Odd...

...that in in my surfing today I'd click this and then this one after the other.

Action Muse

Three more poems are up at Tracey's site. It's finger-lickin' good clickin'.

This Orifice Never Closes

NARAL's latest PR stunt: request chastity belts from the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. Kathryn Jean Lopez rightly calls this bit "childish," but the text of NARAL's form letter itself says so much more:

"Until you give us real choices, please rush me the only thing that the Pennsylvania State Legislature seems to want to provide to protect my reproductive health: a chastity belt. My address appears below," the letter reads.

NARAL spokesman David Seldin said his group is "trying to be more creative in the way in which we communicate and reach out, particularly to younger people."

That's right...until you give us real choices (real, meaning "that we like"). Yes, some clown elected to a term in Pennsylvania's state house is responsible for giving you the choice to protect your "reproductive health." Oh yeah, and rush. 'Cause I may need that chastity belt at any minute, and I can't control myself. (Damnit, why do sex shops in Pennsylvania close so early?)

I think the state should respond...by sending each requestor, via overnight courier, a leather belt, a padlock, and a government-sized bill for same -- say, $600.

Or, do what the rest of us have to do...buy our own damned chastity belts from a fetishwear shop. Stormy Leather has a nice model for $130:

One of the most fantasized about and reqeusted items is the chastity belt. Tempt and tease, or secure with the wrap-around zipper. Two-way zipper can be accessed from front or back, and a lock can be added to secure it.

Not to mention it's recommended by your friends at NARAL for reproductive health. Bonus!

UPDATE: More of the same begging here. Gimme gimme gimme a man after midnight ... and an RU86 before noon. And put it on my tab.

This Rabbit's In Hot Water

Looks like I'm not the only blogger who watches Postcards From Buster on PBS.

And you thought this was disturbing.

UPDATE: Since nobody watches Scarborough Country, I thought I'd post a link to their transcript, in which the fur flies.

A Kinder, Gentler Gangsta: Crack Pipe Meets Boob Tube

Rapper image rehabilitation continues apace this television season courtesy of Viacom. Adults and children alike can tune to VH1's Strange Love and thrill to the oddball romance between Brigitte Nielsen and the lovable joker Flavor Flav. No word on when Flav's three children will visit the set to meet their "new mom," but you know hilarity will ensue when they do.

Then, on Sunday evening, settle down with the kids to enjoy Romeo on Viacom's Nickleodeon. It's all in the family on Nick: real-life dad Master P play's Romeo's dad. The kids have a band in the garage, so look out for a singalong of dad's classics "Dope, Pussy and Money" or "**** a Bitch 'Cause I'm Paid." I've got to admit, sometimes it's like looking into a mirror -- that must be why Michael Davis of TV Guide said, "Now, in the age of...Romeo, TV more resembles the world kids know when the set's off."

And don't miss Are We There Yet? from Columbia Pictures, now in theaters and featuring the ultra-cuddly Ice Cube, ex of Niggaz With Attitude ("**** tha Police") and a critically acclaimed solo artist ("AmeriKKKa's Most Wanted," "Get Off My D*** and Tell Yo B**** to Come Here").

Coming in 2010: Animal Planet presents America's Fluffiest Kittens, Bitch with your host, Eminem. Don't miss it, ho, or I'll pop a cap in yo ass!

UPDATE: Michelle Malkin adds Snoop Dogg to the list of rap makeovers.

Enough of That Language: One More Reason to Quit School Today

It's tough enough getting respect as an English major. Then a couple of middle school English teachers decide to advance the field by having sex with their students. And now this, a call for papers from Eric Hayot, Assistant Professor of English at the University of Arizona:

Bush Won. What Next?

Assuming that practical considerations keep most of us from moving to Canada, what kinds of (intellectual, pedagogical, practical) acts are possible within the institutional frameworks in which we find ourselves? But also: what possible personal relationships can those of us in the United States adopt to the fact of our geographic location or our citizenship? What kinds of resisting subject can emerge from that kind of complicity?

Participants will be asked to write short (3-5 page) answers to these questions and distribute/read them in advance of the conference. Up to 30 participants will be accepted.

First of all, don't assume too quickly. Exactly what "practical considerations" are keeping you (I mean, "us") from moving? An assistant professor gig? Um, I've done that, and it sure isn't the money keeping you put. Can't afford it? Can't convince the life partner to move into an igloo way up north there in frigid Canada? Don't give up...just ask.

