with the standard of "voice of his generation", espressingly the ineffable, unexpressible for the masses. Cobain was yet another meteoric figure who didn't live past his Saturn return. Generally speaking, a person in Dylan's position wouldn't have survived that motorcycle crash. For whatever reason, he managed to transcended the archetype.Dylan may have accumulated enough good karma to beat the grim reaper, or his mission on earth may be a lifetime one. It could simply be that his bad habits weren't so bad, or he didn't have a Courtney Love sucking out his life force like some giant noxious leech. For all this and having the balls to always follow his heart, Bob (Dylan) Zimmerman remains the most AMZAZING JEWISH ROCK STAR of them all.

For the Louisianian Diaspora

2005-09-11T16:22:00.000-07:00

The holocaust was televised;
We watched it on TV.
What happened in New Orleans
Was intolerable cruelty.

The thousands locked inside the Dome,
The bridge escape route barred,
While helplessly we watched from home;
Our nation's psyche scarred.

The food and water turned away,
the people left behind
To starve and die day after day,
FEMA deaf, dumb, and blind.

Shepard Smith and fellow press
Were there, and can attest,
This holocaust was televised;
Our leaders failed the test.

Misunderestimating FEMA

2005-09-08T20:27:00.001-07:00

Someone I used to know explained to me that you can't go by what people say, you have to observe what they do to see through to their true intentions. Let me point out that my former friend lives on the "Dark Side" with enough relish to make Darth Vader and Chancellor Palpatine resemble, in comparison, the Dalai Lama and Tich Nat Han. After a couple of years of hanging out with my former friend, this administration is as transparent as plexiglass. I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing, but it's definitely scary. Lately, my conspiratorial rants are trending two days ahead of the pundits on Air America Radio.

When W asked Nancy Pelosi "what didn't go right?" He wasn't in denial, or being "oblivious". He is however, quite dangerous, because his off-the-cuff, matter-of-fact declaration revealed his true opinion on the matter, as did his pronouncement,"Brownie, you're doing a heck of a job". The POTUS is pleased as punch with Michael Brown's performance, as FEMA did exactly what it was supposed to do. The disconnect lies with the public, as we are still attatched to the quaint, archaic notion that our government exists to protect us. Yes, I too remember learning that in school; It's been a tough paradigm to give up.

For all who have eyes to see, It's become glaringly apparent that FEMA's mission, with regards to Hurricane Katrina, was to allow the crisis to fester unimpeded for as long as they could get away with before the public outrcry became too severe. Now the region has been decimated, and soon New Orleans will be a ghost town, the few remaining holdouts forcibly removed from their homes (for their own good, I'm afraid. The city truly is far too toxic now to support human life.) Only time will tell what becomes of the region. Will Big Development move in, or Big Oil and natural gas exploration take over? However Bushco decides to resolve the New Orleans problem will reveal the true motives behind why this tragedy was allowed to occur.

For the record, Haliburton is already making money off of the disaster.

For more on how Bush's malapropisms and Freudian Slips reveal his true identity, read "The Bush Dyslexicon", by Mark Crispin Miller.

WHAT THE F*CK?

2005-09-05T02:17:00.000-07:00

The pictures on the news were horrifying. People were drowning in their own homes, and those who managed to escape the flood were dying in the streets. The help was slow in coming. Slower than mollasses in a snowdrift. Slower than a snail on thorazine. Slower than the line at the DMV. You get my point. The response was unconscionably s-l-o-w. Nothing made sense. The disconnect was so intense that even the reporters on scene were actually doing their jobs, reporting the cold hard facts as they saw them. The government is spinning as hard as it can, but nothing short of a centrifugal force with a maginitude enough to reverse the earth's orbit could change the world's perception that a terrible evil has been done to the citizens of our Gulf Coast.
My six regular readers, what have we just witnessed? Was this merely a clusterfuck of biblical proportions?
I find it impossible to believe that FEMA and Homeland Security could be that inept without trying. Considering how hopped-up the average american is these days on Starbucks and sugar, our initial, gut reaction to such tragedy leads us to trip over each other in a mad rush to help. Because americans, flawed as we may be, are moved by human suffering. We have given generously to the victims of the Asian Tsunami, and again to relief for the victims of Hurrican Katrina. We watched helplessly as PEOPLE WERE LEFT STARVING AND DEHYDRATED FOR FIVE FULL DAYS. The American Red Cross, as their coffers swelled with our donations watched helplessly as well, as they were denied access to New Orleans the very epicenter of the tragedy. The place where help was needed most. Sick people couldn't get their medicine, babies went unfed, and people sufferred in sweltering heat without nourishment or liquids for FIVE FULL DAYS and THE RED CROSS WAS NOT ALLOWED TO HELP. I cannot stress this point enough. Never before have we witnessed such an atrocity on our own soil. Never before could I have imagined such a nightmare scenario as AMERICANS PREVENTED FROM AIDING THEIR FELLOW AMERICANS BY OUR OWN GOVERNMENT.
The mayor asked for help. The governor asked for help. The senator asked for help. It took FIVE DAYS for help to arrive. Why? WHAT THE F*CK?
We must not allow this thing to rest. There are people who must be held accountable. We must honor the flood victims by asking questions, and continuing to ask questions until we learn the truth, and if you need a reminder why, I invite you to watch this. Have a box of Kleenex ready. You're gonna need it.

Kid Power

2005-09-03T00:46:00.000-07:00

Our local TV stations have set up Red Cross donation depots at supermarkets and other convenient "drive-thru" sites. I've seen quite a few clips of children making donations. Some kids have opened up their piggy banks, run lemonade stands, and even sold off their toys to be able to give to the survivors of Hurricane Katrina.

You can see it in their eager young faces; they really feel for these people. The boy who sold off his toys was asked by the reporter how it felt to donate to the hurricane victims. The boy replied, "It feels good, because I have a lot, and these people have no homes, no food, no water, no medicine..." It was clear that he felt really good about the fact that he could make a difference. It was heartwarming, and refreshing.

You don't hear these kids blaming the victims for not getting out of Dodge in time. You don't hear these kids saying "they're just a bunch of criminals, let 'em kill each other." These kids are still unpolluted by Rush Limbaugh and his ilk. They haven't been corrupted by grown-up notions of selfishness and hate. Their hearts are pure. They recognize that we are all brothers and sisters, and this is One World, and we need to pull together to survive.

I watched the little boy on the TV, and wondered how long before he transforms into the next Sean Hannity. I hope never.

"I believe that children are our future"
- Whitney Houston, "The Greatest Love of All"

At the same time came the disciples unto Jesus, saying, Who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven? And Jesus called a little child unto him, and set him in the midst of them,
And said, Verily I say unto you, Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven.
- Matthew, chaper 18, verse 1-3

Biloxi Blues

2005-09-01T01:00:00.000-07:00

The only difference between Hurrican Katrina and the Asian Tsunami is that we saw Katrina coming, and those who had the means to evacuate were able to do so in time.

India and Thailand were chastised for not having an alert system in place, and rightfully so. However, an alert system is only one facet of "being prepared".

It was well-known how uniquely vulnerable New Orleans was to a hurricane. In advance of the problem, nothing was done to mitigate the risk. One could call this a "sin of omission". Had something like this occurred on Bill Clinton's watch we would never hear the end of it, as he would be personally blamed for destroying the Gulf Coast as if with his own bare hands.

As Katrina churned her way towards New Orleans as a humongous category 5 hurricane, anyone with a memory a grade above Alzheimer's could see that this was going to be BAD. Why weren't contingency plans made, in those days before Katrina made landfall, to get food, water, and rescue operations to the affected areas just as soon the skies cleared? Where is the foresight? Where is the leadership? Meanwhile, four days after the disaster, people are still trapped in their homes, disease and death are brewing in the canals that once were city streets, and some of the saddest stories I have ever heard are being told.

Where I live, we are reminded constantly about the importance of Earthquake preparedness. Tomorrow I am going to stock up on batteries, canned food, and enough bottled water to last at least a month. A six-month supply would be even better; With a stash like that I could be an entrepreneur, or at least be able to barter a six-pack of water for some sterno to heat up my pathetic can of pork and beans. I know that when The Big One hits L.A. we'll be on our own. California could break apart into the Pacific like a loaf of communion bread and Washington wouldn't give a rat's ass.

Like A Hurricane

2005-08-28T21:04:00.000-07:00

The doomsday predictions about Hurricane Katrina, likening her to our verison of the "Asian Tsunami" make me very sad.

When a giant hurricane threatens Florida, I must admit to feeling some schadenfreude. After all, I've lived there, and it's really an terrible place, awful and corrupt. Expect Robert Blake to move there soon, joining O.J. Simpson and Jeffrey Skilling in safe financial harbor courtesy of the "homesteading" law. Although I've never been to The Big Easy, it's a place I've always wanted to visit. The music, food, and culture are a kind of living history and perpetual performance art piece that, if the storm has the cataclysmic domino effect scientists are predicting, may well be lost forever. My heart goes out to everyone who calls New Orleans home.

We must denounce our own radical clerics

2005-08-24T22:50:00.000-07:00

I will defer to Dr. Lambkin B. Grace about this latest Pat Robertson scandal.

Six Feet Under

2005-08-23T21:12:00.000-07:00

SIX FEET UNDER 2001-2005

Well, Six Feet Under has aired it's final episode. I won't spoil it for those haven't seen it, but it was, in a word, magnificent. Never has a television series moved me so much. I think I can say, without hyperbole, that there has never before been a series like it. Much more than a mere "TV series", Six Feet Under , full of symbolism and subtext, was like an epic work of literature brought to life.

Alan Ball has to be some kind of magician. American Beauty was the work of a genius, and with Six Feet Under, Ball created a mini-Beauty every week. As wrapped up as I was in the show, a trip to the HBO community message board reveals the shell-shocked missives of viewers who "had it" even worse than I. The last time I logged in, some folks had watched the final episode, "Everyone is Waiting", five times. (Make that six times; the latest airing just ended at 8:15.) The spousal unit and I watched it twice, and must admit that it was even more glorious the second time around.

Six Feet Under was a series about PROCESS. While most of the dreck on the tube is about people who (a) hang out at a bar (b) hang out at a coffee shop (c) work at the same place (d) live on the same street and try to boink each other's spouses, Six Feet Under was about a family learning how to live. Not in the sappy, treacly, melodramatic manner of Thirtysomething, or Apple's Way, but in a manner and style that reflected real life. These characters made mistakes, grew, changed, and moved onward and upward with their lives. Each character went through their own, unique, iniatory experience on the road to BECOMING CONSCIOUS. The series, as a whole, was iniatory. I fully believe that this was Alan Ball's intent. I can't imagine that anyone who followed this series could come away unchanged.

Movin' On with W

2005-08-19T20:08:00.000-07:00

Lots of people want to talk to me
to ask me how I see the things I see
and the choices that I make
because I never make mistakes
and I should treat these folks with sensitivity

But it's important that I lead a balanced life
I'm getting lots of healthy exercise outside
so I can make the crisp decisions
to complete our noble mission
so I'll jump right on my bicycle and ride

Yes, it's important that I get on with my life
to forge ahead to new frontiers of fear and strife
and there'll be more wars to be lost
but irregardless of the cost
You all elected me, not only once, but twice!

The Ballad of Cindy Sheehan

2005-08-15T18:22:00.000-07:00

(as performed by the folks at Fox News)

She's a treasonous traitor,
A sinister pawn
Of the lunatic fringe movements
Such as Move On

Tell me, what "Mom" could think
her son's death was for nought?
Now she's dissing our troops
And how bravely they've fought!

Because once you investigate
Like Drudge, you'll find
She discredits her own self
By changing her mind!

For the President's met with her!
They've cleared the air!
Sheehan claimed to be satisfied
Only last year!

So she'll grandstand in Crawford
As long as it takes;
She just might have to camp out
till 2008.

As We March To Armageddon

2005-08-14T19:53:00.000-07:00

National Security
Starts with sexual purity

As we march to Armageddon
Is there somethin' we're forgettin'?

Crush dissent and conquer doubt
911's what it's about

As we march to Armageddon
Is there somethin' we're forgettin'?

The confusion of the facts
Black is white, and white is black

As we march to Armageddon
Is there somethin' we're forgettin'?

Winning over hearts and minds
One must be cruel to be kind

As we march to Armageddon
Is there somethin' we're forgettin'?

Let's unveil the battle plan
for the invasion of Iran

As we march to Armageddon
Is there somethin' we're forgettin'?

We'll set Christ back on his throne
And we'll do it on our own

As we march to Armageddon
Is there somethin' we're forgettin'?

My Remote Brings the World Closer

2005-08-08T20:54:00.000-07:00

Click, click, click, click
the cable news channels are making me sick
Jennings died. Tragic! A death premature.
Lung cancer beat him, of this we are sure.
If smoking can get me to age sixty-seven
I'll pick up a carton at 7-11

zzt,zzt,zzt,zzt
The space shuttle program should pack up and quit
They're hard to blast off, and they're harder to land
the probes fare much better than missions they've manned
Let's send up an Hummer! Now that would be cool!
They've got big enough gas tanks to carry the fuel

click click click click
the general public sure catches on quick
more than half polled think the war's a mistake
Though it's seldom an impact those "focus groups" make
Now there's some talk of reducing our troops
But that's if the Iraquis jump through the right hoops.

