Sunday, October 30, 2005

And another thing...

I am just. so. over. the religious proselytizing. Most of the time, you see a piece of paper on the sidewalk, odds are it's yet another "you will BURN in the fires of HELL unless you REPENT your very EXISTENCE" pamphlets. Jehovah's Witnesses and Mormons, every other week it seems like, ringing my bell, not in a good way. Crazy-ass preacher yesterday in the middle of the greenmarket. ("The BIIIBLE says you must FEAR God above all else--" I said, "The Bible also says that you should pray in your closet instead of standing in the middle of the street making a spectacle of yourself." He thunders back, "I'm not praying, I'm PREACHING, sinner!--" I wandered off. The produce was a lot more interesting).

And in the subway, you know, it's Scientologists to the right of me, Falun Gong to the left, and here I am, stuck in the middle with way too many fucking huddled masses till the goddam train comes already...

And this is of course just here in NYC. This is just smalltime shit. Let's not even talk about Falwell and Dobson and the rest of that bunch, for now at least.

But anyway so now I'm pondering what would happen if the rest of us--heathens, pagans and infidels--decided to start a missionary program or two of our own. On the subway, drop leaflets that are xeroxed excerpts of "Sister Mary Ignatius Explain It All For You," or "Beyond Good and Evil," or even maybe just plain old sex-positive pamphlets, with helpful instructions and diagrams. maybe gay folk should start recruiting, or at least door-to-door educating. maybe PFLAG should start sending out sincere, nicely dressed boys and girls in twos and threes to ring bells in the heartland. maybe we should send ringers to hang around or even attend places like Oral Roberts College and Patrick Henry University, and target and try to stealth deprogram some of 'em. why the hell not? hey, maybe just because they're paranoid doesn't mean we shouldn't actually be out to get them.

One year later, or near enough

Thought for the day:

“The race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong.”

Well, no shit, Ecclesiastes.

Then again, it’s difficult to be stoic these days. At least it feels so to me, has done for the past 800 years or however long it's been since the Shrub has taken root.

“Banality of evil” is one thing; but here we’ve crossed over into full-on dorkitude of evil. Even as apparently the whole lot of them is fragmenting before our very eyes...probably...which warms my shrivelled little heart, don't get me wrong...the fact remains that the motherfuckers got in as far as they did in the damn first place. Which is incredible. It goes against Social Darwinism and Intelligent Design. Maybe it's Boneheaded Design, I dunno. I sure as shit can't see the providence here.

And so, speaking of banal, as we head toward yet another Election Day, I ask, once more, with feeling:

How, God? How did this happen? Twice?

No, okay, specifically:

Sometime during that Tuesday last year, I forget when exactly, the sun was still out, I’m walking along the street, thinking my thoughts, when I see this piece of it looks like blank paper, lying in the gutter. Not exactly an unusual sight, here in New York City, but for whatever reason I just have this...feeling, as I’m walking past it. I can’t quite name it; I’m sure the Germans have a word for it. “Unterheimlichschmertz,” perhaps: the dawning awareness of a still-dormant-but-slowly-surfacing nausea and/or gutpunched feeling. Something like that. So I stop in the middle of the sidewalk. Then, feeling only slightly ridiculous, I go to push the piece of paper over with my foot. It’s just a rudimentary homemade poster on computer paper; it had been lying face down. On the flip side, it says, in big black font:

BUSH KEPT US SAFE. WILL JOHN KERRY?

I stood there for oh, maybe a good minute or so. It was a rather nice day, for early November. Bluish sky, pale sunshine, crunchy red leaves, the odd squirrel here and there.

BUSH KEPT US SAFE.

Dear God.

I mean, I suppose it’s possible that someone out in deepest Utah came up to Manhattan, dropped his or her little billet into the street, and then I don’t know, went home, or maybe stuck around, took in a show, got a clandestine blowjob in a backroom, whatever, the POINT is, okay, at least just tell me that that wasn’t a New Yorker who made that. Because to think that somewhere, in this very city, the one that was actually attacked, the one that actually saw the whole unbelievable thing happen, SOMEONE, that’s been living here since then and seen exactly how much “help” we got from the federal government, to think that a NEW YORKER, any New Yorker, even that junkie kid who screams and howls on the corner while wearing nothing but a garbage bag, could actually really believe

BUSH KEPT US SAFE

... well, one simply doesn’t think such things, because that way madness lies.

