We were on our way back from my stepsister's funeral when my mom and I decided to stop and grab some lunch. We really hadn't seen much of each other since our last silly argument, which had left both of us pretty sour (and had resulted in my unfortunately venemous post on Sunday). So over spring rolls and Kung Pao chicken, we both started apologizing.
We were laughing about the whole thing, and Mom offered me a rather back-handed compliment. She said she really enjoyed "discussing" things with me, and she was impressed that I always seemed to have my facts straight. (Not always, I'll admit... sometimes I just bluff really well.) Anyway, she said it was really good to see me fired up about something, "even if your principles are a little misguided."
The whole thing got me to thinking about my post on Sunday, and how it was so unnecessarily hostile towards her. I had written it while I was still fuming about the "my opinion is different than yours, so get over it" crack, and my point was likely lost amidst a bunch of grumbling.
Oddly, that was the first of my posts to receive any comments from strangers. The first came from some guy with a blog that basically regurgitates articles from Bush apologists. And of course, he took exception to my points that: 1) Bush refuses to admit that he's wrong about anything, and 2) Republicans seem to think that the economy will get better and America will be safer if they just keep saying it over and over again.
His counterarguments were: 1) Bush has never been wrong, so he has nothing to admit, and 2) The economy is getting better and America is safer.
That's about 300% more irony than you'll find in any Alanis Morissette song.
But those points aside, I really regret the tone of Sunday's post. My mother is a remarkably intelligent and independent woman. She raised me and my sister as a single mom, working long hours to keep us fed and happy. She's survived a couple of unfortunate marriages, and come through them stronger and more determined. She has always been supportive of me, even when I wasn't making the best or most informed decisions. She saw me through some rough times in college, and she was there for me when I was dealing with my father's death. If it weren't for her, I have no idea where I'd be today. Probably hopped up on crystal meth and hosting a conservative radio talk show...
So Mom, if by some strange turn of events you should find yourself reading this, then I hope you know that I love you dearly and have nothing but the utmost respect for your opinions and beliefs.
Even if they are a little misguided ;-)
Tuesday, August 31, 2004
Monday, August 30, 2004
Katrina Kracmer (1976-2004)
On Monday night, August 23, Katrina Kracmer was running late for a support group meeting. She was rushing down the sidewalk on Gaston Avenue in her motorized wheelchair when a car hopped the curb and crashed into her.
The driver just sped away.
Katrina was critically injured, but held on for four more days. Her family took her off of life support on Friday afternoon, and she died almost immediately afterwards.
Dallas police are still looking for her killer.
----------------------------
Katrina was born with spina bifida, a disorder in which the spinal column fails to close completely. As a result, she was paralyzed from the waist down. She wore braces on her legs and used crutches to get around.
I met Katrina in 1988, when my mom was dating her dad Frank. And she was like any other 12-year-old girl in most regards. She was adorable, giggly, naive, sweet, occasionally bratty...
For some reason, she took a liking to me almost immediately. Any time I was around her, she would cling to my arm or hold my hand. When I went to visit Mom and Frank (they married in 1990), Katrina would insist that I sit next to her at dinner.
I guess it was a crush. And even as I grumblingly endured it, deep down inside I was totally eating it up. Who wouldn't want to be adored, especially by someone as remarkable as Katrina?
----------------------------
I wish I could say that we stayed in touch, that she remained an important part of my life. But sadly, Mom and Frank divorced and Katrina and I just sort of lost touch. I would occasionally see her brother Joe, who would bring me up to date. And each time, Katrina's life seemed to be tinged with more and more tragedy.
She had dropped out of high school in the 10th grade, and was struggling to get by. She had been using drugs and drinking way too much, and for a time she had even lived on the street.
But as Joe said, "She had an innocent, childlike perspective on life. She believed there was good in everything."
Katrina really was trying to turn things around, and she was making astonishing progress. She'd sworn off the drugs four years ago. She'd given birth to a son two years ago, the stress of which had left her in a wheelchair. But even now, she was going through rehabilitation, trying to learn once more how to move around on the crutches.
She'd gotten married in February to a guy she met in the Dallas Life Foundation. And for the past two months, she'd been sober. She was on her way to an alcoholics recovery group meeting when she was killed.
God damn it.
----------------------------
Trina, you were truly a beautiful and remarkable person. I wish I had done better by you. I wish we all had.
Rest in peace.
The driver just sped away.
Katrina was critically injured, but held on for four more days. Her family took her off of life support on Friday afternoon, and she died almost immediately afterwards.
Dallas police are still looking for her killer.
----------------------------
Katrina was born with spina bifida, a disorder in which the spinal column fails to close completely. As a result, she was paralyzed from the waist down. She wore braces on her legs and used crutches to get around.
I met Katrina in 1988, when my mom was dating her dad Frank. And she was like any other 12-year-old girl in most regards. She was adorable, giggly, naive, sweet, occasionally bratty...
For some reason, she took a liking to me almost immediately. Any time I was around her, she would cling to my arm or hold my hand. When I went to visit Mom and Frank (they married in 1990), Katrina would insist that I sit next to her at dinner.
I guess it was a crush. And even as I grumblingly endured it, deep down inside I was totally eating it up. Who wouldn't want to be adored, especially by someone as remarkable as Katrina?
----------------------------
I wish I could say that we stayed in touch, that she remained an important part of my life. But sadly, Mom and Frank divorced and Katrina and I just sort of lost touch. I would occasionally see her brother Joe, who would bring me up to date. And each time, Katrina's life seemed to be tinged with more and more tragedy.
