Looking For A Fresh Bookmark?

Quickly, here is a website that should offer non-cable subscribers a delicious supplement to Crooks and Liars for fun teevee content: one good move.

Oh, and while we’re all being sickened to the point of shitting pure red blood by the appointment of a wingnut to the Supreme Court, let’s not forget that the White House knowingly compromised national security by leaking CIA secrets to Robert Novak.

Impeachment? In the bygone days of yore a pretender to the throne would occasionally receive a spear through the heart by the Praetorian Guard. Ah, memories!

ADDITIONALLY: Happy Halloween all you internet addicts.

Good News/Bad News--Halloween Edition

Bad news first:

Lisa and I made it out to Nightfall out at the Old Tucson movie lot. Two words--P. U.

Old Tucson itself is pretty neat, and I'll probably go back during the regular season, but I was pig-biting mad after our little nighttime excursion. First, we went on a Saturday, and there were 80 jillion people there, and we couldn't find parking, so we went home and came back on Sunday. It was a little less crowded, so in we went. Lisa was feeling a little trepedation--since she's a little girly thing, spook-house monsters tend to go after her first; she looks like she'll scream, I guess.

We started off with the Evil Clown Haunted Circus. Basically, just a bunch of animatronic Killer Klown tableaux, with the occasional air cannon. Kind of dumb, but the scene of the drunk clown puking on a beer keg was good for a laff or two. The whole thing was mc'd by a very crabby guy in makeup, who threatened to hit me with a table leg when I laughed at him.

We then hit the Haunted Gold Mine, which had a pirate theme. Waitaminit...pirates? In Tucson, AZ? Guess their boat had wheels... Anyway, mostly just a bunch of skeletons.

All the while here, I'm thinking of spook houses I have known and loved, as well as some of Andy Lehman's Call of Cthulhu games we played in college. Trying to get that same feeling--you know, where some guy is chasing you through the dark with a chainsaw, and you know its just an actor, but you still run, because you're all caught up in the fantasy, and its fun to be scared like that. I'll spare you the suspense--no chasing, no chainsaws, no fun fear.

Peeked in at the Evil Merry-Go-Round Of Doom--DOOOOOOM I SAY! It was running (wait for it) backwards! Under! Black! Light!!! Oh, the sanity-blasting horror of it all. I simply started screaming and never stopped. Actually, I think I muttered something to the effect of "bite me", and went to look for the fudge shop.

The fudge was good.

I'll cut this short, since I'm getting mad all over again (for what we paid, I could have bought the new Sly Cooper game, or maybe the PS2 classics editions of Ratchet and Clank Up Your Arsenal AND X-Men Legends. And a coke at Circle K.) I will mention the stunts-and-pyrotechnics show, though. All those times doing Action Movie kind of takes the gilt off the gingerbread for stuntshows for Lisa and I, but it was still pretty fun. Flamethrowers are always a good time, and they did one move (an uppercut that sent a guy over the roof of a pickup truck) that I wasn't sure how they pulled off (there might have been a springboard involved). The dialogue was what really did it for me, though. You know when you're a kid, and you're playing heroes and villains in some form or another, and you make up expository dialogue on the spot? It gets the job done, but its sort of stilted and strangely worded (i.e. "what you don't know is...that I...have...the...alien weapon...disintegrator...gun...device...that I am going to use on you now! Zap!") Well, the dialogue in this show was like that. With a pitchshifter for the bad guy, and cheesy southern accents for the dynamite-toting, gun loving "heroes". As Lisa said afterwards, "well, that was worth four dollars."

Oh, can't leave out the gargoyles. There were two guys up on top of the courthouse in gargoyle outfits that would do a "comedy" routine every hour or so. Insult comedy. Great idea--they're out of reach, so they can be really vicious. Only trouble is, they didn't bother to actually write any material. Lots of "I fucked your mother/smell my finger/tuna cassarole" type jokes. That was the last straw. We were gone.

All in all, I feel that the whole thing was a cynical attempt to cash in on the most sacred of holidays, Satan's Birthday.