So what I did then, was, I stomped on the piece of paper. Hard. Several times. Till it ripped. Then, I stood on it with both feet and jumped up and down. I think I may have screamed and swore a little. This is one of the great things about New York, that you can do such things in public and everyone will pretend not to notice. Although, later on, while I was eating lunch, some British guy came up to me and said, “You must have really not liked that poster.” He seemed mostly amused. Now he has a story to tell his friends when he goes home, I suppose. Then they can all laugh and drink their tea and make some ever so dry remark about those wacky Americans, you never know what they’ll do next, throw tea into the harbor (but not this lot, ahahaha), pitch temper tantrums at inanimate objects in public, re-elect a man who not only managed to kill off peace and prosperity in a mere four years but is dumber than a truck full of chickens going to town, not that the British would use that expression. And, started a war with the wrong country, based on a lot of made-up shit about weapons of mass destruction that ooops, they never had; and still doesn’t see what the problem is. And, last but not least, and to bring us back to the original point, who WAS PRESIDENT DURING THE WORST FUCKING TERRORIST ATTACK THAT HAD EVER HAPPENED, not just “on American soil,” as if that were all that mattered, but anywhere.

Bush was president. When 9/11 happened. Not before. Not after. During. Which, putting all tinfoil theories aside, would at least seem to suggest that he and/or his administration, you know, fucked up, bigtime. And yet, somebody, somewhere *in New York* not only believes that

BUSH KEPT US SAFE

but went to the trouble to flyer the sidewalk with that sentiment on Election Day.

Now, it’d be nice to have been able to dismiss that little message from Bizarro World, except that apparently, a lot of people, who may or may not all be crazy junkies, do, in fact, believe this. Anyway, they believe something; because, against all laws of common sense and superstition and pollsters, Bush was rewarded for his murderous incompetence with another four years, of which we have yet to serve another three. Maybe not everyone voted for him that are on record as having voted for him (*cough*Diebold*cough*); but, regardless, a lot of people did. So the 64 million dollar question remains, of course, what the hell were these people thinking?

And what the fuck does it take, finally, to get them to think something else?

Saturday, October 29, 2005

So, Scooter's been indicted.

While we wait to find out whether Skippy, Muffy, Binky, Tootles, and the rest of the gang follow hard upon, I will just take this opportunity to repeat one of my favorite quotes:

"I do not believe that I am a vindictive [person], but when the immortal gods take a hand in the matter it is pardonable to observe the result with complacency."

--Somerset Maugham

Friday, October 28, 2005

Phil Spector, not Arlen Specter

If you ever get them confused, like I do, just remember: Phil's the one with: THE HAIR.



It'd be bad enough if he actually had the face to go with a zany-type 'fro like that. That dour, pinchy little puss underneath just pushes the whole thing into utterly surreal territory. He looks like someone *forced* him to wear that giant tumbleweed of a 'do; like, he'd rather have a nice, sensible combover like all the guys, but nooo; he lost a bet with an evil fairy and now he has to carry that around on his head until the Firebird is reborn from it or something.

Thursday, October 27, 2005

Oh, dear, ohdearohdearohdear.

Will someone please tell this nice young ex-homosexual radio talk show host that his Freudian slip is showing?


[My wife] looked stunning (as usual.) She is so prissy and elegant. This is my personal blog, so I can say what I please: I'm more in love today with my wife than yesterday! Our love grows stronger everyday!

...My daughter and her friend tried a piece of "free" Sushi an oriental woman was passing out in the food court. If I only had my camera! The faces they made were priceless - that is as they were running to the garbage can to spit out the raw fish in their mouths. (They have alot more guts than me - I would NEVER try Sushi!)


His loss.

When I was in grad school, one Halloween...

I figured it'd be sporting to wear a costume to the school-sanctioned bash (okay, it was more a halfhearted poke than a bash, but anyway), but I didn't have any good ideas, and it was getting late. Friend and I were poking around in a shop for ideas.

I can't remember which of us spotted the axe first. It was silver, it was cardboard, and it was cheap. And, it was very very big. I hefted it. Friend said, "Perfect. An angry lesbian with an axe."

So, I showed up in streetwear, carrying my axe. I stood in the corner and tried to glower with appropriate menace.

"Death to the patriarchal hegemony!," I thought at them all.

After about ten minutes it dawned on me that this was pretty much what I'd been doing in class all day anyway. So I took it out on the dance floor. (It's difficult to dance and glower at the same time, with or without a giant cardboard axe).

About twenty minutes after that, the party wound down and ground (ha ha) to a halt. For a drama school, we were kind of short on theatrical flair, collectively, I thought. A dour old coldbed of Calvinism is a funny place to host a drama school, really, or Halloween, for that matter. The trappings were there, more or less, but the magic had been frowned into submission. At any rate, at one-thirty in the morning, the bars were all shut, and the witching hour had come and gone.

So I finished my Rolling Rock and went home, dragging my axe behind me.