Mercury Retrograde

2005-08-07T00:07:00.000-07:00

Mercury is currently retrograde, and will be until August 15th. For most people familar with the concept, "mercury retrograde" is a time to avoid signing contracts, or buying any major appliances. Mercury rules travel, communication, commerce, and the media, and while the quicksilver planet is travelling backwards it is thought that signals can get crossed, confusion reigns, and things just might not turn out as expected. However, there is a deeper layer to a Mercury retrograde period. Long-lost friends come out of the woodwork, and old situations are revisited, shedding light on how much (or how little) things have changed.

Because of it's correspondence to Hod, the eigth sephira of the Tree of Life, Mercury is definitely Lord of the Super-8 home movie. Last night we enjoyed the ultimate Mercury retrograde experience. My stepmother (Moosh's mom) had all the old super-8 movies from the 70's transfered to DV. The spousal unit and I provided the liquid entertainment, exquisite libations we brought back from our sojourn to Wine Country, and well-lubricated, we proceeded down Memory Lane.

Reinforcing my feelings of being "loved less" growing up, very little of the footage featured me. The vast majority of the program conisted of little Moosh toddling around in his diapers, learning to walk, and endless birthday cupcakes at his Montessori pre-school. On the rare occasions a camera happened to be trained in my direction, it rarely lingered longer than five seconds. Therefore, stumbling across this piece of footage was fascinating:
Laurie circa 1980

At first, I didn't recognize myself, or the time and place. I still can't remember who filmed this segment, or why. It was jarring, and a mindfuck and a half. I was staring at a dissociated phantom self from twenty-five years ago. The astonishing thing is how incredibly representative this clip is of the person I remembered myself as being. My psyche was a veritable pea-soup, Neptunian fog, overwhelmed with thoughts, feelings, and compulsions I couldn't possibly begin to comprehend. The enormity of my emotional disturbance was matched only by the stupidity of my decision-making. I had no reasoning capabilty whatsoever. I was controlled by my emotions. Everything was subjective. This system was highly flawed. My "poetry" was morbid, gothic psuedo-babble such as:

"This is when I commence to destroy myself;
The interludes of gentle lust.
Headfirst through the downward the spiral travel I,
Ever knowing that this would be my fate.

I will go where fate may lead me
I see myself temptation's slave.
The books I read, the films I see,
They tell me so.
Their message rings softly in my mind".

Trash, absolute trash. Is that shit embarassing or what?
At least I can say I've improved in one area.

I had a lot of "magickal" power, and freaked myself out by achieving several personal goals for myself in my senior year in high school that, in my junior year, seemed unattainable. I was just figuring out to use my personal charisma. Unfortunately, after I'd achieved those initial goals, all I was able to manifest were sex, drugs, and rock 'n roll. I was on a path of self-destruction, until my self-preservation instict compelled me to retreat into Christianity and serial monogamy (through serial marriage). In this state self-denial I simmerred, until finally imploding in a seven-year-long midlife crisis of harrowing proportions. I mean, I was messed up. Yeah, there were plenty of people who had it worse than me, but I had all the issues I could handle, and while still appearing relatively functional.

For many years I've carried a burden of guilt and shame. "Meeting myself" stirred up a lot of old stuff, forcing me to confront a part of identity that I still felt "judgemental" about. How badly have I held myself back over the years, by deliberately cutting myself off from that my source of personal power? After all, it wasn't my charisma that was bad. While I was achieving my personal goals I wasn't "sleeping my way to the top". I just had a charisma that made me magnetic to the people who were in charge of the events in which I wanted to participate, and from there I took the iniative. It was only after old feelings of inferiority and self-doubt crept in that things started to go wrong. I never got around to setting the next goal for myself. I felt unworthy, and fearful. I knew I had "something", but I didn't understand what it was or how to direct it in a constructive way. My flailing attempts to "control" and "manipulate" my charisma to my own ends became self-depleting and destructive. Thus began the "shame spiral" resulting in years of pointless self-sabotage, which only served to add more shame.

From age eighteen through twenty, I was completely delusional. I didn't understand what I had done "right" when things were working, so I sure as hell didn't understand what I doing now that was "wrong". All my friends were either alcoholics or potheads, and most of them were more even screwed up than I was. I had no language for articulating my inner conflicts. Every word that came out of my mouth was designed as a showcase for my cleverness and wit, even with my most intimate friends. I had no conception of what my inner conflicts were, as I was so twisted around inside I wore my pathology like a badge.

I guess I've just described your typical, garden-variety adolescent. I suppose I really wasn't that different than most of the other kids. Maybe that fog of stupidity is normal, the reaction of torrents of hormone cascading through the average teen-aged brain. I guess I shouldn't be down on myself for what amounted to doing the best I could with the limited vision I had at the time. What I mean is, it's time for me to forgive myself for my mistakes, as I have learned to forgive others. It's time to re-integrate that disowned part of myself I've pushed away for so long. After all, where's the shame in being young and stupid? You're supposed to be stupid when you're young. That's what makes it fun. And if I were'nt so stupid back then I would never have gained whatever small pockets of wisdom I might possibly posess now. So in the end, its all good.

And that, my six regular regular readers, is a real "Mercury retrograde" moment.

Whitney and Britney, OR truth is stranger than fiction

2005-08-04T21:18:00.000-07:00

I've never been a fan of "reality TV". "The Osbornes" were amusing for about five minutes, only because they reminded me so much of a real family we used to hang out with. Ronnie "Psycho" Rains and his brood weren't as foulmouthed and scatalogical as the Osborne clan, but they were still a hoot to be around, as faded celebrity jock Ronnie was always up to something.

The rancid continuum that is the entertainment industry has finally regurgitated a "reality" show that is so bizarre I can't believe I actually sit and watch it. People eating worms and marrying dwarves have NOTHING on this carnival of twisted freaks. The program in question is "Being Bobby Brown". As I am of a certain age, I have more than a passing familiarity with the putative "stars" of this show. However, the people in the program are completely different from who I "assumed" them to be. This is a sterling example of the media star machine at work. Take, for example, the evervescent Britney Spears. I could never find enough free time in my life to watch her reality show, but I really had no need to, as the Federlines were EVERYWHERE. A veritable "Cinderella" story, Britney rose from humble beginnings to become a major star. With all that money, fame, and influence, nubile young Britney could have had her pick of anyone, yet the man she married might as well as been from the trailer park next door. If I cared about the woman, I might even feel a pang of disapointment at her choice. However, as Britney's "churn rate" has been relatively quick, It doesnt come as that much of a surprise. She's no rocket scientist, and the poor girl was lonely and just wanted someone she can hang with.

But NOTHING could have prepared me for how incredibly ghetto Whitney Houston turned out to be. This is a woman who was presented (gee Clive Davis really is a marketing genius) as GLAMOROUS and ELEGANT, with a church-honed voice of phenomenal range. Well, I guess that was then and this is now. In her present incarnation, the once-sophisticated Mrs. Brown could be mistaken for the average welfare mother. In the highly, and badly, edited pastiche of footage that constitutes the average "episode", Whitney appears to be either on the rag or waiting, not to exhale, but for the next bottle, hit, or tab of whatever it is that has her looking so nasty and haggard these days.

Now, as I get older I no longer care that much about make-up, and I don't wear anything I can't buy at Target, but you can best believe that if my spousal unit had his own freakin' reality show I'd have myself looking as sharp as I possibly could in every frame I could inject my little old mug into. Why Whitney doesn't even bother anymore is what intrigues me. She doesn't bother looking decent, or even combing her hair. I assume that's her own hair. She doesn't bother acting nice, or even civil, most of the time. The "episodes" I've seen have mostly centered around the family Brown living in a hotel, as something terrible has happened to their house, and charming former gangsta-boy Bobby striving to placate his foul-mouthed ex-Diva of a wife. They do seem to love each other, somehow. I can only assume that the once airbrushed and expertly coiffed Whitney had always been secretly ghetto, and, like Britney, wanted someone she could just hang with. The two of them seem to hang well together, as that's all they seem to do. I don't see anyone's careers getting a jump start off this project, either, unless it's an all-black version of "Married with Children", coming soon to a UPN affiliate near you.

Military -Industrial Complex

2005-08-02T22:27:00.000-07:00

(Here's a shout out to the very talented and creative MortalJive,
with a little number I wrote back in late 2002, while still in my "hip-hop phase"...)

Military-Industrial Complex

Agents of hate escalate, reprobate
It's too late, situation degenerates
into violence, gettin' some mileage
media coverage makes it look stylish
like Lady MacBeth, her hands covered in blood
That wouldn't wash off no mater how hard she scrubbed
You can roll in a tank, you can sail in a sub
You can fly in a plane, you can tear the shit up
Any manner of methods have been developed
spannin' the globe 'til the whole world's enveloped
in a mushroom cloud, in a burial shroud
what an acheivement we've reached, are you proud?

CHORUS:
He's got a Military-Industrial Complex
Blood-thirsty, blood-lusty hair-trigger reflex
Licensed for death, destruction and mayhem
That's his job function, that's what they pay him for
He's got a jones for waging war
He knows the art of making war
He's got the heart for making war
(This one's gotten rotten to the core)

What are they thinking? There's evidence linking
conspiracies, corporate nodding and winking
The good ol' boys networking while they're out drinking
The file is closed but the cursor's still blinking
Like Big Bother's eye watching us surf online
Spying on us while we have a good time
Well that's even worse than downloading a virus
But the job force is hurting, so maybe they'll hire us
Put us to work, we can spy on each other
Rat on our fathers, and lie on our mothers
Target whoever's on top of our shit-list
The Tupperware lady's a terrorist!

CHORUS:
He's got a Military-Industrial Complex
Blood-thirsty, blood-lusty hair-trigger reflex
Licensed for death, destruction and mayhem
That's his job function, that's what they pay him for
He's got a jones for waging war
He knows the art of making war
He's got the heart for making war
(This one's gotten rotten to the core)

War is easy, peace is difficult
The end will justify the means
It's geo-political

So now they pick up the pace, the escalating arms race
run out of places for bases, they're putting missiles in space
So you want to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat?
What you never learned from history, you're doomed to repeat!
Pentagon planners are never short-sighted
See, they're throwing a party, and we've all been invited
Girls and boys are equal when it comes to cannon fodder
Time to give up your sons, you better lock up your daughters!
Ride the four horse and send the armed forces
Off to fight for our right to our natural resources
And when we run out, go invade other nations
Who needs excuses when we've got fabrications?
They won't ask questions, they're young and they're dumb
They're just gladiators here to fight in our stadium
Sowing land mines with depleted uranium
Blow off their legs or a hole through their cranium

Chorus:
He's got a Military-Industrial Complex
Blood-thirsty, blood-lusty hair-trigger reflex
Licensed for death, destruction and mayhem
That's his job function, that's what they pay him for
He's got a jones for waging war
He knows the art of making war
He's got the heart for making war
(This one's gotten rotten to the core)

War is easy, peace is difficult
You got eyes to see? The situtation is critical...

©2003 Laurie Dennison
---------------------------------------
We've just returned from the BEST VACATION EVER!
The travel posts will be coming soon,
Once I find words adequate to describe everything
we saw and did...

Shocking Incident at Boy Scout Jamboree

2005-07-28T18:52:00.001-07:00

Anyone who knows me well is aquainted with the factoid that I was a Girl Scout. Their motto, "Be Prepared", has served me in good stead throughout my life, as I continually strive to manage and micro-manage whatever I can, whenever possible. Preparedness includes planning ahead, being aware and alert, and above all, doing things safely. On our annual camping expeditions in the Angeles National Forest, our tents were set up by the Boy Scouts, as this was many moons ago when Women's Lib was still a shrill war of ideas fought by scary feminazis like Gloria Steinem. Their success can be measured by the fact that I earned more money than all three of my husbands. My present spousal unit, enlightened creature that he is, even knows where to find my G-spot.

At one time, women known as the "weaker" or "fairer" sex. Excuse me Mister, but us women are neither weak nor fair, and even though I was not allowed to pitch my own freakin' tent I do believe that enough preparedness was instilled in me to know NOT to try raising it under so OBVIOUS A HAZARD as low-hanging power lines. This wasn't a "freak" accident. I saw the pictures. The power lines were RIGHT THERE. Only the swift intervention of guardian angels could have forestalled disaster, but I figure their angels took one look at where the scoutmasters decided to set up camp and said,
"If that's where you're planning to put that thing,you guys are on your own."
It's bad enough that one scoutmaster wasn't more cautious, but his three compadres in destiny were equally oblivious to the danger. This is truly one for the Darwin Awards.

For today's activity, the scouts were made to assemble like so many internment camp victims in the sweltering 100 degree heat while they waited for an appearance by the POTUS that never took place. Normally, none but unscrupulous, money-grubbing concert promoters (can anyone say "Ozzfest"?) are callous enough to subject helpless kids to hours of exposure beneath the merciless summer sun. Is it any surprise how many scouts needed to be hospitalized? Isnt anybody thinking this through? Anyone at all? If I were one of their parents, I'd have yanked my kid away from that deathtrap like yesterday. They should change the name from "Fort Hill" to "Murphy's Field", since anything that can go wrong there obviously does.

The POTUS has rescheduled his visitation for this coming Sunday. I shudder to think what might else go wrong the meantime.
Kids, whatever you do, don't drink the Kool-Aid!

---------------------------------------------------------------------
Logic and Orgasm will take a brief hiatus, and will return Tuesday, Aug. 2

Life's a Beach

2005-07-26T20:57:00.000-07:00

Last Sunday I went to the beach with my brother Moosh. He is one of my favorite humans,
and besides the Spousal Unit, the person I feel closest to. Here's to Moosh!

