Here's the real Father of the Year.
"[On February 6, 2007] an allegedly drunken dad crashed a car into a pedestrian in Queens - then fled the vehicle, leaving his own injured 3-year-old son behind, police said yesterday.
"Melvis Fabian, 29, had a bottle of whisky stashed in his glove compartment as he drove through Corona with his wife and toddler son at 11:18 p.m. Saturday and smashed their Honda into a parked Nissan at 111th Street and 43rd Avenue.
"The crash pushed the Nissan into Santana Riquevil, 22, who was standing nearby, and pinned the Flushing resident against another car, sources said.
"Fabian then fled, police said.
"Meanwhile, his son, Kevin, who was not strapped into a safety seat, broke several front teeth. Fabian's wife was not injured.
"Fabian turned himself in at the 110th Precinct two hours later.
"Riquevil's right leg was so severely broken, it may have to be amputated."
Damn my liberal heart if I don't feel just as bad for Melvis Fabian as I do for his son, but I think I feel worst of all for poor Santana Riquevil. Only one I don't feel bad for is that stunned bitch who let her man drive drunk. Oh well, at least Mr. Fabian turned himself in; given how quick on the trigger the NYPD's been lately, this story could have had an even worse ending.
What an entire mess, especially since didn't none of it have to happen.
[SOURCE: TATIANA DELIGIANNAKIS for THE NEW YORK POST]
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Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Crack Claims Another Victim
This from Gothamist:
"NEW YORK -- A 1-year-old baby is in good hands now. But the boy was found dehydrated in his Bronx apartment, where he spent about five days alone with his dead mother, who police say apparently had overdosed.
"The child was discovered Sunday night by relatives who went to the apartment after not hearing from the mother for several days.
"They found Thomasina Gibbs, 28, dead in the foyer of her fourth-floor Bronx apartment.
"The toddler was taken to Jacobi Hospital, where he is listed in stable condition.
"The Medical Examiner's office is conducting toxicology tests, but police do not suspect foul play.
"Neighbor Lynn Fitzgerald told the New York Post that Gibbs had been trying to kick an addiction to crack and marijuana."
You can be damn sure it was not a marijuana overdose that made an angel of Thomasina Gibbs. Nevertheless, let's all do our best to make sure the same fate doesn't befall the one she left behind.
[SOURCE: CBS Radio]
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"NEW YORK -- A 1-year-old baby is in good hands now. But the boy was found dehydrated in his Bronx apartment, where he spent about five days alone with his dead mother, who police say apparently had overdosed.
"The child was discovered Sunday night by relatives who went to the apartment after not hearing from the mother for several days.
"They found Thomasina Gibbs, 28, dead in the foyer of her fourth-floor Bronx apartment.
"The toddler was taken to Jacobi Hospital, where he is listed in stable condition.
"The Medical Examiner's office is conducting toxicology tests, but police do not suspect foul play.
"Neighbor Lynn Fitzgerald told the New York Post that Gibbs had been trying to kick an addiction to crack and marijuana."
You can be damn sure it was not a marijuana overdose that made an angel of Thomasina Gibbs. Nevertheless, let's all do our best to make sure the same fate doesn't befall the one she left behind.
[SOURCE: CBS Radio]
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Son of Happy Hump Day!
For all their fame and money the majority of celebrities have terrible lives. So why begrudge them a tiny little scrap of happiness before we, their fans, get wind of it and ruin everything?
It seems that two such people found just such a thing. Neighbours, up there in the Hollywood Hills. Maybe they met at a party or a premiere. I mean, the meeting would have been just a formality, since they are each that famous. A balmy night, a bottle of wine, then straight to the mats for the Naughty Pilates. They thought they were being discreet, they thought they were getting away with it, but they thought wrong. We are everywhere.
Or else, y'know, it never happened. In which case, what kind of mass hysteria puts Rachel in bed with Neo? And how would that go? "Does this Matrix make my ass look fat?" "Whoa. We were on a break. Whoa." "Wanna smoke some grass and trash our exes?" "Whoa. Wait, Are we still in character? Whoa."
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It seems that two such people found just such a thing. Neighbours, up there in the Hollywood Hills. Maybe they met at a party or a premiere. I mean, the meeting would have been just a formality, since they are each that famous. A balmy night, a bottle of wine, then straight to the mats for the Naughty Pilates. They thought they were being discreet, they thought they were getting away with it, but they thought wrong. We are everywhere.
Or else, y'know, it never happened. In which case, what kind of mass hysteria puts Rachel in bed with Neo? And how would that go? "Does this Matrix make my ass look fat?" "Whoa. We were on a break. Whoa." "Wanna smoke some grass and trash our exes?" "Whoa. Wait, Are we still in character? Whoa."
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Monday, February 05, 2007
God Save The Queens
"Queen Elizabeth II marked the 400th anniversary of Amsterdam's English Reformed Church, the oldest English speaking congregation outside Britain, in a low key visit to the Netherlands Monday. The British monarch, dressed in a plum coat with a burgundy coloured hat with plum coloured flowers, attended a one-hour church service together with the Netherlands' Queen Beatrix.
"The English Reformed Church is housed in a 16th century chapel in central Amsterdam donated to the English Protestant community by the city in 1607. The church held its first English-language service on February 5, 1607 and services continued regularly with only a short interruption during the Nazi occupation of the Netherlands during World War II.
"Monday's service featured hymn singing and reading from the Bible and a sermon by Reverend Alan McDonald, the moderator of the general assembly of the Church of Scotland. Churchgoers said the service was very simple and the only difference from a regular Sunday was the fact that the church sang "God Save the Queen" at the end. Over 38 nationalities from different Christian denominations attend the English speaking church's services and on Sunday its 450 seats are nearly full.
"In his sermon McDonald stressed "the double identity and the dual nationality" of the church but insisted "this is not an historical place, we are not a museum".
"The question is: Where are you now, where are you going?" he said.
"The congregation is part of the Church of Scotland (Presbyterian) and not the Church of England (Anglican), which Queen Elizabeth II officially heads. However, the monarch does attend services with the Church of Scotland when she is in Scotland. Ministers from the English Reformed Church have been invited to preach in the chapel of the British royal's Balmoral Castle. Even though the English Church -- known locally as the Engelse Kerk -- has been led for the last 17 years by Scottish pastor John Cowie, it presents itself as "ecumenical and international".
"This is one of the major characteristics of the congregation: this is not an expat congregation, we have very strong links with the Dutch society," Cowie said. "Half of the congregation is being renewed every five years, but it keeps growing, which is a far cry from the situation in the UK parishes," he added.
After the service the British queen will meet some of the modern day worshippers and Amsterdam city officials at a private reception at the neighbouring Amsterdam Historical Museum, which is hosting an exhibition on the church's 400th anniversary. She is expected to fly back to London on Monday evening.
Earlier on Monday the queen also paid a brief visit to the International Court of Justice in The Hague, presided over by British judge Rosalyn Higgins. The queen met the judges and their partners and members of the registry. There were no speeches at the court as the queen had said she was just interested in meeting the people.
[SOURCE: AFP]
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Blog Fodder - RIP Picture Card
That's right, I destroyed the 512 MB memory card I'd been using in my camera. Thank you. Thank you very much.
Fortunately I still have the old 256 MB; unfortunately it just will not do, even for a week. So tomorrow I guess it's down to the shops for a 1 GB card. I'd been meaning to get one anyway, but the 512MB card was pretty functional, so I was waiting before getting the larger capacity.
The wait is over... And once again comes progress in the wake of my own stupidity. If that's all it takes I should make quite a lot of progress.
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Father of the Year: The Ryan O'Neal Story
[Look out! It's 3-D Ryan O'Neal! Don't get too close!]
One of the most indelible images of the 1980s for me was a picture of Griffin O'Neal grinning without his two front teeth.
Now, this was not a tow-headed little sprite but a grown man, who'd just had his teeth knocked out by his father, Ryan O'Neal. It was quite a story, though in those days the celebrity press was pretty much just "Entertainment Tonight" and "People Weekly". It could have spawned a discussion in society about the treatment of children by adults, but it didn't. The scandal passed after a couple of weeks without leaving too much of an impression, although it left one on me. Since this was more or less how my father behaved, I would follow such stories when they (too rarely) appeared.
It was 15 years later, in 2003, that I discovered "Paper Moon" on DVD, and a new, earlier chapter of the story came to light. Apparently Ryan campaigned Peter Bogdanovich to cast Tatum in the roll of Addie in "Paper Moon", but got jealous of the attention Tatum got for the role (which is, by the way, entirely deserved) once the movie was released. Throughout the film, as well, Ryan's character has a powerful antipathy towards Addie that could possibly be grounded in his own real-life insecurity.
Then, a couple of years ago, reading Tatum O'Neal's memoirs "A Paper Life", I felt a chill as she described her father's behaviour toward her the night she won an Oscar for "Paper Moon" and he didn't. She claims not to recall him punching her, yet right or wrong the story persists, probably because the truth has yet to come to light.
And so here the story comes to a third act. Ryan O'Neal has been arrested for pulling a gun on Griffin, and this time is off to the jailhouse. Since he and Tatum are long-estranged, maybe newly-in-remission longtime galpal Farrah Fawcett will be there for him in his moment of need, as I doubt Griffin will be.
Despite having given this post a very judgmental title, and an ambivalence for celebrities besides, it is my sincere wish that Ryan somehow comes to terms with his own rage and the damage it has done to his children, not to mention his life. As someone who struggles with rage issues, I know how easily anger can destroy lives, and I hope this is his wake-up call. I hope he gets the help he requires to make peace with the ones he's hurt (beginning with himself) before it's too late.
Even if it does turn out that Griffin was to blame for starting the altercation, pulling a gun on your own son? Who does Ryan O'Neal think he is, anyway, James Caan?
[The preceding was an anecdotal remembrance of a series of events. It may be unclear in places and contain inaccuracies; should you the reader note any, please don't hesitate to contact me so I can make the necessary corrections.)
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Do Not Adjust Your Set
On a whim Sunday evening I stopped in at Chapter's. I got Jake Arnott's "The Long Firm" about a gay male gangster in 1960s London (a la Ronnie Kray), and "Do Not Adjust Your Set". The following article describes the thing better than I ever could.
I must say, it's nice to see children's television that doesn't talk down to its audience. There's very little difference between "Do Not Adjust Your Set" and "Not The Nine O'Clock News", except that the former eschews an occasional naughty word and political satire where the latter revels in it. It also, in a way, prefigures "You Can't Do That On Television", which, sadly, has yet to be released on DVD, but which would be much appreciated.
(Catch "You Can't Do That on Television" while you can on YouTube. Who knows? "Do Not Adjust Your Set" might be there too.)
Do Not Adjust Your Set UK, ITV (Rediffusion, *Thames), Children's sketch, b/w, 1967 Starring: Denise Coffey, Eric Idle, David Jason
At Last The 1948 Show led directly to Monty Python's Flying Circus and so, in equal measure, did Do Not Adjust Your Set , a children's show of inspired sketches and skits featuring the combined - and then still largely unknown - talents of Eric Idle, Terry Jones and Michael Palin. It also propelled a decidedly untried young actor into television: David Jason, discovered by producer Humphrey Barclay in an end-of-the-pier show in Eastbourne. The fifth member of the team, by no means the least, was Denise Coffey, a versatile and naturally funny comic actress whom Barclay spotted in a play at the Edinburgh Festival.
As producer of the excellent BBC radio sketch comedy I'm Sorry, I'll Read That Again, starring John Cleese and all three of what would become The Goodies, Barclay was invited by Rediffusion executive Jeremy Isaacs to produce, along similar lines, a witty TV show for children. (The title Do Not Adjust Your Set came from the standard fault card screened during TV breakdowns - still a common sight in the late 1960s; I'm Sorry, I'll Read That Again had been titled from the standard newsreaders' apology on radio.)
The key to the show's success was Barclay's decision to produce the funniest comedy he could, irrespective of the age of the viewer. The tea-time scheduling was not overlooked, but neither did it govern the material, avoiding the most common pitfall of children's TV: the patronising attitude. Idle, Palin and Jones kept this creed firmly in mind and generated some terrific material that was satirical, surreal, absurdist and even, at times, macabre. When a sketch was felt too risqué for the hour it was simply set aside for future use elsewhere. Inevitably, Do Not Adjust Your Set quickly amassed a cult following, many adults finding excuses to leave work early and rush home for the 5.20pm transmissions. It also won a major international award, the Prix Jeunesse, in Munich in 1968.
Subtitled 'The Fairly Pointless Show', Do Not Adjust Your Set was strong in every department. Every edition featured a musical interlude by the Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band. Likened by Denise Coffey to 'Spike Jones and his City Slickers on speed', the Bonzos were terrific value, their lead singer Viv Stanshall, one of the great British eccentrics, never failing to create an impression. (The band also helped out in some of the sketches.) The final few editions treated viewers to the work of a young American artist new to British TV, Terry Gilliam, who provided drawings. Another bonus was a weekly serial, Captain Fantastic, which featured David Jason as a bowler-hatted, old-raincoated and moustachioed superhero trying to rid the world of the evil Mrs Black (Denise Coffey). Such was its popularity, Captain Fantastic enjoyed a life of its own, new episodes being incorporated into Thames' children's magazine Magpie from its premiere on 30 July 1968. (Thames also took over DNAYS when it won the franchise from Rediffusion.)
Five months after Do Not Adjust Your Set came to an end BBC1 launched Monty Python's Flying Circus.
Researched and written by Mark Lewisohn.
[SOURCE: BBC.CO.UK]
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I must say, it's nice to see children's television that doesn't talk down to its audience. There's very little difference between "Do Not Adjust Your Set" and "Not The Nine O'Clock News", except that the former eschews an occasional naughty word and political satire where the latter revels in it. It also, in a way, prefigures "You Can't Do That On Television", which, sadly, has yet to be released on DVD, but which would be much appreciated.
(Catch "You Can't Do That on Television" while you can on YouTube. Who knows? "Do Not Adjust Your Set" might be there too.)
Do Not Adjust Your Set UK, ITV (Rediffusion, *Thames), Children's sketch, b/w, 1967 Starring: Denise Coffey, Eric Idle, David Jason
At Last The 1948 Show led directly to Monty Python's Flying Circus and so, in equal measure, did Do Not Adjust Your Set , a children's show of inspired sketches and skits featuring the combined - and then still largely unknown - talents of Eric Idle, Terry Jones and Michael Palin. It also propelled a decidedly untried young actor into television: David Jason, discovered by producer Humphrey Barclay in an end-of-the-pier show in Eastbourne. The fifth member of the team, by no means the least, was Denise Coffey, a versatile and naturally funny comic actress whom Barclay spotted in a play at the Edinburgh Festival.
As producer of the excellent BBC radio sketch comedy I'm Sorry, I'll Read That Again, starring John Cleese and all three of what would become The Goodies, Barclay was invited by Rediffusion executive Jeremy Isaacs to produce, along similar lines, a witty TV show for children. (The title Do Not Adjust Your Set came from the standard fault card screened during TV breakdowns - still a common sight in the late 1960s; I'm Sorry, I'll Read That Again had been titled from the standard newsreaders' apology on radio.)
The key to the show's success was Barclay's decision to produce the funniest comedy he could, irrespective of the age of the viewer. The tea-time scheduling was not overlooked, but neither did it govern the material, avoiding the most common pitfall of children's TV: the patronising attitude. Idle, Palin and Jones kept this creed firmly in mind and generated some terrific material that was satirical, surreal, absurdist and even, at times, macabre. When a sketch was felt too risqué for the hour it was simply set aside for future use elsewhere. Inevitably, Do Not Adjust Your Set quickly amassed a cult following, many adults finding excuses to leave work early and rush home for the 5.20pm transmissions. It also won a major international award, the Prix Jeunesse, in Munich in 1968.
