Future Corpse

My bags are packed, I'm ready to go....

2006-11-18T21:33:00.000-05:00

No offense to the fine folks at Google, but I'm jumping ship and heading over to Wordpress to continue the dreaded drop-in-whenever-the-fuck-I-feel-like-it style of blogging.

I've played around with Wordpress a bit for the past two days and I think it's a little better. It has better features, and the template choices are a bit more varied and a bit less ..ahem.. garishly pink.

Here is my new address: http://futurecorpse.wordpress.com

And here is a direct link

Many, many thanks to all who've read, commented, and e-mailed and I hope you'll come visit the new place.

Letting Go of the Anger (keeping the sarcasm)

2006-11-11T09:12:00.000-05:00

I wish I were a listmaker and had kept count of the grievances I've had about the Bush administration over the years. It would be interesting, in these heady first days of lame duckacy, to revisit and reflect on it over a nice bottle of wine for a few hours. Most certainly it would have been a long list.

If I had to choose just one, I think it's the rudeness that has always peeved me the most. All of them, with the exception of Condi Rice, are appallingly lacking in the social graces.

Below is a link to video of George W. in 2000 on the David Letterman Show. In it, he is taking his customary liberty with peoples' personal spaces to a ridiculous end by wiping his glasses on a show staffer's jacket during a commercial break.

He doesn't ask permission, let alone even acknowledge the woman. And the blank look on his face indicates that there was absolutely no consideration whatsoever that this woman might consider an oily patch of George Bush DNA on her jacket repulsive. Which, I shudderingly hasten to add, it is.

Classy guy!

And here's cuddly old Dick cheney waiting to catch the bus to a Bears game:

Wait, no, I'm sorry. That is Dick Cheney while he is REPRESENTING AMERICA at a ceremony of international leaders gathered to mark the 60th anniversary of the liberation of AUSCHWITZ. Somber and oozing with respect, huh?

To be fair, though, his fancy knitted cap is embroidered: "Staff 2001". Siiiiigh. You'd think, wouldn't you, that at least Lynnn would have had some innate sense of decorum to take Dick aside and tell him that he was dressed a bit innappropriately. And like an asshole. But clearly not. For fuck's sake, what is wrong with these people? Oh, and I would be remiss if I didn't add that shooting one's friend in the face is also a bit of a faux pas.

In the latest example of Bush Admininstration rude thoughtlessness, we have Donald "Mr. Condescending" Rumsfeld from a few days ago. These are his parting words to us about the Iraq war during his deliciously uncomfortable farewell press conference:

"It is not well known, it is not well understood, it is complex for people to comprehend"

Oh Donald, now that's just plain mean. I'll grant you that we were dumb enough to elect George W. Bush twice, but it's unfair for you to take the next leap and assume that average citizens are a bunch of window licking retards. If you'll recall, you creeps gave us at least 4 different reasons for going to war in Iraq and most of them turned out to be absolute lies. And the one that you've decided to stick with is proving to have a rather lofty and unnatainable finish line. Yet whenever we ask you to explain to us once again, pretty please, why we're over there, you get defensive and irritated and insinuate that we must want the terrorists to win.

What nerve you have to blame the American people for failing to understand the war when it's your fault that we don't. How can we possibly understand when we've never been told the truth?

You, and the rest of those barnyard animals you call an administration, have a very bad habit of blaming everyone but yourselves when things go badly. And it's for that very reason that voters came out in droves and you were so deservedly stripped of your power. 'Cos, see, we may be stupid, but we're not that stupid.

Hope

2006-11-08T07:55:00.000-05:00

As shitty as things have been on planet Earth of late, it's really quite a magnificent time to be alive in America right now. The crushing lows and the sweeping highs that roll, dip, and wash over us in waves (of amber grain - I swear, it's amber fucking grain!), gives one a sense of what living with manic depression might be like.

Many of us are in in a full-blown manic state this morning.

Being at best sarcastic, and at worst, curmudgeonly, I rarely begin sentences with the words "I am bursting". But there's just no better way to put it. I am simply bursting with faith and pride in America today. Once again, we have hope.

As I type this, C-SPAN is drifting in from another room, and I can vaguely hear a press conference featuring a conservative group who are angrily expressing their disappointment in the Bush administration. I just padded over to the TV and saw their faces all pinched and bitter. They are seriously pissed off.

I guess it's now A-OK to come out and lay the fuck right into George W. Bush. It's funny how that works, ain't it? Even Rush Limbaugh has turned on Bush. He said on his show today that he feels liberated by the trouncing because he no longer has to "carry the water" of those who he feels don't deserve to have their water carried. My my my!

There will, in the coming days, no doubt, be many more attacks on Bush for betraying the cause of conservatism. But it's all just self-serving snivel by people who've put all their eggs in one philosophical basket.

George W. Bush betrayed America. And the people and groups coming out in droves to denounce him now should be held accountable for their dishonesty and their patriotism should, as happened to so many who dared speak out against Bush from the start, be questioned!

September 11th was the defining moment of America's future. But Bush only saw it as the defining moment in his life; his God-given destiny to become the next Lincoln. There was hope for positive change and renewal after the attack and the chance to make us better. But he wasn't smart enough to see it, nor humble enough to imagine that bringing about a quiet revolution could be just as glorious as trying to achieve it through tanks and guns and force.

So instead, he made us ever aware of our fear, and pitted us against each other. And we voted for him again. And Iraq became the problem it was destined to become. And hope dwindled.

And last week, Dick Cheney said that it didn't matter what the public thought about the administration's plan to continue "full speed ahead" in Iraq because they weren't running for office.

Such astonishingly naked arrogance from a charmless, malignant prick. But the American public have stood up to it.

Conservatives in high numbers, people who voted Republican their entire lives, either abstained or voted Democrat or Libertarian. Young people, also in high numbers, sensed the importance and came out to the polls. In Michigan, it was the highest voter turnout in a non-presidential election ever.

We The People are paying attention and the Democratic process worked. And again, we have blissful strands of hope to cling to. Unfortunately, we also have two more years of Bush.

I have no illusions that he'll learn any lessons from this and that he will put America's needs over his own need for political surival. But at least we've got some brakes on the locomotive. It says a lot about the state of this country that that alone is worthy of wild celebration.

Four people in the world regularly think about these tennis shoes

2006-08-14T03:45:00.000-04:00

The guy who owns them.

The guy who threw them up there.

The grounds-keeper who's got them on his to-do list.

And me.

2006-08-13T11:20:00.000-04:00

Bitch on, Brother.

Al Gore can suck it. And so can you, Laurie David (no matter how much I love your husband).

2006-08-13T04:51:00.000-04:00

More and more are climbing aboard the Global Warming Express Train to Doom and Annhilation. The dumb twattery shows no sign of abating.

Sigh.

People, just because we think we're a big deal, doesn't mean nature agrees with us.

Here are the words of a great American thinker, Howard Bloom:

There's a simple fact we all ignore, just like we ignore the fact that war is in our genes and that our egos are gene-products.

There have been 144 mass extinctions of species on this planet that we can count and probably many many more that we can't count. There have been periods in which the carbon dioxide level in the atmosphere was 200 times what it is today. There have been ice ages and periods of flood that have turned the continents into marshes. In other words, drastic change is nature's way of doing things especially when it comes to weather.

So we make a big mistake when we assume that by lowering our insignificant carbon emissions we are going to bring about climatic stability. The climate of this planet has very seldom been stable, it has dived and soared from cold to hot.

So our task is to prepare for change. Change is what made us human to begin with. Your ancestors got you here by making it through over 20 ice ages.

He's right. We've got to just relax and, as Reo Speedwagon advised, roll with the changes. Because nothing we (yet) do is going to best -or worst- nature.

Howard Bloom

Big Bang Tango

Terrorists: 1 | Maybelline Wearers: 0

2006-08-12T13:38:00.000-04:00

George Bush in October of 2001:

"The object of terrorism is to try to force us to change our way of life, is to force us to retreat, is to force us to be what we're not. And ... they're going to fail. They're simply going to fail. I want to assure my fellow Americans that our determination ... has never been stronger to succeed in bringing terrorists to justice, protecting our homeland. This is our calling. This is the time for us to act in a bold way, and we are doing just that".

Random American citizen in August of 2006:

At the airport in the immediate aftermath of the foiled terrorist plot, she's using her favourite lipstick one last time before relinquishing it to the bin liner held by that Kapo in capri pants (who, if I may digress for a moment of snark, is wearing a face that evokes such hostility in me that it makes me wish a little bit that that passenger actually had turned her tube of Shimmering Coral Passion into an explosive device).

From an AP Report:

"I've just spent 20 minutes in the middle of an airport trying to repack my bags. I've had to sort out my money, my wallet and my possessions," said New Yorker David Hailes, flying from Edinburgh airport. "At the moment I'm not happy, but I can see the point of it. We can't let these people win."

In the countless quotes I've read from travellers since 9/11, any expressed outrage over an inconvenience is almost always softened with "...but I understand." I fear one day I shall read: "Well, the anal examination was uncomfortable and emasculating, but I totally understand why they needed to look inside my ass."

Do we really understand?

I'm not sure we do. I think we average citizens understand very little about the conflict we are involved in, and how we are addressing it.

And no effort has been expended by our government to help or encourage us to understand. Because if we did, we might dare to question the folly of airport security as it currently exists.

You and I know that woman isn't going to use her lipstick as a weapon. Even the stone-faced bitch holding the bag knows she isn't going to use her lipstick as a weapon. So all the wasted time, energy, expense, and the confusion and fear that results from it is nothing more than perverse theatre that accomplishes little.

Has a terrorist been plucked out of the inspection line at an airport ever? I have never heard of it happening. And one would think that if it did, the news would be shouted far and wide from the hills, so proud would the airlines be that their system does something more than just irritate and inconvenience their paying customers.