We drove up the 101 to Zuma Beach. As beaches go, I find Zuma most to my liking. They keep it
pretty clean, the distance and steep $7.00 admission feep keep most of the riff-raff away, and it
is thankfully free of the sewage, medical waste and scary giant red jellyfish that are presently teeming on beaches further south.

You never know what you might see along the freeway; an accident, a high-speed chase, (Heaven forbid!) the barrel of a gun, but just ahead of us, looking for all it's worth like some crazy Days of the Verdugos Parade float, was none other than the
Hershey Kissmobile.

Yikes! Let get a closer look at that thing!

Crikey! That's just plain SICK.
Wish they'd had THAT at the Glendale Cruise Night, handing out free candy, that's the ticket. Kids would have gone flying off the rock climbing wall and swarms of Great Cornholio's in training would have attacked and demolished the shiniest of the hot rods. Another missed opportunity. Perhaps we'll see the Oscar Meyer Weinermobile while we're travelling up north. I'll be sure to keep the camera at the ready.

An afternoon at the beach is like a vacation in a day. There's no TV screaming at you. There's little to no brain-frying RFI bombardment. I'm like a kid again; actually, I'm happier then now than when I was a kid because now I appreciate all the relaxed and carefree moments I can manage to scrape together. At the beach, time stands still. It doesn't matter who's the President, or what might happen tomorrow, or even five minutes from now. The sun, sand, and waves are cleansing and invigorating. Plus, I look really great with a tan.

Contest: Name my new sandwich!

2005-07-21T17:52:00.000-07:00

A cursory glance at the weathersticker on this page will tell you that temperatures here have reached the level at which mercury evaporates. It gets so hot here on the second floor of our 1920's (read: pre-central air) building that the spousal unit doesn't want to cook. This isn't laziness on his part, it's prudence. As his cooking style involves voluminous amounts of aluminum foil and a 425° oven, we might not survive the cooking process to enjoy the meal. If I'm to be killed by extreme heat, I'd prefer to be incinerated quicky by a blazing fireball from the sky. Heatstroke doesn't sound much like fun. At the same time, I am so sick of being fat that I am back to counting calories. I have also rediscovered the amazing appetite-suppressing power of the cigarette! Yeah, Baby! So, to make a long story short, I've been doing the meal prep around here. And, since necessity is the mother of invention, I have devised a delicious new sandwich. I'm not sure what to call it, as it is scrumptious enough to deserve an appelation of it's own, rather than simply "that chicken pita sandwich thing".
Uniquely Californian in tone, my new sandwich combines elements from several cultures:

Pita Bread, representing the Mediterranean

Teriyaki Chicken, for our friends on the Pacific Rim

Salsa, for those folks South of The (imaginary) Border

salad, for vegetarians and dieters alike

and Swiss Cheese, for a shout out to Old Europe

All the ingredients can be fund at Trader Joe's, source of all nourishment.

And now, a sandwich to make Rachael Ray proud!
First, assemble your salad. Start with a bag of ready-to-eat romaine lettuce. Chop up celery and green onion, and dice some cucumber and bell pepper. Add some sliced white mushrooms. Top with some cherry tomatoes, sliced in half, and toss.
Slice a Pita in half. (I prefer whole wheat). Carefully open the pita pockets, as they can be fragile,and spread with condiment(s) of your choice. Slice the swiss cheese diagnally to get two triangular slices. Tuck the cheese triangle into the center of the pocket, and if you damaged your pita (as I do) the cheese will help keep your sandwich from falling apart. Cube the teriyaki chicken ("Just Teriyaki Chicken" from Trader Joe's is ideal) and arrange about one half-cup into each pita. Fill the rest of the pockets with salad. Top with a couple of spoonfuls of fresh salsa, and voila' you have got yourself some mighty fine eatin', and all that for less than 500 calories!
I would like a name to express the polyglot nature of the dish. "Universal Chicken Sandwich" was too general. "Pan-Pollo Pita" is almost there, but not quite. I invite you, my six regular readers, to come up with some suggestions of your own.
The prize? Everyone wins! You get another recipe to add to your file.

Satirical FAKE news story. I don't think it's happened yet...

2005-07-20T19:01:00.000-07:00

FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO ARE EASILY OFFENDED, DO NOT READ THIS. ALTHOUGH INTENDED AS SATIRE. THIS COULD BE CONSTRUED AS BEING IN BAD TASTE.

This just in...
GLENDALE What appeared to be a terrorist attack here in the City of Glendale was over quickly when a twelve year-old prankster set off a smoke bomb on a Galleria-bound Beeline Shuttle bus.
"We had almost reached the mall when the back of the bus filled up with smoke", said shuttle driver Steve Hacopian. "Turns out it was just some stupid kid playing a joke."
This kind of incident is no longer a laughing matter, as the Glendale Galleria and other local sites in the southland are due to receive extra Department of Homeland Security funds for terrorism preparedness.
No casualties were reported, however 62 year-old Lila Najarian stubbed a toe while evacuating the shuttle.
"I couldn't see anything!" She explained, "And I BANG my toe on something."
The twelve year-old perpertrator, whose name is being witheld because of his age, may be tried as an adult.

Glendale Cruise Night 2005

2005-07-19T20:37:00.000-07:00

Summer is here, and that means another edition of the popular "Glendale Cruise Night", which is basically a city-sponsored block party with cars. They shut down Brand Boulevard to vehicle traffic, and thousands of people mill about in the middle of the street, touching the cars and coming perilously close to expensive paint jobs with their keys and other pointy objects.

And, since Glendale is adjacent to most of the studios, and home to many in the Industry, this means plenty of "movie cars" to gawp at:

The Batmobile
The Starsky & Hutch Car
The Gone in 60 Seconds Car

And since cars are best enjoyed with a major buzz, I treated myself to a giant Ultimate Margarita. Yumm. I am really feeling this drink!

The car show was smaller this year, because the pointless, annual ritual of tearing up the streets wasn't finished in time.

The city of Glendale shells out the big bucks to treat us to "name" entertainment. The first year (which wasnt a car show at all) we were treated to Michael McDonald and Jose Feliciano. Since then, they've sprung for "oldies" type acts. Last year we got to see Dick Dale, who was amazing. This year we were promised Dave Mason, who has had quite an illustrious career, with stints in classic bands like Traffic and Fleetwood Mac. Unfortunately, Mr. Mason threw out his back, so we in his stead we were entertained by the Nelson Twins, Matthew and Gunnar,

who regaled us with stories of their famous TV family. I can't really bag too much on the Nelson Bros, they are good musicians, and hard-working ones at that. Being them has got to be tough.
Link Wray was supposed to be the headliner. I didn't see anyone I recognized as him, but these guys were damn good. I wish I knew who they were! These kickass geezers busted old chestnuts such as "Wooly Bully" and made then rock and rock hard.

The guitarist seemed eerily familiar, but I guess that's just because he reminded me of a peroxided Neil Young. I suppose all middle-aged guitar players end up looking like that, unless they end up resembling Keith Richard. A little something for all the guitar slingers out there to look forward to.

And what would a car show be without informational display kiosks?

Mascots
And the ubiquitous rock-climbing wall?

Which has nothing to do with cars in the least, but I suppose it gave the children something reckless to do a fair distance from all the the expensive cars.
Lots of stuff happened that night some very amusing stuff indeed, which I shall save for future posts.

Our next adventure will be in 2 weeks, when we journey to the Gilroy Garlic Festival!

Never say "Never Again" Again

2005-07-12T21:30:00.000-07:00

6 million were killed in the Holocaust while the world stood by and watched.
The world said, "never again".
1n 1995, up to 10,00 were killed in Sebrenica, while U.N. Peacekeepers stood by and watched.

"Through error, misjudgment and the inability to recognize the scope of evil confronting us, we failed to do our part to save the people of Srebrenica from the Serb campaign of mass murder." (See Barbara Crossette, "U.N. Details Its Failure to Stop '95 Bosnian Massacre", The New York Times, November 16 1999.)

The world said, "never again".
People continue to die in Darfor, while the world watches in horror. Is "never again" nothing but a meaningless invocation? I suppose that never again will the Nazis exterminate their fellow human beings because they managed to kill as many as they could get away with until they themselves were destroyed. And since Srebrenica is effectively a ghost town, genocide will never again occur there, either. Will the genocide in Darfor finally cease when there are no more ethnics for the Janjaweed to cleanse?

Will the world then say, "never again" again?

Tubular Bells

2005-07-11T20:30:00.000-07:00

It was an email from G.
"Have you heard from your sister yet?"
I figured G., one of my sister's closest friends, would have gotten a call from her right away.
I still haven't heard from her; nothing but a terse "We're fine and dandy" from my brother-in-law, in response my to my
worried inquiry. It's almost as if they find our concern an annoyance.
Sure, London is a big place, and a bunch of subway cars plus a bus exploding right
in the middle of rush hour shouldn't necessarily mean that sister and brother-in-law would be counted
amidst the carnage. I'd have to be paranoid to believe that.
Perhaps the media is blowing everything out of proportion, but don't they realize how horrifying those pictures are?
And brother-in-law is a blogger! One would think he'd get a whole week's worth of posts
from the bombings, at the very least; look at the mileage I get just from the weather!
And speaking of the weather, over here I consider Mother Nature to be a far worse threat
that any terrorist. Between the hurricanes, twisters, earthquakes, volcanoes, and ice storms
the U.S.A. is a goner without any help from outside. Gaia
is just plain pissed off. But those pictures from London were frightening, and although I felt in my heart that day that my family members were okay, I couldn't really take it for granted. It was a horrible, heinous act, and a terrible tragedy for the innocents involved, not to mention the fact that it makes a bad political situation even worse.
All day Thursday I didn't know whether to feel relieved, scared,or sad; and because I didn't know how to feel,
I ended up feeling kind of numb, which was a very strange feeling in itself.

Diet Update

2005-07-10T14:34:00.000-07:00

Don't even ask.

Complex, multi-demensional being that I am, I vacillate between the active, vital LorE that who likes to eat health food, work out and hike, and the decadent rock 'n roll LorE who smokes and drinks and makes music. Never have the twain been able to meet. It would naturally be in my best interest, now that I am in my fourth decade, to take care sensible charge of my health while rocking out, too. Need those two states of being remain mutually exclusive? Can't some kind of integration be obtained? The answer is, apparently not. Somehow, in my tortured-suffering-artist paradigm, that doesn't really work. It's kind of like after Alanis Morisette went to India and found inner peace her music no longer had the bite that had made "Jagged Little Pill" so universally appealing.

This is yet another challenge for me. I'm going to have to figure out how to do this, as I hate being fat and not having any energy. I woke up this morning with that "uhhhhhh" feeling in my chest that I stopped having when I wasn't smoking but didnt realize until I started smoking again. That's one of the insidious things about smoking. For example, in the beginning, food seems to taste better. Flavors just jump out and they're spectacular; this is probably because they taste different from a cigarette. After a while flavors seem to dull somewhat, as by then everything tastes like a cigarette. I could go on, but I'm sure you get the point.

Aren't I worried at all about my health? The answer is, of course I'm worried. The worry is always there. Only this specific worry has become a very, very small one way, way back in a distant corner of my mind, as it has now been superceeded by a greater, more urgent, and present concern of the nagging, aggravating, soap opera variety that would make anyone, I repeat, ANYONE reach for the nearest pack and light up. I suppose Tom Cruise would recommend vitamins and exercise, and he may be right, but it appears that I'll be wallowing in this state at least a while longer, while I process the conflict, exterior as well as interior, into what will hopefully manifest as another CD before the year is out.

Wham, Bam, Thank You, Uncle Sam

2005-07-06T19:36:00.000-07:00

NASA scientists are still congratulating each other over finally getting something right. The "Deep Impact" probe functioned according to plan, slamming a football-field sized crater into it's potato-shaped target, and spewing forth such massive plumes of "ejecta" that it's clear the virgin comet even never saw it coming. Maybe deep space isnt such a vaccum after all. Maybe it's all rohypnol and wine coolers at 83 million miles from Earth.
However, not everyone is so impressed with NASA's apparent mastery of new-generation space weaponry. As I mused in my January 19 post, "Tempel Tantrum",

"I have nothing against science, but I don't think attacking a comet is such a hot idea. From an astrological perspective, we may be messing with energies beyond our understanding."

Apparently I wasn't the only nutjob concerned over possible cosmic consequences. Russian astrologer Marina Bai, has filed a lawsuitagainst the space agency; which, although destined to be thrown out of court with a velocity akin to warp speed, I wholeheartedly applaud. The absurdity of the legal action feels somehow appropriate. Mr. Showdid a skit about the U.S.A. blowing up the moon. Could that be next on the agenda? Why not? With all the controversy about whether the Apollo missions were really a hoax, we could finally settle the question,once and or all, whether or not the moon is really made of geen cheese...

Hollywood Bowling

2005-06-27T18:58:00.000-07:00

Los Angeles is truly a world-class city, which is something I'd always forget until returning home from points abroad. After a mere week in sun-scorched, muggy Miami, on arrival at L.A.X., the smog smelled to me like rare perfume. Unfortunately, since 9-11, all the fun's gone out of of air travel. I don't want to go anywhere I can't drive to myself, which makes me appreciate local destination spots all the more. I love the beach, the Getty Museum, and, in the summer, the Hollywood Bowl A natural amphitheater, the energy of the place is delightful, the shell is gorgeous to look at, you can bring your own picnic basket and adult beverages, and the staff is friendly and helpful. It's a community, at least until the show ends and everyone runs each other over to get out of the Parking Lot Truly From Hell.