I'd hate to see the sorts of questions this teacher would assign to college freshmen. "You want us to write about what?" "Clearly, I'm looking for your pedagogical responses emerging from your complicity with the resisting subject within institutional frameworks. Approach it with an eye toward Foucault."

Institutional frameworks? The fact of our geographic location or our citizenship? Sounds like the theme isn't "Bush Won, Now What," but rather "I Hate That I Live in a Red State but I'm Afraid to Move!" Group hug everyone! Stay strong!

Here's a practical act. Talk to some of these people in your geographical location (we red staters call them "neighbors"). I'm sure the university will let down the force field around the campus long enough for you to explore, say, a suburb. Then hit the Cultural Studies Association seminars.

Celebrity guest speakers to be announced.

Film Freak Earns Drama Queen Award

I'm pleased to present the first Queen of 2005 to Walter Chaw of Film Freak Central.

[applause]

Presented in honor of Village Voice reviewer Michael "[Republicans] should be exterminated" Feingold, the Drama Queen recognizes valiant attempts to infuse theater, film, or music reviews with the reviewer's own political paranoia, wherein every elementary school staging of "Stop that Pancake!" is an allegory exposing Bush and his veiled fascism.

Anyone can bash Bush in a review of a play written expressly to bash Bush; Chaw earns special honors for finding the hidden conservative monster in the mid-January cinematic waste dump of Assualt on Precinct 13 and Elektra:

Both are unusually ugly films with a higher-than-expected body count, and, to various degrees of success, both traffic in a paranoid marshalling of forces that comes with a fear of invasion from without.... Early in 2005, trends are pointing to a year in which we champion isolationism, fear the marauding Hun, and start wondering if there's a blue-stater playing sheep in the quilting cotillion. Unless, that is, the blue-stater is you, and the constant threat of lynching or crucifixion has caused you to lose your mind.

Damn straight, Walter. Now you know why granny's always knitting away there in Utah -- 'cause when you turn your back, she's gonna drive them needles straight through your progressive palms and hang you from the flagpole out front.

(Nevermind those real crucifixions in Saudi Arabia; we're talking about a John Carpenter remake and a Daredevil spinoff here. Heady stuff. Stuff you red staters wouldn't understand.)

If any theater concession stand workers can enlighten me on just what is in that orange drink, let me know.

Cleanup in Aisle Kevin

I'm an editor by trade and have an educational background in English -- plus, I'm a little bit of a traditionalist as well. As much as I enjoy slang, I hate to see perfectly good, existing words go unused in favor of corporate jargon. I can't tell you how sick I am of hearing about people "pushing out a doc and shooting it to me for fresh-eye review for impactfulness." So, though I'm a fan of Kevin McCullough's radio show and blog, I have to believe I'm not the only one who can read this and not feel the need for a nurse, bug spray, or a wet washcloth:

The sizable blogroll will be organized by regions and when a race starts to develop issues that require reginal blog swarms - the GOPBloggers blogroll will be vital to establishing critical blog mass on the matter.

For example:

• "Environmentalists warn of regional blog swarms as wild animals flee the tsunami."
  
• "Doctors operated immediately after discovering a critical blog mass on the MRI."
  
• "What's that smell? Did you step in critcal blog mass?"

Anyone have a washcloth?

Our Enemy, The Pickup

If Jesse Jackson and John Kerry fell short of inspiring you yesterday, Martin Luther King Jr. Day, you might want to check out Our Friend Martin. (Due to some disturbing archival footage, I'd recommend it for kids in Grade 5 and up; my daughter's dumbass second-grade teacher freaked her and some of her classmates right the **** out by showing it in class; for many reasons, she was asked not to return to teaching.)

This animated tale follows a group of schoolchildren as they study Dr. King. Everyone gets along with Cool Black Kid except for Angry White Bully. We feel for Angry White Bully, though, because his dad's an abusive redneck bigot who drives him around in a pickup truck. Can you believe that? A pickup truck! What year is this? Who knows, 'cause there's some time travel action here as well. Voices are provided by the ideologically diverse team of Ed Asner, Danny Glover, Whoopi Goldberg and Oprah Winfrey.

In all, I agree with the Amazon.com "kid reviewer" who noted:

I've been forced to watch this film every year for the past five years at school. This movie is probably the stupidest thing to ever grace the Earth. If you are going to teach kids about the civil rights movement than do it right, show them a documentary or a realistic film. This movie is a real joke and the characters suck.