New Toy (oh ee yo)

2006-08-09T08:38:00.000-04:00

Ladies and Gentlemen, as the newest member of your 21st Century, I'd like to ask your indulgence in allowing me a moment to say a few words about a beloved old friend: My 35mm camera.

We shared some good times, my Minolta and I. I am forever indebted to it for it's sharp focus, it's operational simplicity, and it's endless hours of darkroom creativity.

But, as they say, all good things must come to an end.

Please know, Minolta SLR, that I resisted the call of the newfangled for as long as I could. I was, and still am, your champion. But I can no longer go on pretending that you fulfill my needs.

The truth is that my needs have changed. I have changed. And you haven't.

I've been seeing another camera.

*cue Sarah Mclaghlin's 'I Will Remember You'*

(here's where an evocative display of pictures I've taken through the years should go, but my scanner isn't working. And since I don't feel like hauling my carcass down to Kinkos to get prints scanned, I guess ceremony can go fuck itself.)

Here are the first fledgling captures of my new digital camera.

7:00 AM this morning. The creepy handiwork of multi-legged beings:

7:45 AM. Still life with quarter, ink pen, 5 pound barbell, & two dogs kvetching on a coffee cup:

The camera was a very generous gift. I'm tight-wad-inclined and probably wouldn't have bought myself one for another year or two.

I like it, except for one major complaint: I absolutely despise focusing through that monitor.

The intimacy between photographer and subject is lost in the digital age. With a manual, ie "real" camera, one eye is held tight against the view finder and the other is squinted closed, which shuts out everything in the whole world. The only thing that exists in that moment is what's in the lens.

Digital cameras are like mini-TVs. And every passer-by can stop and watch with you just by hovering over your shoulder. Such an invasion!

But...there is always a sacrifice for convenience, I guess.

And just think, in a few short years, we will meet young people who won't know what a "negative" is.

turn, turn, turn...

A fascinating story that sits quietly, waiting to be told

2006-08-06T23:19:00.000-04:00

Thanks again to the Internet, I've stumbled upon the existence of a man from the recent past whom I had never heard of.

His name was Michael Brody and, according to a BBC documentary that devoted a few seconds to him, he was a young American millionaire who, in 1970, announced he was going to give all his money away.

The film aired a portion of an interview he granted in which he explained his reasons:

"Money is the least thing I'm giving away right now. What I'm giving away is good feeling to mankind.

Like, if you wanna do anything, I mean, if there are any murderers out there, if you want to stab somebody in the throat, don't stab the person you're stabbing in the throat. Call me and put me in his place. I'll die for you."

The film freezes on a close-up of his face and text appears on the bottom of the screen. It tells us that he later went on to commit suicide.

It was quite a compelling bit of footage and I paused the film to do an immediate web search for this young man. I found very little. But what I did find out was so shocking that I can't believe there's been zero effort to document his life.

After all, a life that includes inheriting a fortune, stints in mental institutions, making threats against Nixon, burning down your (rented) home, an appearance on The Ed Sullivan Show, and a self-inflicted rifle shot to the head at age 24 is a life that is probably worth a closer examination.

Happy Birthday, Elliott Smith

2006-08-06T00:06:00.000-04:00

there's nothing here that you'll miss
I can guarantee you this
is a cloud of smoke

He would have been 37 today. The brave, beautiful man who, at a time when everyone else was screaming and pounding their fists in rage, was sitting alone, quietly pulling his rib cage apart, laying bare his heart and soul in soft, bleeding whispers.

sunshine, been keeping me up for days
there is no night time, it’s only a passing phase
and i feel pretty, pretty enough for you
i felt so ugly before, i didn’t know what to do

He was just a man. But oh, the music that man created...

Happy birthday, sweet Elliott - and, as ever, thank you.
xo

1000 freakin' % humidity

2006-08-03T03:04:00.000-04:00

The past few days have been insufferably hot.

You go outside from the mildewy comfort of cold, manufactured air, and immediately a thick, sticky swarm of humidity rushes at you, encircling and clinging to you like a gang of poor native children mobbing a fat tourist at a posh beach resort.

The air is so wet and heavy that everything I see looks like a Cybil Sheppard close-up on Moonlighting, all soft-focus and fuzzy. It would be beautiful if I weren't so god damned irritable.

And lethargic. The only thing I've had the energy to do is lay down and blink.

The one positive about these humid spells, is that a raging, torrential thunderstorm with gusting winds eventually forms, blowing all the nastiness away like a forgotten scandal.

The winds have started. I stepped out for a cigarette earlier and the air was slightly lighter. The northern sky was dark and cloudy and bolts of heat lightning were zapping every few seconds, a weather phenomenon I was able to appreciate properly thanks to the lifted oppression.

And naturally, my thoughts drifted to Mel Gibson.

Oy.

By all means, I should be dancing in Schadenfreudestical glee about the spot of bother he has landed his Passionately Catholic arse in.

But I just ain't feeling the fury.

Not that I don't want to join in the fun of hurling a few stones at a weakened Goliath, of course, but I think it's a waste of energy. I don't believe he will suffer true backlash from this.

For one thing, he's anchored in Christ. The Christians know he's a brethren, they LOVE him for that fucking movie and what it has done for their Lord, and they are all about forgiving a lamb who's lost his way.

Plus he's got oodles of money, his still-strong movie star image, and a whole team of handlers and PR douchebags willing to do/say almost anything to keep his name as untainted as possible, and themselves in his employ.

Many in the print media appear to be sympathetic. Susan Estrich, in a column on the Fox News website, ended her article on Mel by saying, "He still looked good in that mugshot." (the serious journalist's equivalent of: "I <3 Mel 4-ever!").

The one aspect of this I am most interested in is whether the major Hollywood film makers, producers, and studio execs (mostly Jewish, as I understand) will stand by him. If all the behind-the-scenes accounts written by bitter Hollywood insiders are true, then I think money would be the deciding factor on that one.

If the public doesn't abandon Mel, Hollywood won't either.

And I don't think he's going to lose his audience. A gossip blog recently posted this article about Mel Gibson's negative comments about homosexuals. Here is a reader's comment:

"Mel's offences continue to mount, and I continue to not care; I love him anyway. I think I'd have to witness Mel kick puppies and set kittens on fire before, in my eyes, his image could be tarnished."

That sort of devotion is reminiscent of the people who continually turn a blind eye to George W. Bush's fuck ups.

He is an actor and knows how to elicit a desired reaction. He's already issued a couple very convincingly heart-felt apologies. When he gets out of rehab, he'll meet with some Jewish leaders, maybe donate money to a Holocaust foundation, and then appear on The Tonight Show, remorseful & sincere, and Jay Leno will, just as he did with Hugh Grant, toss a few softball questions and crack a few light-hearted jokes to ease the tension.

America was able to bounce back (as it were) from the shock and horror of Janet Jackson's breast. I think we'll recover from finding out one of our Hollywood icons is a bit of a racist prick.

After all, it isn't a crime to be an asshole.

Things are looking up.

2006-08-02T17:50:00.000-04:00

This is an article that makes me feel optimistic (also slightly uncomfortable as it is a revisiting of the shame and embarrassment I felt over my country being really fucking STUPID!).

And something else really good happened. Truly something to celebrate.

But, sadly, we ain't out of the woods yet.

Does this make my bum look 200 million light years wide?

2006-07-31T08:57:00.000-04:00

If you (or your ladyfriend) constantly whinge about the size of a particularly troublesome body part, you (and she) can relax. The most massive object in the universe has been found, and it's not jiggling in any bathroom mirror.

From Space.com:

An enormous amoeba-like structure 200 million light-years wide and made up of galaxies and large bubbles of gas is the largest known object in the universe, scientists say.
The galaxies and gas bubbles, called Lyman alpha blobs, are aligned along three curvy filaments that formed about 2 billion years after the universe exploded into existence after the theoretical Big Bang. The filaments were recently seen using the Subaru and Keck telescopes on Mauna Kea.

The galaxies within the newly found structure are packed together four times closer than the universe's average.

Some of the gas bubbles are up to 400,000 light years across, nearly twice the diameter of our neighboring Andromeda Galaxy. Scientists think they formed when massive stars born early in the history of the universe exploded as supernovas and blew out their surrounding gases. Another theory is that the bubbles are giant gas cocoons that will one day give birth to new galaxies.

Some of the gas bubbles are 400,000 light years across. It's just...inconceivable.

Someone I know once told me she has panic attacks whenever she thinks about how big the universe is. My stomach kinda goes funny when I think about it, too. Especially when thinking about something bigger that our universe might be inside of.

In the immortal words of Kelly Bundy, the mind wobbles.

Dizzy now. Must lie down.

The End Of The World - in flash animation

2006-07-30T01:46:00.000-04:00

Hokay...so here's this.

It's from a few years ago and it popped into my head just last week and I wondered how I could find it again. And then I literally stumbled upon it tonight. Weird.

It's still funny.

The website that is hosting it did not create it. So if you know who the artist is, drop him/them a line.

Say it with me: Spoooooooon, spooooooon

2006-07-29T17:04:00.000-04:00

A group of work colleagues and I were discussing a strange and wonderful thing this morning. It's something that each of us has experienced, but no one could think of whether it has a name or not.

I kinda hope it doesn't have a name. It shouldn't have a name.

We were discussing what happens sometimes when you repeat a particular word a number of times and how it becomes meaningless; nothing more than a grouping of random letters.

It usually happens with an everyday, ordinary word. Take 'spoon'. You say it enough times and it starts to sound funny.

It's a quirky little phenomenon and it always makes me laugh when it happens.

Believing, as I do, that life is random and that there is no vast guiding hand at the controls of the rock on which we spin, when I experience those tiny moments where my brain loses all personal connection to a word that had previously meant something, it reinforces my view that everything on this planet has meaning only because we have chosen to give it.

A very good friend of mine who is a staunch believer in God is terrified by the idea that there could be no ultimate meaning in this world. To think we are alone and adrift is intolerable to her.

I feel the exact opposite.