The Bowl appeared to be sold-out on this KRCW night. David Byrne, of Talking Heads fame, was the headliner. I'm used to the Bowl being half-full (or is that half-empty?) but that's only because last year we attended several KKJZ nights, and even though I consider Jazz to be the highest form of music, well, as they say, there's no money in it. KCRW, on the other hand, is a big deal and getting bigger every year. Nic Harcourt has become an influential tastemaker, which is about as distressing to me as KROQ becoming the template for alternative radio back in the 80's.Boring. While I listen to KCRW most of the day while at work, I find Morning Becomes Eclectic to be all but unlistenable. His playlist of jangly, vanilla-bland music bores me to tears. Because of Nic Harcourt, bands like The Zutons are all over MTV. Thank goodness for the true alternative of KPFK, which schedules Democracy Now against Morning Becomes Eclectic. From 9am to 10am I listen to Amy Goodman rail against injustice, an then from 10am until Nic Harcourt finally goes away, I listen to my iPod or nothing at all.

The first band of the evening was Si*Se, who are signed to David Byrne's label, Luaka Bop. I like their chilled-out vibe enough to pick up their CD after the show; but the capacity crowd, made up of people mostly younger than myself, went berserk for The Arcade Fire. Plumes of marijuana smoke began to form throughout the Bowl as clusters of the aforementioned young people performed their hippie wiggle dance. I could see why David Byrne hand-picked this band to open for him; their lead vicalist's strangluated, tortured yowl is reminiscent of his own. Besides the obvious Talking Heads influence, I heard traces of Pink Floyd and ELO in their sound. A female vocalist offered some interesting contrast, as her Bjork-like vocals were pleasant and easy on the ear. I was inclined not to like The Arcade Fire, but the man sitting to my left, who appeared to be about sixty, was really getting into them. I wondered if there might have been something I was missing. Towards the end of their set I decided to start paying attention to the giant video screen, as our seats were so far away from the stage that it was impossible so see the what the band was doing otherwise. It appeared that there was one guy on stage whose sole purpose was to fuck with the other musicians, like some kind of performace art, or that game show, "Distraction". This, and the fact that The Arcade Fire really rock, kinda won me over. While I don't get why people love them, I understand why they like them.

I haven't seen David Byrne live since 1979, when he and the Talking Heads performed a lackluster set at the Greek Theater. To be fair, they were totally upstaged by the B-52's, who were energetic and fresh and having the time of their lives promoting their first album. Hell, they were happy just to get out of Athens, Georgia. I must say that Byrne has grown exponentially as an artist and performer in these twenty-five intervening years. He's honed a really singualr vision to a high polish. His lyrics, which manage to be simultaneously childlike (but not childishand intellectual, never fail to blow my mind. No one else can get away with that and not sound precious or twee.

We're goin' boom boom boom
that's the way we live
"What A Day That Was"

The man's aged well. Note the resemblance to ring announcer Michael Buffer.

Accompanied by The Tosca Stings, bass, drums, and a percussionist, Byrne performed inventive, tasty arrangements of his solo and collaborative works. He graciously threw in some Talking Heads favorites, among them "Psycho Killer", and "Burning Down the House." Then he brought introduced the Extra Action Marching Band, a unique ensemble to say the least. They sat in on the last few numbers, their polyrhythms and over-the top sexual energy adding a wild, Dionysian flavor to the tail portion of the show. The grand finale was a cover version of the Beyonce' hit "Crazy in Love", which, sung by Byrne, with a veritable orchestra behind him, and (from what I could see on the screens) people orgiastically rolling around onstage, was one of the coolest things I've ever heard.

David Byrne and Friends put on a fantastic show, one I wish we'd bootlegged. Oh well, who'd have known? But no matter the performer, the Hollywood Bowl itself is the star of the show. It's impossible to go there and not have fun! Just try not to think about the traffic...

Up With The Downing Street Minutes

2005-06-22T21:11:00.000-07:00

Recent polls have revealed W's approval rating taking a nosedive, and assuming these surveys are more accurate than the exit polls that showed Kerry as the winner last November, our nation may have finally reached the tipping point with this administration worse than Watergate.
The Downing Street minutes are the proverbial "smoking gun" that proves the conspiracy behind the theories. Sure, it's a given that Bush already made up his mind to take the war to Saddam. Woodward wrote all about it in Plan of Attack. This policy was always so questionable, and it's aftermath so disastrous, that a large, and growing segment of the population can't let go of their suspiscion that Congress, the American people, and the whole world were sold a bill of goods to gain approval for this illegal war. The Downing Street Minutes reveal a consciousness of the facts being" fixed around the policy" of linking apples and oranges, I mean Saddam and 9-11, and scaring us with mushroom cloud visions of WMDs that just weren't there. Now, there are people, such as my spousal unit, who don't care about the administration's lies because "Saddam had to go". Never mind that Saddam used to be our ally (when he of use to us) and it was the U.S. who provided him with the WMDs in the first place, the propaganda machine demonized him thoroughly and successfully. Of course, he WAS a monster, but so was Idi Amin, who died a peaceful death of old age just last year, and whoever isn't minding the store in the Sudan is no doubt monstrous, too. There are plenty of despotic regimes throughout the world, but only a select few become household names. Saddam beleived he was the second coming of King Nebuchadnezzar. Being a god-fearing, Bible-thumping man, Bush the younger had no choicebut to make a regime change. Why, he might have gone after Israel! After all, what would Nebuchadnezzar do? That mesopotamian king went stark raving mad (Daniel, chapter 4), and apparently, so has Saddam. According to his former guards, the old man's gone cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. Just don't serve him any Froot Loops. He just might go ballistic on your ass.

Did you feel that?

2005-06-16T19:52:00.000-07:00

It's a given that California is cursed, if the mudslides, fires, and infux of "guest workers" hadn't convinced us of this sad truth then Governor Arnold's despotic reign's cemented the notion. Just in time to ratchet up the fear factor, we've had a spike in seismic activity lately. I've enjoyed two fun earthquakes this week. The first was on Sunday morning, and another one just this afternoon. In between, there was a quake in northern Cal, and large ones in Alaska and Peru. They even set off a tsuanami warning after the Northern Cal quake, which was patently ridiculous. The media has simply gone berserk. Apparently AP has no trouble sending earthquake stories down the wire, whereas items like the Downing Street memo end up virtually stovepiped.

FYI - I will be reserving all my "spiritually oriented" posts for my new blog Dynamic Spirit,where my alter egos Pastor Warren Monger and Dr. Lambkin B. Grace can hash it out amongst themselves. I was going to say, "as brothers fight ye", but that's from The Book of The Law, not from the Bible. "Comparitive religions" gets confusing sometimes...

Sunday Sermon

2005-06-12T22:42:00.000-07:00

Pastor Warren Monger of the Apocalyptic Neoconservative Tabernacle lectures on "The Beatitudes".

Texas Justice

2005-06-10T18:10:00.000-07:00

I often surf the ofther blogs on Blogspot checking out what other bloggers are up to. Yesterday I ran across a drama in saccharine pink. The Katie Warnecke affair smacked of the heavy-handed governmental overkill of the Elian Gonzalez raid. I don't really see the logic in this approach but I suppose if I worked for the CFS my mind would be twisted and institionalized in such a way that I would totally feel the compassion in the state of Texas tearing a family apart in order that one of the children might be "protected". I think there ought to be some kind of process, at least a hearing, before kids are removed from their homes. The last I heard on this soap opera was that the three boys were returned to the fold, and Katie may not be in remission after all.

Of course, you don't need a license to have a kid, and not all parents are that swift to begin with. Parents screw up all the time with their kids. Consider Michael Jackson. Yes, I know he's not from TEXAS but humor me a moment, just for the sake of argument. He came from a two-parent household, just the kind of family Dr. Laura lives to promote. Consider the environment in which he was raised, the adult he grew up to be, how he comports himself as a father, and the parents who granted him access to their kids.There were parents there, mothers and fathers, around and about every step of the way. None lifted a finger to mitigate the tragedy except for Jordie Chandler's father, too little, too late. As a side note, Michael Jackson was raised a Jehovah's Witness, a group considered by everyone (except for current Jehovah's Witnesses) to be a religious cult. Now I'm not saying the Warneckes take their religiosity to cultish extremes, but you don't run across these controversies in agnostic or atheist households. Secular humanists are usually happy to follow their doctor's orders.

Elsewhere in Texas, (Lufkin to be exact) a nineteen-year old boy followed his girlfriend's orders, and will be paying for this with a life sentence in the big house. And since everything's bigger in Texas, their big house must be really big to contain all the poor schmucks found guilty of those big-ass Texan crimes. So the girlfriend regretted not getting an abortion. This is a real eye-opener for me. I didn't realize there were still a few fontier outposts left in Texas that permitted women to obtain legal abortions. Now, thanks to draconian Texas Justice, three lives have been destroyed, four if you count that the girlfriend will probably never forgive herself for getting Flores in trouble. The trauma from an abortion alone is bad enough, let alone the guilt of being responsible for sending her boyfriend up the river until he rots. Her family clearly disapproved of their relationship. I'm just surprised that he wasn't convicted of statutory rape. What IS the age of consent in Texas, anyway?

The Music Man

2005-06-09T22:05:00.000-07:00

Today was laundry day; I take it to the laundramat now, rather than fight it out with my neighbors over the inadequate facilities in our crumbling, F. Scott Fitzgerald-era apartment building. Laundry has become the highlight of my days off. At least I'm getting something done. I spearate the whites from the colors (one form of apartheid that is still okay to practice), get the wash cycle started, and head next door to "Crunchy Deli" and get myself some lunch.

When I first started going to "Crunchy Deli" in the 1980s the place was family-owned and staffed by fresh-faced high-school kids. Now it's run by an slightly menacing man of inderminate ethnicity, and his put-upon, poorly-paid help appear to be (mexican?) immigrants. To parahrase Vicente Fox, those immigrants are doing the jobs high school kids no longer want to do. It feels creepy, because the shop and menu are still the same, but the vibe in the place is completely different. When Ron and Doreen ran the shop it was alive with laughter, chatter and fun; Now it's sort of a dead zone, devoid of ambience or even background muzak as the owner yells at his immigrants as they cower and scurry about like abused children. However, "Crunchy" has an arrangement with a bakery that keeps their cold case supplied with delightful coconut cream and banana cream pies, and a slice of cream pie goes a long way to soothe the ennui of the never-ending laundry basket.

After laundry fun I decided to visit "Hal Haroldson" at his music store. I've been going there since 1979. Through Hal's shop I've learned to be mediocre on a variety of instruments; over the years there I've taken and quit guitar lessons, bass lessons, and saxaphone lessons. (I've never actually learned to play any instruments, I just kinda fake it sorta well). I like to drop in and say hello to Hal every now and then. So many things in this town have changed. So many things have razed, blown up or otherwise adulterated in the name of PROGRESS that Hal's humble nieghborhood music store is a veritable touchstone for me. The day Hal goes away will be a sad one for me indeed.

Where is your protegee? I ask Hal. "Corky" was a personable kid who had worked there for years. Best emplyee Hal ever had.
"Gone", Hal replies.
He proceeds to relay a sad story of how he was getting ready to retire and leave the store in Corky's hands, but Corky, who turned out to not have a head for business in the slightest, rejected the offer, and bailed on him, onstensibly to go back to school. Corky now works a bellhop at some hotel out in the Valley. Hal still can't get over it.

The ironic thing is how people like Corky get offered this kind of opportunity, and it would never occur to Hal to let the likes of me take over his store, even though I would consider it an HONOR and would jump at the chance. That place really means something to me, and to the spousal unit as well; he's been going there just as long as I have. Perhaps Hal would be open to allowing us take it on; we'll pitch him the idea and see...

One Toke Over The Line

2005-06-06T18:07:00.000-07:00

Why is that I can legally own a firearm, a cruel implement whose only purpose is to

threaten

injure

and kill

other sentient beings, and with the blessings of the state, visit a "gun club" where, along with other
legally sanctioned gun owners,I may practice shooting at targets (conveniently) human-shaped

while sick and dying people are denied access to a PLANT,

an herbal remedy growing in the ground like the gift from God that it is?

This is a bad decision that will not sit well with the public.
That Marijuana has medicinal value is beyond dispute; it has a lengthy track record for effectiveness against a variety of ailments from glaucoma to nausea. Certainly, this is why physicians recommended it. You don't see doctors handing out scrips for motor oil and styrofoam peanuts. Unfortunately, we see doctors writing all too many prescriptions for drugs whose side effects are worse than the conditions they're meant to help. Note that I didn't say "cure", because medicine isn't about healing anymore, it's about "management". Managing our economy, to be sure, the Supreme Court used the "Interstate Commerce" clause to ban marijuna grown and used locally, and distributed free-of-charge; this makes no sense whatsoever other than to protect the pharmaceutical companies from having to compete against Mother Nature's superior product.

Too Much Truth

2005-05-31T18:45:00.000-07:00

The real, true heros of the world are the ones who bring us the Truth; those men and women driven by a higher calling, who dare to go beyond the comfort zone of The Box in order that the rest of us might be illuminated. These brave souls tend to leave us all too soon. Frank Zappa, John Lennon, RFK and MLK, among others, all blessed us with their brilliance and gave us something to rally around. Voices like theirs are in short supply today, just when we need them most. Even Bill Maher only gives us as much truth as (his handlers?) deem "safe". Even I shy away from dispensing "too much truth",although I am more than happy to provide hyperlinks to those on the blogosphere who will.