The movie does suck, but I recommended you see it...only to hear Susan Sarandon as the teacher praise Colin Powell as a great African American role model. Seriously, fast forward to just that line and replay it again and again. Priceless.

What a Bitch

Here's a screencap of that Postcards From Buster episode I'd mentioned previously, where Bionic Bunny arrives to rescue "Mrs. President." I realize it's just a kids' cartoon, but to me this doesn't look anything like Condi Rice.



Oddly enough, this came at the conclusion of the episode where Buster learns just how great it is to live in a trailer with eight other people, none of whom is your father. Awesome!

Hillary: "More Condoms, Please"

Says Mrs. Clinton to the International Women's Health Coalition in New York City: "ABC [Abstinence, Be Faithful, Use Condoms] is a good strategy, but it has three parts to it, and we need to remind the Administration of that." Um, the current administration, she means...not the last one.

She further proposed expanding ABC to ABCD by adding a fourth component should, say, the first three fail: Dry Cleaning.

Oh, Snap!

I don't think this situation is going to get better anytime soon.

The Word Gives The Bird

Let's Get Small

Listening to the Kevin McCullough show yesterday, I was so tempted to pledge $55 to purchase a water filter for the tsumani victims in Sri Lanka. But, as I've said before, I'm a small person, and I need to know before I write the check that either (1) this clown in the Osama Bin Laden T-shirt isn't getting my 50 bucks worth of aid, or (2) if he does, it comes in a big ol' cardboard box with a giant image of Jesus Christ draped in the U.S. flag, holding a flaming sword in one hand and flipping the bird with the other (or similar cultural gesture). Here's your

Yeah, I'm petty. But the buck stops at the T-shirt as far as I'm concerned. You, being a bigger and better person, though, should check out Cross International and consider a donation.

Saint Kansas Business Model

I'm always happy to assist when it comes to demonstrating some loudmouth's idiocy; e.g.;

Until names are named, we can assume every conservative pundit is on the White House's payola rolls. - The Daily Kos

Some are encouraging bloggers to disclose their financial ties now, so here goes. So far I'm about $99 in the red. I've spent about $100 on a year's webhosting plan and $9 or so on domain registration. I have reportedly earned $10 from sales at my Cafe Press shop, but I've instructed them to hold onto my cash until it hits 50 bucks (which should be 2009 if the current rate of growth holds).

I don't sell ads 'cause it's not worth the five cents I'll get to run solicitations for stuff I might disagree with. It is worth the hundred bucks, though, to have some way to respond when some clown in the public eye says something hateful and ignorant. And when it comes to confronting ignorance in 2005, business is good.

The Death of Funny

The Jerk remains one of my all time favorite (and most quotable) movies, but if you think you can ever laugh again after watching the trailer for the Pink Panther remake, I'd be curious to know more about the atmosphere on your planet.

Let There Be W

Today at Over on AndrewSullivan.com I was treated to Mr. Sullivan's overreaction to President Bush's innocuous comments on his personal faith.

I don't recall a similar reaction back when Jimmy Carter, "the first evangelical president," spoke of his faith. (Of course, Jimmy Carter is the kind of evangelical Christian that even the left can love.) Southern Baptist Bill Clinton too had just the right amount of faith to not be so threatening. But W mentions the Lord even after all the evangelicals have cast their votes. That's just scary.

Which of Andrew Sullivan's breeder ancestors rushed the platform when military strongman and religious nut George Washington was sworn in?

What also bugs me about Sullivan's "pity the poor atheists" approach is the unspoken assumption that, somehow, an atheist, or at least a person who never speaks of his or her faith, will somehow be more "tolerant" of religious diversity. What? I sure as, um, heck would rather be an atheist under George W. Bush's leadership than a Christian under this moron's holier-than-thou thumb.

Imagine There's No Lennon

Maclin Horton Slags "Imagine" So I Don't Have To

All you need to know about the song "Imagine" is that Madonna apparently added it to her set list for her last tour -- and if Madonna thinks it's profound, it's not.

I had meant to moan about Rolling Stone's choice of the 500 greatest songs, including "Imagine" at No. 3, but I let it slide. After all, even The Corner had already chimed in . But I've got to add myself to the "me too" brigade.