Subtitled 'The Fairly Pointless Show', Do Not Adjust Your Set was strong in every department. Every edition featured a musical interlude by the Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band. Likened by Denise Coffey to 'Spike Jones and his City Slickers on speed', the Bonzos were terrific value, their lead singer Viv Stanshall, one of the great British eccentrics, never failing to create an impression. (The band also helped out in some of the sketches.) The final few editions treated viewers to the work of a young American artist new to British TV, Terry Gilliam, who provided drawings. Another bonus was a weekly serial, Captain Fantastic, which featured David Jason as a bowler-hatted, old-raincoated and moustachioed superhero trying to rid the world of the evil Mrs Black (Denise Coffey). Such was its popularity, Captain Fantastic enjoyed a life of its own, new episodes being incorporated into Thames' children's magazine Magpie from its premiere on 30 July 1968. (Thames also took over DNAYS when it won the franchise from Rediffusion.)
Five months after Do Not Adjust Your Set came to an end BBC1 launched Monty Python's Flying Circus.
Researched and written by Mark Lewisohn.
[SOURCE: BBC.CO.UK]
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Blog Fodder - The Denver Colts
Blog Fodder is a new department devoted to those times when I do something stupid. I expect Blog Fodder will not only become our most productive department, but our most popular as well. - MSM
(Indianapolis Colts quarterback and Super Bowl MVP Peyton Manning, doing one of those things they do with that ball they use.)
At dinner Saturday night with Seumas and the eight musicians composing Oran nan Car I was determined to impress. I'd brought all my witty banter in the most sparkly handbag I had, and I was doing pretty good as well until talk turned to the topic of the Super Bowl. I knew it was Bears/Colts, and I knew that the Bears (dah BEARSS!) are from Chicago.
I have no idea how many times I said Denver Colts before I was gently corrected.
Oh well... At least the Indianapolis Colts managed to win despite my gaffe, and that's the important thing. Unless, of course, you're a fan of the Bears. (dah BEARSS!) It scarcely needs to be said that I am a fan of the bears (dah BEARSS!), the twinks (dah TWINKSS!), the frat boys (dah FRAT BOYSS!)... I think you get the point; too bad I don't.
WHOA! Watch out for that tangent!
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(Indianapolis Colts quarterback and Super Bowl MVP Peyton Manning, doing one of those things they do with that ball they use.)
At dinner Saturday night with Seumas and the eight musicians composing Oran nan Car I was determined to impress. I'd brought all my witty banter in the most sparkly handbag I had, and I was doing pretty good as well until talk turned to the topic of the Super Bowl. I knew it was Bears/Colts, and I knew that the Bears (dah BEARSS!) are from Chicago.
I have no idea how many times I said Denver Colts before I was gently corrected.
Oh well... At least the Indianapolis Colts managed to win despite my gaffe, and that's the important thing. Unless, of course, you're a fan of the Bears. (dah BEARSS!) It scarcely needs to be said that I am a fan of the bears (dah BEARSS!), the twinks (dah TWINKSS!), the frat boys (dah FRAT BOYSS!)... I think you get the point; too bad I don't.
WHOA! Watch out for that tangent!
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Sunday, February 04, 2007
Say Hullo To Queen Bea For Us, Ma'am!
This is the most anticipated meeting of two reigning Queens since the last time my friend Doug came over.
[Badump-tish]
On Monday 5 February 2007, Her Majesty The Queen, accompanied by His Royal Highness the Duke of Edinburgh will travel to The Netherlands. The programme for their visit is as follows:
The Queen will be met by Queen Beatrix at Rotterdam Zestienhoven Airport.
The Royal party will then visit the International Court of Justice in The Hague where they will be met by Dame Rosalyn Higgins, President.
Meanwhile, The Duke of Edinburgh will attend a Duke of Edinburgh Award Scheme engagement. Afterwards, The Royal party will attend a service and reception marking the four hundredth anniversary of the English Church in Amsterdam.
Cor, sounds like a ripping afternoon, don' it?"
[SOURCE]
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Saturday, February 03, 2007
Happy 100th Post!
Once again I feel like the hangover victim who wakes up after a wild night and swears "Never again." Only since I'm not a drinker, my hangover comes from writing about politics. Because this kind of hangover has no physiological side effects, it also takes a damn sight longer to go away.
Since her recent death from cancer I've been rereading Molly Ivins' "Who Let The Dogs In?", hoping to capture that special quality of whimsy in the face of politics which was her hallmark, and which should temper the more inflammatory impulses I must have gleaned from Carl Hiaasen. Perhaps I should also look into Sarah Vowell before I read any Christiane Amanpour.
I'm tempted to write about Eliot Spitzer next, but I need to marshal my resources more thoroughly before deigning to criticize another big liberal hero. Maybe I'll find a Republican to pick on next - that shouldn't be too difficult. Or else I need to visit my shrink, Dr. Panza, and investigate my need to tilt at windmills.
* * *
Further to that, things here in Pop Culture land are otherwise coming along swimmingly. I have just had tags explained to me - slowly and with the big words removed - so I will be hard at work this week adding tags to all my posts. I'm still a ways off when it comes to links, as well as posting audio, but I must remember my baby steps. It looks like video will be an easier thing to do, so look for that in the days ahead.
It's a fine line you tread when attempting comedy, and without a doubt when I'm wearing my Dayton's that fine line gets pretty well obliterated. But I want to be a better person and a better writer (most days even in that order) so it's back to work for me - only not just yet. I think I'll treat myself to an afternoon off while honing my smartass skills by watching one of my all-time favourite movies "Stage Door" (1937).
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I Want Her Job
Blah blah blah Macy's Herald Square blah blah blah. Blah Elizabeth Hurley blah Jordache blah blah. Blah blah blah, MILF blah blah, blah circle jerk.
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My First Scandal!
(The origin of this piece is a reply to a comment made on the previous post. Once published it was clear to me that the length the piece needed to be was going to be longer than suitable for the Comments section. Also, given the importance of the issues and their current place in the public debate, I made a unilateral decision to elevate them to a position of greater prominence - namely the front page.)
In the interest of full disclosure, I am honour-bound to report that earlier today I received an anonymous comment regarding the previous post, "Boring Old Sex Scandal". It was brought to my attention that I had inadvertantly published a factual inaccuracy: I said Gavin Newsom was married which he is not. Obviously, I immediately corrected the error, and (like I said the last time this happened, and will probably say the next time) I will endeavour to do better about fact-checking in the future.
The comment also mentioned that since Mr. Newsom is not married, he was not cheating. Once again, this is a matter of semantics. I say aiding and abetting a cheater is cheating. Had it not been cheating he also wouldn't have had to apologise. I will give the man credit though, since loads of people have done lots worse and never apologised at all.
The comment likewise took umbrage (albeit the gentlest kind) with my opinion of Mr. Newsom's character. I stand by my opinion of him, as well as my original assessment of the unlawful and heavy-handed way he approached the issue of same-sex marriage. Besides having to essentially declare San Francisco a city-state to do it, I believe his methods hurt the cause more than helped it. Given how touchy (and powerful) its opponents are, poking them with a stick won't win us any allies.
I also felt that he was using us - the gay male community - as a diversion for his real agenda of grabbing more autonomy for the city. That's fine, do that, I wish the entire world would devolve into city-states overnight. But I am sick of being made the villain - yet again! - because it happens to be both politically expedient and easily spun to satisfy liberal consciences.
Factual inaccuracy, enough tinder to start a raging debate on the nature of cheating, the rearing ugly head of a second even more politically charged issue, and a flamboyant character assassination; not bad for six sentences. In no time flat I'll be appearing before the Grand Jury having to explain why Renee Zellweger wants me dead.
Also, as much as I love receiving comments, I never publish them if they're anonymous. Nothing personal.
(As an aside to you, whoever you are: can I thank you for your manners, or should I thank your mother? It's such a terrible time now, with most discourse being reduced to so much ugliness. Your comment gave my post more honour than it deserved, since I will agree that, in the name of humour I may have been a tiny bit more outrageous than I needed to be. Probably if you'd been negative I would have gotten that way too, and that's where the problem arises, both personally and societally. I'd like to thank you, a total stranger, for helping me earn another little something towards my own self-actualisation. - MSM)
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In the interest of full disclosure, I am honour-bound to report that earlier today I received an anonymous comment regarding the previous post, "Boring Old Sex Scandal". It was brought to my attention that I had inadvertantly published a factual inaccuracy: I said Gavin Newsom was married which he is not. Obviously, I immediately corrected the error, and (like I said the last time this happened, and will probably say the next time) I will endeavour to do better about fact-checking in the future.
The comment also mentioned that since Mr. Newsom is not married, he was not cheating. Once again, this is a matter of semantics. I say aiding and abetting a cheater is cheating. Had it not been cheating he also wouldn't have had to apologise. I will give the man credit though, since loads of people have done lots worse and never apologised at all.
The comment likewise took umbrage (albeit the gentlest kind) with my opinion of Mr. Newsom's character. I stand by my opinion of him, as well as my original assessment of the unlawful and heavy-handed way he approached the issue of same-sex marriage. Besides having to essentially declare San Francisco a city-state to do it, I believe his methods hurt the cause more than helped it. Given how touchy (and powerful) its opponents are, poking them with a stick won't win us any allies.
I also felt that he was using us - the gay male community - as a diversion for his real agenda of grabbing more autonomy for the city. That's fine, do that, I wish the entire world would devolve into city-states overnight. But I am sick of being made the villain - yet again! - because it happens to be both politically expedient and easily spun to satisfy liberal consciences.
Factual inaccuracy, enough tinder to start a raging debate on the nature of cheating, the rearing ugly head of a second even more politically charged issue, and a flamboyant character assassination; not bad for six sentences. In no time flat I'll be appearing before the Grand Jury having to explain why Renee Zellweger wants me dead.
Also, as much as I love receiving comments, I never publish them if they're anonymous. Nothing personal.
(As an aside to you, whoever you are: can I thank you for your manners, or should I thank your mother? It's such a terrible time now, with most discourse being reduced to so much ugliness. Your comment gave my post more honour than it deserved, since I will agree that, in the name of humour I may have been a tiny bit more outrageous than I needed to be. Probably if you'd been negative I would have gotten that way too, and that's where the problem arises, both personally and societally. I'd like to thank you, a total stranger, for helping me earn another little something towards my own self-actualisation. - MSM)
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Thursday, February 01, 2007
Boring Old Sex Scandal
San Francisco mayor Gavin Newsom, one-time Democratic golden boy and future pop culture flame-out, has apologised for having an affair with the wife of an aide. Given his constituency, this story could have had a happy ending, but no. He cheated with a woman. I never get what I want.
I could make some kind of snide comment about how obviously sacred marriage is to heterosexuals (as opposed to we folk) but even I wouldn't kick a dog when he's down. It's enough for me to know that somewhere a grandstanding egomaniacal pretty boy is getting his comeuppance.
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Chute The Dog
This from Jen Chung, over at Gothamist...
"A 5 month old puppy was dropped in a trash chute by his owner during an argument. The Daily News reported that ex-con Anthony Blow had been arguing with Robin Hines and threatened, "You don't think I will do it?" before dropping the pit bull terrier mix through the chute seven stories. Hines called the police, who managed to rescue the dog after breaking into the compactor room.
"Sergeant Rick Khalaf said, "The trash was knee-deep on the floor. Rats were running everywhere, and then we saw him. He was encased in garbage, surrounded by bottles, food and the metal edges of cans, and just looked like he wanted to say, 'Hello everybody.' It could have been a terrible death." The dog who only suffered a couple scratches was renamed Lucky and another officer, Andrew Dorsett, offered to adopt him, saying, "I just couldn't see him spending his life in a shelter and possibly being put down."
"Blow was arrested. Since Lucky is deaf (!), Blow was charged "abandonment of a disabled animal" as well as other animal cruelty charges. Blow also allegedly said about throwing Lucky away, "It's my property and I can do what I want with it."
Karma being the bitch it is, something tells me there's another chute about to be dogged. Enjoy your stay at Riker's Island, Mr. Blow.
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"A 5 month old puppy was dropped in a trash chute by his owner during an argument. The Daily News reported that ex-con Anthony Blow had been arguing with Robin Hines and threatened, "You don't think I will do it?" before dropping the pit bull terrier mix through the chute seven stories. Hines called the police, who managed to rescue the dog after breaking into the compactor room.
"Sergeant Rick Khalaf said, "The trash was knee-deep on the floor. Rats were running everywhere, and then we saw him. He was encased in garbage, surrounded by bottles, food and the metal edges of cans, and just looked like he wanted to say, 'Hello everybody.' It could have been a terrible death." The dog who only suffered a couple scratches was renamed Lucky and another officer, Andrew Dorsett, offered to adopt him, saying, "I just couldn't see him spending his life in a shelter and possibly being put down."
"Blow was arrested. Since Lucky is deaf (!), Blow was charged "abandonment of a disabled animal" as well as other animal cruelty charges. Blow also allegedly said about throwing Lucky away, "It's my property and I can do what I want with it."
Karma being the bitch it is, something tells me there's another chute about to be dogged. Enjoy your stay at Riker's Island, Mr. Blow.
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Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Happy Hump Day
Uh, I'm gay, so don't take this the wrong way or nothin', but...
...Courteney Cox is so smokin' hot she's got me seeing double!
===
Welcome to what I hope will become a couple of new features for the Pop Culture Institute.
The first, as per the title, is our weekly celebration of everything Wednesday: Hump Day, or as it's known in French-speaking countries Mercredi Gras. Because of an odd glitch in my schedule, I have three hours extra free time every Wednesday afternoon. So I thought I'd devote that time exclusively to the Pop Culture Institute. This means more posts, more original content, including audio and video. Besides which, don't we all deserve a holiday every single week?
Then there's the Gratuitous Brunette. Based on my own theory that a picture of a beautiful person is like a multivitamin for the soul, from now on whenever I need to be perked up, I'm throwing in a Gratuitous Brunette. So as to be fair, some of the brunettes will be female. As you know, Valentine's Day is fast approaching. I'm going to need a lot of something to see me through it, and Gratuitous Brunettes are less fattening than chocolate.
Further to this aim (and our third new feature in one) is the 3-D Celebrity, which is just as cool as it sounds, but may require instructions. Lean in as close as you need to your monitor to make the two pictures into three, then just let your eyes relax. I find it works best if you're groggy, so just before bed or just after waking up works best. The pictures on either side should fade out and the middle picture should float up off the screen. If you can make it work it's like they're right there man.
[Warning: The dosage of monitor radiation required to create a 3-D Celebrity exceeds Federal Government standards, even in Third World countries. Seriously, it's like drying your ass with a microwave. Also, you may also need to be high.]
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...Courteney Cox is so smokin' hot she's got me seeing double!
Welcome to what I hope will become a couple of new features for the Pop Culture Institute.
The first, as per the title, is our weekly celebration of everything Wednesday: Hump Day, or as it's known in French-speaking countries Mercredi Gras. Because of an odd glitch in my schedule, I have three hours extra free time every Wednesday afternoon. So I thought I'd devote that time exclusively to the Pop Culture Institute. This means more posts, more original content, including audio and video. Besides which, don't we all deserve a holiday every single week?
Then there's the Gratuitous Brunette. Based on my own theory that a picture of a beautiful person is like a multivitamin for the soul, from now on whenever I need to be perked up, I'm throwing in a Gratuitous Brunette. So as to be fair, some of the brunettes will be female. As you know, Valentine's Day is fast approaching. I'm going to need a lot of something to see me through it, and Gratuitous Brunettes are less fattening than chocolate.