How does one find comfort in the idea that a god, with some mysterious "plan" that he's not sharing with any of us, is orchestrating events in our universe? Sitting on his cloud, one hand on his chin judgementally, the other hand pointing out who shall live and who shall die, what village shall be obliterated with a mud slide, what town shall be bathed in 70 degree sunshine.

In my eyes, it's better to be powerless under the arbitrary, callous laws of nature than powerless under an easily-offended god prone to mood swings (after all, even He admits he's jealous, angry, & vengeful, as well as loving and merciful..).

Is it really so scary to think we're alone? That when we die, we simply fade to black? And a bonus question just because I feel like it: Are we really so infantile that we need the threat of eternal punishment or the promise of reward from a father figure to stop us from being uncool to each other and other living creatures?

We are given a few short years to spend here, and when we die, the spark in our eyes is snuffed out, our bodies disintegrate, and all of our molecules disperse far and wide and eventually become a part of new stuff.

Just like the stars that are born and burn brightly until they die, or a mountain that slowly forms and slowly crumbles, we are simply another form of matter and energy on a planet that hums with random, chaotic movement.

It's amazing and beautiful that we and everything we see and touch exists at all. It seems rather selfish to insist that it has to mean something, as well.

We human beings like neat, tidy happy endings, though. But since they hardly ever occur in life, why would we think they occur in death?

"We were so happy on April 9, 2003 when the Americans came. But I've given up."

2006-07-14T14:13:00.000-04:00

An article from The Times detailing the horror of Baghdad today.

Written strictly from the perspective of average citizens, there are - mercifully - no quotes from American military or government personnel trying to give it a whitewash glaze.

Every time I read an article like this, I always ask the same question: Did we really think we could just waltz into another country with a red, white, & blue bow-tied gift basket and say, "Here. For you. Freshly-baked Democracy!" and expect it would take a strong, firm hold?

It seems to me that it flies directly in the face of a psychological truth: one can't truly appreciate and properly care for something that hasn't been achieved as a result of one's own hard work.

These are innocent peoples' lives uprooted and destroyed by the pen strokes of a few power-hungry suit-wearers in the West who clearly didn't think this idea through.

And then, the other question: What is The Decider and his crew gonna do about the mess that's been created? Continue to point his fucking finger of strength and defiance in our faces right to the bitter, bitter end, I imagine.

Not that finger!

This one. The one that says, "Lemme tell ya what I been told is wrong about what yer sayin'..."

Syd Barrett, reunited with his mind

2006-07-12T11:03:00.000-04:00

Very sad (and unexpected) to hear that he's gone.

If the story of him burning his diaries and paintings is true, he took all his reasons and answers with him, cruelly rendering us forever vexed over the mystery, leaving us to continue combing through decades-old lyrics for hints and clues.

He will continue to be missed.

SHE TOOK A LONG COLD LOOK

She took a long cold look at me
and smiled and gazed all over my arm
she loves to see me get down to ground
she hasn't time just to be with me
her face between all she means to be
to be extreme, just to be extreme
a broken pier on the wavy sea
she wonders why for all she wants to see
But I got up and I stomped around
and hid the piece where the trees touch the ground

The end of truth that lay out the time
spent lazing here on a painting dream
a mile or more in a foreign clime
to see farther inside of me.

And looking high up into the sky
I breathe as the water streams over me

Your identity crisis is over, Upper Peninsula of Michigan

2006-07-11T11:05:00.000-04:00

The 'Michigan is shaped like a mitten' thing bothers me.

Michigan is more than just a hand, you know. It's cute, but it must be like tiny daggers to the heart of the U.P. folks' self-esteem every time they see someone pointing to their palm, big dopey, happy grin on their face, saying "I live...there!"

The people who live in the remote areas of the Upper Peninsula should have some cutesy ways of describing where their towns are located.

Thus, I propose: The Flying Scottie Dog. Or the Jumping Scottie Dog. Or, the somewhat troubling albeit rather more accurate, The Punted Scottie Dog.

Can you see it? He's facing to the right.

Way up in the tip of the tail is Copper Harbor.

In the tip of the front paws lies Menominee.

The tuft of beard in the front is Drummond Island.

St. Ignace is in the jaw.

Sault Ste. Marie is in the nose.

Ironwood lies in the back paws.

And -everyone's favourite- Ontonagon is in the ass.

Think of the T-shirt sales Ontonagon alone could generate.

Personally, I love it. Going up to The Dog sounds so much better than saying "The Yoo-Pee". And suppose you're going to Detour or Hulbert (and why the hell wouldn't you?) - when people ask where specifically that is (and they will), you can just say, "The snout." and they'll know!

And how ridiculously cute does that sound?

Really, this should catch on. It's adorable.

By the way, I camped all through The Dog a few years ago and spent considerable time in The Ass. It was lovely...

I Kill Sick Children

2006-07-06T09:19:00.000-04:00

Me: Good evening, St. Jude Medical Pacemakers.

Mumbling Man, Probably Drunk: (slurring words) Hi. I donate. I'm a Vietnam Vet, and I just received notice that my donation card information has to be updated 'cos it's expired.

M: (puzzled) Err...you donate? To St. Jude Medical? The pacemaker company?

V.V.: Yeah. The children's hospital. I'm a Vietnam Vet - a disabled Vietnam Vet - and I donate and they sent me a card that I needed to update my card and I'd like to do that now.

M: But this isn't St. Jude's children's hospital. This is St. Jude Medical, a pacemaker company. It's an entirely different organization.

V.V.: Okay, hold on. (he begins grunting softly as if shifting his position, the sound of papers shuffling and a drawer being opened is heard) Hang on, I can't find a pencil. I'm disabled. Let me go look for something to write the number down.

M: Wait! Sir, I-
(he sets the phone down, the sound of a tv playing softly in the background is heard)

M: Sir? (sighing)

(a full minute ticks by before he returns)

V.V.: (breathing heavily) Okay, what's the number?

M: I don't have the number to St. Jude Children's Hospital. You've called St. Jude Medical which is not affiliated with the children's hospital.

V.V.: But I've got a card right here.

M: Did you call information to get the number you called me at?

V.V.: Yeah.

M: They gave you a wrong number. You'll have to call them back. Tell them it's St. Jude CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL that you need.

V.V.: Can you transfer me?

M: I'm sorry, no.

V.V.: But you're a part of St. Jude, right?

M: No, this is St. Jude pacemaker company

V.V.: (angry, indignant tone) Fine, whatever. Let children die, then.

And then he hung up.

And then I hated humanity just a teensy bit more.

A random citizen angrily sounds off

2006-07-05T11:33:00.000-04:00

'Soundoff' invites readers to call a telephone # and record a message to vent about the serious hot-button issues of the day or anything that concerns them. The comments are then published, verbatim, in the paper.

Here is my favourite from last week's edition:

"I hope the thieves who stole my gnomes and yard animals gain as much pleasure as they brought me."

Poor old dear. You can almost hear the poyester bathrobe.

Perhaps she will soon begin receiving post cards from them as they travel the world.

The Freedom Fighter

2006-07-02T22:47:00.000-04:00

It was very early morning in the deserted suburban Detroit parking lot. Parked about 80 feet from the row of closed shops, I was sitting behind the wheel of my car, drinking coffee, the radio playing quietly.

It's a good way to organize your thoughts, sitting in parking lots, watching the mesmerizing flow of traffic, and I do it every so often.

There was another car two rows across from mine that had been there when I drove up. A man sat inside, not drinking coffee, not looking particularly relaxed.

He's here pretty early, I thought. The shops wasn't due to open for another hour and a half and it seemed odd to think a man would wait that long to get a garden hose or paper towels that were on sale. A woman might, sure. But a man? Never.

About 10 minutes after I pulled in, a late model Chevy pulled into the lot's north entrance and drove straight to the side of his car.

The man got out and walked over to the Chevy's driver side window and bent his head down to say something to the driver. Reaching through the window opening, he shook the driver's hand, then put his hand into his pocket.

He bent down and said something else to the driver. And withdrawing his hand from his pocket, he reached in to shake the driver's hand again.

The man straightened his posture and began to walk back to his car. The car that had met him turned around and drove back toward the north exit. The man got into his car, started the engine, and drove toward the south exit.

Hmm, I thought, 30 seconds of interaction and two handshakes in the middle of an empty parking lot could only mean one thing: I had just witnessed one of the tiny battles that are waged every day in the War On Drugs.

I don't advocate drug use. I don't do them, and if asked for my advice, I would certainly caution most people against using them regularly enough to risk becoming addicted. But I certainly understand the appeal.

And I don't believe they should be illegal.

Even the really hard, nasty ones.

Our current laws are a joke and an insult to the intelligence of the American people. Arbitrarily sanctioning some substances, but criminalizing others is hypocritical. That it's occurring in a country that so loudly boasts about how free it is, makes it disgustingly so.

The War On Drugs hasn't worked. It's another wasteful government program and a way to make nanny-state-loving, middle-American busy-bodies feel like something is being done about the problem.

Until we, as citizens, start behaving like adults and look at the issue honestly, and our politicians and law enforcement agencies stop deluding themselves that the bullshit is actually working, it will continue to fail.

We allow alcohol to be freely sold, possessed, and consumed. So that means we agree that it's okay for adults to alter their reality if they so choose. Alcohol is much more detrimental to a person's health and far more addictive a substance than, say, marijuana is. So why have we decided that alcohol is okay, but pot isn't?

As an intelligent, responsible, law-abiding American citizen, it's infuriating.

So in thinking back on that quiet, early morning parking lot rebellion that I witnessed, the good guy won, as far as I'm concerned.

The freedom-hating oppressors were not able to block that citizen's chosen method of pursuing happiness and I was thrilled.

And whilst watching his tailights disappearing into the morning fog, I took a sip of my coffee, lit another cigarette, and silently wished the brave rebel soldier a good time as he went home to celebrate his victory.