Am I the only one who feels put off by the Beatles' underlying "us vs. them" attitude? Sure, in John Lennon's mind "the world will live as one" -- once everyone dreams the exact same dream he does. But if you're looking for condescension, put on a Beatles record, particularly one of the more "psychedelic." If the rain comes, they run and hide their heads. They might as well be dead. Dead? Pretty harsh. But who's they, anyway? Clue: It ain't the Beatles. It's them.

George gets in his lyrical whacks at "them" in Piggies: In their sties with all their backing, they don't care what goes on around. What to do about them? What they need's a darn good whacking.

"But dude!" you say. "That's only a couple of songs!" True. There are a lot of great Beatles tunes, but there's nothing anywhere in their canon that makes me think, for all the "All You Need Is Love" bluster, that I will ever be anyone but "them" to the mighty Beatles. I guess I'm one of the piggies, but that's cool, 'cause I'm a piggie with a big ol' record collection sans Beatles.

Imagine.

(Thanks Dawn for the link.)

UPDATE: If you can't stand Rolling Stone but hunger for "Best Song" lists, check out uber-guitarist Richard Thompson's carefully considered "Ten Best Songs of the Millenium."

The Media Gets Religion

On Second Thought, No They Don't.

Hallelujah! It's God time again in the papers and on TV.

First it was the "Goddamn that damned God!" outcry after the election, after you right-wing nuts with your Bibles and snakes blew it for the entire planet. Now, the tsunami has inspired the media to look again at faith.

Responses ranged from Friday's Wall Street Journal's examination of different religions' responses to the "Oooh, so provocative!" yet outright stupid Slate, where I turn for answers to all my theological questions:

Centuries of uncritical worship have clearly produced a monster. God knows that he can sit passively by while human life is wantonly mowed down, and the next day, churches, synagogues, and mosques will be filled with believers thanking him for allowing the survivors to survive. The faithful will ask him to heal the wounded, while ignoring his failure to prevent the disaster in the first place.

No one told the Journal they were supposed to wait until Monday to hammer the religion angle, when not only Slate but National People's Radio and ABC News tackled the tough question: where's your God now, huh?

Expect as thorough a follow-up on that question as you got regarding the contents of Sandy Berger's pants.

Good News for Phyllis Schlafly

This morning on PBS's Postcards From Buster I learned that "hip hop really is for everyone!"

Back when I was a kid, we had to get our hip hop from Ice T, not some cartoon bunny.

What the World Needs Now Is One More Rathergate Story

The CBS forged document scandal was exposed, apparently, by every weblog in existence except this one. So, while I listen to Hugh Hewitt interview all involved on his radio show, let me be the very last to pile on.

The memos were fakes? Duh.

In the '80s, a decade after the memos were reportedly typed, I was working on my high school newspaper. We had two electric typewriters and no proportional fonts. Daisy wheel printers and TRS-80s were a couple of years off. To justify the newspaper columns, we had to type every story twice. You'd type as much of a line as you could fit and then fill in with slashes until you got to 29 characters; e.g.


The administration has///////
removed the Rolling Stones///
single featuring "Little T&A"
from the lounge jukebox due//
to complaints from teachers./

Then we had to count the slashes and distribute that many spaces among the words manually to make the columns fit. That I still remember the 29-character limit demonstrates that I'm particularly sensitive to typesetting issues.

After I graduated from college, I got a job composing newspaper ads on a "Fat Mac," the old 1984-era one-piece Macintosh with the built-in black and white screen. This was before laser printers, so it was hooked up to an actual typesetting machine. This thing was as big as a Mini Cooper, weighed about 150 million tons and printed on special film/paper that came in huge rolls. The secretary typing memos on the Guard base in Texas in the '70s? She didn't have one.

Experts schmexperts. I'm your expert. Fake fake fake fake fake. With a dead man's signature to boot. That's weak. CBS ran with fake documents 'cause they desperately wanted them to be real. They aren't.

Monster Trucks? F*** Yeah!

My son, who is 5, is a sweetheart, but he doesn't like anything. He doesn't want to play with the other kids. He doesn't want to go see The Incredibles or browse around the music store with Papa or go anywhere the hell near Santa's lap. But while we were channel surfing a few weeks back, my little buddy decided what he does like: monster trucks.

"Do you wanna go see the monster trucks in person? They're coming..." "Maybe." Maybe? Not no? Did I actually hear something other than "no?" "Um...long pause...I guess I'll go."