Further to this aim (and our third new feature in one) is the 3-D Celebrity, which is just as cool as it sounds, but may require instructions. Lean in as close as you need to your monitor to make the two pictures into three, then just let your eyes relax. I find it works best if you're groggy, so just before bed or just after waking up works best. The pictures on either side should fade out and the middle picture should float up off the screen. If you can make it work it's like they're right there man.
[Warning: The dosage of monitor radiation required to create a 3-D Celebrity exceeds Federal Government standards, even in Third World countries. Seriously, it's like drying your ass with a microwave. Also, you may also need to be high.]
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Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Harry Potter and the Adult Career
Hm. It looks like Harry Potter is becoming Hairy Potter. Oh yes.
Daniel Radcliffe, no dummy, is naturally eager to distance himself from Harry Potter. Presumably, that's why he's starring in Peter Shaffer's "Equus" on the London stage. I mean, why else would you?
(If you ask me, if he really wanted to distance himself he and Hugh Grant should do a film about Paul Verlaine and Arthur Rimbaud. Not that I've given it any thought or anything, you know, just... Putting it out there.)
He did do a great spot on Ricky Gervais' "Extras", though, hitting on Dame Diana Rigg while wearing a Boy Scout's uniform. You should be able to find that on YouTube, which is where I found it. Now that "Extras" is out on DVD I'll probably be adding that to the collection.
Not that this post is any serious kind of dissection of what goes into making an actor's career. I just like a spot of G-rated porn every now and then, especially if the guy is a) famous, and.. Well, there is no b), and even the a) is negotiable.
Radcliffe has definitely triumphed over the villain from the previous volume, "Harry Potter and the Onset of Puberty". Hopefully it gives him courage when he faces his next foe, entitled "Harry Potter and the Three Remaining Movies".
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R.I.P. Gump Worsley
I had to dig deep into my virtual hockey card collection for this one, and it's not even the one I wanted. Oh well...
As you can probably tell from the title of this post, Lorne "Gump" Worsley died.
The Hall of Fame goalie spent 21 seasons in the NHL beginning with the New York Rangers. He belonged to the Montreal Canadiens, the winningest team in hockey, during their last great winning streak in the 60s and 70s. In his five years with Montreal the team won four Stanley Cups. He later moved to Minnesota, where he ended his career. He was elected to the Hall of Fame in 1980.
He was 77.
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As you can probably tell from the title of this post, Lorne "Gump" Worsley died.
The Hall of Fame goalie spent 21 seasons in the NHL beginning with the New York Rangers. He belonged to the Montreal Canadiens, the winningest team in hockey, during their last great winning streak in the 60s and 70s. In his five years with Montreal the team won four Stanley Cups. He later moved to Minnesota, where he ended his career. He was elected to the Hall of Fame in 1980.
He was 77.
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Mutant Abilities
I remember it was after X-Men came out, a bunch of friends and I were sitting around one night, discussing our own mutant abilities. One of them can learn a language well enough to fool a fluent speaker in a month, stuff like that. It went around the group, and it didn't take more than a couple of minutes for me to realise a) I was surrounded by freaks, and b) I had them all outfreaked. Most of them had one, and a couple had two, but I have three - count 'em - three mutant abilities.
As usually happens in these kinds of stories, all eyes came to rest on me, for I alone had yet to contribute. I'd hoped to let it pass, but this group was having none of that. I demurred that I wasn't sure that anything freaky about me was suitably mutant. I mean, I have perfect matching pitch, which apparently is quite rare. I could sing, right now, the opening verse of "Grapefruit Moon" on key and I haven't heard that song in months. It's freaky, just not Marvel Comics freaky.
I also repel gay men; I live in fear that the Vatican might catch wind of this and kidnap me to develop some sort of secret weapon. The nicest gay man you know could meet me for less than ten seconds and afterwards describe me using only the most hateful words imaginable. I've also tested this, but the straight woman whose nice gay friend was the guinea pig won't tell me what he said, so I guess it must have been pretty bad.
Then there's the trivia thing. You see, my brain seems to function as a trivia particle accelerator. I can identify who you're talking about usually with one oblique clue. I discovered it one day when my grandmother was having tea with one of her friends. In order to let them talk, I was reading on the terrace, when my grandmother called me into the house. She asked me, "We're trying to think of that woman, what's her name, she danced?"
Immediately I answered: "Dame Margot Fonteyn." The look on her friend's face was indescribable, but I'd seen the one on my grandmother's face hundreds of times. No doubt they'd been bragging about who had the better grandson and I'd just helped her win. My friend Peter later dubbed this: "What's Her Name, She Danced" and if I hadn't stopped him I'm sure he would have developed it into a game show or some such atrocity.
But neither of these skills-slash-super powers can even come close to my ability to conjure. This I also discovered by accident, since in those days there was no Sky High. I'd be wandering around somewhere talking with a friend about actors and singers we liked, when I would bemoan that such and such wasn't around much anymore. I mean, they could have been has-beens for years and suddenly there they are.
It was immediately prior to the release of "American Beauty" and I'd been going on about Annette Bening, and why hadn't I seen her for so long. Within a week there she was in all her glory on "Entertainment Tonight" just like she'd never gone anywhere. One time I was complaining that there were no more Doris Day types around anymore. The next night I watched "Pleasantville" and who should appear but Reese Witherspoon.
Understand, I try not to use any of these powers lightly. I certainly don't need to repel gay men, I need to attract them, but can't find a way to reverse the polarity. The trivia thing is fun at a party, until someone screams witch and then I have to outrun an angry mob, etc. etc.; it gets old. And as for conjuring, well, there are too many celebrities as it is. If anything, I should try to learn how to reverse the polarity of this ability, and send a few hangers-on packing (they know who they are).
All in all, I'd rather be a shape-shifter. Failing that, I'd like the ability to finish essays as well as I start them. Or that language thing: I always thought that was really cool.
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As usually happens in these kinds of stories, all eyes came to rest on me, for I alone had yet to contribute. I'd hoped to let it pass, but this group was having none of that. I demurred that I wasn't sure that anything freaky about me was suitably mutant. I mean, I have perfect matching pitch, which apparently is quite rare. I could sing, right now, the opening verse of "Grapefruit Moon" on key and I haven't heard that song in months. It's freaky, just not Marvel Comics freaky.
I also repel gay men; I live in fear that the Vatican might catch wind of this and kidnap me to develop some sort of secret weapon. The nicest gay man you know could meet me for less than ten seconds and afterwards describe me using only the most hateful words imaginable. I've also tested this, but the straight woman whose nice gay friend was the guinea pig won't tell me what he said, so I guess it must have been pretty bad.
Then there's the trivia thing. You see, my brain seems to function as a trivia particle accelerator. I can identify who you're talking about usually with one oblique clue. I discovered it one day when my grandmother was having tea with one of her friends. In order to let them talk, I was reading on the terrace, when my grandmother called me into the house. She asked me, "We're trying to think of that woman, what's her name, she danced?"
Immediately I answered: "Dame Margot Fonteyn." The look on her friend's face was indescribable, but I'd seen the one on my grandmother's face hundreds of times. No doubt they'd been bragging about who had the better grandson and I'd just helped her win. My friend Peter later dubbed this: "What's Her Name, She Danced" and if I hadn't stopped him I'm sure he would have developed it into a game show or some such atrocity.
But neither of these skills-slash-super powers can even come close to my ability to conjure. This I also discovered by accident, since in those days there was no Sky High. I'd be wandering around somewhere talking with a friend about actors and singers we liked, when I would bemoan that such and such wasn't around much anymore. I mean, they could have been has-beens for years and suddenly there they are.
It was immediately prior to the release of "American Beauty" and I'd been going on about Annette Bening, and why hadn't I seen her for so long. Within a week there she was in all her glory on "Entertainment Tonight" just like she'd never gone anywhere. One time I was complaining that there were no more Doris Day types around anymore. The next night I watched "Pleasantville" and who should appear but Reese Witherspoon.
Understand, I try not to use any of these powers lightly. I certainly don't need to repel gay men, I need to attract them, but can't find a way to reverse the polarity. The trivia thing is fun at a party, until someone screams witch and then I have to outrun an angry mob, etc. etc.; it gets old. And as for conjuring, well, there are too many celebrities as it is. If anything, I should try to learn how to reverse the polarity of this ability, and send a few hangers-on packing (they know who they are).
All in all, I'd rather be a shape-shifter. Failing that, I'd like the ability to finish essays as well as I start them. Or that language thing: I always thought that was really cool.
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An Imaginary Conversation
"Good morning, thank you for calling Rainbow's End. My name is Kathy, how may I help you?"
"Uh, yeah... My name's [redacted] and I, uh... I called my coworker a faggot."
"Okay. I just need to ask you a few questions. Would that be alright?"
"Uh, yeah. Sure."
"Now, you say you called your coworker a faggot?"
"Yeah."
"Is he gay?"
"Yeah."
"Would you have called him this if you knew he was straight?"
"Probably."
"I see. And was this just the once, sir?"
"Uh, him, yeah, I guess."
"Would you say you throw that word around --"
"A lot. A LOT. Yeah, a lot."
"I see. And are you aware that insulting people isn't a very nice thing to do?"
"Yeah."
"This coworker, did he ever insult you?"
"Not really."
"Now, what do you mean by that?"
"Well, he never called me names or anything."
"Mm-hm."
"It was more the way he acted around me."
"Like how?"
"Like, he was usually a little cold, kinda snooty-like. Sometimes he could be a little snide when we had a [redacted] together."
"I see. And did he ever hear you using the word faggot?"
"Yeah, I guess a few times."
"I'm assuming you're unable to make the connection."
"No, I can hear you fine."
"The connection between your cavalier use of a hateful word and his attitude towards you."
"You think that's why the little bitch hates me? Fuck, that's so gay."
"Sir?"
"What? Oh shit."
"Yeah."
"Oh dude, you're not one too?"
"Sir, I told you my name when I answered your call."
"Yeah, but you said Kathy. I thought you were joking."
"Do I sound like I'm joking?"
"God, I wish."
"Normally sir the wait-list for this facility is eighteen months, but seeing as how you're an [redacted] I can get you in by the end of the week."
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"Uh, yeah... My name's [redacted] and I, uh... I called my coworker a faggot."
"Okay. I just need to ask you a few questions. Would that be alright?"
"Uh, yeah. Sure."
"Now, you say you called your coworker a faggot?"
"Yeah."
"Is he gay?"
"Yeah."
"Would you have called him this if you knew he was straight?"
"Probably."
"I see. And was this just the once, sir?"
"Uh, him, yeah, I guess."
"Would you say you throw that word around --"
"A lot. A LOT. Yeah, a lot."
"I see. And are you aware that insulting people isn't a very nice thing to do?"
"Yeah."
"This coworker, did he ever insult you?"
"Not really."
"Now, what do you mean by that?"
"Well, he never called me names or anything."
"Mm-hm."
"It was more the way he acted around me."
"Like how?"
"Like, he was usually a little cold, kinda snooty-like. Sometimes he could be a little snide when we had a [redacted] together."
"I see. And did he ever hear you using the word faggot?"
"Yeah, I guess a few times."
"I'm assuming you're unable to make the connection."
"No, I can hear you fine."
"The connection between your cavalier use of a hateful word and his attitude towards you."
"You think that's why the little bitch hates me? Fuck, that's so gay."
"Sir?"
"What? Oh shit."
"Yeah."
"Oh dude, you're not one too?"
"Sir, I told you my name when I answered your call."
"Yeah, but you said Kathy. I thought you were joking."
"Do I sound like I'm joking?"
"God, I wish."
"Normally sir the wait-list for this facility is eighteen months, but seeing as how you're an [redacted] I can get you in by the end of the week."
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Monday, January 29, 2007
A Mystery Finch
I don't usually publish my birding photography because it's seldom clear enough for my liking. So yes, this image is a bit soft, but I believe of a species I have never seen.
Oh, Lynette...?
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Another Eureka Moment?
Yes, and no. I have successfully created a thumbnail a different way than I have been. But I have yet to guess a more accurate column width.
[UPDATE: Yes, in fact I did figure out a suitable column width, and employed it three times in a row. The ramifications of this single event are impossible to predict. I mean, if I can be taught anyone can be taught, even the Pope. Seumas Gagne deserves the Congressional Medal of Honour for the patience he showed over the five months it took me to absorb this simple lesson without once smacking me with a tire iron. - MSM]
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Sunday, January 28, 2007
When Every Night Is Saturday Night
I am valiantly making my way through the first season of "Saturday Night Live". This I am doing partly aided by "Live From New York: An Uncensored History of Saturday Night Live" by Tom Shales and James Andrew Miller, which provides enough of a glimpse backstage to account for (and more importantly, explain) whatever odd or incongruous thing might be happening in front of the cameras.
Normally valiant is not an adverb I would use to describe anything I do, let alone watch television, but here I think it's apt. As much as the purists would disagree, it's been pretty hard going. For all the accolades that would eventually accrue to the Not Ready For Prime Time Players they're not quite ready for them yet. Still, it's nice to see people who would later come to feel entitled to their fans - more specifically Chase and Belushi - here still working so hard to earn them.
Ahead lay four more seasons of considerably better material. Chevy Chase, of course, left after the first season and took his ego with him, leaving a spot just big enough to hold Bill Murray's talent. But for the most part, leaving SNL was a mixed bag for the cast: for some it led to a peculiar kind of famous obscurity (Garrett Morris, Laraine Newman), for others lousier and lousier movies (Dan Aykroyd, Chevy Chase), and even early death (John Belushi, Gilda Radner).
It took a decade and a half for Jane Curtin to dispel the curse and finally be ready for prime time with a star turn in "Third Rock From The Sun", probably because she alone refused to believe her own hype. She has mostly refused to speak about (and thus capitalise on) the cultural moment that was SNL, and hasn't participated in any televised reunions. By all accounts she alone didn't attend the bacchanalian round of parties which surrounded the show and so didn't suffer like the rest from having smoke blown up her ass. When it came time for her to step back into another ensemble she was able to without hesitation. To this day Mary Albright remains one of the best drawn sitcom characters, and a personal favourite of mine.
I just finished watching the episode starring Ron Nessen. Who is Ron Nessen, you ask? Why, none other than press secretary to President Gerald Ford. Now, imagine any of the stooges who've held the same position within the current Administration doing a thing like that. If the show has one failing now it's in how slick it's gotten; in Season One it's still raw.
Still, there's the ethical dilemna: how can one watch a show meant for 11:30 Saturday night be watched at two in the afternoon on a Tuesday without causing serious damage to the viewer? I mean, I'm afraid of opening a rift in the time-space continuum, or at least I'm afraid I won't be able to close it if I do.
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Normally valiant is not an adverb I would use to describe anything I do, let alone watch television, but here I think it's apt. As much as the purists would disagree, it's been pretty hard going. For all the accolades that would eventually accrue to the Not Ready For Prime Time Players they're not quite ready for them yet. Still, it's nice to see people who would later come to feel entitled to their fans - more specifically Chase and Belushi - here still working so hard to earn them.
Ahead lay four more seasons of considerably better material. Chevy Chase, of course, left after the first season and took his ego with him, leaving a spot just big enough to hold Bill Murray's talent. But for the most part, leaving SNL was a mixed bag for the cast: for some it led to a peculiar kind of famous obscurity (Garrett Morris, Laraine Newman), for others lousier and lousier movies (Dan Aykroyd, Chevy Chase), and even early death (John Belushi, Gilda Radner).
It took a decade and a half for Jane Curtin to dispel the curse and finally be ready for prime time with a star turn in "Third Rock From The Sun", probably because she alone refused to believe her own hype. She has mostly refused to speak about (and thus capitalise on) the cultural moment that was SNL, and hasn't participated in any televised reunions. By all accounts she alone didn't attend the bacchanalian round of parties which surrounded the show and so didn't suffer like the rest from having smoke blown up her ass. When it came time for her to step back into another ensemble she was able to without hesitation. To this day Mary Albright remains one of the best drawn sitcom characters, and a personal favourite of mine.