She had dropped out of high school in the 10th grade, and was struggling to get by. She had been using drugs and drinking way too much, and for a time she had even lived on the street.
But as Joe said, "She had an innocent, childlike perspective on life. She believed there was good in everything."
Katrina really was trying to turn things around, and she was making astonishing progress. She'd sworn off the drugs four years ago. She'd given birth to a son two years ago, the stress of which had left her in a wheelchair. But even now, she was going through rehabilitation, trying to learn once more how to move around on the crutches.
She'd gotten married in February to a guy she met in the Dallas Life Foundation. And for the past two months, she'd been sober. She was on her way to an alcoholics recovery group meeting when she was killed.
God damn it.
----------------------------
Trina, you were truly a beautiful and remarkable person. I wish I had done better by you. I wish we all had.
Rest in peace.
Sunday, August 29, 2004
The other day, I was riding home from Winnsboro with my mom. It's a two-hour trip and, as we often do when we're trapped in the car together, we began discussing politics.
My mom is a Republican and frightfully conservative. And if you've been paying attention, you know that I'm... well... not.
I should first mention that I HATE arguing with my mom. Not just politics, but anything. I admit that once I get embroiled in the discussion, I get animated. My voice gets raised, and I can be really fucking stubborn.
Three guesses where I get it from.
The thing is, Mom doesn't argue from a factual standpoint. This may sound like a cheap shot, but it's something she's readily admitted to me several times. She doesn't have all the facts at her disposal. She just knows how she feels. Which is why she's convinced Bush is a great president, even though the facts have a distinct anti-Bush bias.
So anyway, she casually mentioned as we were driving home, "One of the things I admire about Bush is that he's always willing to admit when he's wrong."
I spewed Diet Vanilla Coke all over the windshield and just stared at her.
"If he feels he's done something wrong, he WILL admit it," she insisted.
"Well, as long as we're just making crap up," I said, "I've always admired Kerry's ability to pee chocolate milk and travel through time."
The debate devolved and ended, as most of ours do, with her insisting piously that she has an opinion that's different than mine, and I'm just going to have to get over it. And I resolved then, as I have a dozen times since, that I would not argue with Mom anymore.
I hate that. I honestly do. She will rail on for 20 minutes, trying to change my mind about something, and when she fails, she'll accuse me of being intolerant of her opinion.
I know she doesn't believe that. I know it's just a way to end the argument and save face. If you can't win on the facts, then just change it into a moral argument and pretend to take the high road.
Did I mention she's a Republican? They're good at that.
But seriously. Bush has always been willing to admit when he was wrong? Name ONE time! Unlike the usual Republican bullshit ("The economy is getting better." "We're winning the war on terror." "America is safer.") I think even the most ardent Bush supporter would have a hard time getting behind this one.
After all, the Republicans have a term for people who admit that they were wrong about something. They call those people "flip-floppers."
My mom is a Republican and frightfully conservative. And if you've been paying attention, you know that I'm... well... not.
I should first mention that I HATE arguing with my mom. Not just politics, but anything. I admit that once I get embroiled in the discussion, I get animated. My voice gets raised, and I can be really fucking stubborn.
Three guesses where I get it from.
The thing is, Mom doesn't argue from a factual standpoint. This may sound like a cheap shot, but it's something she's readily admitted to me several times. She doesn't have all the facts at her disposal. She just knows how she feels. Which is why she's convinced Bush is a great president, even though the facts have a distinct anti-Bush bias.
So anyway, she casually mentioned as we were driving home, "One of the things I admire about Bush is that he's always willing to admit when he's wrong."
I spewed Diet Vanilla Coke all over the windshield and just stared at her.
"If he feels he's done something wrong, he WILL admit it," she insisted.
"Well, as long as we're just making crap up," I said, "I've always admired Kerry's ability to pee chocolate milk and travel through time."
The debate devolved and ended, as most of ours do, with her insisting piously that she has an opinion that's different than mine, and I'm just going to have to get over it. And I resolved then, as I have a dozen times since, that I would not argue with Mom anymore.
I hate that. I honestly do. She will rail on for 20 minutes, trying to change my mind about something, and when she fails, she'll accuse me of being intolerant of her opinion.
I know she doesn't believe that. I know it's just a way to end the argument and save face. If you can't win on the facts, then just change it into a moral argument and pretend to take the high road.
Did I mention she's a Republican? They're good at that.
But seriously. Bush has always been willing to admit when he was wrong? Name ONE time! Unlike the usual Republican bullshit ("The economy is getting better." "We're winning the war on terror." "America is safer.") I think even the most ardent Bush supporter would have a hard time getting behind this one.
After all, the Republicans have a term for people who admit that they were wrong about something. They call those people "flip-floppers."
Friday, July 30, 2004
What Republicans Believe
Note: I didn't write this, but I sincerely wish I had.
Saddam was a good guy when Reagan armed him, a bad guy when Bush's daddy made war on him, a good guy when Cheney did business with him and a bad guy when Bush needed a "we can't find Bin Laden" diversion.
Trade with Cuba is wrong because the country is communist, but trade with China and Vietnam is vital to a spirit of international harmony.
The United States should get out of the United Nations, and our highest national priority is enforcing U.N. resolutions against Iraq.
A woman can't be trusted with decisions about her own body, but multi-national corporations can make decisions affecting all mankind without regulation.
Jesus loves you, and shares your hatred of homosexuals and Hillary Clinton.
The best way to improve military morale is to praise the troops in speeches while slashing
veterans' benefits and combat pay.