So I gave Ticketmaster one of my kidneys in service fees and we're going next weekend. Eighteenth Century British Literature mom and I are going to the monster truck rally and see giant trucks smash the s**t out of junk cars. I am reminded of the Joyce Kilmer poem Trees...especially the part where the monster truck rips the oak tree out by the roots and then burns a doughnut into the forest lawn until the gear box bursts into flame.

UPDATE: My son Mini still won't admit to being excited about seeing the monster trucks, but he did sleep with the tickets under his pillow last night and plans to again tonight.

Instasuckup

Maybe if I want the all-important link from Instapundit, I have to blog like Instapundit. It's worth a shot:


HEH.


NOOO!!!


HOWEVER, THIS looks cool.

And Now a Word From the Better Half

I've finally found a quiet moment to repost the missus' poetry. Click on over, won't you? You do remember that New Year's resolution to read more poetry, right?

UPDATE: Endless thanks to Dawn for pimping this post. Tomorrow's the last day for the missus to register for the spring semester at Case, and we're still not sure what she's going to do. All her doctoral coursework is done and it's down to oral exams and the dissertation...but the decision was so much easier before she had two children and lupus to consider as well. But if she's not there, who's going to tack up the pro-Bush cartoons on the Wall of Unmitigated Conservitive Hatred over the copier?

UPDATE 2: Also, this article by a pro-American Kuwaiti student really hits close to home. The missus had a Kuwaiti student at Case who had been shot during Saddam Hussein's invasion of that country. All pro-American university professors -- both of you -- should consider it a must-read.

Paging Mrs. Andrew Sullivan

The unseemly obsession of the National Review staff with Andrew Sullivan (often on vulgar display in The Corner, aka Over at AndrewSullivan.com..., comes into bloom in the latest print issue (December 31). Justin Katz offers an exhaustive refutation of Sullivan's arguments regarding gay marriage and conclues, "...to him, it's possession of choice that defines humanity. For gays, therefore, to have "full humanity" is to have the same range of choices that straights have."

As the missus is keen to point out, gays do have the same range of choices that straights have. As a straight man, I was free to marry any consenting, single adult woman of my choice (who would have me), and Andrew Sullivan enjoys that same right: he's free to marry any consenting, single adult woman he pleases. God bless America.

My New Band: The Tsunami in Mommy

Are your wrists cold? Do you still have unsightly skin showing on your arms? Want to put that rubber fetish to good use for once? Cover up with the new lupus awareness bracelet from lupus.org. My daughter just ordered 50 for the entire fourth grade, so there goes my Christmas money.

B-Movie A-Train Blues

To mark the New Year, I've been making an effort to strengthen my spiritual life, and part of that effort includes streaming Kevin McCollough's radio show over the Internet. Who knew there was a audience for Christian radio in New York City? Personally, I've been entertaining in my mind a bizarre remake of John Carpenter's Escape From New York, in which I'm sent into the city to recover the last evangelical Christian and bring him out alive.

Apparently NYC's not in such a bad way after all. Like the kids say these days, big up all you red state Bible-thumpers in New York.

One-Man Vote Recount in Ohio

Apparently the barnacles attached to John Kerry's campaign computers are still sending out the odd missive now and then. Yesterday, people reported receiving this nugget:

I want every vote counted because Americans have to know that the votes they stood in line for, fought for, and strived so hard to cast in an election, are counted.

NOTE TO KERRY SUPPORTERS: You were not the only people standing in line to vote. I voted. For George W. Bush. Yes, I live in a blue neighborhood in a blue county in Ohio with a Domestic Partner Registry and an art theater and a yoga studio and friggin' drum circle night every other full moon and a Kerry sign on every damn yard but mine. But I worked and donated and volunteered and displayed my Bush yard sign (which was stolen) and wrote letters and stood in line in the rain for an hour to vote for Bush. And I flipped over my punch card and scraped off every damn chad that looked even a little pregnant. And I waited and watched as the poll worker dropped my vote -- for Bush -- into the lockbox.

Did I mention that I voted for Bush? In Ohio? And that no one did an exit poll where I voted? So don't tell me the exit polls were proof that Kerry just had to have gotten more votes.

Same rain, same line, same ballot, same machines...so how did my vote go for Bush? 'Cause I punched the card that way, dumbass.

Here's a idea for the Dems. Next time around, nominate someone good. Maybe the machines will work correctly then.