I just finished watching the episode starring Ron Nessen. Who is Ron Nessen, you ask? Why, none other than press secretary to President Gerald Ford. Now, imagine any of the stooges who've held the same position within the current Administration doing a thing like that. If the show has one failing now it's in how slick it's gotten; in Season One it's still raw.
Still, there's the ethical dilemna: how can one watch a show meant for 11:30 Saturday night be watched at two in the afternoon on a Tuesday without causing serious damage to the viewer? I mean, I'm afraid of opening a rift in the time-space continuum, or at least I'm afraid I won't be able to close it if I do.
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Saturday, January 27, 2007
Department of Good Christians: Archbishop Desmond Tutu
"Archbishop Desmond Tutu blasted the African Anglican Church on Friday over its rift with the Episcopal branch and its positions on gay clergy. The African Anglicans are reportedly refusing to sit at a table with Bishop Katharine Jefferts Schori at a global Anglican meeting in Tanzania next month.
"Said Tutu: "I am deeply disturbed that in the face of some of the most horrendous problems facing Africa, we concentrate on 'what do I do in bed with whom'. For one to penalise someone for their sexual orientation is the same as penalising someone for something they can do nothing about, like ethnicity or race. I cannot imagine persecuting a minority group which is already being persecuted. The God I worship would not consider that [gay clergy] to be a priority concern."
"Tutu added that "churches should instead be thinking about poverty, HIV/AIDS and conflict resolution."
[SOURCE: Towleroad]
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"Said Tutu: "I am deeply disturbed that in the face of some of the most horrendous problems facing Africa, we concentrate on 'what do I do in bed with whom'. For one to penalise someone for their sexual orientation is the same as penalising someone for something they can do nothing about, like ethnicity or race. I cannot imagine persecuting a minority group which is already being persecuted. The God I worship would not consider that [gay clergy] to be a priority concern."
"Tutu added that "churches should instead be thinking about poverty, HIV/AIDS and conflict resolution."
[SOURCE: Towleroad]
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Friday, January 26, 2007
Cobra Video Owner Murdered
"The charred remains of Bryan Charles Kocis were identified by Pennsylvania authorities earlier today and a formal murder investigation has begun. An autopsy revealed that he was stabbed to death. They believe that his house was intentionally set on fire to cover up the murder and his remains had to be identified by dental records, several PA newspapers are reporting. "No formal suspects have been named, but Citizen's Voice is reporting that police have questioned three California men he was involved in a "business dispute" with, one of which presumably is Sean Lockhart.
"Kocis, 44, was best known for his complicated ongoing legal battle with Lockhart, better known as gay porn star Brent Corrigan, 21. Jason Curious is reporting that the two were seen hugging at Krave in Las Vegas earlier this month and that they had finally reached a settlement to their legal dispute that would have involved them working together again.
"Kocis, a convicted child molester, was the owner of Cobra Video, a popular bareback twink studio; he directed and produced all their films. Cobra and Kocis were thrust in the spotlight in 2005 when Lockhart/Corrigan announced that he was underage when he filmed Every Poolboy's Dream a year earlier. When I interviewed him, Lockhart told me Kocis gave him a car for filming Poolboy, and speculated that Kocis has made well over $1 million from it.
"Copies of the movie were promptly pulled off shelves after Lockhart's disclosure. Lockhart later alleged that he was romantically involved with Kocis at the time of the filming and that Kocis was well aware that he was underage. Kocis claimed claimed to have proof on file showing Lockhart was legal at time the time of shooting.
"Kocis responded by suing Lockhart for trademark violation for use of the name "Brent Corrigan", contract violation and a few other charges, much to the chagrin of Lockhart who often railed against Kocis and Cobra on his blog and to the press, and even held a web cam fundraiser to pay for his mounting legal fees. To avoid a legal entanglement with Kocis, Falcon Studios called Lockhart "Fox Ryder" in Velvet Mafia. Cobra continued to release movies featuring Lockhart as recently as August 2006, when they released Take It Like A Bitch Boy and Fuck, Me Raw, which featured Corrigan on the cover with a drop of cum poorly photoshopped to appear if it was dripping out of his ass.
"Although Kocis never faced child pornography charges for producing Every Poolboy's Dream, he was charged with it in 2002, when police found a videotape of Kocis having sex with a 15 year old boy. He pled guilty to sexual abuse of a child and was sentenced to one year probation."
[SOURCE: Gay Porn Blog]
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Thursday, January 25, 2007
BC Place: Money Walks and Bullshit Talks
That means the Home Show is on, leaky roof and all. Gee, you'd think with a thousand contractors on hand one of them would know what to do about a thing like that.
Still, it's nice to look out my window of a morning and see the Dome again, though this story (as is usually the case with stories such as these) is still far from over.
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A World Gone Mad
The best part of my job? There's no water cooler.
The worst part of my job? Yup, there's no water cooler.
All that talk you're only supposed to do around the water cooler can happen anywhere.
It happened today. I'm trying to do my job and all of a sudden out it comes:
"Whattaya think about this Isiah Washington?" This from my coworker, a very gentle but very large black man.
I suppose I could have answered: "Who?"
Only I'm a little too smart for my own good; no one who's ever met me would ever think I wouldn't know who Isiah Washington is, even before his scandal broke. Since plausible denialbility is out the window, I know I can either tread lightly or else I can barge through.
I decide to drop a gay bomb and dash. "I know, huh, a black guy said 'faggot'. Next thing you're gonna tell me Michael Richards uses the n-word."
It took him a moment to start laughing and by the time he stopped I'd gotten clean away.
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The worst part of my job? Yup, there's no water cooler.
All that talk you're only supposed to do around the water cooler can happen anywhere.
It happened today. I'm trying to do my job and all of a sudden out it comes:
"Whattaya think about this Isiah Washington?" This from my coworker, a very gentle but very large black man.
I suppose I could have answered: "Who?"
Only I'm a little too smart for my own good; no one who's ever met me would ever think I wouldn't know who Isiah Washington is, even before his scandal broke. Since plausible denialbility is out the window, I know I can either tread lightly or else I can barge through.
I decide to drop a gay bomb and dash. "I know, huh, a black guy said 'faggot'. Next thing you're gonna tell me Michael Richards uses the n-word."
It took him a moment to start laughing and by the time he stopped I'd gotten clean away.
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Tuesday, January 23, 2007
It's On!
Thus begins the most frenzied month of back-stabbing and self-aggrandizement in Hollywood since... Well, since last month.
It's the Oscars, or what Robin Williams (likely via Bruce Vilanch) once called "the grand-daddy of all chachkas". Some have also called it the gay Super Bowl, which is another misnomer. The real gay Super Bowl is the regular Super Bowl watched only by gay men, complete with bitchery and minus the homoerotic subtext.
Needless to say, don't be fooled into thinking the nominees (let alone the winners) are selected based on the merits of their performances. Not that there aren't some fine performances here, but these nominees are the end results of millions of dollars of PR. The winners themselves represent the laboured machinations of white guilt on the part of literally hundreds of limousine liberals. This explains why 3-6 Mafia won Best Song last year over Dolly Parton.
Personally, I think the fact that Sharon Stone could get all the way through "Basic Instinct 2" with a straight face is more a testament to her acting ability than Meryl Streep's chewing of scenery. Not to mention Sharon's doctor, who is a dab hand with a Botox needle.
Plus, Ellen's gonna rock!
Performance by an actor in a leading role
Leonardo DiCaprio - BLOOD DIAMOND
Ryan Gosling - HALF NELSON
Peter O'Toole - VENUS
Will Smith - THE PURSUIT OF HAPPYNESS
Forest Whitaker - THE LAST KING OF SCOTLAND
Performance by an actor in a supporting role
Alan Arkin - LITTLE MISS SUNSHINE
Jackie Earle Haley - LITTLE CHILDREN
Djimon Hounsou - BLOOD DIAMOND
Eddie Murphy - DREAMGIRLS
Mark Wahlberg - THE DEPARTED
Performance by an actress in a leading role
Penélope Cruz - VOLVER
Judi Dench - NOTES ON A SCANDAL
Helen Mirren - THE QUEEN
Meryl Streep - THE DEVIL WEARS PRADA
Kate Winslet - LITTLE CHILDREN
Performance by an actress in a supporting role
Adriana Barraza - BABEL
Cate Blanchett - NOTES ON A SCANDAL
Abigail Breslin - LITTLE MISS SUNSHINE
Jennifer Hudson - DREAMGIRLS
Rinko Kikuchi - BABEL
Best animated feature film of the year
CARS
HAPPY FEET
MONSTER HOUSE
Achievement in art direction
DREAMGIRLS
THE GOOD SHEPHERD
PAN'S LABYRINTH
PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN: DEAD MAN'S CHEST
THE PRESTIGE
Achievement in cinematography
THE BLACK DAHLIA
CHILDREN OF MEN
THE ILLUSIONIST
PAN'S LABYRINTH
THE PRESTIGE
Achievement in costume design
CURSE OF THE GOLDEN FLOWER
THE DEVIL WEARS PRADA
DREAMGIRLS
MARIE ANTOINETTE
THE QUEEN
Achievement in directing
BABEL
THE DEPARTED
LETTERS FROM IWO JIMA
THE QUEEN
UNITED 93
Best documentary feature
DELIVER US FROM EVIL
AN INCONVENIENT TRUTH
IRAQ IN FRAGMENTS
JESUS CAMP
MY COUNTRY, MY COUNTRY
Best documentary short subject
THE BLOOD OF YINGZHOU DISTRICT
RECYCLED LIFE
REHEARSING A DREAM
TWO HANDS
Achievement in film editing
BABEL
BLOOD DIAMOND
CHILDREN OF MEN
THE DEPARTED
UNITED 93
Best foreign language film of the year
AFTER THE WEDDING
DAYS OF GLORY (INDIGÈNES)
THE LIVES OF OTHERS
PAN'S LABYRINTH
WATER
Achievement in makeup
APOCALYPTO
CLICK
PAN'S LABYRINTH
Achievement in music written for motion pictures (Original score)
BABEL
THE GOOD GERMAN
NOTES ON A SCANDAL
PAN'S LABYRINTH
THE QUEEN
Achievement in music written for motion pictures (Original song)
"I Need to Wake Up" - AN INCONVENIENT TRUTH
"Listen" - DREAMGIRLS
"Love You I Do" - DREAMGIRLS
"Our Town" - CARS
"Patience" - DREAMGIRLS
Best motion picture of the year
BABEL
THE DEPARTED
LETTERS FROM IWO JIMA
LITTLE MISS SUNSHINE
THE QUEEN
Best animated short film
THE DANISH POET
LIFTED
THE LITTLE MATCHGIRL
MAESTRO
NO TIME FOR NUTS
Best live action short film
BINTA AND THE GREAT IDEA (BINTA Y LA GRAN IDEA)
ÉRAMOS POCOS (ONE TOO MANY)
HELMER & SON
THE SAVIOUR
WEST BANK STORY
Achievement in sound editing
APOCALYPTO
BLOOD DIAMOND
FLAGS OF OUR FATHERS
LETTERS FROM IWO JIMA
PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN: DEAD MAN'S CHEST
Achievement in sound mixing
APOCALYPTO
BLOOD DIAMOND
DREAMGIRLS
FLAGS OF OUR FATHERS
PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN: DEAD MAN'S CHEST
Achievement in visual effects
PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN: DEAD MAN'S CHEST
POSEIDON
SUPERMAN RETURNS
Adapted screenplay
BORAT CULTURAL LEARNINGS OF AMERICA FOR MAKE BENEFIT GLORIOUS NATION OF KAZAKHSTAN
CHILDREN OF MEN
THE DEPARTED
LITTLE CHILDREN
NOTES ON A SCANDAL
Original screenplay
BABEL
LETTERS FROM IWO JIMA
LITTLE MISS SUNSHINE
PAN'S LABYRINTH
THE QUEEN
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It's the Oscars, or what Robin Williams (likely via Bruce Vilanch) once called "the grand-daddy of all chachkas". Some have also called it the gay Super Bowl, which is another misnomer. The real gay Super Bowl is the regular Super Bowl watched only by gay men, complete with bitchery and minus the homoerotic subtext.
Needless to say, don't be fooled into thinking the nominees (let alone the winners) are selected based on the merits of their performances. Not that there aren't some fine performances here, but these nominees are the end results of millions of dollars of PR. The winners themselves represent the laboured machinations of white guilt on the part of literally hundreds of limousine liberals. This explains why 3-6 Mafia won Best Song last year over Dolly Parton.
Personally, I think the fact that Sharon Stone could get all the way through "Basic Instinct 2" with a straight face is more a testament to her acting ability than Meryl Streep's chewing of scenery. Not to mention Sharon's doctor, who is a dab hand with a Botox needle.
Plus, Ellen's gonna rock!
Performance by an actor in a leading role
Leonardo DiCaprio - BLOOD DIAMOND
Ryan Gosling - HALF NELSON
Peter O'Toole - VENUS
Will Smith - THE PURSUIT OF HAPPYNESS
Forest Whitaker - THE LAST KING OF SCOTLAND
Performance by an actor in a supporting role
Alan Arkin - LITTLE MISS SUNSHINE
Jackie Earle Haley - LITTLE CHILDREN
Djimon Hounsou - BLOOD DIAMOND
Eddie Murphy - DREAMGIRLS
Mark Wahlberg - THE DEPARTED
Performance by an actress in a leading role
Penélope Cruz - VOLVER
Judi Dench - NOTES ON A SCANDAL
Helen Mirren - THE QUEEN
Meryl Streep - THE DEVIL WEARS PRADA
Kate Winslet - LITTLE CHILDREN
Performance by an actress in a supporting role
Adriana Barraza - BABEL
Cate Blanchett - NOTES ON A SCANDAL
Abigail Breslin - LITTLE MISS SUNSHINE
Jennifer Hudson - DREAMGIRLS
Rinko Kikuchi - BABEL
Best animated feature film of the year
CARS
HAPPY FEET
MONSTER HOUSE
Achievement in art direction
DREAMGIRLS
THE GOOD SHEPHERD
PAN'S LABYRINTH
PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN: DEAD MAN'S CHEST
THE PRESTIGE
Achievement in cinematography
THE BLACK DAHLIA
CHILDREN OF MEN
THE ILLUSIONIST
PAN'S LABYRINTH
THE PRESTIGE
Achievement in costume design
CURSE OF THE GOLDEN FLOWER
THE DEVIL WEARS PRADA
DREAMGIRLS
MARIE ANTOINETTE
THE QUEEN
Achievement in directing
BABEL
THE DEPARTED
LETTERS FROM IWO JIMA
THE QUEEN
UNITED 93
Best documentary feature
DELIVER US FROM EVIL
AN INCONVENIENT TRUTH
IRAQ IN FRAGMENTS
JESUS CAMP
MY COUNTRY, MY COUNTRY
Best documentary short subject
THE BLOOD OF YINGZHOU DISTRICT
RECYCLED LIFE
REHEARSING A DREAM
TWO HANDS
Achievement in film editing
BABEL
BLOOD DIAMOND
CHILDREN OF MEN
THE DEPARTED
UNITED 93
Best foreign language film of the year
AFTER THE WEDDING
DAYS OF GLORY (INDIGÈNES)
THE LIVES OF OTHERS
PAN'S LABYRINTH
WATER
Achievement in makeup
APOCALYPTO
CLICK
PAN'S LABYRINTH
Achievement in music written for motion pictures (Original score)
BABEL
THE GOOD GERMAN
NOTES ON A SCANDAL
PAN'S LABYRINTH
THE QUEEN
Achievement in music written for motion pictures (Original song)
"I Need to Wake Up" - AN INCONVENIENT TRUTH
"Listen" - DREAMGIRLS
"Love You I Do" - DREAMGIRLS
"Our Town" - CARS
"Patience" - DREAMGIRLS
Best motion picture of the year
BABEL
THE DEPARTED
LETTERS FROM IWO JIMA
LITTLE MISS SUNSHINE
THE QUEEN
Best animated short film
THE DANISH POET
LIFTED
THE LITTLE MATCHGIRL
MAESTRO
NO TIME FOR NUTS
Best live action short film
BINTA AND THE GREAT IDEA (BINTA Y LA GRAN IDEA)
ÉRAMOS POCOS (ONE TOO MANY)
HELMER & SON
THE SAVIOUR
WEST BANK STORY
Achievement in sound editing
APOCALYPTO
BLOOD DIAMOND
FLAGS OF OUR FATHERS
LETTERS FROM IWO JIMA
PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN: DEAD MAN'S CHEST
Achievement in sound mixing
APOCALYPTO
BLOOD DIAMOND
DREAMGIRLS
FLAGS OF OUR FATHERS
PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN: DEAD MAN'S CHEST
Achievement in visual effects
PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN: DEAD MAN'S CHEST
POSEIDON
SUPERMAN RETURNS
Adapted screenplay
BORAT CULTURAL LEARNINGS OF AMERICA FOR MAKE BENEFIT GLORIOUS NATION OF KAZAKHSTAN
CHILDREN OF MEN
THE DEPARTED
LITTLE CHILDREN
NOTES ON A SCANDAL
Original screenplay
BABEL
LETTERS FROM IWO JIMA
LITTLE MISS SUNSHINE
PAN'S LABYRINTH
THE QUEEN
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Walls
I was going to entitle this collection "Up Against It", but given the gallows tone of the previous post decided I'd better not. Then I thought I might give it a smartass title, like "All's Wall That Ends Wall", but even I get tired of smartass once in awhile, so again I made the grown-up choice.