If condoms are kept out of schools, adolescents won't have sex.
A good way to fight terrorism is to belittle our long-time allies, then demand their cooperation
and money.
Providing health care to all Iraqis is sound policy. Providing health care to all Americans
is socialism.
HMOs and insurance companies have the best interests of the public at heart.
Global warming and tobacco's link to cancer are junk science, but creationism should be taught in schools.
A president lying about an extramarital affair is an impeachable offense. A president lying to
enlist support for a war in which thousands die is solid defense policy.
Government should limit itself to the powers named in the Constitution, which include banning gay marriages and censoring the Internet.
The public has a right to know about Hillary's cattle trades, but George Bush's driving record
is none of our business.
Being a drug addict is a moral failing and a crime, unless you're a conservative radio host.
Then it's an illness, and you need our prayers for your recovery.
You support states' rights, which means Attorney General John Ashcroft can tell states what local voter initiatives they have the right to adopt.
What Bill Clinton did in the 1960s is of vital national interest, but what Bush did in the '80s
is irrelevant.
Saddam was a good guy when Reagan armed him, a bad guy when Bush's daddy made war on him, a good guy when Cheney did business with him and a bad guy when Bush needed a "we can't find Bin Laden" diversion.
Trade with Cuba is wrong because the country is communist, but trade with China and Vietnam is vital to a spirit of international harmony.
The United States should get out of the United Nations, and our highest national priority is enforcing U.N. resolutions against Iraq.
A woman can't be trusted with decisions about her own body, but multi-national corporations can make decisions affecting all mankind without regulation.
Jesus loves you, and shares your hatred of homosexuals and Hillary Clinton.
The best way to improve military morale is to praise the troops in speeches while slashing
veterans' benefits and combat pay.
If condoms are kept out of schools, adolescents won't have sex.
A good way to fight terrorism is to belittle our long-time allies, then demand their cooperation
and money.
Providing health care to all Iraqis is sound policy. Providing health care to all Americans
is socialism.
HMOs and insurance companies have the best interests of the public at heart.
Global warming and tobacco's link to cancer are junk science, but creationism should be taught in schools.
A president lying about an extramarital affair is an impeachable offense. A president lying to
enlist support for a war in which thousands die is solid defense policy.
Government should limit itself to the powers named in the Constitution, which include banning gay marriages and censoring the Internet.
The public has a right to know about Hillary's cattle trades, but George Bush's driving record
is none of our business.
Being a drug addict is a moral failing and a crime, unless you're a conservative radio host.
Then it's an illness, and you need our prayers for your recovery.
You support states' rights, which means Attorney General John Ashcroft can tell states what local voter initiatives they have the right to adopt.
What Bill Clinton did in the 1960s is of vital national interest, but what Bush did in the '80s
is irrelevant.
Wednesday, July 28, 2004
Sunday, July 18, 2004
A Modest Proposal
A lot of my friends are Christians. And homophobic.
Oh, they’ll deny it. “I resent that! Just because I believe that the gays are attempting to undermine the moral integrity of this nation and drag us down into a cesspool of sodomy and drug use, where our children will be forced to turn tricks behind dumpsters for their next fix of heroin, that doesn’t make me homophobic!”
If I’m lucky, they’ll tag on, “I mean, some of my friends are gays!”
A lot of churches have evaded the issue by railing against homosexuality as a concept, while avoiding the mention of any names. Except for Ellen DeGeneres. And those Queer Eye guys. And Hilary Clinton, whom a lot of people think is a lesbian because Rush Limbaugh once said so, although there’s a pretty good chance it was just the crystal meth talking. But I digress…
Anyway, as much as I admire the progressive Christian attitude of “hate the faggotry, love the faggot,” I still find myself unable to get on board. I just can’t generate enough fear and loathing against a group of people who never did me any harm. I mean, not counting Will and Grace.
But I guess I can sympathize, because I have a similar issue. You see, I am utterly disgusted by the thought of old people having sex.
I understand that they are consenting adults, and I know that nobody is forcing me to have sex with an old person, but it disturbs me just knowing that they’re out there, bumping their wrinkled uglies.
Oh, I can hear you whiny liberal bastards now. “But Jesus never said anything bad against old, horny people!” Yeah, well he never said anything bad against child molesters either! Does that make it right?
So lest our nation deteriorate into an endless orgy of Ben Gay and adult diapers, I’d like to propose a constitutional amendment banning any people over the age of 60 from having sex. God knows, it would certainly make me feel better.
But I know. That’s just not constitutional. If we could actually ban people from having sex with each other, Bush and his team would have snuck a rider into the Patriot Act. Ironically, “sneaking a rider” sounds like a euphemism for gay sex. But again, I digress…
So instead of banning sex between old people, how about a constitutional amendment to keep them from getting married? We can define marriage as a union between two consenting adults who don’t drink buttermilk and still have their original hips.
Oh, it won’t solve the problem. They’ll still be out there having hot, wild, geriatric “whips and dentures” sex. But I always say, an unwarranted, hateful and mean-spirited attack is preferable to just sitting back and doing nothing. Right?
Take that, you old fuckers. God bless America.
Oh, they’ll deny it. “I resent that! Just because I believe that the gays are attempting to undermine the moral integrity of this nation and drag us down into a cesspool of sodomy and drug use, where our children will be forced to turn tricks behind dumpsters for their next fix of heroin, that doesn’t make me homophobic!”
If I’m lucky, they’ll tag on, “I mean, some of my friends are gays!”