UPDATE: As someone who routinely gets stuck in the slowest line at the grocery but waits nonetheless, I'm not sure how "being discouraged by long lines" equals disenfranchisement. Still, in Cuyahoga County, where 448,486 people voted for Kerry (a 66 percent majority), I can only blame the Democrats in front of me for the long lines.

It's Hillary in 2008

Stay tuned. I hope to post some visual evidence by this evening, but it looks like the assault has begun on TV.

UPDATE: Damnit, I taped the afternoon rebroadcast, but it was the wrong episode. In this particular episode of Postcards From Buster on PBS, the Marc Brown characters Arthur Read and Buster Baxter see the latest Bionic Bunny movie, in which Bionic Bunny saves the president -- some sort of dog-like character with a blonde Cristophe 'do and pearls. Strangely familiar...and disconcerting...

Verse Chorus Rinse Repeat

I'm certainly not the only one congenitally incapable of resisting an order like this one: list the 10 greatest songs of rock and pop. It's a neurosis, really. But in this case, I'm further driven by the otherwise sensible John Derbyshire's recent post suggesting that there hasn't been one song of significance written in the past 15 years. Wha? "Lulu's Back in Town" trumps anything written in the last decade and a half? Thing is, there are quite a few contemporary tunes you could record with '30s-era instrumentation and would never know the difference. Hell, you could drop Prince's "Nothing Compares 2 U" into your community playhouse's production of South Pacific with no problem at all.

I guess the fun of lists like these is two-part: (1) coming up with the perfect yet one-of-a-kind answer that has music fans saying, "Ahhh!" and (2) coming up with your own rules? Is it a great record, or a great song? If the late Mel Torme sang it, would it still be a great song, or a novelty? To me, a great song will keep you in the lounge at the Days Inn listening to some duo called "Fire and Ice" for five more minutes rather than giving up and going to your room.

I see your "Lullaby of Broadway" and raise you "Pale Blue Eyes."

P.S. If you have QuickTime (and you should), here's a half-assed iPod spoof I put together that, theoretically, no more than five or six people on the planet should find amusing.

Prayers Answered and My Dawn Eden Fantasy

Apologies for the drama and many, many sincere thanks to anyone who has remembered me in their prayers. Yesterday was my family's first good day in a week. I was at the end of my rope Saturday evening; it looked like we were headed back to the hospital, my son was in tears, and I woke up with odd marks on my cheeks Sunday from where I'd apparently tried to tear off my own face in frustration and despair. My wife has hopefully turned the corner, having been able to eat for the first time in a week. Despite my atheism comments below, don't think I don't kneel and pray and do whatever else I can. I'll be lighting a candle at Saint John's tomorrow if I end up leaving the house at all.

Someone remind me: I need to repost the missus' poetry. Trust me, it's good...not, "An inky blackness drips from the ceiling" confessional crap, but real poetry.

As to my Dawn Eden fantasy, I don't think she'll mind my sharing it. In 2005, I set some of Dawn's songs to a bizarre electro/psychedelia melange. We collaborate at my buddy's studio -- all great, vintage stuff: a Wurlitzer, Farfisa, Rhodes, Moog Source, Fender Mustangs, Musicman amps, a real Leslie -- to record an album aimed toward Planned Parenthood's Teenwire crowd, featuring respectful, pro-responsibility tunes like "(Don't Go Back to) Margaretsangerville" and "Mr. Happy Doesn't Belong There." The music catches on in Britain, where we're offered a DJ residency at Cargo in London. Dawn meets and marries a wonderful Christian man, lupus is cured, and God reveals himself to me in some low-key yet powerful and unmistakable way.

UPDATE: To those disappointed that my Dawn Eden fantasy wasn't hotter, check out this overlooked detail: my buddy's studio also has a matched pair of DOD R845 rackmount spring reverbs.

The Saint Kansas Mission Statement

So, why did I start this weblog? Simple. There's just too much garbage out there going unanswered, so I wanted to contribute some acoustic tile to the liberal echo chamber.

Specifically, this bit of hate speech from The Village Voice was my final straw:

The Jews don't believe in the imagination, partly because so few of them have one, but mostly because it gets in the way of their chosen work, which is to destroy the human race and the planet. Human beings, who have imaginations, can see a recipe for disaster in the making; the Jews, whose goal in life is to profit from disaster and who don't give a hoot about human beings, either can't or won't. Which is why I personally think they should be exterminated before they cause any more harm.