Its a shame, too, because, judging by the crowds both nights, they must be raking in the money. And the kids were eating it up--even the goth kids. There's just not a whole hell of a lot of entertainment around here. The thing is, I'm fine with cheesy and stupid, as long as someone is making an effort. As long as its heartfelt. A couple weeks before, we went out to this place called Valley of the Moon--a sort of hippy folly out in the foothills---some lunatic built a bunch of fairy grottoes and gnome houses out of junk. Imagine the Watts Towers if they were created by a Tolkien-loving, patchuli-reeking summer of love casualty with a snootful of LSD and Humboldt County reefer. Anyway, the folks that run the Valley have a little enviromental piece--you follow a guide from site to site and get the story of Asty McNasty (I kid you not--at one point, a mad scientist referred to her as "a grab-Asty McNasty") trying to steal the key to fairyland and being foiled by Jack Skellington (a trench-coat mafia type kid with a mask like Buttonhead in Nightbreed and a fake British accent). Lots of little hippie kids in monster makeup, wandering around a graveyard of cardboard tombstones, moaning for brains. I counted 15 Monty Python references, 11 references to Hitchikers Guide, a few Tolkien gags, and one Dune reference. Asty McNasty's 8-year-old girl zombie sidekick couldn't keep a straight face. Titania, in the fairy grotto, was wearing the tattiest feather boa I have ever seen. The coat of arms in the gnome house was magic marker on cardboard. It was GREAT. Because they CARED. Not a drop of cynicism the whole night. Just the scene where the vampire in the graveyard tried to bite our guide, while her sidekick sat in a tree and sneered at us was worth 100 Old Tucson Nightfalls--and even without the subconscious weird sexual undercurrent that the two girls brought to the scene, it would STILL be worth 100 of 'em. Next year, I'll know.

Good News: Slither! Michael Rooker! Minimal CGI! Loose remake of Night of the Creeps! Slime! Cronenbergian Body Horror! Slime! Nausea-inducing imagry! Slime! Monsters! Aliens! Bizarre Creatures! SLIME!

A movie trailer like this gives me hope for the future of our culture.

LYRC: The Magazine

A follow-up to my previous post:

Two Americas

_________

Observe. To the left is Horatio Greenough's infamous sculpture of George Washington, commissioned in 1832 for display in the capital rotunda. Received with disgust by the people, it was so heavy that it cracked the floor of the rotunda when it was installed. While many saw it as inappropriately deifying Washington, the pose was intended to show, rather, his colossal act of humility in relinquishing his sword – pointing to the greater power above as the guiding force for future generations. That Greenough took the Roman model as his inspiration is hardly surprising. The United States made excessive use of architecture and symbols of Roman Imperial power, including fasces, for decades following the Revolution. (And yet, while Greenough's Washington now resides in a dreary hall in the basement of the Smithsonian, other examples of Roman pedigree are still proudly displayed.) In many ways, this sculpture represents the modern Democratic Party. It exudes an unintentional devotion to elitism, a passion for antiquated philosophies and a secular glorification of humanity.

The photo on the right is self explanatory. A hefty woman in sweatpants doing something unseemly to a statue of a lumberjack. Very GOP. A thousand words could never do it justice.

RELATED: I highly recommend Garry Wills' book Cincinnatus: George Washington and the Enlightenment, subtitled Images of Power in Early America. Excellent stuff. Although I'm coming to view Washington as having less in common with Cincinnatus than with Theodosius I, who assumed the Imperial Purple after a retirement more of choice than of poverty, and to whom is ascribed the inauguration of what is now known as the theory of [religious] persecution. But that's another discussion entirely.

Purging My Soul

If you know me, you know I'm a basketcase. Among my many basketcase-y symptoms, one that causes lots of emotional problems is my tendency to dwell. I hold grudges. I lament missed opportunities that are 15 years old. I remain angry at people even when the situation is long gone. I daydream about things that I could have done had I not made certain decisions. Worse, I daydream about things that I could have done had something else not happened, and I get angry about it.

Well, no more. What good are the antidepressants I'm taking now if I continue to get depressed about my past instead of being hopeful about my future?

I have to stop looking back. I have to stop musing over those things that I wanted, that I thought I deserved, toward which I was on the supposedly right path. I have to leave all of that behind me. I'm 31 now, past the boundless exuberance and possibilities one's 20s have to offer. I'm graduating in December, and a career in graphic design offers its own desirable zeniths.

So it's time I clean house, get focused, and accept those things that I'm never ever ever going to do, have, or get. It's not a sad thing. If anything, it's making room, cleaning out the attic to put in a sweet foosball table.

Therefore, here is a reasonably complete list of goals/desires/fantasies/expectations/pipe-dreams I have had in my head, some for many years, none of which I will attain and all of which I have to stop thinking about:

• I will never own a foosball table.
  
• Aphex Twin will never contribute a track to my remix album.
  
• I will never write a full-length play or feature-length screenplay.
  
• I will never direct an Obie-award winning production of Christopher Marlowe's Doctor Faustus.
  
• I will never win an Oscar.
  
• I will never own a 6,000-square-foot loft apartment with exposed brick walls and room for a trampoline, a recording studio, and a foosball table.
  
• No matter how many great scripts come in that don't have directors attached to them, no matter how many times someone tells me that my chance is coming, no matter how hard I work to prove my dedication to what I consider to be the core ideals of the company, I will never direct a play for Defiant Theatre because (1) I didn't go to U of I, (2) no one will trust my emotional volatility with an entire production, and (3) no one seems to like Mac Wellman as much as I do. (Phew. I've been holding that one in for a while.)
  
• I will never live in London.
  
• I will never see India.
  