A lot of churches have evaded the issue by railing against homosexuality as a concept, while avoiding the mention of any names. Except for Ellen DeGeneres. And those Queer Eye guys. And Hilary Clinton, whom a lot of people think is a lesbian because Rush Limbaugh once said so, although there’s a pretty good chance it was just the crystal meth talking. But I digress…
Anyway, as much as I admire the progressive Christian attitude of “hate the faggotry, love the faggot,” I still find myself unable to get on board. I just can’t generate enough fear and loathing against a group of people who never did me any harm. I mean, not counting Will and Grace.
But I guess I can sympathize, because I have a similar issue. You see, I am utterly disgusted by the thought of old people having sex.
I understand that they are consenting adults, and I know that nobody is forcing me to have sex with an old person, but it disturbs me just knowing that they’re out there, bumping their wrinkled uglies.
Oh, I can hear you whiny liberal bastards now. “But Jesus never said anything bad against old, horny people!” Yeah, well he never said anything bad against child molesters either! Does that make it right?
So lest our nation deteriorate into an endless orgy of Ben Gay and adult diapers, I’d like to propose a constitutional amendment banning any people over the age of 60 from having sex. God knows, it would certainly make me feel better.
But I know. That’s just not constitutional. If we could actually ban people from having sex with each other, Bush and his team would have snuck a rider into the Patriot Act. Ironically, “sneaking a rider” sounds like a euphemism for gay sex. But again, I digress…
So instead of banning sex between old people, how about a constitutional amendment to keep them from getting married? We can define marriage as a union between two consenting adults who don’t drink buttermilk and still have their original hips.
Oh, it won’t solve the problem. They’ll still be out there having hot, wild, geriatric “whips and dentures” sex. But I always say, an unwarranted, hateful and mean-spirited attack is preferable to just sitting back and doing nothing. Right?
Take that, you old fuckers. God bless America.
Wednesday, July 07, 2004
The Nerds Mourn Marlon
I write Generika Adventures, an online comic based on Dungeons & Dragons. The target audience is geeks with a sense of humor, which is a decidedly narrow demographic. However, I didn’t realize just how narrow until last week.
The following exchange was posted to the Generika Adventures board on July 2, the day Marlon Brando died.
I didn’t get a reply to that, so I can only assume Mr. Anonymous Movie Buff’s mom made him get off the computer for the night. Or maybe he fell asleep while masturbating to the buttered Marlon Brando scene in Last Tango in Paris.
But I guess it’s a good thing the thread ended before I was reduced to making Marlin Perkins jokes.
The following exchange was posted to the Generika Adventures board on July 2, the day Marlon Brando died.
Posted by: Chris “Irb” Irby
Marlon Brando? Dead?
NO! PLEASE TELL ME IT ISN’T SO!!!!
God, I can’t believe he’s really dead! He was truly one of the greatest actors of all time!
His work in White Chicks was just brilliant, and he brought to life the nuanced character of Snails in Dungeons & Dragons.
Oh, Marlon. We barely knew ye. Good night, sweet prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.
Posted by: =^.^=
I seriously hope he’s joking… I really hate stupid people. There’s a big difference between a skinny black guy and a fat white guy.
Posted by: Chris “Irb” Irby
Please. There’s no need for name calling. At a time like this, we need to put aside our personal differences and show our support for Damon, Shawn, and Keenen Ivory Brando.
Posted by: Anonymous
hey irb you are clearly a simpleton with no appreciation of film because then you'd know marlon brando kicks ass and the examples you pointed out were just some of the worst movies of all time
jesus even sean connery got stuck with shit that had lines like "YOU'RE THE MAN NOW DAWG" every now and then. why dont you go watch some of brando's real films and then open your mouth about the film medium
Posted by: Chris “Irb” Irby
I was just kidding, genius. Of course I know who Marlon Brando was! She was brilliant in “That Girl,” and I really loved her as Rachel’s mom in “Friends.”
I didn’t get a reply to that, so I can only assume Mr. Anonymous Movie Buff’s mom made him get off the computer for the night. Or maybe he fell asleep while masturbating to the buttered Marlon Brando scene in Last Tango in Paris.
But I guess it’s a good thing the thread ended before I was reduced to making Marlin Perkins jokes.
Saturday, July 03, 2004
Some Rambling Movie Reviews
I’m only writing these because this is a blog, and I’m required by federal law to shove my opinions on movies I’ve seen down the throats of my three or four unsuspecting readers.
Fahrenheit 9/11
Okay, I know I’m beating a dead horse here. This nation is divided between slathering fanboys who think everything out of Michael Moore’s mouth is gospel, and brain dead Bush apologists who dismiss the entire movie as fiction.
And somewhere in the middle are the five or six of us who still occasionally like to think for ourselves. I don’t particularly agree with all of Michael Moore’s answers, but I respect him for at least asking the right questions.
There’s this asinine conservative organization called Move America Forward that seems to be threatened by the idea of discourse. I suppose it’s because some conservatives base their beliefs on blind faith rather than the facts, and they get very defensive whenever somebody challenges them. And of course, their knee-jerk reaction to Fahrenheit 9/11 was to harass and intimidate theater owners in an effort to shut the movie down. Fortunately, it seems to have backfired and actually generated tons of free publicity for Michael Moore.
Another group has decided to wade in swinging, and is producing a documentary entitled Michael Moore Hates America. Now I prefer to reserve my judgment on a film until after I’ve seen it, because I’m neither Republican nor Baptist. And I do applaud these guys for at least engaging in debate instead of trying to stifle an opposing argument.