The November Coalition

Stop The Drug War

Two dollars, please, on Surly Gal to show in the second.

2006-07-02T01:00:00.000-04:00

There is no way to introduce this without sounding like a whimpering 8 year old, so I'm just gonna say it:

An old woman on the betting window at the horse track was really mean to me tonight.

I'm still not quite sure what sparked her fuse. But her exasperated sighs and impatient demands of "What is it that you want?!" suggested it was my fault.

This was my third time betting on the horses. And since no one yelled at me the first two times, I thought I was doing it right. But apparently not.

It's very petit-bourgeois, I realize, to expect any degree of customer care at a shabby, rundown horsetrack. Establishments whose toilet-paper dispensers are dotted with dozens of cigarette burns aren't generally the sorts of places that offer their guests a complimentary pen, a comment card, and a smile.

But in my defense, I really wasn't looking to have my ass kissed. Just civility.

People in customer service have it rough. In the list of shit jobs, it ranks right up there. Every bit as monotonous and tiring as working on a manufacturing assembly line, but bumpers and windshields don't complain, whine, or threaten to have your job if you're rude to them as they glide by.

It doesn't normally bother me if someone behind a counter is short with me. Having done customer service, I know your last customer will affect how you treat your next. And if I'm ever not treated very well, I generally blame it on the asshole that was standing in line ahead of me.

But once in a great while, someone crosses the line and I get upset.

Since I'm still rather intimidated with race track procedures, I like to take a few minutes to scan the employees in the betting windows. I hope to find a kindly-looking older woman. Preferably for one who is smiling. I somehow think she'll lovingly & gently guide me through the betting process, patiently understand my nerves, explain the things that are confusing, and wink to reassure me that, yes dear, you're doing just fine, and your Nana is so proud of you!

But I now realize that woman doesn't work at the race track. That woman works at Hallmark.

As I stepped into the mean lady's queue, I saw her smile at the man ahead of me as he was leaving her window. I heaved a sigh of relief, thinking I'd found my kindly Aunt Bea.

I was intending to place bets with her for six races, but we only managed to get through the 1st before she turned into Patti Duke Astin in 'Please Don't Hit Me, Mom'.

"Okay," I said slowly and clearly. "In the second race, I'd like Number Four to win. I'd like Number Two to place. I'd like--"

She interrupted me.

"Ho, ho, hold on a minute! Are you now betting on the second race?", she demanded.

"Yes.", I said.

She asked me to repeat what I wanted. I did, and again she interrupted me.

"You're not making this very clear at all!", she barked, lifting her hand off her little machine and slapping it on the counter, as if surrendering all hope of ever being able to comprehend my nonsensical ramblings.

Her irritation with me was so over-the-top that I did something that I rarely do. I told her off.

Sorta.

As her outraged fit concluded, she asked me to explain *sigh* once again my confusing wishes.

Instead, I took a breath and raised my palms in a let's-just-stop-here pose, and quietly said, "Forget it. I'm going to go to another window." I pulled some money out of my wallet, avoided eye contact, and then I squeaked, "Because you're very rude."

She acted surprised; shocked to be receiving such a blind-sided blow. But her voice softened, and she said, "I'm not being rude, but you've got to tell me what you want."

I kept my eyes downcast as I paid for the bet that she printed and stepped away from her window without saying another word.

It felt liberating, until, out of the corner of my eye, I saw her lean back in her tattered chair and turn her head. "What a cunt!", I heard her say to the woman sitting in the next window.

She called me a cunt.

In my head I imagined walking back up to her and asking, "What did you just say?" And then I imagined her leaning forward, defiantly crossing her arms, giving me an icy glare, and replying: "I said 'What a cunt.', cunt."

To which my only reply would have been: "Okay, that's what I thought you said." Which would have been embarrassing. Because what was I going to do? Ask a 60 year old lady to step outside? I just let it go.

It's not in my nature to get in anyone's face. And this woman, obviously hardened by years spent sitting in a grimy window, is probably a zen master in the confrontational arts.

I considered reporting her to a manager. But looking around at all the rough, seedy characters lingering about, intently studying racing programs, and twitching with pent-up expectations, the idea of complaining about being called a name seemed very suburban-white-womanish and trivial.

No, best to just let this sleeping cunt lie, I decided.

So I went two windows down to another joyless, dour-faced woman, and nervously placed my bets with her without incident.

Happily, two of my bets came in winners. And there were four more races left, but I didn't bet on any more horses.

I was spooked.

Hint: It ain't Hitler

2006-06-27T08:44:00.000-04:00

Welcome to another edition of the exciting new game show, "What The Fucking Fuck?!"

Hands on buzzers, contestants.

What famous pop culture icon said the following when asked by Jambands to describe the last Grateful Dead show they attended?:

"I have no recollection of it whatsoever, other than that it was awesome. ... I flew out to the Jerry Garcia memorial in Golden Gate Park, San Francisco with a fellow Deadhead from D.C. the weekend after Jerry went to the great psychedelic rock concert in the sky. ... it was great to be with my fellow Deadheads."

Was it:

A. Phish lead singer, Trey Anastasio?
B. Closeted homosexual & 'Uncle Arthur' from Bewitched, Paul Lynde?
C. Brittle, gun-toting polemicist, Ann Coulter?
D. German Madman & obligatory option in these lists, Adolph Hitler?

Before we reveal the surprising answer, please enjoy this soothing musical interlude featuring many Deadheads in full, spasmodic flailing:

So, who is our mystery Deadhead?

The answer is, of course: C. Ann Coulter.

Yes, Ann Coulter is all about the peace, love, and harmony. And rainbows.

Thanks for playing, everyone! See you next time on "What The Fucking Fuck?!"

Madonna, please, I beg of you, put some fucking fat in your diet!

2006-06-26T13:16:00.000-04:00

A Cheeto, a chocolate-covered peanut, something to put a little softness in that bag of glass shards you call a body.

Cut off the head of this picture, and you got an 80 year old immigrant leaving an osteoporosis clinic with tennis balls in her bra.

I'm sorry to be so cruel about it, but I just can't take it anymore.

I give her well-deserved kudos for being disciplined and dilligent. If she were an athlete and showed up on my ESPN, all muscle and bulging vein, running a marathon, that would be fabulous and appropriate.

But she is an entertainer. As should be obvious by now, I don't watch ESPN because I don't particularly enjoy looking at athletic bodies. So every time I catch a glimpse of Madonna on whatever non-sport medium I am invariably watching, I literally wince because she is so rigid and hard (on the eyes).

I realize I'm sounding petulant and rather like my personal tastes should dictate what goes for everyone. But you've gotta understand, I've had over 20 years of dealing with this woman.

When she initially foisted herself upon our innocent world, I didn't like her because her music was trite, she couldn't sing, and I found her brazen self-confidence obnoxious.

But she had two saving graces: she was relatively attractive and danced very well. And I readily admit to enoying watching her videos when I was in high school. So clearly, despite my contempt, it's evident that I was able to endure her presence with marked civility.

But now she's completely crossed the line.

Her music is still trite, she still can't sing, her self-confidence shows no sign of abating, she has becoming laughably pretentious about her "art" and religious beliefs, and, in her final 'Fuck you' to good taste and decency, she has become stomach-churningly --aggressively-- unattractive.

Honestly, Cheetos would help. It won't make the problem go away, of course, but it would help.

Ideally, the most gracious thing for her to do, to repay us for all of the attention she's demanded from us for two decades, would be for her to go and quietly wither into her old age somehwere private. Or at least hang up the fucking leotard.

But we all know that graciousness is not one of her virtues. That old bitch ain't going anywhere she don't wanna go without being shoved.

Rolling Stone chimes in

2006-06-26T11:12:00.000-04:00

Pete Doherty Watch

And now a word from Pete Doherty's mum

2006-06-26T10:06:00.000-04:00

The Peter Doherty saga continues to take the weirdest, most publicly laid-bare twists and turns. I have never seen anything like it.

There is something so profoundly disturbing about the idea of this being published.

These types of books are generally written by bereaved, grieving family members once their loved one is dead. What can Mrs. Doherty possibly hope to gain from releasing this book while her son is still alive? It's almost inconceivably cynical to think a mother would attempt to cash in on her child's fucked-up life, but, well...

The publisher's blurb paints a picture of a woman who's telling a story that could help other mothers in the same situation:

For over three years, Jacqueline Doherty has been watching her rock star son's messy descent into drug addiction. Every step of the way has been charted by a hungry media. And every step of the way has been agony for a loving mum. Pete Doherty's celebrity means that his addiction has become public property. But, Jacqueline is a private person and her painful story is the story of any mum - or any parent - trying to help a child who has gone off the rails.

Granted, she absolutely has a story to tell. A harrowing, gut-wrenching, riveting story. But I must question the wisdom of her timing. Will it help Peter to have even more of the details of his private life splashed into the newspapers of a callous general public? Is that what he needs at this critical -literally- 'do or die' point?

I suppose, on some deep, scary level, Pete might already be dead to her, and perhaps this might be a desperate last-ditch attempt to try and reach a part of him that's still able to focus. If so, I wish her success.

But if nothing else, perhaps it will help disperse the air of 'cartoonish junkie' that lingers about him, and encourage the public to at least remember that there is an actual human being underneath all the mangled wreckage in this car crash.

Of course, it could have the opposite effect and he will become an even bigger punchline.

I just don't know.

The whole thing is so bizarre and perverse. And the most twisted thing of all? I literally ache with the anticipation of reading it.

...

Babyshambles were due to play a festival in Paris over the weekend and, true to form, it was a logistical mess, with two members waiting for Pete at the station 5 (five!) hours, Pete never showing, and the band missing the gig entirely.

Details are still spotty, but evidently the group is still together, and they did manage to play an unscheduled later show somewhere in Paris.

Reports have also filtered in that Pete was noticeably under the influence.

"What we lack in armaments, we make up for with hot cross buns."

2006-06-24T22:25:00.000-04:00

Just when I think I couldn't love the English any more....