* * *
The textures of our built environment in all their variety fascinate me, and feature as one of the strongest motifs in my portfolio. Sometimes photography feels to me like the archaeology of the moment, and sometimes I'm just trying to make sense of the bewilderment of patterns which is life in my little corner of the Earth.
If any of these interests you, feel free to contact me and I'll be glad to send you a copy. Coincidentally, any of these would make an excellent wallpaper for your computer.
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Arbeit Macht Frei
For as much as I grumble about my job, it really has given me more than I've given it. Not that I haven't worked - I have a workaholic's loathing for laziness and the people who practice it - it's just that kind of job.
Sometimes it gives me time to read, and so I've read. Due to the numerous inevitable interruptions my job entails I've had to read in nibbles rather than gulps, which must be why the books I've read at work have made such indelible impressions upon me. I've also learned to select reading material for work that has short sections or scenes to make this even easier, which in turn has taught me that working more efficiently is a way to work harder and less simultaneously.
Sometimes it's given me the kind of vantage point that other photographers would die for, or else access to the hidden places where the workings of the modern world are kept. Places like boiler rooms for instance, or rooftops. I feel about a boiler room the way Leonardo must have felt about La Gioconda, and I feel about a rooftop the way he must have felt about the soldiers and labourers who posed for him. (Okay, that may be stretching things a bit; a gorgeous muscular Florentine is always preferable to a rooftop. But, put the two together and you'll be closer to Heaven in more ways than one.)
My job has also given me the opportunity to do my own work in the middle of the night, when the world is silent and Internet traffic virtually nil. It's given me the money to purchase the bones of a collection - books, music, DVDs - suitable to a place called the Pop Culture Institute. Whether I've needed isolation or companionship it's given me these things as well. It's given me exercise and relaxation, feedback and contemplation, time to write and material to write about.
The stresses of evil co-workers, stupid or needy members of the public, and sixteen hour days have in time all fallen away, to the point where now when I encounter any of these things they no longer bother me, since I know that even a couple of days hence the stress they're causing me in the moment will be forgotten. Even the cold shoulders caused by feline neglect have faded, now that I can afford to buy the good food.
I realise the title I gave this post is a reminder of Nazi atrocities (it appears wrought in iron over the gates of Auschwitz) and therefore some people will oppose my using it out of principle. But there were days when I felt like the heartless company I work for was determined to work me to death, and I used this slogan (powered by extra-strength gallow's humour) to cheer myself up. The queer in me enjoys the irony of reclaiming the sentiment; like the swastika is a thousand year old emblem of power destroyed by the Nazis, so possibly was the real message of these words: Work Shall Set You Free.
As indeed it shall. Some day, with much work, I'll be free of my job, free to work full time at my career. Not luck, but work. The people I've worked with - for the most part sluggish and complaisant, working to rule - will still be stuck in their same dead end jobs or else some other dead end jobs while I'll be following my dreams to wherever they take me.
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Sometimes it gives me time to read, and so I've read. Due to the numerous inevitable interruptions my job entails I've had to read in nibbles rather than gulps, which must be why the books I've read at work have made such indelible impressions upon me. I've also learned to select reading material for work that has short sections or scenes to make this even easier, which in turn has taught me that working more efficiently is a way to work harder and less simultaneously.
Sometimes it's given me the kind of vantage point that other photographers would die for, or else access to the hidden places where the workings of the modern world are kept. Places like boiler rooms for instance, or rooftops. I feel about a boiler room the way Leonardo must have felt about La Gioconda, and I feel about a rooftop the way he must have felt about the soldiers and labourers who posed for him. (Okay, that may be stretching things a bit; a gorgeous muscular Florentine is always preferable to a rooftop. But, put the two together and you'll be closer to Heaven in more ways than one.)
My job has also given me the opportunity to do my own work in the middle of the night, when the world is silent and Internet traffic virtually nil. It's given me the money to purchase the bones of a collection - books, music, DVDs - suitable to a place called the Pop Culture Institute. Whether I've needed isolation or companionship it's given me these things as well. It's given me exercise and relaxation, feedback and contemplation, time to write and material to write about.
The stresses of evil co-workers, stupid or needy members of the public, and sixteen hour days have in time all fallen away, to the point where now when I encounter any of these things they no longer bother me, since I know that even a couple of days hence the stress they're causing me in the moment will be forgotten. Even the cold shoulders caused by feline neglect have faded, now that I can afford to buy the good food.
I realise the title I gave this post is a reminder of Nazi atrocities (it appears wrought in iron over the gates of Auschwitz) and therefore some people will oppose my using it out of principle. But there were days when I felt like the heartless company I work for was determined to work me to death, and I used this slogan (powered by extra-strength gallow's humour) to cheer myself up. The queer in me enjoys the irony of reclaiming the sentiment; like the swastika is a thousand year old emblem of power destroyed by the Nazis, so possibly was the real message of these words: Work Shall Set You Free.
As indeed it shall. Some day, with much work, I'll be free of my job, free to work full time at my career. Not luck, but work. The people I've worked with - for the most part sluggish and complaisant, working to rule - will still be stuck in their same dead end jobs or else some other dead end jobs while I'll be following my dreams to wherever they take me.
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Monday, January 22, 2007
When Life is Too Good
I've never wanted to be one of those people who is only creative when life sucks, because I really don't fancy going out and getting hit by a car just so I can blog. No, life is pretty good, and I'm doing everything in my power not to let stabillity become boring.
Work is proceeding again on "The Barington Encounter", a novel in progress which one day will be excerpted here. Yesterday I used up one of my last Christmas presents from my mother, and HSBC gift card, to buy the second season of "Chappelle's Show" and the first season of "Saturday Night Live" on DVD, came home and laughed my freakin' ass off. That's a pretty good way to spend an evening.
Also, I bought new headphones. If there's been a crisis in my life the last couple of weeks it's that the recent cold snap ruined my iPod headphones, which rendered my iPod unlistenable. I'd come to look forward to some tunes on my walks to and from work, and without them, well, it didn't really make much difference, except that when I want something I want it and I couldn't have it in this case. I suppose even a bad thing like this becomes a lesson in patience and forbearance (not to mention a restraint on my seemingly massive entitlement complex). I mean, there are children in Darfur who, in addition to not owning iPods (or the computers to load them or the CDs to supply them) are also being ethnically cleansed.
Also, not making New Year's resolutions really helps. Instead, I decided to make life resolutions, the main one of which is to celebrate what I have, not yearn for what I don't. While it's not always possible, it's at least probable, which is the next best thing (and not in a crappy Madonna movie kind of way).
So while it's currently rainy and grey outside, at least it's not as cold as last week. I may have no boyfriend but the love I have to give a man accrues to me instead. I'm 98% blessed, which is better than most people.
Plus, I just got a blog entry out of it, which makes me 99% blessed.
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Work is proceeding again on "The Barington Encounter", a novel in progress which one day will be excerpted here. Yesterday I used up one of my last Christmas presents from my mother, and HSBC gift card, to buy the second season of "Chappelle's Show" and the first season of "Saturday Night Live" on DVD, came home and laughed my freakin' ass off. That's a pretty good way to spend an evening.
Also, I bought new headphones. If there's been a crisis in my life the last couple of weeks it's that the recent cold snap ruined my iPod headphones, which rendered my iPod unlistenable. I'd come to look forward to some tunes on my walks to and from work, and without them, well, it didn't really make much difference, except that when I want something I want it and I couldn't have it in this case. I suppose even a bad thing like this becomes a lesson in patience and forbearance (not to mention a restraint on my seemingly massive entitlement complex). I mean, there are children in Darfur who, in addition to not owning iPods (or the computers to load them or the CDs to supply them) are also being ethnically cleansed.
Also, not making New Year's resolutions really helps. Instead, I decided to make life resolutions, the main one of which is to celebrate what I have, not yearn for what I don't. While it's not always possible, it's at least probable, which is the next best thing (and not in a crappy Madonna movie kind of way).
So while it's currently rainy and grey outside, at least it's not as cold as last week. I may have no boyfriend but the love I have to give a man accrues to me instead. I'm 98% blessed, which is better than most people.
Plus, I just got a blog entry out of it, which makes me 99% blessed.
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Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Ask and Ye Shall Believe
Well, any notion that I'm typing away in the dark at words that no one else will ever see have been firmly dispelled. Not only do I have readers I have strangers for readers. Strangers I have things in common with, even, which opens up a whole new realm of possibilities with regards to what I can or ought to write about. I've also learned that I need to spend a few more minutes checking my facts before I post (sorry Matt Drudge, I called you fat and you're not).
I learned that Big Ass Belle is not only on a self-improvement kick but a sensitive writer with a difficult job to do. Her post about visiting the shaken baby should be mandatory reading for all expectant parents. Without meaning any disrespect (which is hard for anyone as snarky as me) can I say that I was shaken by reading this post. I learned that Evil Ganome is just about as curmudgeonly as me (except that he's had a dozen more years than I have to perfect it, and it shows). I learned that "Don" thinks I'm cute and that I can't access his profile to return the smile. I also learned that JoeMyGod (apart from being its own wonderful thing) is a breeding ground for alot of other wonderful things.
All of which makes me begin to reverberate in expectation over the coming weeks and months. I mean, once I actually figure out how to work this thing the possibilities are endless. Which, when it comes to possibilities, is just how I like them.
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I learned that Big Ass Belle is not only on a self-improvement kick but a sensitive writer with a difficult job to do. Her post about visiting the shaken baby should be mandatory reading for all expectant parents. Without meaning any disrespect (which is hard for anyone as snarky as me) can I say that I was shaken by reading this post. I learned that Evil Ganome is just about as curmudgeonly as me (except that he's had a dozen more years than I have to perfect it, and it shows). I learned that "Don" thinks I'm cute and that I can't access his profile to return the smile. I also learned that JoeMyGod (apart from being its own wonderful thing) is a breeding ground for alot of other wonderful things.
All of which makes me begin to reverberate in expectation over the coming weeks and months. I mean, once I actually figure out how to work this thing the possibilities are endless. Which, when it comes to possibilities, is just how I like them.
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Sunday, January 07, 2007
Political Hack Made Environment Minister
Here it comes, another post about politics. Those with weak stomachs are encouraged to skip it.
Less than one week into his new job, new Environment Minister John Baird is already embroiled in a scandal concerning his last job as President of the Treasury Board. In that job he killed a transit project in Ottawa for obviously political reasons.
Great. First we have a ninny who gets easily dazed by camera flash, and now we get some slavering toady in the job of safeguarding the environment (by like, oh, I dunno, adding more public transit). Yeah, he should be able to find nonpartisan solutions to the problems facing the environment. As long as the solutions don't interfere with the aims and ambitions of the Tory's donors.
Hug a tree today; they're going to need it.
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Less than one week into his new job, new Environment Minister John Baird is already embroiled in a scandal concerning his last job as President of the Treasury Board. In that job he killed a transit project in Ottawa for obviously political reasons.
Great. First we have a ninny who gets easily dazed by camera flash, and now we get some slavering toady in the job of safeguarding the environment (by like, oh, I dunno, adding more public transit). Yeah, he should be able to find nonpartisan solutions to the problems facing the environment. As long as the solutions don't interfere with the aims and ambitions of the Tory's donors.
Hug a tree today; they're going to need it.
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The World's Largest Air-Supported Dome
"The late evening sun casts its long shadows over the roof of BC Place Stadium, in Vancouver."
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BC Place: Up In The Air?
There is a movement afoot in the province's highest offices to demolish BC's iconic BC Place Stadium sometime after it hosts the world in 2010. (There's some kind of event going on here then, I guess.)
Naturally we here at the Pop Culture Institute will always favour restoration to rebuilding. For the city to lose one of its icons, not to mention one of its places in the record books -- World's Largest Air-Supported Dome -- at a time when we are poising (yet again) to take our place among world-class cities would seem, at its very heart, disloyal to Vancouver's brand. Although it would increase the value of several of my better photographs, it would decrease my spirit not being able to see my old friend again except in them.
Given the general capitalist ugliness that accompanies any expenditure out of the public purse, I'd also hate to give Premier Campbell's cronies and developer donors another slurp at our trough. (Just so you don't think I'm biased, the unions are just as bad: more building = more jobs = more $$$ in union dues.) Either way, most of our money ends up offshore.
My fear is that the recent damage to the famous roof will hasten the demise of the entire structure, a sentiment being cautiously echoed in the local press. So far the bias (even in the Sun) seems neutral; rather than, 'Oh well, she's had a good run' the Sun seems to want to see one of its own recover from its injuries better than ever. (Perhaps the recent devastation in Stanley Park has softened all our hearts toward what is after all our tangible heritage as Vancouverites, even the heartless villains of the fascist press.)
Today, the Vancouver Olympic Committee, which is organising our little shindig, released the following statement:
"BC Place has a highly experienced team of professionals and we have
every confidence in the ability of their engineers to rectify the situation.
It's a terrific facility that has a rich history of hosting some of BC's most
memorable moments and we look forward to hosting our Ceremonies in BC Place
for the 2010 Olympic and Paralympic Games."
Guy Lodge
VANOC
Vice President - Services and Overlay
That seems to me to be a positive reference, resume-wise, for BC Place.
Not that this story is over by any means; expect more news and commentary on this issue as the drama unfolds...
[Postscript: Should the stadium go, the title World's Largest Air-Supported Dome would go to the current runner-up: Paris Hilton's skull. And nobody wants to see that happen. -- MSM ; ) ]
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Naturally we here at the Pop Culture Institute will always favour restoration to rebuilding. For the city to lose one of its icons, not to mention one of its places in the record books -- World's Largest Air-Supported Dome -- at a time when we are poising (yet again) to take our place among world-class cities would seem, at its very heart, disloyal to Vancouver's brand. Although it would increase the value of several of my better photographs, it would decrease my spirit not being able to see my old friend again except in them.