Bill Hicks was that rarest of entities, a lightworker with a thorough understanding of the Dark Side. He believed that mankind was capable of better and nobler behavior than what he saw around him. His goal was to nudge the audience toward a quantum leap of consciousness. He passed away in 1994, at the age of thirty-two. Watching his taped performances, circa 1991, is like passing through some kind of wormhole. Bush The First is President. There's a different Iraq War. He rails about a "fascist" government that hasn't even gotten started yet. It's like nothing has changed except everything. One gets the feeling Bill Hicks wouldn't even want to be around to see what we've come to; It would have been too much truth.

Another Alien Sighting

2005-05-30T12:06:00.000-07:00

The female Alien invades a garage and, apparently requiring eight cylinders to satisfy her, peforms a kinky sex act with a motor vehicle. She is clearly into water sports. The films of Mickey Rourke are known on her home planet, as she demonstrates more than a passing familiarity with 9 1/2 Weeks. Her sex play involves a large, sloppy, and seemingly inedible cheeseburger. We are given no explanation why.

Abducted by Aliens and all I got were these lousy hemmorhoids

2005-05-26T20:31:00.000-07:00

That has to be it. I must have been abducted by The Visitors. I listen to Art Bell. Hell, that's practically asking for it.
I don't remember being abducted, but this burning sensation that's proven impervious to Preparation H has no other
explanation. Therefore, I present my new theory on the significance of the crop circle:

It's a graphic representation of my painful, burning anus.

"In The Natural" - A Poem

2005-05-26T00:45:00.000-07:00

Note- I wrote this about twenty years ago, during my sojourn in Fundamentalist Christianity.

In the natural, things are warm;
Texture, color, feel and form.
Tossed about in winds of storm,
In the natural, that's the norm.

In the natural, things decay,
Dying slowing every day.
Through the years we fade to gray;
In the natural, that's the way.

In the natural, in the flesh,
Some lives clash, and some lives mesh.
We all suffer, more or less,
Until we die our natural death.

In the Spirit we will see
Ultimate reality.
We will live eternally;
In the natural, faith's the key.

Summer Daze

2005-05-23T19:59:00.000-07:00

We didn't make it to the beach once last year. Not once. A sadistic, meteorological cosmic joke of hot weekdays and cold, overcast weekends dashed our beach plans every time. This summer will be different, mainly because it's already HERE. The weathercasters have predicted that this year we will forgo the "May Gray" and "June Gloom" and head straight for the dog days. We're enjoying August-worthy weather as we speak.

Where other parts of the world enjoy a balanced four seasons, here in the southland we've pared it down to two; the rainy season, and the hot & smoggy season. "Rain" and "heat" would appear, on the surface, to be quite opposite one another, but in fact both conditions inflict a similar deleterious effect on the flow of traffic. Our hundred-year rains flooded the freeways, overwhelmed the sewer system, turned the San Fernando Valley into a system of canals to rival those of Venice, Italy, in the process turning our cars into personal submarines of death and destruction. The blazing summer sun, on the other hand, transforms your car into a kiln on wheels. You arrive, god willing, at your destination a brittle clay sculpture with every last drop of moisture blanched out. And this is with the AC on full blast. The windshield, so convenient for watching for oncoming traffic, or a gun pointed at your head, becomes a magnifying lens that intensifies the solar rays one hundred-fold. Your steering wheel becomes a molten ring of fire. Sunglasses, if left in the center console, are a piping-hot branding iron against your flesh. And if goes without saying that the hotter the temperature, the bigger the traffic jam. On a three-digit day traffic on the 101 will come to a dead stop.

L.A. Smog is a force to be reckoned with; an acrid, foul haze that eats your windshield wipers and radio antenna and god know what else it does that no one knows about because no one wants to fund the research. Our smog is a thick, choking blanket of airborne fuzz, the vaporous equivalent of the fluff that accumulates in the lint drawer of your dryer. It hurts your eyes, it hurts your lungs. Worst of all, it spoils the view.

Thanks to the Hundred-year rains, our hillsides sport a lush blanket of new growth which is slowly drying into an enormous basket of kindling. We're expecting one hell of a fire season, which promises to lead to a mother of a mudslide season when the rains return next winter. Oh, the ever-changing cycles of life.

Yuan and Yang

2005-05-20T18:32:00.000-07:00

Things I've learned from listening to NPR:

It's become common knowledge that China has been manipulating their currency, illegally tying their Yuan to the American Dollar. In a word, they've been CHEATING. They're coming out of the third world, growing by leaps and bounds. That kind of progress should lead to a stronger, not weaker yuan, but because of their CHEATING they have been able to expand and continue expanding, appropriating more American jobs and industry than would have been gained otherwise. They thew W a bone and agreed to slap export tarriffs on some goods in an effort to stem the tide of consternation coming their way now that we all know what dirty nasty CHEATERS they are. They don't want to upgrade their currency to what it actually is worth, because, boo hoo, then they would lose jobs and industry, and then the people will be angry with the government and WHAT DO YOU THINK WE'VE BEEN GOING THROUGH OVER HERE? This is dirty pool coming from a country that enjoys Most Favored Nation status.

The proposed filibuster ban is so radical even some republicans are against it. Perhaps they remember the days when the GOP were the minority and were only too happy to filibuster the night away. I guess they call it the "nuclear option" because once they use it, they too are fucked from here to Kingdom Come. Therefore, what it comes down to is whether or not they are so full of hatred and hubris that they are willing to go into the future maimed so that they can crush the opposition today. What is the subtext behind their willingless to take such a risk? What does it mean for our "democracy" that they assume their group will always have the upper hand? And whatever happened to the sanctity of our Constitution? I wasn't aware that it contained a sunset clause. Does it expire at 2012 like the Mayan Calendar? I find it amusing that these men who can't wait to take their carving knives to the Constitution and Bill of Rights are among the strictest interpreters of the Holy King James Bible and wouldn't change a jot or tittle of THAT book.

The housing boom IS becoming a bubble which, in only a matter of time, is bound to explode in a hideous Hindenburg-like conflagration replete with much wailing and gnashing of teeth. However, those who've been invested for six or seven years or more will be fine. Only the new homeowners, the ones with the really crazy mortgages, will be utterly destroyed.

Unholy Communion

2005-05-18T20:36:00.000-07:00

Link

"Let he who is without sin cast the first stone" is a quote attributed to Jesus, the supposed raison d'etre for the Catholic Church, which is dangling on the precipice of another major schism. Forgetting all about mercy and compassion, "tradition or bust" is their rallying cry as they deny communion to those who dare to wear the sash of many colors in support of their gay brethren.

When I was a fundie I was all about tradition, but there were plenty of liberal, ecumenical and Unitarian-Universalist Churches where the heretics could worship without fear of me getting in their faces to tell them how wrong they were for believing in (for example) reincarnation. Fundamentalist Christianity appealed to me (at the time) because I thought I was a bad person in a bad world and the Bible, with it's doctrine of original sin, validated all my deep-seated feelings of badness. Eventually I got tired of feeling bad about myself, and, throwing myself upon God's mercy, went off to explore other paths.

Only a person with a persecution complex would insist on aligning himself with a religious body who would condemn him for merely being himself. The Church is playing upon fear and abandonment issues to keep people in line. Perhaps the Vatican ought to change with the times, but it won't, at least not in the forseeable future. Why not nail a protest to the wall and start a gay catholic-style church? You could play dress-up and burn incense and chant to your heart's content in a safe and nurturing environment with all your friends and P-Flag moms. Well, why not? If the Pope has left you behind, then get your own Progressive Pope who will take care of you. And besides, do you really want to partake of communion with an organization that protected the men who molested your children? Your neices and nephews? Your cousins? Talk about condoning homosexuality - this church systematically shuffled their Priestly predators from parish to parish for decades, if not centuries. As far as I'm concerned they have forfeited their right to deny communion to anyone, on ANY basis. After all, what WOULD Jesus do?

Crash

2005-05-17T21:34:00.000-07:00

"Breaking news, cars form a metal-and-plastic pyramid on the 134".

I drive this freeway every day to work and back, and I just do not understand for the life of me how something like this can occur. Someone please explain to me the physics behind this configuration. It looks like Evel Kneivel tried to jump all the way from one onramp onto another and missed, as Evel was wont to do, god love him. We watched him break every bone in his body back in the 70's on ABC's Wide World of Sports. He'sthe original Bionic Man. But I digress. This particular stretch of freeway runs east-west. There are no hairpin turns for getting all radical. All you have to do is drive straight ahead. How hard is that? Every day in L.A. we have cars defying gravity. Cars upside down by the side of the road, for the delight and mystification of the lookie-loos. What the hell is going on? You can only drive so fast around here too, it's not like they're on the autobahn or the 15 between Barstow and Vegas. I can't see how a car could possibly get enough acceleration to launch. Still, a car flying would make more sense that what we see in this picture, one standing on it's nose. Perhaps the car was top-heavy, with too much ballast in the front seat or something. Maybe the driver was coming home from Burger King after downing an Enormous Omelet or two. There had to be something freaky going on. Cars sandwiched this way usually fold up like an accordion.

I Have A Dream...

2005-05-15T13:19:00.000-07:00

I have a dream, a fantasy, a vision that, were it to come to pass, would totally restore my faith in human nature. I am waiting for some totally heinous, rat-bastard, Trump-like captain of industry to experience a bodhi-tree-style enlightenment, renounce his piggish ways, give all his money to the poor and devote the rest of his life to making the world a better place. Wouldn't THAT shake up the establishment! A move like that would send ripples of fear and loathing through the bedrooms and boardrooms of the world's financial centers and back again. And, of course, the bigger the financial mega-star, the louder the outrage. His sanity would be questioned ad nauseum from Rush Limbaugh to Larry King, and he'd be quickly denounced as a dangerous loon, obviously delusional, and tragically under the sway of some radical cult. Religious extremists, no doubt.

We need a story like this, a big story that will hit the news cycle and stay there for a while, if only to challenge the corporate paradigm with the idea that the measure of one's life could be something other than the accumulation of material wealth. I wonder how much money is enough for these people. How many billions of dollars do you need after that first billion? I mean, that's a BILLION dollars! And even more of the world's wealth is now concentrated among even fewer families. "You can't take it with you." I say. "No, but you can leave it to your kids," you reply. Why? So they can fritter it away? Or even worse, so they can take the respectable business you built and turn it into a bottom-line-feeding behemoth that drives it's business partners offshore and almost single-handedly ruins our economy? That's a great legacy, Sam. I hope your children are making you proud.

I seem to be confused about what the Bible teaches with regards to money. Do blessings result in riches, or do riches earn God's blessing? What if you do unethical things to increase that wealth? Does God still smile upon you? Apparently so, as long as you tithe to the proper right-wing PAC, absolution is yours. So God has been reduced to a greedy Machiavel, playing a zero-sum game of real-world, real-money monopoly with us, the beings he fashioned in his own image. This notion of God is the idolotrous god of the idolators who worship money, and any true seeker with a gnostic sense of the divine recognizes it as such and rejects it outright. How could the "Intelligent Designer" who took the time and care (six whole days!)to paint rainbows in the sky

and make caterpillars fuzzy

be so petty, mean and money-grubbing?

24 Hours of Fitness - A Poem

2005-05-13T16:33:00.000-07:00

I’m livin’ it, 24 hrs of fitness
It’s up on the internet, world is my witness
how great to lose weight and get back into shape
cause I’m round like an orange and soft as a grape
A plump little dumpling, my cellulite bubbling,
listen! you can almost hear my fat cells doubling.

The gym has machines to help you flex
they’ve machines there for everything short of sex
any old way you can think to get physical
walk on the treadmill run on the elliptical
raise your heart rate any manner you like
be it Stairmaster or recumbent bike

I look like a hamster upon a wheel
but there’s no beating how good I feel
I like getting sweaty, i like getting hot
And I’m giving it everything i’ve got
My body is sleeker and I’m getting stronger
I’m starting to almost look like i belong here!
The gym that I’m in does a real booming business
We’re livin it, 24 hrs of fitness.

Intelligent Design Center

2005-05-11T19:36:00.000-07:00

God works in mysterious ways. Well, Enquiring minds want to know more!. Don't we want our children to learn how to think so they can keep up with the kids from India who are kicking their butts academically? So they can compete for those "jobs of the future?" Unless those jobs of the future don't require the operator to be more than a mindless direction-following videogame button-punching drone...if so then the U.S. is well-positioned for success in the Brave New World Order.

The Fundamentists who have seized power in the country exercise a cafeteria-style approach when it comes to science. The Bible says to use discernment, and "test the spirits".(Hmm, sounds like the scientific method to me) This is all very transparent because they're obviously advocating the sciences that support their goals while denouncing the the ones that don't. The breakdown goes something like this:

Stem Cells---------------------------Bad Science
Feeding Tube ------------------------Good Science
Global Warming----------------------Bad Science
DNA Evidence------------------------Good Science
Ethnobotany-------------------------Bad Science
Pharmaceuticals----------------------Good Science
Crop Circles-------------------------Bad Science
Image of Virgin Mary on Toast----------Good Science

I myself have been known to play the "Faith Card". In Zoology class, I didnt want to have to dissect the cat. The cadaver cats were frightening, all twisted up and frozen in rigor mortis into groteque death-throes positions. I stated my opposition to the dissection on religious grounds, so the teacher let me write an essay instead. Everyone else dutifully carved up the unfortunate formaldehyde-reeking kitties while I scrawled an essay about how I was a Christian and didn't believe in Darwin's theory and therefore there was nothing to be gained by dissecting the scary cadaver cat, all penned in an embryonic version of the breezy style my six regular readers have come to know and love. As I recall, my grade was a B or B-.;not bad for not having to get my hands dirty. Let me make clear that I was okay with dissecting the worm and the frog, but only when they brought the kitties out did I suddenly "find" religion.