Lazy Sunday UK

Country Mouse & City Mouse drive across country together

2006-06-19T21:12:00.000-04:00

Driving on the I-25 in Colorado, the city of Denver glistened in the distance like a wet hooker. She crooked her finger at me sexily, enticing me to come explore her nooks and crannies, and be entertained by her crooks and trannies.

It had been a very long car trip - nearly two months by that point, and we still had another month to go. My travelling companion, Amy, the unquestioned leader of the expedition (because it was her vehicle), and an honest-to-God actual hippie from the 1960's, had an aversion to cities.

"They scare me." she said, when we were making our pre-departure plans.

I had always loved the excitement and danger of cities, but I also liked to play the role of someone who's genial and easy-going, so I assured her that I would be quite happy to stick to back roads and small towns.

Which we did. And did. And did.

Amy was in her glory. And of course, I wasn't. The lack of concrete began to wear on me, and I reached a point where the magic and grandeur of breath-taking scenery constantly spread out before me like Miss January grew to be painfully tedius and impossible to appreciate properly. By the time we'd reached the Grand Canyon, I'd hit the wall.

"It's amazing...", I said to Amy, enthusiastically.
"...for a fucking hole in the ground.", I said to myself, bitterly.

When the cluster of Denver skyscrapers appeared on the horizon as we drove through an early-evening rain, I remarked how beautiful the city looked, all lit up and festive. Pointing to the skyline jutting out of the ground, I turned to Amy and said, "Now those are my kind of mountains!"

She smiled, and immediately took a tire-screeching right turn onto the 470 so that we would bypass the city completely as we searched for our next podunk stopping point.

Some days later, we'd found ourselves in a pleasant spot in the Colorado Rockies. Sitting beside a campfire, our tents were up, dinner had long-ago finished, and we were relaxing with a few beers.

The mountain tops, sillhouetted by a backlight from the setting sun, created a jagged line across the horizon. And it was very quiet. Crickets, the crackle of the fire, and a river running swiftly in the distance was all that could be heard.

Until Amy took a swig of her beer, exhaled with a loud "Aaaahhh!" and said, "Now those are my kind of mountains."

I didn't say anything.

I simply looked at her and furrowed my eyebrows just a teensy bit in the hope of conveying something to her along the lines of: "Yes, those ARE mountains. That was rather the point when I first said it, you fucking dumbass. I was speaking metaphorically to offer a subtle hint that I am up to my fucking neck with nature. And while I'm screaming at you impotently inside my own head, let me assure you that it's been VERY well established that you prefer the real kind of mountains, so there really wasn't any point to you saying that at all, was there? And, another thing, was that the best you could think of? Three days you've had to conjure up some retort and you simply turn my own words back on me? Jesus Christ, why did I agree to this? When is this fucking trip going to be over?!"

Amy set her beer down on the patch of dirt underneath her chair and looked at me, seemingly pleased that she was able to give me a little tit for tat.

I silently turned my head back toward the mountain range. The sun was sinking lower by the second. I shifted to a more comfortable position in my lawn chair, and lifted the bottle of beer to my lips.

"Yep. Those are mountains, alright." I said.

And then I took a drink and pouted. But only for a short while. I had to get to bed. We were heading out early the next morning for Utah and it was my turn to drive.

Hallelujah!

2006-06-18T00:02:00.000-04:00

Jesus was, apparently, not successful in snuffing out Peter's spirit.

Babyshambles spent Friday and Saturday night in Sweden. Pete, just a few days out of detox, was fined for having cocaine in his system (let us pause here to sigh heavily, shake our heads in sad disbelief, & fight the urge to, as one fan threatened, become James Blunt fans).

But the band managed to performed two suitably chaotic and messy shows. Praise!

Management cut the power, but Pete wanted to keep performing.

He fell off the stage onto the shards of glass from the lights he had broken with the mic stand just moments earlier.

And left with two beautiful, albeit obligatory swedish groupies.

Newspaper reports lead one to believe Pete was completely out of his head. But fans (including one who uploaded cell-phone video footage as proof) reported that he looked surprisingly well.

But as with anything involving him, one just never knows what the truth is.

All we know for sure is that, at this moment, Pete Doherty, in all his disheveled, unhygienic glory, lives. And his story continues marching inexorably toward it's inescapable conclusion, handily keeping us all on the edge of our clean, comfortable seats, riveted and horrified.
Bless him.

Boys and Girls, we'uns is in serious trouble here

2006-06-13T09:27:00.000-04:00

This typically daffy and stupidly-easy-to-mock Bush response to a reporter's question received an astounding amount of attention.

Yet this terrifying quote of the day from our Dear Leader has been all but ignored.

So I'm just gonna be blunt: we deserve the ass-raping this guy is giving us.

Northern Belle

2006-06-12T03:55:00.000-04:00

She's driving home, alone, clad in leather jacket, pencil-skirt, and fuck-off pumps. The skyline twinkles on all sides as she races with the early-evening traffic. Her cell phone, expensive sunglasses, handbag, and leather briefcase are sitting on the passenger seat of her shiny black sports car.

Approaching an intersection, the traffic light turns from yellow to red.

"Goddammit.", she sighs, pressing on the brake pedal.

Letting her car roll slowly up behind a white BMW, she brings it to a complete stop and reaches into her handbag for her cigarettes. Lighting one, she exhales and gazes through her side window. She absently begins to entertain one of the scenarios she regularly tinkers with. Like little fire drills in her mind, these are mental rehearsals of what she will do when bad things happen.

Tonight, it's the carjacker-sidling-up-to-the-window-brandishing-a-gun scenario. She's almost decided on the proper course of action to take should it ever happen.

She would pretend to faint.

Of course, it has to be done correctly.

It would be natural to glance upward at the man, so that's what she will do. And because she will be completely unaware of his true intentions, she might even smile coquettishly at him, taking him to be a kindly gentleman, chivalrously alerting her to some complicated mechanical problem that could render her vulnerable to injury.

And then she will glance down and observe the gun.

Her eyes, newly awash with disquietude, will slowly saunter back to meet the evil-doer's cold, steely gaze. After allowing the dastardly varmint to regard a flicker of her distress, her sweet Georgia brown eyes will roll dramatically into the back of her pretty little head.

And then, with delicate grace, she will, as all ladies do when bearing witness to such ungentlemanly conduct, collapse with a flourish onto the horn, thereby innocently sounding a distress signal.

After all, it's rightly unthinkable that even a crackhead carjacking blackguard could shoot a dainty damsel overcome by a case of the vapors!

Fiddle dee dee. Why, the very idea...

The light turns green and the swish of engines revving snaps her to attention. She presses her foot down hard on the accelerator and flicks ash out the opening of her window. She speeds off into the encroaching darkness that hovers ominously before her, and glances into her rearview mirror, imagining the ghost of her assailant being ground into a pile of bloody, mangled pulp underneath the parade of cars following behind her.

Up yours, Mount Rushmore

2006-06-12T01:31:00.000-04:00

I looked up into the night sky as a big, bright moon cast subtle shadows in my peripheral vision. A feathery cloud formation skittered across the horizon in a single line, stretching for miles. It looked exactly like an x-ray of a human spinal column.

"Cool.", I said. Because it was.

The moon is thought to have the face of a gentle, mirthful man.
The sun is a powerful king that we do not dare to look directly at. Rock formations are "old men" or President Kennedy
God is jealous and vengeful, or loving and forgiving.
Nature is a mother(fucker).

We like to attribute human qualities to things in the natural world. It appeals to our egos and eases our fears that we might be every bit as insignificant as dustmites. By having something of our likeness reflected on a grand scale, it confirms our suspicions (and hope) that we are the best thing going in this world.

But since nature can't be counted on to regularly stick her tongue down the backs of our trousers, we mostly have to stroke our own egos.

So we put up thousands of bronze statues of ourselves in city parks, create The Academy Awards, and the Nobel Prize, and use T.N.T. to blast our faces into mountain sides. Such a huge expanse of energy and time for no other reason that to be able to say, "Aren't we the shit?!".

We're really no better than some insipid, insecure celebrity who buys his own star for the Hollywood Walk Of Fame.

All of our self-aggrandizing pomp is tacky and tawdry when compared to the graceful, quiet ease in which a gargantuan rendering of a spinal column can appear in the sky, incomprehensible and sublime for a few short minutes, and then just slowly fizzle away.

A quiet, placid late spring night

2006-06-11T03:10:00.000-04:00

Last night, I stepped onto the back patio to have a cigarette. It was as deep into the dead of night as it's possible to be. The time of night when the only thing stirring are the rapists, robbers, and various flying insects, who skulk about looking for the opportunity to molest an innocent lady standing on her back patio, alone and vulnerable.

I could feel my pupils stretching wide open in their desperation to suck in as much light as they could possibly squeeze out of the blackness that surrounded me. And I was grateful that they recognized the gravity of the situation we were all in.

Hi, it's God. I'm either away from my desk or busy assisting other worshippers. Leave your name and invocation after the beep & I'll call you back.

2006-06-06T15:06:00.000-04:00

BEEEEP!

Ashtray

2006-06-04T00:55:00.000-04:00

A flint sparks a
yellow tongue
hissing as it licks
the cigarette tip

scorched tobacco
sizzles ominously
as it takes to
fiendish
malevolent
life

and my ashtray is a
snake charmer's basket
from which
a serpentine stream
of venomous smoke
slithers upward
sensually
seductively
writhing in shades
of ash

On not being dead

2006-06-02T11:46:00.000-04:00

Today, I've become the age that Jack Benny was every year until the day he died.

I have a feeling that this year, my funny-as-fuck Jack Benny year, is going to be good. Due in no small part to the sudden absense of the niggling thought that I would only live to be 38.

There was no rational reason to think this, of course. I'm healthy and my people generally reach into the very respectable 70's before snuffing it. So why I thought it, I don't really know. Maybe I imagine I'm unique and expect to be one of those who gets the "Oh, she was so young..." comments said about her by shocked mourners. Maybe it's because fat, lethargic smokers are supposed to exit early.