Given the general capitalist ugliness that accompanies any expenditure out of the public purse, I'd also hate to give Premier Campbell's cronies and developer donors another slurp at our trough. (Just so you don't think I'm biased, the unions are just as bad: more building = more jobs = more $$$ in union dues.) Either way, most of our money ends up offshore.
My fear is that the recent damage to the famous roof will hasten the demise of the entire structure, a sentiment being cautiously echoed in the local press. So far the bias (even in the Sun) seems neutral; rather than, 'Oh well, she's had a good run' the Sun seems to want to see one of its own recover from its injuries better than ever. (Perhaps the recent devastation in Stanley Park has softened all our hearts toward what is after all our tangible heritage as Vancouverites, even the heartless villains of the fascist press.)
Today, the Vancouver Olympic Committee, which is organising our little shindig, released the following statement:
"BC Place has a highly experienced team of professionals and we have
every confidence in the ability of their engineers to rectify the situation.
It's a terrific facility that has a rich history of hosting some of BC's most
memorable moments and we look forward to hosting our Ceremonies in BC Place
for the 2010 Olympic and Paralympic Games."
Guy Lodge
VANOC
Vice President - Services and Overlay
That seems to me to be a positive reference, resume-wise, for BC Place.
Not that this story is over by any means; expect more news and commentary on this issue as the drama unfolds...
[Postscript: Should the stadium go, the title World's Largest Air-Supported Dome would go to the current runner-up: Paris Hilton's skull. And nobody wants to see that happen. -- MSM ; ) ]
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Friday, January 05, 2007
Before The Fall
Here's a picture of BC Place Stadium, the world's largest air supported dome, before wind and sleet had their way with her.
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Overcoming Poverday
It never fails. Month after month, the day before the first paycheque of the month I'm sipping cold ketchup soup by candlelight, forced to talk to myself because I had to hock the cat to buy the ketchup.
I call it Poverday, and like any regular occurrence, be it a holiday or a weather pattern, certain rituals have emerged, as though organically. Every Christmas, right after dinner, someone puts a hand into the waistband of his pants. No one knows why, and it doesn't do anything except make him look like Napoleon masturbating; still it's like it needs to be done for it to be Christmas. Also some little kid gets tricked into pulling a finger. Every year, someone in West Texas gets on the news to describe what the tornado looked like; the fact that it looked exactly like the hundreds of others you've heard described in your lifetime is immaterial. Every year thousands of kids hear the story for the first time and mark it with a necessary rite of passage of their own: either they shout "Cool!" and their parents start to worry, or they become emotional and that's the day they decide to move away from a place known as Tornado Alley (and their parents really start to worry).
Poverday's rituals actually begin on Pay Day. Coins are collected for the poor. The fact that this is Canada assures that the poor will be very well-looked after; Canadians carry more coins than pirates. Foodstuffs are gathered, like Mr. Noodles and... Well, really just Mr. Noodles. Still, they are put away as insurance against famine, which in North America really just means 'the absence of a glut'. In the general celebration of Pay Day there is always the grim realisation that one day next month will be another day exactly like yesterday, and a silent vow is made: Never Again.
Lately, I've been taking that vow more and more seriously, and coasting into Poverday well-fed and fancy free. I mean let's face it, none of us is really poor, and we're only broke because the bill of goods Madison Avenue keeps selling us is designed to stay out of our price range. Also, if there's something in my life I don't like (ie: always being broke) whose job is it to make sure I'm not broke? Obviously not some social worker assigned to me by Revenue Canada. My Pay Day now (both of them, and twice a year three) is entirely about preventing the full horror of past Poverdays from being realised. It's like, instead of lighting candles every Hanukkah, you spent eight nights consecrating olive oil and fortifying your house against the Maccabbees.
"Charity begins at home" is the universal message of Poverday, and without getting too Ayn Rand about it, a pretty valuable sentiment at all times of the month. Not to be greedy, but just to try and apply your generosity where you can see it do the good it does. Certainly, if I have extra and my friend is in need, I give. If a friend asks to borrow money, and I have it, I give my friend money. Yet I'm utterly hesitant when it comes to giving money to strangers, via agencies, with paid staff. Hey, that's just me.
When I was on welfare my single goal in life was to get off welfare. It may not have looked like it sometimes (I often disguise ambition with indolence - it's a writer thing) but it was all I thought about every minute of every day. Now I use Poverday to reflect on that time in my life when I was really deprived. Not that I was then either. In those days I would use Poverday (always a Tuesday in BC) to commemorate the time Poverday forced me to leave Vancouver, driving my life off the rails for a decade, and to remind myself that survival is an effort. It doesn't just happen.
The evolution of Poverday from a masochistic wallow in broke-motherfucker-hood to empowering festival of self-sufficiency wasn't easy, but like most hard things was entirely enjoyable. By looking back at where I've been, I've come to appreciate where I am. Within five years I've gone from one $530 paycheque a month to two $750 paycheques a month, not to mention whatever fortune I'm able to pluck from the universe via my art. I pay all my bills on time, make a snappy dresser, and pretty much do what I want to do.
I believe I invented Poverday because the festive feeling I used to get from holidays I now get from self-improvement, and I wanted something that would combine -- or rather re-combine -- the two. It's an approach I've applied to existing holidays as well: Christmas is about inner peace (since without it there is no outer peace), All Hallow's Eve is about reconciling ancestral memory with mortality, my birthday a brainstorming session for the year ahead, and Easter is about celebrating how fucking beautiful the world is at Eastertime.
Yesterday was Poverday. As I drifted off to sleep last night I had eleven dollars to my name; the month before it was three. I call that progress, and that's what Poverday is all about.
Postscript: This is my 50th post; in this way too am I rich. Keeping this blog this year I have relearned a lesson I had forgotten: that I write because I love to write, and that I love to write when I write what I want. Here's to 50, 000 more!
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I call it Poverday, and like any regular occurrence, be it a holiday or a weather pattern, certain rituals have emerged, as though organically. Every Christmas, right after dinner, someone puts a hand into the waistband of his pants. No one knows why, and it doesn't do anything except make him look like Napoleon masturbating; still it's like it needs to be done for it to be Christmas. Also some little kid gets tricked into pulling a finger. Every year, someone in West Texas gets on the news to describe what the tornado looked like; the fact that it looked exactly like the hundreds of others you've heard described in your lifetime is immaterial. Every year thousands of kids hear the story for the first time and mark it with a necessary rite of passage of their own: either they shout "Cool!" and their parents start to worry, or they become emotional and that's the day they decide to move away from a place known as Tornado Alley (and their parents really start to worry).
Poverday's rituals actually begin on Pay Day. Coins are collected for the poor. The fact that this is Canada assures that the poor will be very well-looked after; Canadians carry more coins than pirates. Foodstuffs are gathered, like Mr. Noodles and... Well, really just Mr. Noodles. Still, they are put away as insurance against famine, which in North America really just means 'the absence of a glut'. In the general celebration of Pay Day there is always the grim realisation that one day next month will be another day exactly like yesterday, and a silent vow is made: Never Again.
Lately, I've been taking that vow more and more seriously, and coasting into Poverday well-fed and fancy free. I mean let's face it, none of us is really poor, and we're only broke because the bill of goods Madison Avenue keeps selling us is designed to stay out of our price range. Also, if there's something in my life I don't like (ie: always being broke) whose job is it to make sure I'm not broke? Obviously not some social worker assigned to me by Revenue Canada. My Pay Day now (both of them, and twice a year three) is entirely about preventing the full horror of past Poverdays from being realised. It's like, instead of lighting candles every Hanukkah, you spent eight nights consecrating olive oil and fortifying your house against the Maccabbees.
"Charity begins at home" is the universal message of Poverday, and without getting too Ayn Rand about it, a pretty valuable sentiment at all times of the month. Not to be greedy, but just to try and apply your generosity where you can see it do the good it does. Certainly, if I have extra and my friend is in need, I give. If a friend asks to borrow money, and I have it, I give my friend money. Yet I'm utterly hesitant when it comes to giving money to strangers, via agencies, with paid staff. Hey, that's just me.
When I was on welfare my single goal in life was to get off welfare. It may not have looked like it sometimes (I often disguise ambition with indolence - it's a writer thing) but it was all I thought about every minute of every day. Now I use Poverday to reflect on that time in my life when I was really deprived. Not that I was then either. In those days I would use Poverday (always a Tuesday in BC) to commemorate the time Poverday forced me to leave Vancouver, driving my life off the rails for a decade, and to remind myself that survival is an effort. It doesn't just happen.
The evolution of Poverday from a masochistic wallow in broke-motherfucker-hood to empowering festival of self-sufficiency wasn't easy, but like most hard things was entirely enjoyable. By looking back at where I've been, I've come to appreciate where I am. Within five years I've gone from one $530 paycheque a month to two $750 paycheques a month, not to mention whatever fortune I'm able to pluck from the universe via my art. I pay all my bills on time, make a snappy dresser, and pretty much do what I want to do.
I believe I invented Poverday because the festive feeling I used to get from holidays I now get from self-improvement, and I wanted something that would combine -- or rather re-combine -- the two. It's an approach I've applied to existing holidays as well: Christmas is about inner peace (since without it there is no outer peace), All Hallow's Eve is about reconciling ancestral memory with mortality, my birthday a brainstorming session for the year ahead, and Easter is about celebrating how fucking beautiful the world is at Eastertime.
Yesterday was Poverday. As I drifted off to sleep last night I had eleven dollars to my name; the month before it was three. I call that progress, and that's what Poverday is all about.
Postscript: This is my 50th post; in this way too am I rich. Keeping this blog this year I have relearned a lesson I had forgotten: that I write because I love to write, and that I love to write when I write what I want. Here's to 50, 000 more!
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Tuesday, January 02, 2007
Leave My Queen Alone, For Christ's Sake
Just in case you're suffering under the delusion that the US is all a bunch of rabid Christers and the UK is somehow immune to evangelical fundamentalism, try this on for size. A Christian group in Britain is lobbying the Queen to repeal all gay-positive legislation, including same-sex marriage.
"The plea to the Queen is being made by the Christian Concern for Our Nation, an offshoot of the Lawyers’ Christian Fellowship, a group which lists more than 2,000 barristers and solicitors among its members. The petition warns the Queen the rules are a ‘serious affront’ to the Gospel. It reads: ‘The regulations purport to eliminate discrimination on the grounds of sexual orientation, but have the consequence of discriminating heavily against Christians of all backgrounds and denominations who hold firm to the very Faith which you pledged to uphold in your coronation oath.’"
Now, I fail to see how giving rights to gays takes away rights from Christians, but I can easily comprehend how repealing gay rights when Christians ask gives special rights to Christians. If you have an imagination at all, it makes you wonder which group these bigots will be coming after next. In addition to being bullying, of course, which I imagine is just what Jesus would have done.
Here at the Pop Culture Institute we are opposed to special rights for anyone; in the case of gays, equal rights do not constitute special rights. This is a distinction which is patently clear to me, yet, obviously, beyond the grasp of thousands of British laywers.
And hitting her in her coronation oath is just a low blow, knowing how seriously she takes it. Before she promised to uphold the Gospel, though, she promised to "govern the Peoples of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, the Union of South Africa, Pakistan, and Ceylon, and of your Possessions and the other Territories to any of them belonging or pertaining, according to their respective laws and customs". There may be a tiny little conflict of interest there, since she's sworn to uphold the Gospel yet must also, in theory, govern a Muslim country like Pakistan.
All I'm saying is, just maybe that oath is a tiny bit out of date.
The Queen is Queen of everybody, not just some tiny special interest group, no matter what it might look like to you on the outside. Also, the Queen has no actual power but is the personification of power invested by the people in Parliament. Duh! Again, you'd think lawyers would know this. Somehow, though, the reading of Scripture seems to render otherwise intelligent people babbling idiots.
Britain is a pluralistic, ecumenical, secular society. End of story. Obviously anyone can petition the Queen or the Prime Minister or their MP in such a society. Just don't be too surprised when you bring forth ideas that are twenty years out of date and they're not met with the same enthusiasm you feel for them. If you're not sure whether you should make a case of this nature, next time replace the word "gay" with "black" or "Muslim" and read through it again. You should feel lucky that, of the three, gay response will be the most muted. At least for now.
There are over 1500 references to poverty in the Bible (mostly in the New Testament) and one vaguely worded reference to homosexuality in the Old Testament. I would have thought a group called Christian Concern for our Nation would be more interested in following the word of Christ. Call me crazy, but if they're really concerned for their nation there's plenty to be done without harassing an identifiable segment of the population, along with their friends and family, starting with "judge not lest ye be judged."
[source: Towleroad (news item), Royal Family website (oath)]
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"The plea to the Queen is being made by the Christian Concern for Our Nation, an offshoot of the Lawyers’ Christian Fellowship, a group which lists more than 2,000 barristers and solicitors among its members. The petition warns the Queen the rules are a ‘serious affront’ to the Gospel. It reads: ‘The regulations purport to eliminate discrimination on the grounds of sexual orientation, but have the consequence of discriminating heavily against Christians of all backgrounds and denominations who hold firm to the very Faith which you pledged to uphold in your coronation oath.’"
Now, I fail to see how giving rights to gays takes away rights from Christians, but I can easily comprehend how repealing gay rights when Christians ask gives special rights to Christians. If you have an imagination at all, it makes you wonder which group these bigots will be coming after next. In addition to being bullying, of course, which I imagine is just what Jesus would have done.
Here at the Pop Culture Institute we are opposed to special rights for anyone; in the case of gays, equal rights do not constitute special rights. This is a distinction which is patently clear to me, yet, obviously, beyond the grasp of thousands of British laywers.
And hitting her in her coronation oath is just a low blow, knowing how seriously she takes it. Before she promised to uphold the Gospel, though, she promised to "govern the Peoples of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, the Union of South Africa, Pakistan, and Ceylon, and of your Possessions and the other Territories to any of them belonging or pertaining, according to their respective laws and customs". There may be a tiny little conflict of interest there, since she's sworn to uphold the Gospel yet must also, in theory, govern a Muslim country like Pakistan.
All I'm saying is, just maybe that oath is a tiny bit out of date.
The Queen is Queen of everybody, not just some tiny special interest group, no matter what it might look like to you on the outside. Also, the Queen has no actual power but is the personification of power invested by the people in Parliament. Duh! Again, you'd think lawyers would know this. Somehow, though, the reading of Scripture seems to render otherwise intelligent people babbling idiots.
Britain is a pluralistic, ecumenical, secular society. End of story. Obviously anyone can petition the Queen or the Prime Minister or their MP in such a society. Just don't be too surprised when you bring forth ideas that are twenty years out of date and they're not met with the same enthusiasm you feel for them. If you're not sure whether you should make a case of this nature, next time replace the word "gay" with "black" or "Muslim" and read through it again. You should feel lucky that, of the three, gay response will be the most muted. At least for now.
There are over 1500 references to poverty in the Bible (mostly in the New Testament) and one vaguely worded reference to homosexuality in the Old Testament. I would have thought a group called Christian Concern for our Nation would be more interested in following the word of Christ. Call me crazy, but if they're really concerned for their nation there's plenty to be done without harassing an identifiable segment of the population, along with their friends and family, starting with "judge not lest ye be judged."
[source: Towleroad (news item), Royal Family website (oath)]
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Sunday, December 31, 2006
Live-blogging the Hinterland
My grandfather died on Christmas Eve, and so on the 28th I was duty-bound to attend his memorial service. Not that I would have missed it anyway, as duty is something I enjoy. I'm like the Queen that way. And in that way only, you bitches.