Evolution is "just a theory", the argument goes, because no one has witnessed anything evolving. Basically, no one has seen a monkey give birth to man. No one has seen spontaneous creation either, although we've seen plenty of (spontaneous) destruction in our lifetimes i.e. Hiroshima, Ngasaki, the recent Tsunami, Fallujah, and whatever Kim Jong Il has up his sleeve will be plenty horrific indeed. We've seen all kids of mutations happening, too, almost a daily occurence now courtesy of Agent Orange, delpeted uranium and all-around basic "better living through chemistry". For whatever reason, man seems to be better at destroying than building things up.

Science doesn't have to take the place of God. It helps us to figure out how God works. God is in the details. Perhaps "God" was just a big blast of benevolent radiation, or maybe that was the medium he used to carry out his intelligently-designed galactic plan.Neither our brains nor our hearts can grow big enough to figure this out for ourselves, but we'll all learn the answers soon enough...

Educational TV

2005-05-08T20:22:00.000-07:00

There is a college sociology course based on the TV cartoon, "The Simpsons". Now, there are shows I choose not to watch, like "Stacked", and anything that features Fran Drescher, but when all is said and done, the spousal unit controls the TV, and His Nibs cannot stand "The Simpsons". Since 1991 I've only been able to see approximately two and one half episodes of this hallowed cultural touchstone, and only by accident because it happened to be playing in the background while I was visiting friends. Why the spousal unit hates "The Simpsons"is a mystery, because he is renowned among family and friends for his great sense of humor, and keeps all of us in stitches. He isn't anti-cartoon either. He liked "Aeon Flux", and sometimes watches an incomprehensible japanese anime on G4-Tech TV that inexplicably contains gratuitous magickal symbolism. Perhaps if Homer Simpson performed pentagram rituals and Marge was a High Priestess my spouse might find the show worth watching once or twice. Yes, I could solve the TV dillema by getting a set of my own, but I consider one portal to hell per household is enough. If I really cared, I'd go out and buy the DVDs.

There are other cartoon shows with sociological significance, inasmuch as they reflect the culture, or at least a subculture worth highlighting. Years ago, in a THC haze, I flashed on the utter perfection of "Beavis and Butthead". Here were two lower-class latchkey kids, scorned and abused, languishing at the very bottom of the pecking order. Todd, who they idolize, abuses them, which only makes them love him more. They in turn torture animals (Frog Baseball!), and gleefully torment anyone below them in hierarchy i.e. Stuart and Mr. Anderson. Every element in Beavis and Buttheads' miserable little world was perfectly balanced and the series made perfect sense from a psychological standpoint. Now, whether anyone beside mysef learned anything from that program is debatable. Just because I was able to find a point to the show doesn't mean they were trying to make one. "South Park" on the other had, does intend to make a point in every episode, nails it brilliantly each time, all the while pushing the envelope for outrageousness.

Friday night we were up late, watching stupid videos on M2. I was tired and wanted to go to bed, but something was keeping me awake. Suddenly a show came on that we hadn't seen before. It was called Wonder Showzen. "This is why you're still up", said the spousal unit. I nodded in agreement, mouth agape, scarcely believing my eyes. It's hard even for me to describe "Wonder Showzen". Imagine if Parker and Stone got together with Mr. Show, The Yes Men, and the spirit of the late Bill Hicks and decided to make a kids show for adults. Or, imagine if "Sesame Street" were helmed by Dick Cheney instead of Jim Henson. Program your Tivo, your VCR, your alarm clock, whatever, and watch this thing at least once before they yank it off the air. I do believe its the most subversively culture-jamming thing I've ever seen (that was made for television). In fact, it even goes too far for me, as the vision is unrelentingly dark and it's depiction of human nature irredeemable. However, when it hits the mark, which is most of the time, "Wonder Showzen" is pretty freaking brilliant and a breath a fresh air . Kudos for M2 for having the balls to put it on.

Comin' To America

2005-05-06T21:21:00.000-07:00

Link

Living as I do in the County of Angels, if not The City itself, I've developed my own opinions about the "Immigrant" situation. My regular readers (I think there are six of you now) know that I tend to be liberal, even progressive, on most issues. Well, I confess that I did vote for Prop 187. It's not that I'm racist. I'm a realist. Look all around us. The reality sucks. Sure, the immigrants work hard, but they're being exploited. The southern plantation owners had their slaves. Chinese coolies built the railroads. Latino immigrants are the current slave class. It's a tragic situation, because if they're content to live twenty-six men to an apartment the size of a shoebox and ride their bikes to work at their crappy five dollar an hour busboy jobs then their lives where they come from must be unimaginably grim. They work their tails off because they're used to expending all that energy just to ssurvive.

Why the Immigration situtation is allowed to continue is one of the mysteries of the ages. I can sooner fathom the edge of the universe than wrap my mind around why the borders aren't better enforced. After all, if we're so worried about terrorism then wouldn't securing our borders be a worthy place to begin? I can't bring a Bic lighter aboard an airplane, but a coyote can drive a van full of immigrants up the 405 to a safehouse in South L.A.; I'm willing to bet that a couple of them will be carrying lighters, too. This sort of beaurocratic hypocrisy adds fuel to the conspiracy theorists' fire. Sure, the Democrats care about the human rights aspect, which is legitimate, but do you really think the situation persists because Washington gives a damn about their human rights?

All I want is a consistent policy on Immigration. Either give them all the priveledges AND OBLIGATIONS as the rest of us, or enforce the existing laws and deport them. Fine the businesses that knowningly hire undocumented workers. Don't keep them in some demi-monde that's good for business owners but bad for the taxpayers that have to pay their medical bills and for the education of their children. If you want to keep them here then good grief, let them have drivers licenses and compel them to carry insurance. That would be sensible; that would be humane.

They say it's only matter of time before non-hispanics will be the minority. Perhaps it's best to learn spanish and
start assimilating now. Here is a handy Mexican Name Generator to help begin the process.

Your Mexican Name Is...

Don Virgilio

What's your Mexican Name?

L'etoille Parisienne

2005-05-05T18:00:00.000-07:00

Last night my spousal unit brought home a few new DVD's. "C'mere and watch this!" was his invitation as he popped a disc into the player. I thought I was watching the new "House of Wax", but instead it was "One Night in Paris". The night vsion setting lent the "film" an eerie, otherworldly cast. With her heavy mascara, elongated, undeveloped torso, and shaved pudenda, watching Paris writhe and wriggle was rather like viewing footage of an alien abduction-the "lost time" parts the victims need hypnosis to remember. I myself "lost time" merely viewing this strange spectacle.

I recommend that "One Night in Paris" be included in any Abstinence Education curriculum, as it's the ultimate cautionary tale of what could happen if you give it up to the wrong person. Nothing remotely erotic occurs in this masturbatory exercise in grotesquerie. No pleasure could possibly be derived from the viewing experience, not even for a confirmed Paris-hater like myself; it just made me feel sorry for her.Ex-boyfriend Rick Salomon, a candidate for chemical castration if there ever was one, totally sold her down the river. The subtiltle of the "film" should be "Control Freaks and the Pathetic, Stupid Young Girls Who Love Them". It reminded me of everything in my past I woke up to regret.

A Shot in The Dark

2005-05-04T18:25:00.000-07:00

Today I discussed the recent rash of freeway shootings with a co-worker. Last week, while driving to Laughlin, "Luther" and his wife found themselves ensnarled in post-shooting traffic along the 15. That's a lovely way to start a vacation; talk about getting "your kicks on Route 66"! I wondered if the shootings were gang related. Luther thinks they're mostly garden-variety road rage interspersed with the occasional asshole with something to prove. He's a little freaked out about driving, as the shootings are extremely random and he spends at least twice at much time on the road as I do. I proclaimed, "well when it's your time it's your time, and nothing's going to happen to you until it's your time to go."He replied, "What if it's the guy right next to you's time, and you get caught up in the crossfire?" Just then Luther's phone rang, so I hightailed it out of there and left him to his work.

Luther's question is a good one, and deserves an answer.This is my philosophy, equal parts pre-destination, West Coast woo-woo, and psychobabble: When something takes you out before "your time", that's when the miraculous escapes occur. The guy who shot himself in the head with the nail gun is a prime example. Who else shoots himself in the head with a nail gun and lives? Of course, according to my philosphy, those who die in this manner have reached their allotted "time" and fate selects the Nail Gun of Doom for them as the method of dispatch. There can also be miraculous recoveries. The people I hear on Coast 2 Coast AM with the Near Death Experiences generally speak of being of being turned back from The Great Beyond for this very reason.

By the same token, when it's your time to go, nothing can save you. I've heard stories of people who escaped death only to be killed again until they're definitely dead. I remember a story about a woman who survived a car accident, only to be burned to death when her gurney caught on fire at the hospital. How does your gurney spontaneously combust in a hospital corridor? Only when it's your time to go. (note- it might have been King Drew Medical Center) Another tragic story involved a little girl here in the Valley who was injured in a traffic accident while on her way to school. She was airlifted to Children's Hospital, and the helicopter crashed, killing all aboard. Why? It was her time to go, and the others too, apparently.

So it's pointless to worry about being shot on the freeway. It really serves no purpose to be worried about anything. When it's your time, you'll go. If it's not your time the shooter will miss or you'll survive to pump more $2.89 per gallon gas and watch another nail-biting season of "American Idol".

Runaway Bride

2005-05-01T19:48:00.000-07:00

I have a nightly ritual of listening to Coast 2 Coast AM, which acts either as a sedative or a stimulant depending on the topic being presented. Friday night they had "open lines",and as a rube stammered out another cockamamie UFO story, the program was rudely interrupted with a "Fox News Breaking News" piece. "What could this be?" I wondered to myself in the dark. "What could possibly be so important as to pre-empt George Noory? Could the New Pope be dead so soon?" I soon learned how missing person Jennifer Wilbanks haad just been found. The apparent victim of a kidnapping. she turned up safe and sound in Albuquerque, New Mexico. A joyous noise of whoops and hollers was heard in the background as her fiancee and relatives were interviewed. They all gushed over how wonderful and beautiful of a person she is. Apparently the family is very religious and they painted their Jennifer as little short of a saint.

This was a story I hadn't heard before. I don't know how I'd missed it; probably because I never watch Fox News. I somehow missed the Margaret Hassan thing too, though it seems to me she'd been kidnapped (and presumably killed) months and months ago. As I listened to the news break things just didn't add up. It seemed a little "hinky" to me. Being kidnapped by a male and female didn't make any sense, unless this was another Elizabeth Smart-sex-cult type of thing. And why would she be transported halfway across the country? Her method of escape from their evil clutches wasn't mentioned at all, and all this on the eve of a stupendous mega-wedding seemed curious timing indeed...

It came as scant suprise to me when this saga was revealed to be a hoax. Wilbanks freaked out from all the pressure and needed to spend some time alone, which is perfectly understandable. I need to spend time alone each day. A wedding that extravagant would put an intense amount of pressure on anyone. What is harder to understand is how she didnt feel there was anyone she could turn to for support, that there was no one she could tell "I need more time". Hello, how about talking to the minister? The man who will be presiding over the ceremony? The man whose job it is to help you to be sure you're making the right decision? I mean, if you can't go to your minister with a conflict this severe then you're at the wrong house of worship.

It's pretty clear this woman didn't think things through. She didnt want to disssapoint anyone, so she concocted this ridiculous scheme to fake her own kidnapping in order to make the problem dissapear. Did the problem disappear? Hell no, but she sure got everyone's attention. The whole thing sounds like a pathetic cry for help. No one could be as wonderful as her family made her out to be. Perhaps her whole life she's been living a lie, going along with the program to please those around her, until it reached the point she couldnt take it anymore. Of course, I'm only speculating. I have no idea what Milbanks was thinking, but it seems to me that for a thirty-two year old to reduce herself to something even more infantile than "my dog ate my homework" reveals a deep and serious pathology.

Her friends and family might, and should, forgive her, but Wilbanks could well face criminal charges for this stunt. If the Teri Schiavo's plight sparked a mass awareness of the need to prepare a Living Will, then the "Runaway Bride" incident should make us all aware of the importance of being true to ourselves, and the need for honesty and forthright communication with those around us.

Satan Stands his Ground in the Sunshine State

2005-04-27T13:39:00.000-07:00

There is a place, a very special place where terminal reality collides with hellish fantasy in a psychotic vat of simmering toxic goo. The weather is so hot it melts your brain cells and so so humid that your putrefying flesh rots right off your bones. Forget the Galapagos Islands,Charles Darwin,whom no one here believes in, would have had a field day with their insects, which are larger and more interesting than many of the land's inhabitants, Those damned souls who eke out lives in this cursed country, and yea, even thrive, are a backward, inbred passel of mutants too retarded to tell the difference between hypcrisy and Hippocrates. Yes, Satan is alive and well and living in a condo in Florida. South Beach, to be exact, but he likes to get around, motoring up the 1-95 and back down the Gold Coast in his flame-red Lamborghini Countache. Satan still deals blow, since that's what the ladies like, but his personal preferences are designer drug and Oxycontin. Drugs are old sport for Satan here, he's already been doing that for decades. There's better mischief afoot in the realm of sex offenses, partculary the abuse and murder of the land's only remaining innocents, children.