Maybe 38 just felt somehow like my number.

Robyn Hitchcock once said about death (paraphrasing here), "It's like the last present under the tree, but we never get to open it and find out what it is."

We all know it's coming. Even if we don't think or talk about it every day, we all know death awaits. I'm not afraid of it, exactly, but I would like to know ahead of time when it will be my turn, so I can ease into the idea and make the transition as neat and tidy as possible. Like on a quiet Sunday night at home, when you're folding laundry & packing a lunch for the start of your work week....

Now, I don't fold laundry on Sunday nights, and I'm usually racing around like a speed-freak trying to throw something edible together for lunch before dashing out the door. But I like to think that, on the eve of my death, I would seriously get my shit in order. Of course, knowing just how strong my aptitude for procrastination is, that's probably a pipe dream.

But still, if given the option to know my expiration date, I would choose yes.

I made it through age 38 and my feeling of dread was wrong. So to come right out and say that I expect my 39th year to be good, likely means that in the coming months, I will lose a leg in a combining accident. Or inherit the collected works of Bob Seger. Or a large insect will gain entrance into my body via some unsecured orifice whilst I'm sleeping, and wreak havoc with the copper piping.

All horrifying, but very survivable, maladies.

And lingering in the back of my mind, for no other reason than 'just because', is the number 44.

Wait, I've changed my mind - I love God.

2006-06-01T10:21:00.000-04:00

Woman Hit By Lightning While Praying

DAPHNE, Ala. -- Worried about the safety of her family during a stormy Memorial Day trip to the beach, Clara Jean Brown stood in her kitchen and prayed for their safe return as a strong thunderstorm rumbled through Baldwin County, Alabama.

But while she prayed, lightning suddenly exploded, blowing through the linoleum and leaving a blackened area on the concrete. Brown wound up on the floor, dazed and disoriented by the blast but otherwise uninjured.

She said 'Amen' and the room was engulfed in a huge ball of fire.

*stands to applaud* Beautiful!

Any guesses as to what our faithful worshipper had to say about the incident?

The 65-year-old Brown said she is blessed to be alive.

And there it is. Sigh.

God specifically tosses a lightening bolt down on this woman's house, misses her, and she thinks it's a blessing.

Isn't it possible that God just has really shitty aim?

ooooga boooga....6/6/06 is coming

2006-05-30T14:44:00.000-04:00

From The Sun Newspaper:

Woman balks at having 6/6/6 'devil' baby

CAVERSHAM, England, May 30 (UPI) -- A woman in England due to give birth on June 6 is fighting with her hospital to induce her sooner to avoid delivering on the demonic date of 6/6/6.

Melissa Parker, 30, said as a fan of "The Omen," a movie about a demonic child, she's genuinely concerned about the numerology involved, The Sun reported Tuesday.

"I'm terrified the birth will go wrong or the child will have evil in him or her," Parker said. "Even worse my beautiful baby could be the devil himself -- the anti-Christ."

A perfectly rational fear.

History is, after all, simply teeming with accounts of past infestations of demon infants that cropped up whenever a day comprised of three sixes rolled round on the calendar.

I recall reading somewhere that there are three demons still alive from the last batch born in 1906. All three are in nursing homes, withering away, and waxing nostalgic to anyone who will listen about their glory days as instigating forces behind such evils as the stock market crash, the Holocaust, Bob Segar records, and the birth of Jerry Falwell.

The Sun tabloid is only slightly more respectable than Weekly World News, so I assume the story of this dipshit woman is "creative reporting". A relief, frankly, as the thought of such stupidity actually being prevalent in my beloved England is physically painful.

Had this story, however, been about an American woman, I wouldn't be inclined to so easily dismiss it, for the simple fact that we are up to our necks in twaddling nutjubs over here.

There's nary a 2 mile stretch without a church of some kind in my neck of the woods. People take their religion very fucking seriously here. Which would be fine if their beliefs didn't very fucking seriously affect my life here.

It's discouraging and maddening to see such unquestioning devotion to something that, due to lack of all proof to the contrary, is, essentially, a fairytale. The Big Daddy In The Sky watches over us, gives us rules to live by, and, if we do good, rewards us with riches and lets our football team win the big game.

It all has such a cozy, tucked-up-in-bed feeling, doesn't it?

But, like everything, it's got a dark side. We see traces of it in the story of this woman, afraid of a number on a calendar. All too often, it goes much, much darker.

I would bet money that, if a study were done in American hospitals, it would show an increase in the number of c-sections and inducements in the days leading up to June 6th of this year.

And I can't help wondering how many women, warped by years of heavy religious indoctrination, have had (or have been encouraged to have) abortions within the last year simply because they'd been given the most undesirable due date of all.

Which, in that circumstance, could perhaps be a fetus' best option. Because if you're walking around thinking there's a chance you might birth the antichrist, aborting it would probably be less damaging than you raising it.

Full article - with picture of the terrified mum-to-be here

This'll be in your head a few hours. Caution advised

2006-05-26T13:28:00.000-04:00

Keep Your Jesus Off My Penis

The Stephen Colbert problem

2006-05-25T08:17:00.000-04:00

While it is irrestistably tempting to giggle and assume that Tom Delay is a pop-culture illiterate who misses entirely the point of the mockery so inherent in Stephen Colbert's nightly show, I just don't think he is that stupid.

I do believe, however, he thinks voters are.

Perhaps, in this case, he might be right.

In the days after Colbert's legendary, jaw-dropping performance at the White House Correspondents Dinner, a search through the comments section on any political blog would reveal more than a few relieved lefties admitting that the speech had finally convinced them that Colbert was not actually a Bush conservative.

While Jon Stewart's televised reactions to Bush administration exploits --wide-eyed shock, rapid head-shaking, outbursts of maniacal laughter-- do little to mask his political bias, Colbert plays it stoic and aloof, giving absolutely no hint that he's just kidding.

He typically stares down liberal guests with that eyebrow arched to absurd heights, and uses interview techniques that, when read, could very easily be imagined happening on Fox news.

An excerpt from his interview with James Webb, a Vietnam veteran running for Senate as a Democrat:

Webb: The United States should not be bogged down as an occupying power in that part of the world [Iraq].

Colbert: But we're not an occupying power, we're a liberating power. Or haven't you been reading the newspapers?

..

Colbert: Are you saying we shouldn't have gone to war in Iraq?

Webb: I don't think we should have gone into Iraq, no.

Colbert: So you do not think we should have liberated the Iraqi people? You'd rather see them under Saddam? Saddam is good to you.

Webb: Umm...no...I..

Colbert: I'm just saying that's what you just said.

The audience laughs, as do his guests (albeit uneasily), but Colbert remains stone-faced and firmly entrenched in his character: a loyal, sincere patriot, determinedly marching on to do his part to save our threatened nation from the america-hating, patchouli-wearing, Democrats.

Americans are, by nature, direct, straight-forward people. The subtlety and nuance in irony is not widely practiced and revered here, as it is in, say, Great Britain. Therefore many Americans are simply incapable of detecting it.

So it would be advantageous for a badly-injured politician, like Delay, to try and capitalize on that gap in our collective psyche to not only regain some ground, but hopefully also soak up some of Colbert's desperately-needed "cool" factor in the process.

After all, the Bush administration was able to create a bizarre alternate reality for themselves for the last 4 and 1/2 years that we are still decades away from truly understanding.

We should not be surprised that, in these dark Republican days, they are still looking for fresher markets to twist and manipulate for their own self-preservation.

And the problem with Colbert, is that he makes it easier to be usurped by them because he is so fiendishly good at what he does.

Stephen Colbert and Jon Stewart are comedians. And their first loyalty is to their comedy and their audience. But we, those of us out here in bizarro-world, as sad as this is to admit, are looking at these two men as being amongst our brightest beacons of light to lead us out of this fog.

So when the enemy starts sniffing around one of 'em, it kinda gets the hackles up.

Bush and his guys have the three governing branches, they're stocking the courts in their favour as fast as they can, and they have got the press in a head-lock.

Funny that they should have all those bases covered, yet still need Comedy Central.

The tragic flaw of the velvet rope

2006-05-22T17:46:00.000-04:00

Being almost 40 and gainfully employed, I'm not very hip to minor Hollywood types, so until a few days ago, I'd never heard of Brandon Davis.

Evidently, apart from being Mischa Barton's ex-boyfriend, he is the heir to a vast oil fortune, and, judging by the widely-circulated paparazzi video featuring his comments abouts Lindsay Lohan, he is also a complete gaping asshole.

One of my guilty pleasures is watching the videos taken by photographers who hound celebrities as they shop, go to dinner, or out to clubs. It's a window into a strange and fascinating world.

Despite the fact that nearly every one of these little strumpets and cads seem vapid and devoid of any redeeming qualities, the reality is that their exploits are followed by millions of Americans.

Perhaps, in a variation on an old chestnut, we get the celebrities we deserve. If that's true, it certainly says something about us that we get Paris Hilton.

The lovely Ms. Hilton was featured prominantly in the video with Mr. Davis. In it, he is, we must charitably assume, drunk, and spewing obscenely graphic and tasteless insults about Ms. Lohan's genitalia. Paris follows behind him, laughing far too loudly, and occasionally whispering into his ear, presumably egging him on.

But it's near the end of his tirade that we see just what a sub-human he really is when he is seated in Hilton's expensive sports car, smoking a cigarette and heavy-lidded, and he tells us that Lindsay Lohan has 7 million dollars which means "she's really poor".

The implication of that, of course, is that Lohan is poor in comparison to himself (and Hilton) who stands to inherit much, much more. Yeeeikes.

And that's where he got himself into trouble. If he'd just stuck to his 4th grade pussy jokes, this probably would have been dismissed as him being a drunken idiot. But he took it somewhere that rich people are obliged not to take it.