But I’ve already got a problem with the title. It just reinforces that stereotypical conservative belief that anybody who dares to question or criticize the president must hate America. Which, as we all know, means the entire Republican party hated America between 1992 and 2000.
That said, I look forward to seeing the film. And I hope none of my terrorist-supporting, America-hating, tree-hugging, godless, gay-marrying, France-loving, drug-using, hippie liberal bastard friends try to get it banned.
Spiderman 2
I don’t want to bore you with an actual review. Go see it. It’s great. It’s a near-perfect superhero movie. The special effects are seamless. The dialog is brilliant (except for the occasional plodding soliloquy). The acting is much better than any movie about a guy in tights should be. Kirsten Dunst is astonishingly hot, and the image of her standing in a wedding dress and whispering “Go get ‘em, tiger,” should be required masturbatory material for all boys between 13 and 17. Plus, J. K. Simmons is so goddamned funny as J. Jonah Jameson that the guy needs his own movie!
Okay, review over. I only brought it up because I wanted to make a rather random comment about the film. There’s a scene early on where Dr. Otto Octavius is demonstrating the mechanical arms he uses to perform dangerous fusion-related experiments to the press. And one of the reporters actually asks, “Since the artificial intelligence of the arms is so highly developed, isn’t there a chance it could take over your mind and override your higher brain functions?”
In the real world, such a question would be answered with a perfunctory, “What are you? Retarded?” But since this is comic book land, Dr. Octavius responds to the reporter’s question as if it were a real, pertinent issue.
And this got me to thinking. How cool would it be if reporters really did ask questions like that in press conferences? I would love to see somebody from Time Magazine stand up and ask Dick Cheney, “Mr. Vice President? If Hussein really had managed to purchase yellow cake uranium from Niger, could he have possibly used its radioactive properties to create a race of mutant super soldiers?”
Of course, Cheney would tell the reporter to go fuck himself. But still, I would watch that press conference. Hell, I’d TIVO it!
Day After Tomorrow
Not the most plausible movie in the world. I didn’t bat an eye when the ice age covered the northern hemisphere in a matter of days, or when the icebergs growled and chased after people.
No, for me the scene that totally snapped my suspension of disbelief in two was when the Vice President (who looked eerily like Cheney) realized that he had doomed millions of people to death by disregarding the environmental warnings, and he offered a tearful apology. “We should have listened. *I* should have listened.”
What can I say? I started giggling.
Fahrenheit 9/11
Okay, I know I’m beating a dead horse here. This nation is divided between slathering fanboys who think everything out of Michael Moore’s mouth is gospel, and brain dead Bush apologists who dismiss the entire movie as fiction.
And somewhere in the middle are the five or six of us who still occasionally like to think for ourselves. I don’t particularly agree with all of Michael Moore’s answers, but I respect him for at least asking the right questions.
There’s this asinine conservative organization called Move America Forward that seems to be threatened by the idea of discourse. I suppose it’s because some conservatives base their beliefs on blind faith rather than the facts, and they get very defensive whenever somebody challenges them. And of course, their knee-jerk reaction to Fahrenheit 9/11 was to harass and intimidate theater owners in an effort to shut the movie down. Fortunately, it seems to have backfired and actually generated tons of free publicity for Michael Moore.
Another group has decided to wade in swinging, and is producing a documentary entitled Michael Moore Hates America. Now I prefer to reserve my judgment on a film until after I’ve seen it, because I’m neither Republican nor Baptist. And I do applaud these guys for at least engaging in debate instead of trying to stifle an opposing argument.
But I’ve already got a problem with the title. It just reinforces that stereotypical conservative belief that anybody who dares to question or criticize the president must hate America. Which, as we all know, means the entire Republican party hated America between 1992 and 2000.
That said, I look forward to seeing the film. And I hope none of my terrorist-supporting, America-hating, tree-hugging, godless, gay-marrying, France-loving, drug-using, hippie liberal bastard friends try to get it banned.
Spiderman 2
I don’t want to bore you with an actual review. Go see it. It’s great. It’s a near-perfect superhero movie. The special effects are seamless. The dialog is brilliant (except for the occasional plodding soliloquy). The acting is much better than any movie about a guy in tights should be. Kirsten Dunst is astonishingly hot, and the image of her standing in a wedding dress and whispering “Go get ‘em, tiger,” should be required masturbatory material for all boys between 13 and 17. Plus, J. K. Simmons is so goddamned funny as J. Jonah Jameson that the guy needs his own movie!
Okay, review over. I only brought it up because I wanted to make a rather random comment about the film. There’s a scene early on where Dr. Otto Octavius is demonstrating the mechanical arms he uses to perform dangerous fusion-related experiments to the press. And one of the reporters actually asks, “Since the artificial intelligence of the arms is so highly developed, isn’t there a chance it could take over your mind and override your higher brain functions?”
In the real world, such a question would be answered with a perfunctory, “What are you? Retarded?” But since this is comic book land, Dr. Octavius responds to the reporter’s question as if it were a real, pertinent issue.
And this got me to thinking. How cool would it be if reporters really did ask questions like that in press conferences? I would love to see somebody from Time Magazine stand up and ask Dick Cheney, “Mr. Vice President? If Hussein really had managed to purchase yellow cake uranium from Niger, could he have possibly used its radioactive properties to create a race of mutant super soldiers?”
Of course, Cheney would tell the reporter to go fuck himself. But still, I would watch that press conference. Hell, I’d TIVO it!
Day After Tomorrow
Not the most plausible movie in the world. I didn’t bat an eye when the ice age covered the northern hemisphere in a matter of days, or when the icebergs growled and chased after people.