Why must I put the spotlight on Florida? Aren't there child molesters everywhere? Look at the Catholic Church for Christ's sake! Well, if you've been paying attention to the headlines you'd have noticed that In the last month two Florida girls were, in spearate incidents, murdered by registered sex offenders. I think it's fair to suggest Florida posessses a certain resonance, a certain combination of poverty, misery, more misery, and misery again that makes it a veritable "power spot" for the depraved.

Since Adam Walsh's head was found in the swamp, Florida has proven to be a pardise for perverts. Like snowbirds from the north,disgraced Enron executives,and O.J. Simpson, registered sex offenders from all corners converge here to ply their ugly trade. If Neverland had been located in Orlando then Michael Jackson would still be frolicking gaily with his pre-teen pals. His tiny button nose would have been in constant danger of melting,however, the only reason there could be for Jackson not to have moved here; it's a tax haven to boot. He's just too fragile for the climate. You can't have any kind of sensitivity to survive in Florida. You need to be the hardy and stubborn type to make a go of it in a landscape unfit for human habitation. Satan favors the sort of "rugged individualism" that screams "Go fuck yourself, I'm looking out for number one". In this "Culture of Life", a very big deal to Floridians in the wake of Terri Schiavo, "my life" is clearly more important than "your life". This is why Governor Jeb Bush, one of Satan's special helpers in Tallahassee, has signed the "Stand Your Ground Bill", guaranteed to propel Florida back to the halcyon days of the wild, wild west. Fans of Deadwood will be pleased to see frontier justice meted out with the help of this bill, as it will make it easier to shoot to kill another in a public place, so long as meets the fuzzy logic of "self-defense". One is no longer compelled to back away from a confrontation. If you feel threatened you may shoot and kill with impunity. Critics say this bill is completely unnecessary, since legal protections were already in place for legitimate self-defense. It will be interesting to see how this law is applied. Will it's protections extend equally to Tyrone and G-Bang squaring off in the hood? Any way you look at it, this is a bad piece of legislation. What kind of "Culture of Life" enacts a law making it easier to kill people? What would Jesus do? Pop a cap in your ass, it would seem.

Satan steers his speedboat as the sun sets over Biscayne Bay, savoring the glory of another fruitful day in Paradise.

No News is Good News

2005-04-25T17:38:00.000-07:00

The evening news has become unbearable. Dan Rather might have been crazy as a loon, but at least there was the sense that he comprehended the import of the stories he read off his teleprompter, and that he was personally affected by the events of the day. If I was outraged, then he was outraged too, only he was a professional about it and didn't go running around screaming at the top of his lungs as I often do. At least not while the camera was on. His replacement, the superannuated Bob Sheiffer, is unwatchable; he's like watching a cadaver rot. The other interim anchor, John Roberts, is telegenic enough, but lacks substance. I don't even bother with the others. Dan was truly The Man.

The local news has become intolerable. Freeway shootings are the new tsunami, lately occurring at the frequency of one per week. Our local newscast goes something like this:

Smiling Mannequin with vaguely grim undertone, Female:
"Shooting on the 55 Freeway.
Home Invasion Robbery in Beverly Hills.
If you have any information, please contact the L.A.P.D."

Smiling Mannequin with vaguely grim undertone, Male:
"Shooting on the Harbor Freeway.
Another Shooting on the 55.
Update on last weeks' shooting on the 55, police say unrelated to this week's incident.
If you have any information, please contact the Tustin P.D."

It's like they're trying to frighten us out of driving. That's one way of solving our traffic congestion problem.

They're showing corpses on the six o'clock news now, and that's an obscentity. Dead mangled flesh on my TV screen just when I'm trying to eat dinner.

I never had a problem watching the news on our old TV, a 19-inch Zenith relic which was our very first purchase as a couple back in 1991. It provided years of faithful service, bringing into our living room riots, scandals,acts of god, and terrorist attacks including approximately 65 million showings of the plane hitting the World Trade Center. TV years are like dogs years, however, and sometime during the Lakers last championship season the old Zenith started showing signs of her age. The 19-inch screen appeared to slowly shrink. The colors were no longer true, and the picture tube started to dim, finally givng out entirely just as my visiting relatives setted down to watch "The Simpsons". Hence the arrival of the New TV, a 27-inch,flat-screen, HD-ready behemoth with colors like an acid trip and resolution so spellbinding it makes even the commercials worth taking the time to watch. It's basically a 27-inch cinema display, working awesomely in tandem with our DVD player and to the spousal unit's delight, the Playstation 2. He's playing Gran Turismo 4 as we speak, and as annoying a waste of time as I consider video games, I'd much rather see them playing on the New TV than the reeking continuum of vile filth that passes for "The News".

Planet of the Eighties

2005-04-24T19:16:00.000-07:00

Link
I miss the 1980's. In retrospect, due to my retreat into Fundamentalist religion and a nightmare sequence of suffocating early marriages, I literally did MISS the 80's. Like a modern-day Rip Van Winkle, I skipped right past 1983 and woke up sometime around the Clinton inauguration, sixty pounds heavier, with no savings left and a bass guitar in my hand. How did this happen? I just told you. I was alseep. I was asleep all though the 90's as well, but that was a completely different kind of trance...

The 80's were a sexy time. I was getting lots of sex, at least I did until I got married. Fashion was sexy. The boys were so adorable with their tight jeans and big hair. Naturally, the amount of hair and make-up a man wore was directly proportional to how nasty and bad of a dog he was. The members of Poison, glammed out to the gills, were notorious for living off women until the day they made it big. Regardless of the passive-aggression behind the 80's pussified glam, I far prefer that syle to what guys look like nowadays. I dont know if there's a proper term for it, but I call it Skinhead Prison Chic. I was never afaid to run across a pack of teenage boys in OP shirts and Levi's cords (usuallya harmless bunch of heshers) but when I see those shaved heads, neck tattoos and baggy pants, I head in the other direction. Better yet, I won't even get out of my car.

Here in the twenty-first century, things seem so crass and ugly. There's a discouraging absence of subtlety. Everything is right up there in your face. It's a "Mad Max" meets "Blade Runner" meets "RoboCop" world. I miss those oblivious youthful days of willful ignorance and idealogical intolerance. I was so dogmatic a Christian that I once reduced a Mormon to tears, which, actually, was not that hard to do, as Mormons, at least back then, were not taught how to debate. I purchashed a whole series of instructional tapes designed to teach a christian how to take other people's religions apart. The techniques were subtle, witty, and used the other faith's idealogical weaknesses against them. The man who put the tapes together, Dr. Walter Martin, passed away about twenty years ago. I shudder to think what those tapes would sound like had they been assembled today; probably a bunch of screaming and yelling with the unfortuante heretic unable to get a word in edgewise. I'm sure if I darkened the door of my local Lighthouse bookseller I could find umpteen teaching tapes just like that. Maybe I'm wrong. I certainly hope so.

In the 80's, I was in my twenties. I had my whole life ahead of me. I didn't know what I was doing with my life, but that didn't seem to be worth worrying about. There was plenty of time, and the future would take care of itself. I couldn't picture myself growing old. I was certain that Armageddon would swoop down on us before that became an issue. Because of my belief that these are the "end times", I pretty much lived for today, and still do. Which brings me to last night's entertainment. Barbara, a friend from work, invited me and the spousal unit to join her at a gig by her friend's 80's cover band, "Planet 80's". The venue was a pub in Van Nuys called "Ireland's 32", which left me wondering, thirty-two what? Varieties of potato? Most likely the moniker designated this pub as one distinct from Ireland's "31" and "33". But the place was pleasant and friendly, and Barbara and I had fun dancing to familiar tunes performed by live human beings that actually made musical sense. My spousal unit doesn't dance, and his kind of 80's nastalgia leans towards The Scorpions, Judas Priest, and Metallica, but as we kept the beers coming, a good time was had by all.
The singer, an English bloke by the name of Jason was just getting over the flu. He took long draughts from continuous tumblers of a sepia-toned fluid I imagined was Long Island Iced Tea. The highlight of the third set was the A-ha classic "Take on Me", so it MUST have been Long Island Iced Tea. It takes a lot of courage for a man to sing that song. Dutch Courage. Jason hit all the high notes, too, which is commendable. What I liked best about "Planet 80's" is that 3/5 of them are my age, and with no budget or production (or ego for that matter, there could be no room for ego in a milleu that humble) they rocked the f--ck out of those classic songs. They were more than just a human jukebox. They were a damn good human jukebox. For a few hours on a Saturday night the world almost made sense again. I didn't feel so pathetic or out-of-place. We were entertained by our peers in a language we all could understand. This was our time, this was our music, and we danced in celebration of a transcendent, common bond. Maybe I am pathetic and out-of-place, but so are they, so thank god, I'm not so alone after all. That, by itself, makes me want to get up and dance.

Ode To The FCC

2005-04-21T20:13:00.000-07:00

Government Loverment

2005-04-20T19:17:00.000-07:00

Thanks to the 24-hour news cycle,
I can lecture authoritavely on the conclave.
I know every detail about how the new Pope was selected,
but i still don't know the real reasons why the US invaded Iraq.
But that's old news now. No one cares about THAT anymore.
Oh my, things are going so well over there...

I don't know why the mad rush to privatize social security
or why the government won't secure our borders.
Gas prices keep going up, along with our dependence on fossil fuel.
The conservative talkradio pundits keep saying
"I don't understand. It doesn't make sense"
Yes it does. It makes perfect sense.
Someone once told me, "it doesn't matter what people say.
You need to watch what they do
to see what they're really all about."
With such a disconnect between what they say and what they do
It's pretty clear that we are being lied to.
Why do people accept from their government
What they would never accept from their children
Or their significant others?
How low do things have to go
Before we finally say "Enough!"?
After all, the government screws us (like a significant other)
and takes our money (like a child, or again, a significant other)
We deserve a little something in return, don't you agree?
At least take out the trash, do the dishes, give us a little lovin' once a week.
Come on, a least make some kind of effort.
I'm kinda feeling taken for granted over here.

"Us" and Them

2005-04-17T13:07:00.000-07:00

Recently my sister and her new husband crashed at our pad for two and 1/2 days. She left behind a tidy stack of magazines which I took to work to look at between calls. Note my use of the term "look at", because, with the exception of "Vanity Fair" and portions of "People" there is precious little within their pages to be read. Gossip and innuendo, while they sell like hotcakes, have no literary merit and are best delivered verbally, with a whisper, titter or a knowing smirk by pofessional tabloid delivery units such as Debra Norville and Mary Hart.

"US Magazine", in a particular, is a picture book designed for those voracious consumers of the media machine living vicariously through their pop culture avatars, wholly without regard for the concept of privacy. I am now completely Paris Hiltoned, Britney Speared, Olson Twinned, Jessica Simpsoned and Lindsay Lohaned out. These women are common and vacuous, and with the possible exceptions of Simpson and Lohan, possess mediocre, if not downright questionable, talent. Through the papparazzi's telephoto lens they appear no less ordinary than myself and the women I work with. And apparently none of them, without their wardrobe supervisor and a couple of P.A.'s, can put together an outfit to save their lives. All those exclusive designer duds in their fabulous walk-in closets and they cannot coordinate nor have they the ability to accesorize. Perhaps this is really a subterfuge, done deliberately so as to blend in more readily on the streets of L.A. with the homesless and insane. Britney Spears-Federline seems to be the worst offender, being fond of those miniscule micro-shorts that barely cover the pubic mons. Few women have the requisite slender build to carry off a look like that, and Britney, God love her, isn't one of that chosen few. The only girls who should wear shorts like that in public are the tiny little teenage jailbait who shouldn't be wearing them at all because to be wearing something like that is to "ask for it". Therefore, I call for all micro-shorts to be banned. Call out the fashion police!

I remember Rona Barrett and her stable of scandal-sheets. Call me old, or well, just old, but it seems to me that Sonny and Cher's break-up was a bigger disappointment than Brad and Jen's, Elizabeth Taylor's string of star-crossed marriages more twisted than J-Lo's adventures down the aisle, Ann-Margaret falling off the stage more frightening than Britney's broken leg, and Tatum O'Neal's -or even Drew Barrymore's, grapples with youthful stardom were far more profound than Lindsay Lohan and her father-figure fixation. Perhaps if "Us" featured stars I cared about, or at least did work that was meaningful to me, I might get some enjoyment at seeing photos of them sans makeup taken from half a mile away. After all, I still never tire of reading dirt about Michael Jackson...

Batter up!

2005-04-15T20:30:00.000-07:00

The thirteen-year-olds are at it again, only this time they're not out for joy-rides and demolition derbies with the local constabulary. This week's lucky thir-teen, a player in the Pony League in Palmdale, Califronia, took took a cue from Basket-Brawl and mixed it with America's past-time and the kind of "I don't know my own strength" glaringly bad judgement that thirteen-year-olds tend to posess in spades. And considering this is Baseball we're talking about, steroids aren't out of the question. You've got a pumped-up prideful kid who just lost a game who doesn't want to take smack from nobody, and can actually do something about it. He's got a bat in his bag, and he knows how to use it.