We po' folk assume that, in private and amongst others of their kind, the rich glorify in their wealth. They roll around naked in large piles of dirty, dirty money, and they raise their crystal stemware and smile knowingly to one another whilst flying in their private planes and dining on their sumptuous meals prepared by world-famous chefs.

But in public, they are supposed to pretend like it doesn't matter. That the money doesn't make them different, or better than the rest of us. We (and they) know it's just a lie, but we expect them keep their end of the facade up.

Brandon Davis broke the rule, and one brave, raven-haired prole made him pay the price for it.

Catching him as he was coming out of a club, the unidentified woman verbally accosted Brandon with a string of piercing insults that drew far more blood than any of the borderline-retarded remarks he made about Lohan.

"Lindsay Lohan earns her money, Brandon. You get it from daddy."

Her attack was relentless and vicious, several times calling him a "little bitch".

In full view of cameras, he could risk no further damage to his reputation. So he did nothing but walk away, taking all of her venom silently with him.

And no one --not any of the dozens of people milling around, not even his friends-- no one stepped up to defend him.

Gas prices are not high enough.

2006-05-19T10:13:00.000-04:00

And they won't be until all the 4x4 behemoths are off the highway.

I do not arrive at my anti-big-vehicle standpoint as a result of some crazed belief that Global Warming is on the horizon. It might very well be, but I just can't see that it's a result of anything that we puny humans are putting into the air.

If anything, I believe it's a natural phenomenon and indicative of the fact that everything in nature is cyclical. And much like those fucking killer bees that I have been waiting for since the mid '70's, it probably ain't gonna affect me in my lifetime.

What does have a far more immediate affect on me is the fact that these Hummers and Dodge Rams (oh..has there ever been a more apt name for a vehicle?) are driven by individuals who clearly are suffering from a loss of control in some area of their lives and are compensating for it through scary, aggressive driving.

I drive a teeny, tiny little Scion XA which is the cutest, most wonderful car that has ever rolled upon the earth. But if one of these spare-bedroom-on-wheels ever hits me, I will be liquified.

Just the other night, some SUV-driving-tiny-dick passed me on the right shoulder of a two-lane main street. And that motherfucking cocksucking asshole prickhead needs to be punished (in a way that won't entail me breaking a nail, or a sweat).

So in homage to John Ashcroft, I sing:

"Let the gas price sooooaaar,
like it's never sooooared before
from rocky coast to golden shooooore
let the mighty gas price sooooaaar...."

Here's hoping we'll reach $3.99 at some point this summer. In Jesus' name I pray....

Elliotts are always good guys

2006-05-18T12:46:00.000-04:00

It was a little heartbreaking to see Elliott Yamin sent home.

The video clip from the visit to his hometown was sweet; throwing out the first pitch in a baseball game, meeting the governor, and his mother, overwhelmed & weeping in the parade car.

Then his lovely, bewildered reaction, in a poignant display of his modesty, to the middle-aged female customer at the pharmacy he once worked for, who squeals and tells him how nervous she is: "Why? I'm the same guy who used to work here, man."

And just when you think you can't like the guy any more, the video concludes and the camera cuts back to Elliott live on stage, and we see his face streaked with tears, touched by the visual reminder of just how much this experience has given him.

Loved that.

He must have sensed he was going home, because, unlike the dead-eyed-stare-of-shock that Chris "too cool for muthafuckin school" Daughtry gave us, Elliott seemed happy and more than satisfied when he went to stand with Ryan after the results were revealed.

In a country where you can't walk 20 feet without encountering some obnoxious jackass who thinks they are The Best! Number One! A Winner!, it's awful damn refreshing to see someone be genuinely grateful and appreciative to have just gotten close enough for a near miss.

As for who will win - I'm sticking with my original prediction that Kat will walk away the winner. For the following reasons:

#1. She is being heavily discounted against Taylor
#2. Taylor has never once been in the bottom two
#3. She seems more pliable, and more "lite-rock-fm" friendly than Taylor
#4. Of the two, I want Taylor to win, and I never get what I want in these matters.

Thus, it's gonna be Katharine.

Will Karl Rove Fucking Get Indicted, Already?!?!

2006-05-15T15:09:00.000-04:00

Not because I want to glorify in the further destruction of this woefully mismanaged and incompetent administration...well, okay, maybe I do. But that's not the main reason.

No. The real reason I'm waiting for the chubby funster to be brought up is because I can't wait to see Patrick Fitzgerald, the greatest American Hero, the Dudley Do-Right to our collective Nell Fenwick, and all-round nummy, yummy, hot-ass stud, do this...:

...on TV again.

Oh God, I love him so. What I wouldn't give for a weekend to spend trying to corrupt him.

United 93

2006-05-15T01:53:00.000-04:00

I expected something from this film. I'm not sure what, exactly, but...something.

A really good film will haunt us for a day or two. But United 93 provoked so little thought, that upon waking the next morning, it was several hours before I even remembered that I'd seen it the previous day.

It's very sad (although not surprsing), that the first mainstream cinematic rendering of the attack is so tepid and unchallenging. It's merely a chronological rehash: beginning with a scene of Arabic-speaking men in a hotel room, praying and performing grooming rituals, and ending in a chaotic push of terrified passengers into the cockpit.

The script relies heavily on well-documented news reports and interviews with people closely involved. It doesn't teach us anything new, it offers no original insight, and it does not have a point of view. It is simply the re-telling of a story that every single one of us certainly remembers all too vividly.

Thus, one is left with the question: why was this film even made?

Perhaps it's because the film-makers believe that most Americans prefer to be entertained, rather than be expected to think about the issue and it's deeper implications. If that's so, then the film achieved it's objective.

The acting was good, the setting was realistic, the story line was tense & gripping. So in that sense, it's a really good film.

But for the fact that it's about the most significant event that most Americans alive today have ever witnessed, it fails by focusing merely on the spectacle of September 11th.

Thanks to television and the Internet, we were all there on that awful Tuesday morning. And nothing from Hollywood can ever hope to surpass the horror of watching the event unfold right before our very own eyes.

But what if we were to find out who is at fault for allowing it to happen? Because someone somewhere dropped the ball; a mistake resulting in the deaths of nearly 3000 people.

Certainly if this film had dared to ask that question (or any of a number of other questions still unanswered about the attack), it's existence might then be justified. But it didn't, and the result is a movie that feels cheap and exploitative.

Womb for rent

2006-05-14T02:24:00.000-04:00

This commentary by John Gibson is.....wow.

At first I was shocked soley by the blatant racism of his statements - warning whitey that if we don't start producing children, we'll be the minority in a couple short decades.

However, it's frightening to realize that what it really is, is an open acknowledgement that we'll need plenty of bodies to use in the future as we enter into what will surely be a long, hard war with Islamists.

Sigh.

It's all so very frustrating. We have all these people who supposedly want us dead, and I still have no fucking idea why they hate us!

Did they announce it when I was out of the room, or something? Does anyone know why??
Help a girl out....

Nice, but it ain't quite Limbaugh

2006-05-07T01:14:00.000-04:00

Conservative radio talk show radio host admits he was wrong about Bush

Well, it's far too little, far too late, and the damage has been done, and we will all be dealing with the aftermath of Bush's rampant fuck-uppery for decades, but still - yay for us.

It was a very eloquent speech, and I do give Mr. McIntyre credit for his honesty. Of course, he isn't in any grave danger of being pilloried as an America-hating traitor (what with so many rats leaving the ship these days), so, unlike in the euphoric afterglow of watching Stephen Colbert's speech at the press club dinner, I'm not even remotely inclined to offer any oral gratification in thanks for his bravery.

Still, it's always nice to have another pinch of vindication for my collection. So thank you, Mr. McIntyre. Too bad you're so late to come around. You might have been able to use your voice to help prevent us from being in a hole quite this deep.

You've got some ground to make up.

So get to steppin' - pronto! It's been a few days since Bush has done something insane or stupid. He's overdue.

That's MISTER Colbert to you, punk

2006-05-04T09:54:00.000-04:00

I'm a huge Stephen Colbert fan, and enough of a pathetic nerd that I honestly couldn't wait to watch The White House Correspondents Dinner on C-Span. On a Saturday night. Alone. With a cat. Sigh.

My loserdom notwithstanding, I settled in and waited for the big guy to take the mic. I felt a sense of unease. Being an unabashed worshipper of anything Daily Show, the thought of one of my little Godlets turning in a bad performance at a high-falutin' event is painful. And with Bush in attendance, I wondered if Stephen would crack under the pressure and be the first of the bunch to show his mortality.

A quarter of the way in, I began to wonder if he had a death wish:

I stand by this man. I stand by this man because he stands for things. Not only for things, he stands on things. Things like aircraft carriers and rubble and recently flooded city squares. And that sends a strong message: that no matter what happens to America, she will always rebound -- with the most powerfully staged photo ops in the world.

Fucking hell!

I was bathed in the comforting glow of my own television set, and my stomach was in knots from tension. Yet Stephen was delivering barb after poisoned-tip barb directly to the Leader of the Free World in a very public setting, and there wasn't a single bead of sweat, nor the slightest tremor in his hands.

Even when he botched a set up, he took a moment, regrouped, and carried on. It was a masterful performance from someone who, it should be noted, has neither the reputation, nor the experience of other humourists or political satirists that could have been hired for this event.

It's amusing to see Bush sympathizers try to level the sting of his performance by making the accusation that he simply wasn't funny. Okay, fine. Some didn't think he was "funny". But funny is subjective and can't be argued.

What can be argued is whether or not Stephen's points hit their mark. And I have yet to see anyone in the Bush camp stepping up to claim they didn't.

There have been cries (no real tears, though - the big fakers) that it "went too far" and was "disrespectful" to the prez. To which I say, hey - these are serious fucking times we are living in! Thanks, in large part, to this current administration's behaviour, everyone is out for blood.