No, for me the scene that totally snapped my suspension of disbelief in two was when the Vice President (who looked eerily like Cheney) realized that he had doomed millions of people to death by disregarding the environmental warnings, and he offered a tearful apology. “We should have listened. *I* should have listened.”
What can I say? I started giggling.
Sunday, June 20, 2004
Happy Father's Day
After my dad died, I had this recurring dream for almost two years.
I’m in my old apartment, and there comes a knock at the door. I open it up, and my father is standing there, alive and grinning. And I’m overcome with this sense of relief, like some monumental worry has been lifted from my shoulders. I’m outrageously happy.
“What are you doing here?” I say to him, crying tears of joy. He’s so happy, so at ease. He’s the life of the party, the way I remember him being when I was much younger.
“Don’t you know?” he asks me. “It’s a special occasion.”
“Your birthday?”
“No. Sort of the opposite.”
I’m suddenly aware of the wrapped gift in my hands. “Oh, I got you this,” I tell him, offering him the package. He takes it from me and begins opening it.
The apartment vanishes, and we’re standing on my grandmother’s back porch. Dad is still opening his present. And I realize that the package contains my grandmother’s loaded revolver.
I try to take it away from him, but he won’t let me have it. He just keeps on unwrapping it, and I’m crying because I know something horrible is going to happen once he gets it open.
I always woke up right about then.
I don’t have to be fucking Kreskin to figure that one out. My dad called and left me a message several days before he killed himself, and I never bothered to call him back. And even now, after years of therapy, I still occasionally wonder if things would have turned out differently if only I’d returned his call.
But at least the dream has gone away.
I still have the occasional dream about Dad, usually around Easter (when he died) and Father’s Day. They’re not the heart-rending ordeals that the other dream was. They’re more wistful and melancholy.
I’ve had dreams where my dad shows up in unexpectedly good health at a party, or where he’s on stage performing but I can’t seem to find a way into the auditorium.
Last night, I dreamed that I was in a car with my mom and sister, and Dad was driving in a car ahead of us, by himself. And I kept thinking, if I had known he was going to be by himself, I would have ridden with him. I woke up crying.
These dreams are about grief, not guilt. I no longer blame myself for Dad’s death. Really.
But I still sometimes wonder what would have happened if I’d called him back.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad.
I’m in my old apartment, and there comes a knock at the door. I open it up, and my father is standing there, alive and grinning. And I’m overcome with this sense of relief, like some monumental worry has been lifted from my shoulders. I’m outrageously happy.
“What are you doing here?” I say to him, crying tears of joy. He’s so happy, so at ease. He’s the life of the party, the way I remember him being when I was much younger.
“Don’t you know?” he asks me. “It’s a special occasion.”
“Your birthday?”
“No. Sort of the opposite.”
I’m suddenly aware of the wrapped gift in my hands. “Oh, I got you this,” I tell him, offering him the package. He takes it from me and begins opening it.
The apartment vanishes, and we’re standing on my grandmother’s back porch. Dad is still opening his present. And I realize that the package contains my grandmother’s loaded revolver.
I try to take it away from him, but he won’t let me have it. He just keeps on unwrapping it, and I’m crying because I know something horrible is going to happen once he gets it open.
I always woke up right about then.
I don’t have to be fucking Kreskin to figure that one out. My dad called and left me a message several days before he killed himself, and I never bothered to call him back. And even now, after years of therapy, I still occasionally wonder if things would have turned out differently if only I’d returned his call.
But at least the dream has gone away.
I still have the occasional dream about Dad, usually around Easter (when he died) and Father’s Day. They’re not the heart-rending ordeals that the other dream was. They’re more wistful and melancholy.
I’ve had dreams where my dad shows up in unexpectedly good health at a party, or where he’s on stage performing but I can’t seem to find a way into the auditorium.
Last night, I dreamed that I was in a car with my mom and sister, and Dad was driving in a car ahead of us, by himself. And I kept thinking, if I had known he was going to be by himself, I would have ridden with him. I woke up crying.
These dreams are about grief, not guilt. I no longer blame myself for Dad’s death. Really.
But I still sometimes wonder what would have happened if I’d called him back.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad.
Thursday, May 27, 2004
It’s rough being a liberal in Texas. Seriously. At this point, I could get caught having sex with farm animals while wearing a Nazi uniform and, socially speaking, it would be a lateral move.
But here in the Bible Belt, where blind faith is a way of life, they continue to revere George W. Bush as perhaps the finest president this nation has ever known. And the most frustrating part is, none of them really seem to know why. If you ask them WHY they think Bush is the fucking messiah, their eyes glaze over and they start mumbling something about “terrorists” and “freedom.”
Clinton was a good president. He might have even been a great president, if not for his proclivity for lying, waffling, and getting blown in the Oval Office. That seems to be the general consensus among Democrats (at least the three or four that live here in Texas). We respected the man and appreciated all he was able to accomplish, but we were quite aware of his flaws. We supported him, but we weren’t blindly allegiant.
And it never occurred to us to refer to the multitudes of dissenting Republicans as “traitors” or “terrorists.” Because back in those days, America was still a country that encouraged free discourse. You could express your opinion without fear that some cousin-humping retard was going to stab you in the head with the plastic American flag he bought from MJDesign.
Bush and his Legion of Doom have dragged this country down to its lowest point since men stopped wearing powdered wigs. We’re devastated economically and reviled universally. We’re mired in a war that continues to claim the lives of those American soldiers that the Republicans pretend to love, and right now the only glimmer of hope on the horizon is Bush’s promise that somehow, everything will magically work itself out by June 30th.