You may have noticed my use of the term "thir-teen." This is a Lore-ism for "third-teen", which means someone who posesses only about a third of what it takes to be a functioning adult in our society.

The conservative talkradio pundits postulate the reasons kids keep killing each other lie with the lack of prayer in school and the moral relativism of our "secular" society. That argument is absurd on it's face and an excuse only a Fundamentalist would love. Granted, there are underlying reasons the violence we're seeing with a frequency exceeding the excesses of the 24-hour news cycle. This thir-teen doesn't live in a vacuum. A youngster merely reflects back the society in which he is raised. There's something symbolic about his shame over losing, his rage at being taunted, how he knew to first go for the knees of his victim like some kind of mafia enforcer. Where did he gain the knowlege to attack and kill so effectively? Movies? Television? Video Games?

Seeing as Baseball was the setting for this tragedy, it's easy to dub this yet another example of competition gone too far. Usually it's the parents who go nuts, like the Texas Cheerleader Mother. What kind of expectations did the thir-teen feel he had to live up to? What kind of stress was he under? The fifteen-year old was allegedly teasing him...just what did Jeremy Rourke say that sent the Bat Boy over the edge? I don't believe for a minute that this murder was pre-meditated. He was reacting to something, most likely a compendium of things, and was unable to control his rage. It may only be "Pony League", but it's still competitive sport; a pressure-cooker environment. People snap under pressure every day. Why does everyone get surprised when this happens to kids? I'm only speculating here, but I'll bet he's been on Prozac, like Jeff Weise, the Minnesota boy who shot up his school in a demented tribute to The Columbine Massacre. Prozac and the other SSRIs will suppress your symptoms for a time, but when the meds stop being effective, and you have the inevitablerelapse, you could go further out-to-lunch than you ever imagined before.

The real sickness pervading our society has already been explored in Michael Moore's "Bowling for Columbine", and earlier in Haskell Wexler's "Medium Cool". America is fascinated with, transfixed by, and untimately desensitized, to violence. But isn't this really a fixture of human nature? As I listen to NPR and Pacifica Radio man;s inhumanity to man is in full gear are over the globe at any hour on any given day. This is nothing new, the Bible is full of violence, and according to every badly dubbed chop-socky film I've ever seen even 15th century China was a war zone where marauding bands would kill, rape and main just for kicks. Perhaps the real sickness is our hypocrisy, that we would hold ourselves up as being above all that when we're really not...all that.

The parents of Jeremy Rourke have issued a statement that, while calling for punishment, acknowledges that he's been a good kid and doesn't deserve to have his life destroyed. In this age of vengeance and vigilantism, that degree of insight and understanding is a breath of fresh air. It's a shame they had to lose their kid over a stupid baseball game. It's a tragic situation all around.

Lost Wages

2005-04-11T14:24:00.000-07:00

As gas prices hover at record levels, what better time than now to drive to Las Vegas for the weekend? Crazy as I am, I would never consider such foolishness if not for my kid sister coming home to visit from London, where she's been attending art school and, apparently, locating the elusive Mr. Right. I didn't have to leave the safe confines of Glendale to find any of my three husbands, but I'm clearly not as finicky as she. We drove in Friday evening to to The Luxor, our usual destination. The magickal group we used to hang out with was big on Egyptian Magick, so to us The Luxor is pretty darn cool. Not to mention that my little brother happens to be a reservations agent for the Mandalay Group and always manages to score us killer upgrades. We ended up with a jacuzzi suite with two queen-size beds to mess up. When we checked in it looked like this.

By the time we checked out, we had it looking like this:

One of these days I'd like to stay at the Mandalay Bay, because it happens to be gorgeous and Bill Handel of KFI never stops raving about the place.

Unfortunately, my spouse refuses to consider staying anywhere but the Luxor. Granted, it's Mag-Light-style beacon, home to swarms of desert locusts, makes it easy to find at night, but the Mandalay Bay is right next door, and towers above the squat black pyramid to boot. Perhaps he remembers how the Mandalay Bay was sinking during it's construction, and doesn't want to risk it caving in on top of us like one of those fancy demolition jobs they like to show on the Discovery Channel. We live daily with enough risk of liquefaction from an earthquake right here in L.A.

With Mercury careening wildly in retrograde, the slots were just not happening for me. I lost eighty dollars, won back sixty at the Venetian, and put it all right back again in at the Luxor. Finally, at two a.m., with pupils dilated and nostrils flaring, I dared to ask what would happen if I put $100 into the $1 slot machine. Regrettably, the answer was "not enough", as I preceeded to succumb to a mild, yet most unpleasant, anxiety attack. With benefit of hindsight, considering the brevity of our Vegas trip, I suppose it was far more expedient for me blow my whole wad in one burst than then in the comparatively slow bloodletting of the quarter machine. Suffice it to say, I didn't go near the evil one-armed bandits after that.

Queue'n A

2005-04-07T18:41:00.000-07:00

Rome is bursting at the seams with four million pilgrims who don't have a snowball's chance in hell of getting into the Papal funeral. I've decided this event should be dubbed "Popestock". While it isn't three days of peace and music in a cow pasture with a buncha hippies, it's been a weeklong congregation of community the likes of which this blogger has never seen before. People like being part of something bigger than themselves. For those that loved their Papa there could be no desire more consuming than running off to Roma and being part of Popestock with everyone else who feels the same. It's a galvanizing event. The Pope may have loved everyone equally, but unfortunately, none but visiting dignitaries are getting in to view him now. Popestock, for the pilgrims, is just a giant picnic in the park, a collosal traffic jam, and a logistical nightmare for Italy. The wait to view the Pope was up to twenty-four hours before the plug was pulled. People were boarding Rome-bound trains even after the message went out admonishing them not to come. This is amazing. I don't see the average American getting it up this way unless you're talking about the Day-After Xmas Sale at Mervyns.

There is one non-average American subculture that's also lining up for something they can't get into, and that's the Star Wars fans who converged upon the wrong movie theater. Because the previous five Star Wars installments have shown at Mann's Chinese Theater in Hollywood, these die-hard fans assumed that "Episode III-Revenge of the Sith" would follow suit. Alas, the studio has decided to show the film at the Arclight, forcing the faithful to sit quietly in assigned seats that are way,way too expensive. Now,since the film doesn't open until May 19, it seems like they'd have plenty of time to pack up and move their travelling roadshow to Sunset Boulevard and the Arclight, but no. They want the studio to move the engagement back to the Chinese, where they are, where they think it ought to be. Too proud to admit they've jumped the gun? If I really cared about being first in line I'd have said "oops, my bad" (I'm lying, I'd actually mumble a few choice words and throw something)and run as fast as I could to the place I'm supposed to be. It seems to me that the Star Wars people are really about being part of a scene, a scene the movie (which I hear is god-awful) is only peripheral to. This Star Wars film will be the last of the series, which only heightens the emotion. It's not exactly a funeral (though a funeral would be more fun for me than sitting through this film) but more of a wake. In the end it's basically all the same.

Medieval Times

2005-04-04T20:15:00.000-07:00

I can't say that the Pope impacted my life much. He never spoke for me. Quite the opposite, really. I'm still mightily peeved over the destruction of the Knights Templar, that original corporate takeover, which left us with the "Friday the 13th" movie franchise, Freemason chapters in every city, and that annoying french ditty, "Frere Jacques".

Back when I was a fundamentalist christian I read a book called "Babylon Mystery Religion". This slim but lively volume lambasted the Catholic church for being a demonic rip-off of all things ancient and Mesopotamian. Reading it was great fun, and I highly recommend it for conspiracy theorists who want a change of pace. Apparently the Church co-opted every pagan holiday and replaced the ancient Sumerian mother-son godhead with Jesus and the Virgin Mary. There was something about water, too, and that explained the significance of the fish-shaped hat. Fortunately for the Church, people love their archetypes and will find satisfaction in just about anything that fills that god-shaped hole inside. Those are good formulas the church uses,too. The magickal group I used to run around with used rituals that were based on masonic rituals which in turn were based on Catholic rituals. "Catholic" means universal, so as with any good template the rituals can be ported around and used for whatever you want. However, their is one thing the Catholic Church has above and beyond all others...a doctine so magickal as to leave voodoo and wicca light years behind...and that is the miracle of Transubstantiation. When you eat the wafer and drink the wine they literally -and this is not symbolic-this is not a metaphor -turn into the body and blood of Jesus himself. This would make every practicing Catholic into a cannabal. Doesn't eating one's own kind lead to Mad Cow Disease or something like it?

With this Medieval Revival I predict Gregorian Chants will once again sell through the roof. Enigma has been getting more airplay now than they've had in fifteen years.

The British royal family is another ancient tradition that's kind of fun to visit, like the Renaissance faire, but has long since outlived it's usefulness. Prince Charles has postponed his freak show wedding to attend the Papal funeral. He'll be respresenting for his mother, Queen Elizabeth II, who won't be going to the wedding either. I wonder if there is more to that story...What I really want to know is WHERE IS THE ROYAL ASTROLOGER? Even Nancy (just say no) Reagan can tell you not to marry while Mercury is retrograde! .

Hundred of thousands of he faithful are descending on Rome now for the funeral. Before the Pope passed away I heard that many were praying for him. That I don't understand. The Pope doesn't need anyone's prayers...he's got a direct line to God! I think it might be the fish-shaped hat.

Towards a Genuine "Culture of Life"

2005-04-01T22:08:00.000-08:00

We've heard a lot this past week about the need for our nation to foster a "Culture of Life". With the war still raging, rumors of wars to come, and millions out of work, bankrupt over medical bills, or suffering some other misery,(take your pick, we've got a million of 'em) exactly what does "a culture of life" mean?. My pap smear on a petri dish? After all, even the most Falwell of fundamentalists would concur with that medical term for my cervical sample, which ostensiby, has some life to it. It only seems to me that a genuine "culture of life" would, as it's basis, support "quality of life" and respect and compassion for ALL living things and Gaia herself. What is life-affirming about having the worst health-care system in the developed world? How can you wage war and promote capital punishment and still scream about wanting a "culture of life"? All life is LIFE. One should have compassion for the most heinous of serial killers, not just for one singular brain-damaged woman who'd already told her husband what she wanted. The President spoke this week about the passing of Terri Schiavo. He could have taken the opportunity to quell the rancor, to call for an end to the bitterness, for Terri's sake. Instead, he only fanned the flames further by invoking the "culture of life"...
My problem is in taking what W says literally. Some things are meant to be taken literally, like, I suppose, the King James Bible, but not Bushspeak. Everything he says really means something else. "Democracy" means American-style capitalism, "Clear Skies" means more pollution, etc. I'm not sure what he means when he utters the words"a culture of life." I'm not sure he knows what he means by it either, as he sounds all wishy-washy and insecure saying it, a far cry from the slobbering glee of "I'm a war president!". I suppose that in the end it's nothing more than a self-serving sound bite to curry politcal favor with people who like to hear that sort of thing. Perhaps this will all blow over soon, as all the polls show this position is unpopular with the majority of Americans, who, hopefully, when they hear the word "Life" remember the promise of "Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness."
Life is diversity. Life is messy. It's anabolic, and katabolic. It has cycles. Life is eternal, but our time on earth is short. I don't know what it will take for us to recognize that we are all brothers and sisters. Perhaps things will have to get much worse before we wake up from our collective nightmare and love each other as we love ourselves. Only then can we truly envision a "Culture of Life", and have the power to make it a reality.

I've read the Bible, and Samson Was a Suicide Bomber

2005-03-28T18:58:00.000-08:00

Despite what the Televangelists say, The USA is not a theocracy, was never intended by The Framers to be a theocracy, and god forbid that it ever should become one. If one citizen gets to decide the death-penalty based on the counsel of The Bible then what prevents another citizen, in the same situation, from considering the finer points of Shia Law, or perhaps, a Singaporean caning? In our melting-pot,secular society, anything could be held as sacred text. A woman could take dating advice from "The Rules", or, if she prefers, from Xaviera Hollander. The collected works of the Marquis de Sade would make a dandy marriage manual for some folk. However, if you're hell-bent on using the Holy Bible as your guide, which of the two testaments will you be turning to? They seem quite contradictory to me. Jehovah demands "an eye for an eye", whereas Jesus suggests you merely "turn the other cheek". That's the "wimpy Jesus", you protest, preferring the fiery macho messiah who threw the money-lenders out of the temple. So, even Jesus posesses a duality. Nothing is black-and-white, not even black or white.

The old testament reads like a machiavellian manual of mendacity. The end justifies the means in so many stories it's no wonder that Jesus and his gnostic teachings were so threatening to the status quo. The old testament condones slavery, theft, and monogamy was the exception to the rule. Samson, the great hero, was basically a suicide bomber. He pulled the temple down on top of his head, taking with him as many Philistines as he could. Sound familiar? Just add the exploding back-pack and you've got a story straight out of the six o'clock news.

Of course, the old testament is the history of a scrappy little desert tribe fighting for survival, and therein lies it's charm. The appeal of Christianity lay in it's being the underdog,"in the world, but not of the world", a small subculture struggling against the sinfulness of the larger society. The Christian Right has lost it's way in it's ascendency, succumbing to enantiodromia. A Christian theocracy would, ideally, look like the first-century church (read Acts of The Aostles), not the Rome of Nero. When David grows up to be Goliath, it's time for a new David to emerge.