Oh wait, did I say "The Jews?" So easy to lapse into cliche. No wait, the original quote -- from, um, a theater review? -- was about "Republicans." The whole paragraph is a kind of "EZ Hitler Speechwriter" though; just plug in "homosexuals" or "capitalists" or "Phish fans" and you're there. And need I point out the irony that these are the words of a theater reviewer...one whose job is to criticize what others work to create from their imaginations. (Yes, fans of Michael Feingold are welcome to forward their appreciation of his vast body of work to shitcan@saintkansas.com.)

There's so much that goes unanswered that needs to be confronted. I'm a Republican, and a human being, and I have an imagination. I write songs. I write poetry. I've smashed more bass guitars on stage than you have. I have a master's degree in literature. I can read a few languages. When I'm not busy trying to destoy the human race and the planet, like many non-Republicans, I enjoy music and movies. Imagine there's no heaven? It's easy if you try. Imagine a (mostly) vegetarian Republican who rides public transporation and enjoys Blue Velvet and Victor Davis Hanson and Aphex Twin? It's easy if you...have an imagination.

Fool Disclosure

Caution: Deeply maudlin and self-indulgent material.

I can remember the exact moment the main fuse in my brain blew. I was headed up Mayfield Road, my 5-year-old son in the back seat, racing to pick up my 9-year-old daughter from school. I'd had to leave Mama back at the emergency room. This, you see, was too much. I'm still young. I'm 37. I'm immature enough to believe there's still a rock star inside me somewhere. When I'd signed for my first mortgage, looking around the bank, I had thought to myself, "Um, shouldn't an adult be here to do this? Where's Dad?" Lightning bolt: you are Dad. That bolt strikes often now, and it burns.

Mama has lupus, which is bad. This month alone, Mama's had a hefty serving of pneumonia on lupus with a side of stomach flu. That's really bad. When we moved into our house a couple of years ago, we purchased a treadmill so Mama could continue her 5 a.m. runs of 8 miles day. Now she's in bed a good part of the day in debilitating pain. I approached the house after work earlier this year to find the ambulance out front and my daughter in hysterics at the front door. This is when the remainder of cells in my brain blew. There are many strong people out there who thrive on this sort of challenge. I'm not one of those people. I hate it. I'm weak and petulant and I resent it. If I can find a color that's left, I'm gonna come out with the THIS BITES bracelet, and all proceeds will be flushed down the toilet.

That said, I cannot thank my online sister Dawn enough for the prayers and inspiration. Even though she's referred to me at least twice now in her blog as a Christian blogger, I'm actually...organ cue...an atheist. The world's most reluctant atheist to be sure, and certainly not proud of it, but still: if you shoot me up with sodium pentothal and hook me up to the lie detector, the results are going to be pretty bleak. I am most decidedly not your typical ACLU-lovin' media atheist, though, just too damn smart to believe in God; I'm too damn smart not to appreciate living in a Christian nation among devout Christian people. Did God send Dawn into my life when I needed it? I can't honestly say I believe that, but am I complaining? I'm happy to be wrong in this case.

(I'm happy to ramble on about this at length and likely will later. Oh yeah, to reduce confusion: I'm not from Kansas, nor am I a saint. It's just a reference to the Oz-like nature of the world today...This ain't Kansas. That's the joke, people.)

Thanks very much for the prayers, sincerely. I'm able to write now because, after another seeming onset of dystonic shock this morning and some Fly-like whimpers for help, the missus and I decided to go for the knockout drugs rather than the ER on New Year's Day. My son Mini is showing his father's poor taste by enjoying a post-tsunami game of Hurricane Havoc. I've decided that anything is bearable if you don't have children; 90 percent of my effort now is directed toward keeping them insulated from panic and pain.

P.S. I'm probably Dr. Charles Stanley's biggest nonbelieving fan, so let me share a quote of his that touched me a lot last year: "All tempation is based on fantasy -- that is, our imagination of life under different circumstances." The adult in me is trying to accept the circumstances.

UPDATE: Skip Million Dollar Crybaby. If you want to live the Saint Kansas lifestyle vicariously, rent The Others (for photosensitivity and traumatized children), Ethan Fromme (for ridiculous fortune and the tests of marriage), and The Jerk, just 'cause it's still funny. Go ahead and throw Witness in there as well. It's the height of self-flattery on my part, but though I may side with those who turn the other cheek, I have no religous objection to punching back.

UPDATE 2: Music fans might enjoy Catherine Wheel's great Chrome, which features both Pain (her) and Broken Head (me).