• I will never get that directing MFA from CalArts.
  
• I will never be interviewed by David Letterman or Jon Stewart.
  
• There are plenty of women I will never have sex with, e.g., Parker Posey, Naomi Watts, Hungarian porn starlet Sophie Sweet, any of the Suicide Girls. But there is one woman who I was very enamored of in college that I still think about. (If you knew me then, or if you are her, you know exactly who I'm talking about.) I know, clinically nuts, right? Well, from this point on, GONE. No more. I haven't seen her in years anyway, and I've already taken a vow to never become romantically involved with anyone involved in theatre ever again. (I like going out on the weekends.) I won't kick myself for where I went wrong anymore.
  
• I will never be a world champion "Yar's Revenge" player.
  
• I will never be organized. I'm a frenetic, messy, lazy son-of-a-bitch. Might as well accept it and deal with it instead of flagellating myself for trying to be something I'm not.
  
• I will never own a building in which I can live, work as a freelancer, rent out apartments, and operate a modest theatre space for itinerant theatre companies.
  
• I will never knock any sense into Newt Gingrich, Antonin Scalia, Henry Hyde, George Bush, or any other politician who in my lifetime worked or is working or will work to restrict freedom.
  
• I will never hack the guts of a Mac mini into an original Macintosh 128K and build a home file/web/email/media server.
  
• I will not win Best in Show at the Graduate Portfolio Show in December. (I've been far too recalcitrant to far too many teachers for any of them to vote for me. For the record: I did apologize to one of them.)
  
• In fact, I will probably never win any awards for anything. They don't matter anyway.
  
• I will never have an annual salary greater than $50,000. ($50,000 is nothing to scoff at; I just doubt I'll ever do better. And when I look at this list in the future, I should recognize that this is in 2005 dollars and that I should calculate inflation appropriately.)
  
• I will never own a custom-tailored, pinstripe Ermengildo Zenga suit.
  
• I will never work for or with Stanley Kubrick, Quentin Tarantino, Peter Sellars (the theatre director, not the silent film star), Peter Brook, Mac Wellman, David Cronenberg, Chip Kidd, Stefan Sagmeister, Milton Glaser, Radiohead, Hungarian Porn Starlet Sophie Sweet, or any of the Suicide Girls.
  
• Though he'll call to ask if I've "forgiven him," Greg Cartwright will never actually say, "I'm sorry."
  
• I will never have a son named Xavier or a daughter named Zelda.
  
• No one would care to publish my memoirs.
• I will never try peyote, opium, or absinthe.
• "Like You Really Care" will never have the readership of BoingBoing, nor will it ever spin off into a print magazine, with me as the art director, Kelly as editor-in-chief, and Richard as editor of the entertainment section and the model for every cover, like Oprah or Martha.

Ahhhhh. I feel much better.

Now I have room in my head for new goals, some of which could be pretty freaking awesome.

While I'm on the subject:

To anyone who I hurt or offended in either my attempts to attain these goals or during my childish hissy-fits thrown due to an unfulfilled expectation, I'm sorry.

Thanks for listening.

Open Thread Thursday

Maybe I can program a script that will do this automatically...?

One Tin Soldier Rides Away

My money's on Edith Brown Clement as the next nominee. She's (a) a broad, (b) doesn't look like one of the witches from Macbeth, (c) unthreateningly dim, (d) a "strict constructionist", and (e) seemingly unBorkable. However, chances are still high that Bush will nominate Karen Hughes. For true. Her introduction to a new book of glossy and glamorous photos, George W. Bush: Portrait of a Leader, is butt-lickin' good! Additionally, her performance as Under Secretary for Public Diplomacy and Public Affairs has been exemplary: nobody hates America anymore. Ponies for everyone! (I'm joking of course. Bush would only nominate Ms. Hughes if James Dobson and Joel Osteen fail in their forthcoming attempt to resurrect Tomás de Torquemada from his burial chamber in Avila, Spain.)

By the way, normally I wouldn't be so heartless as to obliquely refer to Harriet Miers as a "witch". Her excuse for withdrawing her nomination, however, makes her a fair target for whatever scorn and derision the seething masses can muster:

In her withdrawal letter to the president, Miers said she was "concerned that the confirmation process presents a burden for the White House and its staff and it is not in the best interest of the country." […]

The White House said Miers had to withdraw over concerns that senators wanted documents of privileged discussions between the president and his top lawyer.

This is patently dishonest. If she had support in the Senate, this would not have happened – regardless of what documents had been requested. Documents are always requested, and are always denied by Bush & Co. That's the pattern. That's how this White House rolls. …"a burden for the White House"? Spoken like a true lackey and sycophantic footstool. This horrible old bat has no credibility as a human being, let alone as a nominee to the Supreme Court. Documents? What the hell happend to "up-or-down-vote" you hypocritical jackasses.

RELATED: The Woolly-Thinkers Guide to Rhetoric.