I left Vancouver for the wilds of the deepest, darkest Okanagan valley -- Kelowna, to be more precise -- for just that purpose. Well, that and to cement my reputation as a eulogist, which is well-deserved.
[Spoiler Alert: It ends up I couldn't deliver my eulogy; writer's block and emotion got the better of me. - MSM]
Thursday, 10:38 AM -- I left my house to take my keys to my friend Doug's place so he can make sure in my absence that Pandora doesn't waste away to... Well, let's face it, I'd have to be gone alot longer than three days for Pandora to even waste away to her ideal weight. Still, I thought she might like a bit of company now and then while I'm gone.
11:24 AM -- I arrive at the bus station. I buy my ticket, get in line behind four racy old ladies, and wait for the noon bus to leave.
12:18 PM -- Still no sign of the bus, despite 114 people waiting to crowd onto a bus that seats 55 including the driver. As clusterfucks go, this is below the Iraq War but worse than Nipplegate.
12:45 PM -- The bus arrives and I shoulder aside the half dozen people who attempted to shoulder me aside. I do allow a pair of siblings on ahead of me because the brother of the pair is cute. I figure on a ride as long as this one I at least deserve a nice view.
1 PM -- I finally eat something. I hadn't eaten sooner because I sort of expected the clusterfuck at the bus station and didn't want to be all nice about it, since there's no way I was taking an aisle seat. The bus ride goes more or less as planned from there. It's a nice sunny day, and after we pass Hope there's snow in the mountains (until about 4:30, when the sun goes down). I listen to music, read the year-end editon of Spin, and a few chapter's of Miri Rubin's fascinating book "The Hollow Crown" about England from Edward II to Richard III (c. 1300-1485). As fascinating as this book is it's better than Ambien, and I manage to catch up on an hour of sleep (only 3,245 and I'll be caught up).
6:30 PM -- I arrive in Kelowna. It's changed even since September (the last time I was here). There are Christmas lights galore and every third billboard bears a reminder that Jesus is the Reason for the Season. I remember why I left.
Friday 1 AM -- Sometime during Craig Ferguson's monologue I drift off into a restless sleep.
10 AM -- I begin anew in my deliberations to write a eulogy, the end result of which (after three long hours) is a decision to ad-lib from notes.
2 PM -- I take my mother's boyfriend's dog for a walk in the hopes that the fresh air will clear my mind. It does, and I take some spectacular pictures of winter in the hideous built environment of Kelowna. Alas, no new inspiration hits, and I half-decide to improvise my eulogy, since I seem to be coping with the whole thing rather well.
[Redundant Spoiler alert: I still can't believe I wimped out. - MSM]
4 PM -- My mother and I go to the funeral home to set up. We put pictures on boards using magnetic frames. Mine is an organised cluster like the ones I have all around my apartment. My mother puts hers up will-nilly; I have to admit that, under the circumstances, hers looks better. It's fun and whimsical, whereas mine is tighter than Martha Stewart. Then again, I have always coped with chaos by imposing rigid order.
5 PM -- My mother goes to her nail appointment. I sit there and read the new Blender, which miraculously has appeared when I needed it most. Since there's no new New Yorker this week, and I've bought all the other new magazines, I nearly had to pass time in a temple of vanity by staring at a wall. One of the women has her hot boyfriend with her. I could have used my considerable powers of bullshit to spend time staring at him (under the guise of my keen interest in the hockey season -- yeah...) but I remember that, other than construction, Kelowna hasn't changed at all, and the Homosexual Panic Defense still applies here, so change my mind.
6:30 PM -- Back at home my mother prepares to cook the life out of a roast (also known as Grandma-style), which in itself is a tribute to my grandfather, who bellieved that the best way to cook meat was well-done. After all, it says what it is right in the name: well-done. She and I and her boyfriend hang around and talk, mess around with the dogs and cats, reminisce about the great man we've lost (my grandfather) while marking the passing of his opposite number (So long Saddam!) and enjoy a cocktail or two each. It's nice to be, despite our sad loss, happy.
9 PM -- Supper's over and a perfunctory clean-up performed. We all drift off to our respective sleeping areas in a meagre effort to defeat fatigue.
Saturday 8 AM -- I am awakened by a series of wet noses and furry bodies, alas all either feline or canine. Well, only half-alas, in the same way the glass is half-full, because it has to be.
9:30 AM -- With a minimum of grief we manage to get ourselves ready, and head off for the funeral home.
9:41 AM -- We arrive at the funeral home.
9:41:10 AM -- I start crying like a bitch.
10 AM -- The memorial service begins. I have so much wet Kleenex in my pocket it feels like an octopus in there. I keep telling myself other, similarly sophomoric, things to give myself the occasional break from crying like a bitch. What I actually manage to see of the service looks beautiful.
11 AM -- The service is over, I stick my face in the ice machine to try and bring down the swelling, and the reception begins.
12:10 PM -- The reception ends, rather too abruptly for my liking, and we clean up.
12:15 PM -- Checking the schedule at the bus station, it looks like we have ninety minutes to kill. My mother's boyfriend takes us to Kelowna Flightcraft, where he works. I learn what a "winglet" looks like. It's not even remotely related to the winglets I used to cook at Red Robin. I take some more cool pictures.
2 PM -- Back at the bus station, where I and a couple of hundred strangers are cattle-prodded onto a bus that seats 48.
2:30 PM -- The bus leaves, more or less on time. It occurs to me that if we go off the road on the way home some alien archaeologists centuries from now are going to have one big head-scratcher.
3 PM -- I vow that the next time I take the bus I will put my spine in my carry on luggage, where there's more room.
4 PM -- My iPod's been playing so long it's warm to the touch. This can't be good.
5 PM -- Though I can't see it, I know from memory that the scenery outside is spectacular, a veritable Hinterland winer wonderland. I start humming along to John Mayer's song, which I have renamed "Your Body is A Hinterland", mainly to amuse myself.
6:30 PM - That spot on the top of my right foot my Dayton's like to torture finally loses nerve function permanently. My leg has now not so much fallen asleep as swallowed a bottle of Seconal. My seatmate, despite being the twink fantasy of my dreams, makes his last homophobic text message to his buddy, whose nickname seems to be "fag".
7 PM -- Having stopped now half a dozen times, each time to bring more people on the bus than have left it, I volunteer myself for the overhead bin, where at least I'll be able to stretch my legs. We've stopped at hope, where for eighteen glorious seconds I have a seat to myself. I begin texting my friends in the hopes that if I can keep my fingers along I won't die and be disposed of at the Chilliwack bus station. The Chilliwack bus station was originally designed to be Dante's tenth ring of Hell, but was later scrapped on the grounds no one would believe anything so outlandish.
7:45 PM -- We have finally reached Langley, so I get on the phone and start calling people.
8:51 PM -- The lights of the city appear. I take a breath mint and apply lip balm in preparation for loving up the tarmac.
9 PM -- Back at last!
What happened next is between me, my conscience, and the RCMP (if they even care).
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I left Vancouver for the wilds of the deepest, darkest Okanagan valley -- Kelowna, to be more precise -- for just that purpose. Well, that and to cement my reputation as a eulogist, which is well-deserved.
[Spoiler Alert: It ends up I couldn't deliver my eulogy; writer's block and emotion got the better of me. - MSM]
Thursday, 10:38 AM -- I left my house to take my keys to my friend Doug's place so he can make sure in my absence that Pandora doesn't waste away to... Well, let's face it, I'd have to be gone alot longer than three days for Pandora to even waste away to her ideal weight. Still, I thought she might like a bit of company now and then while I'm gone.
11:24 AM -- I arrive at the bus station. I buy my ticket, get in line behind four racy old ladies, and wait for the noon bus to leave.
12:18 PM -- Still no sign of the bus, despite 114 people waiting to crowd onto a bus that seats 55 including the driver. As clusterfucks go, this is below the Iraq War but worse than Nipplegate.
12:45 PM -- The bus arrives and I shoulder aside the half dozen people who attempted to shoulder me aside. I do allow a pair of siblings on ahead of me because the brother of the pair is cute. I figure on a ride as long as this one I at least deserve a nice view.
1 PM -- I finally eat something. I hadn't eaten sooner because I sort of expected the clusterfuck at the bus station and didn't want to be all nice about it, since there's no way I was taking an aisle seat. The bus ride goes more or less as planned from there. It's a nice sunny day, and after we pass Hope there's snow in the mountains (until about 4:30, when the sun goes down). I listen to music, read the year-end editon of Spin, and a few chapter's of Miri Rubin's fascinating book "The Hollow Crown" about England from Edward II to Richard III (c. 1300-1485). As fascinating as this book is it's better than Ambien, and I manage to catch up on an hour of sleep (only 3,245 and I'll be caught up).
6:30 PM -- I arrive in Kelowna. It's changed even since September (the last time I was here). There are Christmas lights galore and every third billboard bears a reminder that Jesus is the Reason for the Season. I remember why I left.
Friday 1 AM -- Sometime during Craig Ferguson's monologue I drift off into a restless sleep.
10 AM -- I begin anew in my deliberations to write a eulogy, the end result of which (after three long hours) is a decision to ad-lib from notes.
2 PM -- I take my mother's boyfriend's dog for a walk in the hopes that the fresh air will clear my mind. It does, and I take some spectacular pictures of winter in the hideous built environment of Kelowna. Alas, no new inspiration hits, and I half-decide to improvise my eulogy, since I seem to be coping with the whole thing rather well.
[Redundant Spoiler alert: I still can't believe I wimped out. - MSM]
4 PM -- My mother and I go to the funeral home to set up. We put pictures on boards using magnetic frames. Mine is an organised cluster like the ones I have all around my apartment. My mother puts hers up will-nilly; I have to admit that, under the circumstances, hers looks better. It's fun and whimsical, whereas mine is tighter than Martha Stewart. Then again, I have always coped with chaos by imposing rigid order.
5 PM -- My mother goes to her nail appointment. I sit there and read the new Blender, which miraculously has appeared when I needed it most. Since there's no new New Yorker this week, and I've bought all the other new magazines, I nearly had to pass time in a temple of vanity by staring at a wall. One of the women has her hot boyfriend with her. I could have used my considerable powers of bullshit to spend time staring at him (under the guise of my keen interest in the hockey season -- yeah...) but I remember that, other than construction, Kelowna hasn't changed at all, and the Homosexual Panic Defense still applies here, so change my mind.
6:30 PM -- Back at home my mother prepares to cook the life out of a roast (also known as Grandma-style), which in itself is a tribute to my grandfather, who bellieved that the best way to cook meat was well-done. After all, it says what it is right in the name: well-done. She and I and her boyfriend hang around and talk, mess around with the dogs and cats, reminisce about the great man we've lost (my grandfather) while marking the passing of his opposite number (So long Saddam!) and enjoy a cocktail or two each. It's nice to be, despite our sad loss, happy.
9 PM -- Supper's over and a perfunctory clean-up performed. We all drift off to our respective sleeping areas in a meagre effort to defeat fatigue.
Saturday 8 AM -- I am awakened by a series of wet noses and furry bodies, alas all either feline or canine. Well, only half-alas, in the same way the glass is half-full, because it has to be.
9:30 AM -- With a minimum of grief we manage to get ourselves ready, and head off for the funeral home.
9:41 AM -- We arrive at the funeral home.
9:41:10 AM -- I start crying like a bitch.
10 AM -- The memorial service begins. I have so much wet Kleenex in my pocket it feels like an octopus in there. I keep telling myself other, similarly sophomoric, things to give myself the occasional break from crying like a bitch. What I actually manage to see of the service looks beautiful.
11 AM -- The service is over, I stick my face in the ice machine to try and bring down the swelling, and the reception begins.
12:10 PM -- The reception ends, rather too abruptly for my liking, and we clean up.
12:15 PM -- Checking the schedule at the bus station, it looks like we have ninety minutes to kill. My mother's boyfriend takes us to Kelowna Flightcraft, where he works. I learn what a "winglet" looks like. It's not even remotely related to the winglets I used to cook at Red Robin. I take some more cool pictures.
2 PM -- Back at the bus station, where I and a couple of hundred strangers are cattle-prodded onto a bus that seats 48.
2:30 PM -- The bus leaves, more or less on time. It occurs to me that if we go off the road on the way home some alien archaeologists centuries from now are going to have one big head-scratcher.
3 PM -- I vow that the next time I take the bus I will put my spine in my carry on luggage, where there's more room.
4 PM -- My iPod's been playing so long it's warm to the touch. This can't be good.
5 PM -- Though I can't see it, I know from memory that the scenery outside is spectacular, a veritable Hinterland winer wonderland. I start humming along to John Mayer's song, which I have renamed "Your Body is A Hinterland", mainly to amuse myself.
6:30 PM - That spot on the top of my right foot my Dayton's like to torture finally loses nerve function permanently. My leg has now not so much fallen asleep as swallowed a bottle of Seconal. My seatmate, despite being the twink fantasy of my dreams, makes his last homophobic text message to his buddy, whose nickname seems to be "fag".
7 PM -- Having stopped now half a dozen times, each time to bring more people on the bus than have left it, I volunteer myself for the overhead bin, where at least I'll be able to stretch my legs. We've stopped at hope, where for eighteen glorious seconds I have a seat to myself. I begin texting my friends in the hopes that if I can keep my fingers along I won't die and be disposed of at the Chilliwack bus station. The Chilliwack bus station was originally designed to be Dante's tenth ring of Hell, but was later scrapped on the grounds no one would believe anything so outlandish.
7:45 PM -- We have finally reached Langley, so I get on the phone and start calling people.
8:51 PM -- The lights of the city appear. I take a breath mint and apply lip balm in preparation for loving up the tarmac.
9 PM -- Back at last!
What happened next is between me, my conscience, and the RCMP (if they even care).
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Egregious Paranoia Department - The End of Gay
Recently Joe. My. God. posted this cheery news, topped (?) by a quote from Martina Navratilova:
" 'For the sake of the animals who will die unnecessarily in these experiments and for the many gays and lesbians who stand to be deeply offended by the social implications of these tests, I ask that you please end these studies at once.' - [written] in a letter to Oregon State University just published on the PETA-affiliated site Stop Animal Testing, in response to research being done on sheep that is meant to help scientists learn how to alter the sexual preference of gay animals.
"Ostensibly meant to help sheep farmers who are burdened by the 10% of rams that prefer to mount other rams, the research has vast implications for gay society. If scientists can discover the "gay switch" or how to prenatally influence the sexual orientation of animals, the switch to human implementation will be immediate, widespread and unstoppable. The "homo vaccine" may be as simple as hormone patch worn during pregnancy. A real-world Twilight Of The Golds could mean the end of homosexuality in this century."
Well I never!
Of course, this issue has been sticking in my craw ever since allegedly gay scientist Simon LeVay started his research into this field, which first came to my attention in 1992.
I responded with the following comment:
"They've been trying to do this for decades. The same Christians who can't condone abortion for any reason will suddenly have a change of heart.
"The best hope is that the human genome is complicated enough that it could be multiple linked factors which "cause" homosexuality.
"The minute they genetically "cure" gay it'll be our responsibility to take our best dyke friend down to the IVF clinic and spunk in a cup for her. Abort the straight ones and there we go.
As for curing gay sheep, I say just keep them away from the farmers and they should be alright. ; ) "
One of my more coherent comments, if I do say so myself, probably because I've had the time to develop some eloquence about the issue. In fact, I believe the straights have been tolerating us as well as they have for the past few years because they're close to making this breakthrough.
Now, I'm not ex-Gay, I'm post-Gay. I've always been a proponent of assimilation on our terms, and isolating the gay gene won't make me run back to the ghetto. I'd consider it my responsibility to continue my missionary work among liberals and single mothers who'd like a son who calls occasionally but does not create a teenage babymama drama. Maybe a gay baby will become a trend among celebrities, like Unicef adoptions and toy dogs are now.