Stephen Colbert and his mighty, mighty balls of truth stepped into the ring and tossed a few jabs of his own. And he did himself, his show, the Jon Stewart legacy, and the people of this nation whose voices have been effectively stifled the past 4 years, very proud indeed.

Matt and Trey, you make my day

2006-04-13T10:43:00.000-04:00

South Park pulled out the howitzer from their bag of punches for last night's episode.

As a long-time fan, I knew it was going to be hard-hitting, but Jesus Christ....I almost cried, it was so beautiful.

The cliff-hanger of the two-part episode was whether or not Comedy Central would allow a simple, innocuous rendering of Muhammed to be shown. Trey, in his exciting, dramatic voice-over , asked: "Will television executives fight for free speech? Or will Comedy Central puss out?"

The answer to that question:

They did, however, allow Matt and Trey to beam something else out to all of us in the cozy sanctuary of our Christian-nation living rooms: animated images of George W. Bush and Jesus shitting on each other and the American flag under a big, smiley yellow American sun.

And of course, that's not anywhere near as offensive as an animation of Muhammad standing in a doorway.

So, well played, Comedy Central! You dodged a bullet.

Christ, I am plum warred out

2006-04-12T15:19:00.000-04:00

The War On Easter is officially on.

This one is heating up.

Still burning hot is the War on Terror, including the War in Iraq and the War in Afghanistan. Cooling down slightly, but still greatly impacting the Homeland's prison population & street crime levels, is the War on Drugs. The War On Poverty rarely gets talked about, but we've still not declared victory, so it's still raging somewhere, I guess. And wasn't there a war on Illiteracy at one point? There probably is. And in November, after the elections, probably, the War On Christmas will probably heat up again.

And don't forget, tomorrow night is the exciting conclusion of South Park's 2-part episode entitled 'Cartoon Wars'.

Chicks ain't nothin' but bitches

2006-04-12T09:29:00.000-04:00

Big, strong Norm at onegoodmove has provided a link to a story that's got little ol' me all a'twitter.

It's about a MISS Ruth Maholtra. She's a 22 year old student at Georgia Tech University, ardently conservative, and, judging from her many documented cases of rabble-rousing, I think she's a little bit addicted to the thrill of creating controversy.

In her latest audacious display of very undainty aggression, she's fighting against her school's policy of protecting homosexuals from hate speech.

Speaking as a proud Libertarian, I agree that laws protecting ANYONE - gays, blacks, women, dumb-fuck Christians - from hate speech are ridiculous. Human beings are, by nature, hateful, judgemental creatures, and any attempts to legislate that out of us is bound to fail.

It does nothing but create a warped sense of entitlement from those being protected, and hostility and resentment from those who are stifled. Forced sensitivity has not worked thus far. And it never will.

But the interesting thing I've discovered in my brief research of MISS Malhotra, is that she's a living, breathing stereotype of the contemporary young conservative; very religious, pro-Bush, anti-abortion, advocate of traditional families, etc. In short, she, like the rest of her clean-cut cohorts, are hippies in reverse. The times, they are a-changin', indeed.

I fully accept the ebb and flow of the social pendulum. That whatever popular mind-set was once on top, will eventually be trampled upon, only to rise up again one day. But what I just can't understand about these New Lady Conservatives (Official Motto: You're going backward, baby!) is their vein-bulging, reactionary hatred of the women's lib movement. These dames just despise the bra-burners of the 60's and 70's.

It strikes me as odd because, essentially, all the major players of the era, Greer, Steinem, et al, and the movement itself have strategically been marginalized. They play almost no role in the public discourse any longer, apart from being the target of scorn and derision and blamed for almost everything that's wrong in contemporary society.

Here is what MISS Maholtra has to say about Betty Friedan:

Friedan, rooted in radical activism, provoked her generation of women with anti-male sentiment, denigrating the traditional role of women and redefining the structure and composition of the American family. Freidan’s initiative spawned numerous national organizations, which continually distort facts to generate support and seek to establish a gender-neutral society without any respect to intrinsic biological and social differences. On campuses the ripple effect is obvious, as young women question the validity of traditional values and unwittingly opt for the attractive escapism offered by the feminists.

Clearly, Betty was a cunt. And, evidently, a powerful one if she's still rippling in the world of academia.

But MISS Maholtra needs enemies to rail against. And I guess that gays, atheists, Howard Dean, and people who drink and/or do the Hustle at wedding receptions just aren't enough.

So this egregious little whippersnapper will spit in the face of the very thing that most certainly helped provide her with many of the opportunities she enjoys this very day. Who cares that it was, at it's heart, sincere, but, like everything else, including her current utopian vision, ultimately imperfect?

Though I don't know for a fact, I tend to doubt Miss Maholtra is married. I imagine she, like many of her kind, is far too busy defending traditional feminine values from constant attacks to actually participate in them herself. Ironically, another freedom she enjoys thanks to the very women she derides. If this were 1955, she'd be pitied and dismissed.

And there's also something else:

"Feminism was established so as to allow unattractive women easier access to the mainstream of society."

Rush Limbaugh said that. And in a final bit of irony, I've seen Miss Maholtra's picture. Oh, she definitely owes feminists a debt of gratitude.

You do it to yourself, you do, and that's what really hurts

2006-04-11T10:54:00.000-04:00

The gigantic pair of brass balls that the collective of this Bush administration have swung with such arrogant force seem to be shrinking. The poll numbers are rolling in fast and furious, and each one seems to be a teensy bit worst than the last.

Isn't it time they pulled out a threat level upgrade? Oh, wait - they're gonna save that til a month or so before the midterm election, aren't they?

Project Vote Smart to the rescue!

2006-04-04T08:40:00.000-04:00

Apathy is, arguably, the biggest threat of all to our country. We citizens need to be more involved, and to be more aware of what fat-cats are doing in our names with our money. Too many of us aren't.

Project Vote Smart is a non-partison, citizen-driven effort to promote and help enable American citizens to make more educated choices at the ballot box.

It is very easy to understand why people are confused, or bored, or turned off to politics these days. Most of us get our news from screeching, partisan harpies on the 24 hour cable channels. And what has Ann Coulter ever truly inspired apart from contempt from her foes, smugness from her admirers, and the need to turn the channel from everyone else?

And politicians certainly aren't falling over backward to encourage their constituents to wise up. It's easier for them when we're passive, ankle-deep in Doritos crumbs, on the couch, watching Elimidate. So long as their campaign ad is the one that we remember at the polls, it's all good, baby.

So the good people at PVS are doing a noble thing. And they deserve gratitude and support.

Here at Project Vote Smart, Americans young and old volunteer their time, take no money from special interest groups, and have committed themselves to an extraordinary effort that, if successful, will provide their fellow citizens with the tools for a reemergence of political power not known for half a century. Their idea is one you may have thought of yourself. It is a deceptively simple concept but enormously difficult to achieve and would not be possible without the collaboration of citizens willing to lay their partisan differences aside for this one crucial task.

This project is an historic undertaking. Citizens come together, not in selfish interest or to support one candidate over another, but to defend democracy. It is an extraordinary gathering of people committed to one purpose: to strengthen the most essential component of democracy -- access to information -- even as it suffers grave attacks from candidates and political parties, many who are now willing to manipulate information and deceive voters.

In essence, what Project Vote Smart's interns and volunteers have done is ensure that tolerance will no longer be the only option available to the millions of us who are tormented by the issueless rhetoric and often misleading attacks that define contemporary American politics.

This just in: Matt Drudge Enjoys Fueling Gay Speculation

2006-04-02T21:49:00.000-04:00

Bush: Et tu, Salt Lake Tribune?

2006-04-02T14:38:00.000-04:00

It's not often a political cartoon evokes a lump in the throat.

This one sure does, though.

Am I alone in thinking that was an odd choice of words for Condoleeza? A woman so well-versed in practicing very, very careful deception? Thousands.

A year or so ago, one Sunday morning, I was sleeping on the couch with the TV on. I woke up for a couple of minutes, and heard Condi's voice on Meet The Press still trying to sell this fucking war - despite it being already two years old.

"But Tim, everyone, not just the United States, believed that Saddam had weapons of mass destruction..."
"But Tim, the Iraqi people are FREE now..."
"But Tim, we just don't give one leap-frogging fuck about any of the other tyrants and despots that are sprinkled around the globe..."

blah, blah, endlessly nauseatingly blah.

And now she slips up (or, perhaps, is following orders and changing her tactics in the big effort to spike GW's poll rating ) and actually tells us something that lacks the usual arrogance and seems dangerously close to the truth.

But regardless of whether this is just a case of bad wording, or whether it is a calculated move, it doesn't matter. She, and the rest of this crew of maniacs are finally, FINALLY feeling some pressure.

The Jedi Mind-Trick is losing it's power. The fog of blind panic and fear from September 11th is starting to dissipate. Critical thought and reason are returning, like patches of blue sky peeking out through the clouds.

And Condi's reward for her "honesty" is the starring role in an editorial cartoon that punctures like a nail bomb.

Fortunately for her, only in the figurative sense.

Who in the hell do I think I am?

2006-03-27T01:48:00.000-05:00

Hi. Welcome.

I, like the vast majority of people who cruelly foist their thoughts upon an already word-logged world, have no defining philosophy and no specific focus.

My head is often cluttered, disorganized, and subject to take jack-rabbit runs in opposing directions depending on what information it gets fed. So topic, tone, mood, and activity level could sometimes be erratic.

Or maybe it won't. It's just so hard predict the behaviour of the whim-driven.

At any rate, I've joined the cocophonous blog-herd and am ready to start braying! So I offer my small, insignificant mind-minutia up for perusal, potentially a little enjoyment, and critique.

It will take some time to become acclimated to this environment and to feel comfortable. Right now, I feel rather like my date is knocking at the front door and I'm still running around in curlers, one shoe on, trying to zip my dress up.

But keep knocking. I'll be presentable soon enough.

Oh, and I don't put out on the first date. So watch the hands, bub.

Mickey