UNRELATED: Deer tranquilized inside a fitting room in Ralph Lauren.

Len Dresslar 1925–2005

Ho ho ho... moment of silence for Len Dresslar.





























(Via BoingBoing.)

Tea Leaves & Mass Mailings

Somewhere along the line my name found it’s way onto a list of Republican supporters. I get telephone calls from time to time asking for money. Today, I got a RNC census questionnaire. It’s the standard dimwitted little push poll. I consider it an honor to be able to siphon off a few dimes from their coffers of blood money. Here’s an amusing question they ask:

Do you support the use of air strikes against any country that offers safe harbor or aid to individuals or organizations committed to further attacks on America?

Are they testing the waters among the faithful for some contemplated, I don’t know, airstrikes? There’s also a section on the form for enclosing “$11 to cover the cost of tabulating my survey.” Interesting. They claim to be sending this form to “5.5 million Republicans.” I’m not much for arithmetic, but lordy pordy. For lauding a President who distains polls, they’re certainly committing some serious cash to this ridiculous little endeavor. Douchebags.

True Confessions

I'm a failure at blogging.

Screw You Deer

It’s been awhile since we’ve received a dispatch from the frontlines of the War on Animals. The reason is simple: we’re talking about animals here. Seriously. Who gives a fuck about animals? Let’s be honest. They’re only good for two things: (a) laughing at, and (b) eating. Fortunately, the former category has been handsomely dealt with by a deer with a pumpkin on it’s head:

The Pennsylvania Game Commission asks anyone who has seen a deer with a pumpkin head to call 1-814-643-1831.

Ha ha ha!!! (pause) Fuckin’ deer. Well, that was a lot of fun. I suppose I could carry on with more stupid stuff, but I haven’t the wherewithal.

Cat Food!

RELATED: the trend continues.

Rosa Parks 1913–2005

There's really nothing I can say that hasn't already been said. It will be interesting to see if this Sunday's premiere of The Boondocks gets edited. (Doubt it.)

Moment of silence for Rosa Parks.

Insatiable Curiosity

This deserves a stand-alone post for pure awesomeness:
calculations on avian defaecation.

[Another beauty: The Pitch Drop Experiment.]

What Does It Benefit A Man?

Badger Creek Wilderness Area

Last week I took a far too brief sojourn into the Oregon wilderness. The calm quiet of 24,000 pristine acres effectively eradicated my overheated anxiety about the irredeemable shittiness of mankind. Then along came Jermaine Dye in Game 2 of the World Series, and I was right back where I began.

I carry with me through this life a cavalier disregard for all manner of sportball activities. And yet, there are times when one is just close enough to the drama, when the stakes are such that they cannot be ignored, wherein a stone-cold team bursting its cerements cannot but captivate an indifferent soul. And so I found myself riveted to the television last night, sipping a cold glass of Sprite and diddling the ass-end of my ex-girlfriend's cat. Thus it transpired that, when Paul Knoerko hit his grand slam, my knee-jerk reaction sent that poor goddamn cat sailing from the couch like a shot off a shovel (her trip though the heavens terminating in a plangent crash in the nest of wires behind the television). Podsednik's game-winner was no less disruptive.

And yet, the horrible stench of Jermaine Dye befouled, soiled, and generally lessened the achievements of his teammates.

Jermaine Dye was batting with two outs against Astros reliever Dan Wheeler when plate umpire Jeff Nelson ruled a 3-2 pitch hit Dye. The Astros argued that the pitch hit the barrel of Dye's bat and should've been ruled a foul ball.

''I'm not going to tell him I fouled it off,'' Dye said. ''Just go to first, and hopefully we get a big hit, and we did.''

That rotten bastard knew he fouled off. How could he not? Did he do the honorable, the sportsmanlike, thing? No. He lied. He lied with his actions and with his silence. He cheated. He is a piece of useless human garbage who has permanently degraded his own life's work.

The greater shame? That nobody expected him to do otherwise.

Open Thread Thursday

Finally, I'm starting to get this right. Phew!

Everybody hail to the Pumpkin Throne

I love Halloween. In my opinion, its the only holiday worth going all-out in celebrating. One of the things I like about Tucson, is that I basically get TWO Halloweens (one on the usual day--Lisa and I are going to the shindig at Hotel Congress--this great old hotel where they caught Dillinger that last time; he was sent back to Chicago, escaped, and went to the movies at the Biograph. The other celebration is Day of the Dead, which is a big deal here--I'll be marching in that parade, and you can lay to that.) In between, we'll be cooling our heels at Old Tucson Movie Lot, where its a month of vampire zombie cowboy au-go-go with pyrotechnics and general gothic/western nuttiness. Heaven.

In honor of this, the best of holidays, here's some stuff for you to take a gander at--I don't think I've posted any of these before, but if I have, I apoligize, and I'll give you some kandy korn next time I see you...