But in spite of all of that, Bush enjoys the blind loyalty of the minority of voters that “elected” him. These rabid supporters maintain that Bush is a fine president, and that Clinton was the worst president we’ve ever had. The facts don’t seem to back this up, so I can only assume that they’re grading on some kind of curve.
Or they’re just too stupid to do the math.
But here in the Bible Belt, where blind faith is a way of life, they continue to revere George W. Bush as perhaps the finest president this nation has ever known. And the most frustrating part is, none of them really seem to know why. If you ask them WHY they think Bush is the fucking messiah, their eyes glaze over and they start mumbling something about “terrorists” and “freedom.”
Clinton was a good president. He might have even been a great president, if not for his proclivity for lying, waffling, and getting blown in the Oval Office. That seems to be the general consensus among Democrats (at least the three or four that live here in Texas). We respected the man and appreciated all he was able to accomplish, but we were quite aware of his flaws. We supported him, but we weren’t blindly allegiant.
And it never occurred to us to refer to the multitudes of dissenting Republicans as “traitors” or “terrorists.” Because back in those days, America was still a country that encouraged free discourse. You could express your opinion without fear that some cousin-humping retard was going to stab you in the head with the plastic American flag he bought from MJDesign.
Bush and his Legion of Doom have dragged this country down to its lowest point since men stopped wearing powdered wigs. We’re devastated economically and reviled universally. We’re mired in a war that continues to claim the lives of those American soldiers that the Republicans pretend to love, and right now the only glimmer of hope on the horizon is Bush’s promise that somehow, everything will magically work itself out by June 30th.
But in spite of all of that, Bush enjoys the blind loyalty of the minority of voters that “elected” him. These rabid supporters maintain that Bush is a fine president, and that Clinton was the worst president we’ve ever had. The facts don’t seem to back this up, so I can only assume that they’re grading on some kind of curve.
Or they’re just too stupid to do the math.
Monday, May 17, 2004
Germans Love David Hasselhoff... AND ME!
So just out of curiousity, I did a Google search on Generika Adventures. For those of you who have managed to successfully tune me out for the past couple of months, Generika Adventures is an online comic written by me and drawn by the sexy and nubile Errol "Maximus" Pinto.
Anyway, one of the hits was a German board devoted to Neverwinter Nights. I don't speak German, but of course I was excited to see my name mentioned in such close proximity to "Calvin and Hobbes."
Being the curious little ass-monkey that I am, I ran the page through Babelfish. And I still have no idea what the hell those cagey Germans are talking about, but I'm assuming they meant it in a nice way.
Anyway, one of the hits was a German board devoted to Neverwinter Nights. I don't speak German, but of course I was excited to see my name mentioned in such close proximity to "Calvin and Hobbes."
Being the curious little ass-monkey that I am, I ran the page through Babelfish. And I still have no idea what the hell those cagey Germans are talking about, but I'm assuming they meant it in a nice way.
Who missed it lately NWVault, which definite Website for Neverwinter Nights, an attendance abzustatten, which I would like to refer to the Comic "Generika Adventures" from Maximus and Chris Irby, which draws our loved play unrestrainedly by the cocoa. Today by the way is the 25. Consequence of the Cartoons appeared. The class of "Dailors of merry world of the game of roles" or a "Calvin and a Hobbes" is also graphically not reached above all, but the side is nevertheless always worth an attendance.
Monday, May 10, 2004
HIGHLAND PARK, Texas (AP) -- Police say they had no choice but to go by the book when they handcuffed a 97-year-old woman and took her to jail for failing to pay a traffic ticket.
They had no choice? I guess I can see that. You never know when an elderly woman is going to shoulder-check the arresting officer, throw him to the ground, and then escape into a nearby alley.
Hell, for all we know, she was one of those crazed, psychotic old women who was high on PCP and angel dust. I can imagine her on the ground, trussed and chained, giggling maniacally as she spit the chewed remains of the cop's ear into the dirt. Personally, I think the police showed remarkable restraint by not tasering her.
I guess it's a logical progression. Since we've run out of retarded people to execute, we've decided to refocus our energy on another group of hateful scofflaws who have long made a mockery of our swift but fair Texas justice. Nonagenarians. Or as they're known on the street, "Willard Scott's Wrinkled Posse."
Take that, old people! You don't FUCK with Texas!
They had no choice? I guess I can see that. You never know when an elderly woman is going to shoulder-check the arresting officer, throw him to the ground, and then escape into a nearby alley.
Hell, for all we know, she was one of those crazed, psychotic old women who was high on PCP and angel dust. I can imagine her on the ground, trussed and chained, giggling maniacally as she spit the chewed remains of the cop's ear into the dirt. Personally, I think the police showed remarkable restraint by not tasering her.
I guess it's a logical progression. Since we've run out of retarded people to execute, we've decided to refocus our energy on another group of hateful scofflaws who have long made a mockery of our swift but fair Texas justice. Nonagenarians. Or as they're known on the street, "Willard Scott's Wrinkled Posse."
Take that, old people! You don't FUCK with Texas!
Wednesday, April 28, 2004
The Collected Wisdom of Mina Lou Prior
My grandmother Mina Lou Prior (“Lynn” to her friends; “Mamaw” to her grandkids) was a veritable trove of pithy observations, as the following quotes should hopefully demonstrate. Three things you should know:
1. She often referred to herself in the third person (as “Mamaw”).
2. She cursed like a sailor.
3. She referred to my sister and me as “Tootsie” and “Chrisco” respectively.
So read on, and allow yourself to be drenched in the wisdom that was Mina Lou Prior…
On Hygiene
“Sugar, when you get as old as Mamaw, you learn to just wash what stinks.”