In a world threatened by overpopulation, with more parentless children than ever growing up in foster care, a little gay doesn't seem like a bad idea. Not to mention what it'll do to beauty, fashion, and the stage. The stage will be hit the hardest, I think; metrosexuals might look like us, but they aren't half as bendy.
The most interesting aspect of the whole struggle will be the (initially) laboured justifications offered by religious fundamentalists. You know, the ones who oppose stem cell research and all that now. It'll be an about-face worthy of "Wrong-way" Corrigan.
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" 'For the sake of the animals who will die unnecessarily in these experiments and for the many gays and lesbians who stand to be deeply offended by the social implications of these tests, I ask that you please end these studies at once.' - [written] in a letter to Oregon State University just published on the PETA-affiliated site Stop Animal Testing, in response to research being done on sheep that is meant to help scientists learn how to alter the sexual preference of gay animals.
"Ostensibly meant to help sheep farmers who are burdened by the 10% of rams that prefer to mount other rams, the research has vast implications for gay society. If scientists can discover the "gay switch" or how to prenatally influence the sexual orientation of animals, the switch to human implementation will be immediate, widespread and unstoppable. The "homo vaccine" may be as simple as hormone patch worn during pregnancy. A real-world Twilight Of The Golds could mean the end of homosexuality in this century."
Well I never!
Of course, this issue has been sticking in my craw ever since allegedly gay scientist Simon LeVay started his research into this field, which first came to my attention in 1992.
I responded with the following comment:
"They've been trying to do this for decades. The same Christians who can't condone abortion for any reason will suddenly have a change of heart.
"The best hope is that the human genome is complicated enough that it could be multiple linked factors which "cause" homosexuality.
"The minute they genetically "cure" gay it'll be our responsibility to take our best dyke friend down to the IVF clinic and spunk in a cup for her. Abort the straight ones and there we go.
As for curing gay sheep, I say just keep them away from the farmers and they should be alright. ; ) "
One of my more coherent comments, if I do say so myself, probably because I've had the time to develop some eloquence about the issue. In fact, I believe the straights have been tolerating us as well as they have for the past few years because they're close to making this breakthrough.
Now, I'm not ex-Gay, I'm post-Gay. I've always been a proponent of assimilation on our terms, and isolating the gay gene won't make me run back to the ghetto. I'd consider it my responsibility to continue my missionary work among liberals and single mothers who'd like a son who calls occasionally but does not create a teenage babymama drama. Maybe a gay baby will become a trend among celebrities, like Unicef adoptions and toy dogs are now.
In a world threatened by overpopulation, with more parentless children than ever growing up in foster care, a little gay doesn't seem like a bad idea. Not to mention what it'll do to beauty, fashion, and the stage. The stage will be hit the hardest, I think; metrosexuals might look like us, but they aren't half as bendy.
The most interesting aspect of the whole struggle will be the (initially) laboured justifications offered by religious fundamentalists. You know, the ones who oppose stem cell research and all that now. It'll be an about-face worthy of "Wrong-way" Corrigan.
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Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Egregious Paranoia Department - HRH Prince Harry
If you've read this blog at all it might have occurred to you that I tend to worry as a form of innoculation. I figure as long as I'm worrying about something it'll never come to pass, and a couple of sleepless nights is the least I can do to prevent some dread inevitability or other from coming about. So why not turn this worry into something entertaining and thought-provoking for my readers? Well, my reader, anyway.
Some of you may recall that the Fleet Street media in the UK has often cast aspersions on the paternity of Prince Harry; not to sell papers, mind you, but because they just care so much. Notwithstanding that the Spencer line is loaded with redheads, and that both of her boys overwhelmingly favour their Spencer progenitors (which is why they hired her in the first place - duh!), there are those who have dared to insinuate that, while the Princess of Wales is undoubtedly his mother somehow the Prince of Wales is not Harry's father. That somehow James Hewitt -- the Princess' ne'er-do-well ex-boyfriend -- is Harry's real father.
FACT: The Princess never met James Hewitt until Harry was two or three years old. Since much of their affair is on the public record and easily checked (Diana was on the shortest possible leash from Buckingham Palace and Fleet Street until just before the affair started, etc.) this ought to be enough to put the rumours to rest. Alas, the public's memory is even shorter than its attention span.
FACT: Harry, like The Princess Royal, favours the Duke of Edinburgh's side of the family rather than The Queen's. Harry's resemblance to the Duke of Edinburgh at the same age is remarkable.
FACT: The Royal Family takes these matters very seriously, since marching bunches of hotties around in front of old palaces in archaic costumes and supporting charitable causes is about all they do when they're not micromanaging the bloodline. Just to be on the safe side they allegedly had his DNA tested (and while Diana was still alive too -- nice!).
Now it seems that, despite repeated assertions by Sandhurst Academy, the Ministry of Defence, and the Palace to the contrary, Prince Harry is to serve with the British army in Iraq in keeping with his new status as a Second Lieutenant.
If Prince Harry dies in Iraq there will be blood on the hands of everyone from 10 Downing Street to the Palace responsible for putting him into harm's way in the first place. Of course, this is just how conspiracy theories are born, a fact which all involved must know well enough, given how the chattering classes have mercilessly picked apart Diana's death for nearly a decade when the cause of Diana's death was that -- wait for it -- she wasn't wearing a seatbelt.
If I'm right (and the gods know I don't want to be) then I'll be hailed as a seer, and make a tidy living selling whatever else I can spew to Star magazine a la the late Jeane Dixon for the rest of my (hopefully) long life. If I'm wrong, and Prince Harry dies in his bed, peacefully, as a very old man, being known as an occasional crackpot and sensationalist (or what we in the business like to call "a Novelist") is the least I can do to ensure the safety of Diana's legacy.
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Some of you may recall that the Fleet Street media in the UK has often cast aspersions on the paternity of Prince Harry; not to sell papers, mind you, but because they just care so much. Notwithstanding that the Spencer line is loaded with redheads, and that both of her boys overwhelmingly favour their Spencer progenitors (which is why they hired her in the first place - duh!), there are those who have dared to insinuate that, while the Princess of Wales is undoubtedly his mother somehow the Prince of Wales is not Harry's father. That somehow James Hewitt -- the Princess' ne'er-do-well ex-boyfriend -- is Harry's real father.
FACT: The Princess never met James Hewitt until Harry was two or three years old. Since much of their affair is on the public record and easily checked (Diana was on the shortest possible leash from Buckingham Palace and Fleet Street until just before the affair started, etc.) this ought to be enough to put the rumours to rest. Alas, the public's memory is even shorter than its attention span.
FACT: Harry, like The Princess Royal, favours the Duke of Edinburgh's side of the family rather than The Queen's. Harry's resemblance to the Duke of Edinburgh at the same age is remarkable.
FACT: The Royal Family takes these matters very seriously, since marching bunches of hotties around in front of old palaces in archaic costumes and supporting charitable causes is about all they do when they're not micromanaging the bloodline. Just to be on the safe side they allegedly had his DNA tested (and while Diana was still alive too -- nice!).
Now it seems that, despite repeated assertions by Sandhurst Academy, the Ministry of Defence, and the Palace to the contrary, Prince Harry is to serve with the British army in Iraq in keeping with his new status as a Second Lieutenant.
If Prince Harry dies in Iraq there will be blood on the hands of everyone from 10 Downing Street to the Palace responsible for putting him into harm's way in the first place. Of course, this is just how conspiracy theories are born, a fact which all involved must know well enough, given how the chattering classes have mercilessly picked apart Diana's death for nearly a decade when the cause of Diana's death was that -- wait for it -- she wasn't wearing a seatbelt.
If I'm right (and the gods know I don't want to be) then I'll be hailed as a seer, and make a tidy living selling whatever else I can spew to Star magazine a la the late Jeane Dixon for the rest of my (hopefully) long life. If I'm wrong, and Prince Harry dies in his bed, peacefully, as a very old man, being known as an occasional crackpot and sensationalist (or what we in the business like to call "a Novelist") is the least I can do to ensure the safety of Diana's legacy.
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Footnote to History - Oliver Sipple
I'm still a little peeved that the obituary of President Ford I spent two hours working on last night seems to have vanished into cyberspace, like Susan Powter, never to be seen again.
However, in doing further reading I realise now that my obituary had a couple of mistakes in it (which I would have remedied the moment I found them). Which just goes to show that often when crappy things happen they happen for good reasons. It's just too bad they always seem to happen to me and don't happen more to Matt Drudge.
Again, I should just stick to what I do and let people who are good at such things do them.
Thanks to Towleroad, I can do just that. This is the first of what I'd like to make a regular feature here at the Pop Culture Institute. It concerns the day a gay man saved the President's life, so gather round children and let me relate the story...
"[President] Ford might have died on September 22, 1975, when an attempt was made on his life by Sara Jane Moore outside the St. Francis Hotel in San Francisco, less than three weeks after a similar assassination attempt was made by Lynette "Squeaky" Fromme in Sacramento.
"This time Ford's life was saved by Oliver Sipple, a former Marine who lunged at Moore, deflecting the intended bullet. Sipple was instantly commended but the incident inspired curiosity about the former soldier and it was revealed by Harvey Milk that he was a gay man, a fact that was not known by either his employer or his family. The resulting attention (Harvey Milk, who wanted to show that gay men were not all child molesters and perverts, anointed him a gay hero, inspiring a widely-syndicated write-up from noted columnist Herb Caen) freaked his mother enough to cause her to disown him. At the time Sipple pleaded with reporters: "I want you to know that my mother told me today she can't walk out of her front door because of the press stories...My sexual orientation has nothing to do with saving the President's life."
"Sipple battled the "outing" in court for the next nine years, a battle that was never won. It may have cost the man his sanity. Sipple was found in his San Francisco apartment in February 1989 next to a bottle of booze. Alcoholic and obese, he had been dead for two weeks.
"Gerald Ford did not attend the funeral and instead sent family and friends a letter of condolence. He was criticized by some who said that were Sipple heterosexual he would have been treated differently. Ford told journalist Deb Price in a 2001 interview: "As far as I was concerned, I had done the right thing and the matter was ended. I didn't learn until sometime later — I can't remember when — he was gay. I don't know where anyone got the crazy idea I was prejudiced and wanted to exclude gays."
Kinda makes you think. Or, you know, not. Hey, at least it has nothing to do with Paris Hilton.
These events are dealt with in greater depth in Randy Shilts' great book "The Mayor of Castro Street". I suggest you hurry on down to your local gay bookstore and buy or order this amazing book.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oliver_Sipple
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However, in doing further reading I realise now that my obituary had a couple of mistakes in it (which I would have remedied the moment I found them). Which just goes to show that often when crappy things happen they happen for good reasons. It's just too bad they always seem to happen to me and don't happen more to Matt Drudge.
Again, I should just stick to what I do and let people who are good at such things do them.
Thanks to Towleroad, I can do just that. This is the first of what I'd like to make a regular feature here at the Pop Culture Institute. It concerns the day a gay man saved the President's life, so gather round children and let me relate the story...
"[President] Ford might have died on September 22, 1975, when an attempt was made on his life by Sara Jane Moore outside the St. Francis Hotel in San Francisco, less than three weeks after a similar assassination attempt was made by Lynette "Squeaky" Fromme in Sacramento.
"This time Ford's life was saved by Oliver Sipple, a former Marine who lunged at Moore, deflecting the intended bullet. Sipple was instantly commended but the incident inspired curiosity about the former soldier and it was revealed by Harvey Milk that he was a gay man, a fact that was not known by either his employer or his family. The resulting attention (Harvey Milk, who wanted to show that gay men were not all child molesters and perverts, anointed him a gay hero, inspiring a widely-syndicated write-up from noted columnist Herb Caen) freaked his mother enough to cause her to disown him. At the time Sipple pleaded with reporters: "I want you to know that my mother told me today she can't walk out of her front door because of the press stories...My sexual orientation has nothing to do with saving the President's life."
"Sipple battled the "outing" in court for the next nine years, a battle that was never won. It may have cost the man his sanity. Sipple was found in his San Francisco apartment in February 1989 next to a bottle of booze. Alcoholic and obese, he had been dead for two weeks.
"Gerald Ford did not attend the funeral and instead sent family and friends a letter of condolence. He was criticized by some who said that were Sipple heterosexual he would have been treated differently. Ford told journalist Deb Price in a 2001 interview: "As far as I was concerned, I had done the right thing and the matter was ended. I didn't learn until sometime later — I can't remember when — he was gay. I don't know where anyone got the crazy idea I was prejudiced and wanted to exclude gays."
Kinda makes you think. Or, you know, not. Hey, at least it has nothing to do with Paris Hilton.
These events are dealt with in greater depth in Randy Shilts' great book "The Mayor of Castro Street". I suggest you hurry on down to your local gay bookstore and buy or order this amazing book.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oliver_Sipple
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Tuesday, December 26, 2006
A Cold Reminder of Global Warming
It's starting to happen people.
"Rising seas, caused by global warming, have for the first time washed an inhabited island off the face of the Earth. The obliteration of Lohachara island, in India's part of the Sundarbans where the Ganges and the Brahmaputra rivers empty into the Bay of Bengal, marks the moment when one of the most apocalyptic predictions of environmentalists and climate scientists has started coming true.
"As the seas continue to swell, they will swallow whole island nations, from the Maldives to the Marshall Islands, inundate vast areas of countries from Bangladesh to Egypt, and submerge parts of scores of coastal cities.
"Eight years ago, as exclusively reported in The Independent on Sunday, the first uninhabited islands - in the Pacific atoll nation of Kiribati - vanished beneath the waves. The people of low-lying islands in Vanuatu, also in the Pacific, have been evacuated as a precaution, but the land still juts above the sea. The disappearance of Lohachara, once home to 10,000 people, is unprecedented."
But when all the islands are gone where will the plutocrats go to abuse people working for $2 a day?
[Source: The Independent (UK) via Americablog.com]
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"Rising seas, caused by global warming, have for the first time washed an inhabited island off the face of the Earth. The obliteration of Lohachara island, in India's part of the Sundarbans where the Ganges and the Brahmaputra rivers empty into the Bay of Bengal, marks the moment when one of the most apocalyptic predictions of environmentalists and climate scientists has started coming true.
"As the seas continue to swell, they will swallow whole island nations, from the Maldives to the Marshall Islands, inundate vast areas of countries from Bangladesh to Egypt, and submerge parts of scores of coastal cities.
"Eight years ago, as exclusively reported in The Independent on Sunday, the first uninhabited islands - in the Pacific atoll nation of Kiribati - vanished beneath the waves. The people of low-lying islands in Vanuatu, also in the Pacific, have been evacuated as a precaution, but the land still juts above the sea. The disappearance of Lohachara, once home to 10,000 people, is unprecedented."
But when all the islands are gone where will the plutocrats go to abuse people working for $2 a day?
[Source: The Independent (UK) via Americablog.com]
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Why Are There No Boxing Day Songs?
I mean, there are songs for Christmas Eve and songs for Christmas. There are songs for Hanukkah and even one for Kwanzaa (Shirley Q. Liquor's "The 12 Days of Kwanzaa"). There are songs for just about everything but none for Boxing Day.
We (well, I) here at the Pop Culture Institute are going to add the writing of a Boxing Day song to our (well, my) To-Do List.
Just don't get your hopes up; my To-Do list is about eight years long.
Oh, and happy Kwanzaa; it starts today.
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We (well, I) here at the Pop Culture Institute are going to add the writing of a Boxing Day song to our (well, my) To-Do List.
Just don't get your hopes up; my To-Do list is about eight years long.
Oh, and happy Kwanzaa; it starts today.
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