Most of you who know me know that I think vampires are the cat's pajamas. Vampires in movies, books, plays, comics, and video games, anyway. People who think they're real vampires , on the other hand are kind of sad. But sad in a great way. And by "sad", I mean, fun to laugh at and tease.

Skeletons! Skeletons are great! If you are ever not sure of what you want to be for Halloween, be a skeleton. Its a classic, everyone will know what you're supposed to be, and you'll feel quite bad-assed. If you want to get fancy, you can paint your face like a skull, and wear a skull mask over it, and say you're Barrel from Nightmare Before Xmas. Or you can add a prop or costume piece, and say you're "(fill in the blank) back from the dead". For instance, in high school, I did a skull makeup, added ears and white gloves, and was Mickey Mouse back from the dead. I was beating the chicks back with a shitty croquet mallet that night, I tell you what. This guy is a lot like me--he loves skeletons and cartoons. Unlike me, he has a lot of spare time on his hands, and great skills as a draftsman. Man, I love this site--the PowerPuff Girls and Betty Boop are particularly disturbing.

Scariest of all--Christians trying to be topical and funny . At the same time, yet. Oy.

The Shame, The Shame

Kelly strikes me to the quick, over here.

I know I have been remiss. The thing is, I've been doing theatre (as well as working a full-time job.) Right at the moment, I am stage managing and designing makeup for a kids' show. Before that, I was playing an snotty, condescending gringo doctor for a Latino theatre company (well, for a show by a Latino theatre company, anyway.)

So here I am--doing what I swore I would never do (i.e. ft job, show by night). But at least I'm getting a couple bucks for it. But, oh how I miss my bloody fuck plays. I've actually started working on a guerrilla performance piece--mad scientist goes around places and weaponizes things. I think I've almost figured out how to make a Big Mac explode.

Be all that as it may, I will endeavor to make myself heard more often around here. I'll see if I can find something nice and wet to post this very day.

Step Up

Good morning! I'm about to go stomping off into the wet woods of the Pacific Northwest. Perhaps I'll take a photo or two.

Happy belated birthday to Arlo.

Gosh. It sure does feel good to be out of Chicago.

[This post is intended soley for the purpose of shaming Radsdale into writing something interesting so that I'm not disappointed when I click on my LYRC bookmark. One does not enjoy feeling as though one is wasting their time by clicking on such a bookmark. It's insulting.]

More Later...

Happy friday! Boy, I sure would like to post something today about how awful and mean-spirited people are. You know, some kind of angry complaint about how I'm not getting the good things in life I deserve. In the meantime, here's an awesome tidbit from Yglesias.

A Roundhouse For Sappho

Sometimes you read things on the internet that just make you laugh:

I went to a college that was populated almost exclusively by lesbians. I'm not talking about I-like-the-Indigo-Girls–So-Maybe-I-Like-Girls-In-General LUGS, I'm talking about Real Lesbians, some of whom were so real that they didn't even consider themselves lesbians – they were trans, or bois, or gender-queer. They all dressed exactly like J.D. Samson from Le Tigre. Many of them had facial hair and big muscles. They hated: girls who, hee hee, had totally hooked up with a girl once because they were like sooo drunk! That kind of thing offended them in the same way that I imagine Muslims are offended during Ramadan by people who talk about when is lunch I'm totally starving! The Real Lesbians did not want you borrowing their struggle.

I had a thing for this…this individual in one of my writing classes, who I'll uncreatively call Jane. She was a big girl who prided herself on drinking a lot of Bushmills. She had a very adorable tiny nose and a big moony face. We would get drunk after class and she would tell me about what a faker I was, and how she completely did not take me seriously or have any interest in me whatsoever. Needless to say this increased a millionfold my need to win her over, if not to actually make out with her (I had a boyfriend, and I also did not want to substantiate her belief that I would suck at doing it with a girl).

One night, after Jane's fourth or fifth whiskey, we got into one of those flirtatious play fights that are somewhat OK to get into with boys because boys won't actually hit you very hard. Whereas Jane kept punching me in the arm really, really hard and saying stuff like "You like it, don't you!" "I bet you think it makes you a dyke well it DOESN'T!" I was (I was like sooo drunk) and I actually did sort of like it. I liked that she was flirting with me for sure; I felt like it meant that I'd won. The next day, however, I woke up to go to my waitressing job, which required me to wear a logo'd tank top, I realized that I had a huge, deep blue, completely inconcealable bruise on my upper arm that was basically like having a tattoo that read "Ask me about having been beaten!" Every day at work for the next three weeks, women gently pulled me aside and whispered about 'a safe place to go where he won't be able to find you.' They sadly shook their heads when I denied being in an abusive relationship, which of course just convinced them further of the Lifetimeyness of my scenario.

I guess I pretty much stopped hanging out with Jane after that.

Theodore Roosevelt Heller 1917–2005

I have no idea who this guy is, but by his obituary, I'm sure I would have been honored to know him:

Theodore Roosevelt Heller, 88, loving father of Charles (Joann) Heller; dear brother of the late Sonya (the late Jack) Steinberg. Ted was discharged from the U.S. Army during WWII due to service related injuries, and then forced his way back into the Illinois National Guard insisting no one tells him when to serve his country. Graveside services Tuesday 11 a.m. at Waldheim Jewish Cemetery (Ziditshover section), 1700 S. Harlem Ave., Chicago. In lieu of flowers, please send acerbic letters to Republicans.

Moment of silence for Theodore Roosevelt Heller, a man who understood what it truly means to love this country.





























(Via BoingBoing.)

Open Thread Thursday Wednesday

Now, my Powerbook, my cell phone, my iPod, and my PC at work all scream at me at 9:30 AM every Thursday to remind me to post Open Thread Thursday. Enjoy.

UPDATE: I honestly don't know what the hell is wrong with me right now. All day yesterday, I thought today would be Thursday. Then this morning, my alarms went off reminding me to post Open Thread Thursday, and it didn't occur to me that I had them set to remind me 24 hours ahead of time, which now doesn't seem to make any sense. So consider this a special one-time Open Thread Wednesday: now without alliteration!

I'd Rather Walk The Plank

Hello gentle reader. I'm just going to post a quick little follow-up to my previous post.

Roman society knew a gruesome form of capital punishment (practiced primarily by Etruscan pirates in Northern Italy) in which the body of the murdered person would be chained to the murderer (hand to hand, face to face, etc.) In the hot Mediterranean sun, the body would quickly decay, spreading not only rancid odor but also deadly infection to the murderer. The doomed criminal would carry this awful burden until the decay and infection from the corpse finally ended his own miserable existence. It was only possible to be freed from the horrors of this punishment if someone else chose to carry the body in the place of the murderer, carrying it to his death. (Source)

Have a spectacular day. I love you all.

Mortality Salience Hypothesis

In 1974 Ernest Becker won a posthumous Pulitzer Prize (General Non-Fiction) for his book, The Denial of Death. Last year I received a copy of this book as a gift and it’s fair to say that it knocked me off my pins. So to speak. Thus it was with great interest that I rented the documentary Flight From Death: The Quest for Immortality.

Following the work of the late cultural anthropologist, Ernest Becker, and his Pulitzer Prize-winning book Denial of Death, this documentary explores the ongoing research of a group of social psychologists that may forever change the way we look at ourselves and the world. Over the last twenty-five years, this team of researchers has conducted over 300 laboratory studies, which substantiate Becker's claim that death anxiety is a primary motivator of human behavior, specifically aggression and violence.

Although it’s a little heavy on imagery and light on discourse and revelation, I highly recommend it to anyone who may not have the patience to read the book. For those who have read the book, it will doubtless make even less tolerable your senseless, doomed and incontrovertibly accidental existence. Nonetheless, I was impressed by the associations that the filmmakers were able to draw between “Terror Management Theory Experiments” and 9/11.

That the collective American response to 9/11 was dread, coupled with a renewed attachment to symbolism and violence, underscored the work of the documentary’s subjects; that psychological motivations for violence are directly linked to our intrinsic terror of death. Death itself is evil, and we use evil to defeat evil. Of course, in the end we’re all completely fucking doomed anyway.

Well, that was depressing. But don’t despair — here’s your happy ending:

On April 27, an [undercover police] officer entered the shop and paid $60 for and received a full "body shampoo," which included genital and anal touching. The officer returned two other times for massages that also included masturbation — one session with two prostitutes — and again paid for the service.

A second officer also received a massage and was masturbated, according to charging papers.

Body shampoo?

ADDITIONAL READING (UNRELATED): Hacks + Man named Kelly.

RELATED: Sexy Coffins 2006 Calendar

Fish Stick Friday

Secular government has repeatedly stepped forward to prohibit the traditions of religious practice by forcing them to conform to the dictates of law. While the use of certain psychotropic drugs are permitted within narrowly defined limits, their unfettered use for religious purposes is prohibited by civil law. Polygamy is entirely prohibited within the United States. Certain accoutrements for worship are disallowed among the incarcerated. Conversely, religious institutions are exempted from submission to otherwise reasonable and universal laws (e.g. taxes, ADA compliance, etc.). The logic behind such exemptions is based on the notion that private institutions should be free from governmental pressure; and that they should be at liberty to discriminate. A boys club shouldn't be forced to admit girls (or in the case of the Boy Scouts, poofters). The NFL shouldn't be forced to hire crippled nickel backs. The RNC can shun wisdom and the Catholic Church can indulge in all manner of bizarre discrimination (e.g. no sex for the staff, no ladies in charge, etc.). The separation of Church & State in this regard is pretty much a tenuous yet settled issue (for the time being).

The growing appetite for political activism among Conservative religious groups, however, may very well upset this balance in the years ahead. Simply put, political organizations are not afforded the same protections from government as are churches, and when a church assumes the duel roles of political advocate and mystical shepherd it cannot help but jeopardize the sanctuary enjoyed by the latter when it indulges in the rigorous exercise of the former.

It is appropriate, for example, that the issue of gay marriage be wrangled over in state legislatures and U.S. Congress instead of in the houses of religion. Why? Because when politicians refer to marriage as a "sacred institution" they're lying by half. It's a civil institution that can be actuated by a justice of the peace. Christian conservatives, in their attempts to change civil law to reflect religious tenants, will find it difficult to avoid the equal and opposite reaction. The real question is not whether civil society will change (or corrupt, depending on your viewpoint) the practice of religion, but how it will change it.

For the time being, we can pretty much rule out any direct/legal assault on religion. Churches will keep their tax exempt status. They won't be forced to admit weirdos into their prayer groups. Indirect and internal forces of change, however, may very well become the catalysts for major change in religious communities. The menacingly conservative Pope, Benedict XVI, aside from being a natty little asshair-of-a-man whose worldview is poisoned by superstition and fear, has been more instrumental than most people realize in reversing and frustrating the advances of Vatican II; yet even he may not be able to maintain the bulwark against progressive change.

Last month I read Garry Wills' Why I Am a Catholic, which details the disparity between (and history of) the doctrinal orthodoxy of the Catholic Church and the actual practice and faith of the body of the Church. Also discussed at length: the absence of a theological foundation for the Church's official stances on celibacy, abortion, divorce, female priests, gay marriage, and many other socially divisive issues. Which is why this article caught my eye.

"Celibacy has no theological foundation," Gregorios III Laham, who attended the synod as the patriarch of the Melkite Catholics, an Eastern Rite church, said at an early session, official briefers reported. "Married priests are admitted," he said.

After that bombshell, the Vatican cut back on the detail provided to reporters on the talks unfolding among 256 bishops, who came to discuss on-the-ground concerns from around the world.

Internal resistance to undemocratic and ideological fiats from the Vatican is not in itself unusual, but perhaps the timing of this latest kafuffle is. John Paul II, it is well known, packed the bishopric with conservatives and yes-men; but he didn't, couldn’t, purge the larger body of the Church of liberals. American Christians, meanwhile, have all but abandoned the Vatican and it's hierarchy. The powerful American churches are more likely to consult the opinion of James Dobson than Benedict XVI.

"As an evangelical, I believe that the Roman Catholic Church is a false church," [Southern Baptist Theological Seminary president Dr. Albert] Mohler remarked during a 2000 TV interview. "It teaches a false gospel. And the Pope himself holds a false and unbiblical office."

As the mega-churches of Colorado Springs and the old Bible Belt become more and more engaged in the gladiatorial arena of American politics – pouring donatives into Christian PACs and 527 organizations – advocacy for the staid traditions of the Church is abandoned entirely. While the Catholic Church is ironing out its position on female clergy, apostate splinter-groups no longer give it a second thought. Just so with a host of other issues.

In a sense, the American Christian community has decided to pick it's battles. It has chosen abortion, homosexuality, and the separation of Church and State. What has it abandoned in the process? Faith, hope and charity.

The juggernaut of American secular culture, in consort with the incontestable power of time, will respond with the only means at its disposal: the sovereign power of the collective will as expressed through government sanction and regulation. When an individual's liberty becomes fettered by the faith of his society, the only reasonable target for the defenders of liberty becomes that very faith itself.

God told me to blog this.

Eek:

'I'm driven with a mission from God. God would tell me, 'George, go and fight those terrorists in Afghanistan.' And I did, and then God would tell me, 'George, go and end the tyranny in Iraq …' And I did. And now, again, I feel God's words coming to me, 'Go get the Palestinians their state and get the Israelis their security, and get peace in the Middle East.' And by God I'm gonna do it.'

Open Thread Thursday

I've been really, really bad about posting these. Sorry. Have at it.

Yawn. Wheeze. Blink.

Just because.

The Immolation Factor

Bill O'Reilly really screwed up. Sure, he can buy his way out of a mere falafel sanfu, but it's going to be quite a different kettle-of-fish to extract himself from the gluey afterbirth of his own lies. Crooks and Liars and Media Matters have the goods. While those of us with any goddamn sense in our heads are already familiar with the good deeds and philosophic scruples of Media Matters for America, a great many viewers of The O'Reilly Factor were sadly unaware that such a beacon of truth existed… until now. Now that Bill "Fuckwadius Maximus" O'Reilly has gone mainstream with his peevish and embarrassing vendetta against Media Matters, he's finished. Cooked. Done.

Democracy's Crumbling Ediface

Okay. This morning Judge Roberts began his reign by snorfling about in the doings of a free people, 4,000 miles removed, who have reached a democratic consensus pertaining to issues directly touching their own felicity (NYT):

Voters in Oregon have twice endorsed doctor-assisted suicide, but the Bush administration has aggressively challenged the state law, the only one of its kind in the nation.

The precedent, should it be consulted, is clear: the federal government has previously exerted its power to quash the decision of Californians (by popular referendum) to permit the cultivation, sale and possession of marijuana. The outlook is grim for those already living a grim existence on the precipice of the undiscovered country in the Pacific Northwest.

The chorus of Conservative voices decrying the practice of "legislating from the bench" are less troublesome for what they advocate than for what they abdicate: fidelity to the principles of democracy. The Republican lock on power has resulted in a predictable departure from the animating precepts behind all the successful revolutions throughout history (be they civil or criminal, ecclesiastic or secular) - the ability to choose one's own master. The allegiance of GOP partisans is not to the concept of freedom (so cheapened and debased of late by their venal misappropriation of it); rather, it lies in a commitment to force the masses to comply with their own vision of a morally superior society.

This betrayal of their true intentions has been made glaringly apparent in the near unanimous rejection by Conservative punditry of Bush's nomination of Harriet Miers. Were they genuinely interested in disinterested judges who refrained from consulting their "personal" opinions when reviewing precedents and laws, Ms. Meirs' decided lack of views would scarcely merit so much as a peep of protest. Further showing their hand, and their like contempt for democracy, George Will, ever the faux classicist and flatulent rube, buries his monarchic sentiments in his own stinging rebuke of Heir Bush:

Under the rubric of "diversity" -- nowadays, the first refuge of intellectually disreputable impulses -- the president announced, surely without fathoming the implications, his belief in identity politics and its tawdry corollary, the idea of categorical representation. […] Categorical representation holds that the interests of a group can be understood, empathized with and represented only by a member of that group.

The crowning absurdity of the president's wallowing in such nonsense is the obvious assumption that the Supreme Court is, like a legislature, an institution of representation. This from a president who, introducing Miers, deplored judges who "legislate from the bench."

Not only is the very idea of representation "tawdry", but the judiciary is – by default – an institution which should be protected from the corrupting influence of democracy. Make no mistake: this is about abortion. George Will is clearly stating that that it is "intellectually disreputable" to argue that women should have proportionate power in deciding issues which relate directly, specifically, and exclusively to women. Why? Well, because it's judges we're talking about.

Triumph of the Albino Stink Star

I was browsing the Harper's Index and came across two items that I found perplexing:

Total annual spending controlled by functionally illiterate U.S. consumers: $414,000,000,000

Average number of $75 anal bleachings that an L.A.-area salon performs each day: 5

The first item is perhaps so gallingly provocative that one can be forgiven for harboring no small measure of skepticism as to its validity. If true, I see no reason to grant any unknown member of the human race the slightest benefit of the doubt; every casual encounter with humanity will perforce become an occasion to exhibit my boundless contempt for my fellow man. The second item, however, merits immediate and unconditional acceptance as confirmed and established fact. While some may dispute that the phenomenon is real, I'm willing to believe that anal bleaching is an established practice. We are, after all, talking about Los Angeles. Plus, as anyone who has wandered into a XXX Adult Fantasy Video Arcade anytime within the last five years has noticed, the blossoming genre of ass-play is poised to dominate the entire purview of adult entertainment for the foreseeable future. Consequently, fair consideration of the latter item results in a frightening confirmation of the former. So get ready for what may be the next great leap in human evolution: illiterate consumers with bleached assholes. The future is now.

Exactly what I needed to hear.

I'll give a crisp one-dollar bill to the first person I see wearing this shirt.

Empty Words

I have reflected on the matter at length. I have gone down to the river to pray. I have struggled with my conscience and communed with my better judgment. At long last, and as a direct consequence of such mentations, I am prepared to submit a list of things which do not exist. While these things are often spoken about with a kind of lunatic reverence, they are not real. They've no more substance than a passing velleity and no more meaning than a wet fart.

A Sense of Community
A Chilling Effect
Must See TV
Fiscal Responsibility
The War on Terror
Energy Independence
Legislation from the Bench
A Rich, Dark Aroma
America's Resolve

These, as well as a certain je ne sais quoi, are nothing phrases used by nobodies to disguise nothing so much as an absence of mind.

Nipsey Russell 1924–2005

Got his start on Car 54 / Hilarious, it's always been said. / The Tin Man in The Wiz, I adore. / And now we're all sad 'cause he's dead.

Moment of silence for Nipsey Russell.

August Wilson 1945–2005

The second play I saw on broadway was Two Trains Running with Lawrence Fishburne. Not that I really have a point to go along with that, but I just thought I would mention it now that an incredible voice in American drama has been silenced by liver cancer.

Moment of silence for August Wilson.