On Christ’s Agony on the Cross
“If I’d been Jesus, I’d have slapped the piss out of them!”
On Heredity
“She’s just the prettiest little thing and I don’t know how that happened because both her parents look like my ass.”
On Profanity
“Mamaw doesn’t cuss! She may use little tacky words like ‘shit’ or ‘piss,’ but I’ll have you know I was 40 years old before I ever used the F-word!”
On Beauty
“She’s really pretty for a colored woman.”
On Bonanza (and Me)
“I like ol’ Hoss. God bless him, he’s dumb as he can be, but he’s got a heart as big as all outdoors. He kinda reminds me of you, Chrisco.”
On Heirlooms
“Now Chris, Mamaw worked hard to make that quilt, and it’s the kind of thing that you’re supposed to keep in your family for generations. So don’t be letting your nasty-ass friends cover up with it.”
On Lying About Her Age (to her son and my dad, Jamie)
“Hell, Jamie! I can’t back up much further or I’ll run over you!”
On Dating
“Well, your daddy’s seeing a girl named Sherry right now. Of course, next time I talk to him, it’ll probably be a ‘Mary’ or a ‘Carrie.’”
On Clarification
“What in the shit are you talking about?”
On Home Protection
“Jamie, do you remember that time you got up to turn off the sprinklers and Mamaw came outside with her gun and almost shot you?”
On Scattergories™
“Well, how about dumbass? That starts with a D!”
On Fashion
“That mod shit just don’t look good on you, Chrisco.”
On Jim Nabors
“He sounds like such an idiot when he talks, but he can sing so pretty!”
1. She often referred to herself in the third person (as “Mamaw”).
2. She cursed like a sailor.
3. She referred to my sister and me as “Tootsie” and “Chrisco” respectively.
So read on, and allow yourself to be drenched in the wisdom that was Mina Lou Prior…
On Hygiene
“Sugar, when you get as old as Mamaw, you learn to just wash what stinks.”
On Christ’s Agony on the Cross
“If I’d been Jesus, I’d have slapped the piss out of them!”
On Heredity
“She’s just the prettiest little thing and I don’t know how that happened because both her parents look like my ass.”
On Profanity
“Mamaw doesn’t cuss! She may use little tacky words like ‘shit’ or ‘piss,’ but I’ll have you know I was 40 years old before I ever used the F-word!”
On Beauty
“She’s really pretty for a colored woman.”
On Bonanza (and Me)
“I like ol’ Hoss. God bless him, he’s dumb as he can be, but he’s got a heart as big as all outdoors. He kinda reminds me of you, Chrisco.”
On Heirlooms
“Now Chris, Mamaw worked hard to make that quilt, and it’s the kind of thing that you’re supposed to keep in your family for generations. So don’t be letting your nasty-ass friends cover up with it.”
On Lying About Her Age (to her son and my dad, Jamie)
“Hell, Jamie! I can’t back up much further or I’ll run over you!”
On Dating
“Well, your daddy’s seeing a girl named Sherry right now. Of course, next time I talk to him, it’ll probably be a ‘Mary’ or a ‘Carrie.’”
On Clarification
“What in the shit are you talking about?”
On Home Protection
“Jamie, do you remember that time you got up to turn off the sprinklers and Mamaw came outside with her gun and almost shot you?”
On Scattergories™
“Well, how about dumbass? That starts with a D!”
On Fashion
“That mod shit just don’t look good on you, Chrisco.”
On Jim Nabors
“He sounds like such an idiot when he talks, but he can sing so pretty!”
Saturday, April 24, 2004
But I Digress...
I remember when I was 10 years old, and I spent hours upon hours making potholders out of sock loops. I would hook the loops onto this special plastic frame that had all these little pegs on it, and then I would weave the little sock loops in and out, in and out, in and out, until I had filled up the entire frame. And when it was done, I would take the little plastic hook and go around the edges, hooking each loop through the previous loop, until I had finally formed a beautiful, colorful potholder.
One night, my mother and sister and I were just sitting there, making potholders and watching Quincy. It was this really interesting episode where Quincy was investigating some guy that had died, but what I remember most of all was this commercial for Grape Nuts cereal.
The commercial sticks in my mind because there was this old man in the ad who was feeding Grape Nuts to his grandson, just like my grandfather used to do to me. I would often ask him, "Grandpa? How come they call them Grape Nuts? They don't have grapes or nuts in them?" And my grandfather would just laugh softly and tell me to shut the hell up before he sliced my freakin’ throat with a bayonet.
My grandfather was a little high strung because he spent 3 years in a Japanese POW camp during WWII. He finally escaped one night when he broke the neck of one of the guards with his bare hands, dressed the guard in his rags, and left him in his cell. He then donned the guard's uniform and made his way into the streets. Some Philippine rebels took pity on him and helped smuggle him to Hawaii in a gigantic halibut. Grandpa returned home a hero, but was never the same.
My grandmother, in the meantime, had believed my grandfather to be dead and had been so stricken with grief that she was unable to cope. At last, she found that killing drifters abated the pain somewhat. Even when Grandpa returned, she found herself unable to stop. She would spend her evenings cruising the highway in her green Ford LTD and picking up hitchhikers.
One of these hitchhikers, surprisingly enough, was Jim Morrison himself! Turns out he had faked his death in Paris to get away from the fans and surreptitiously made his way back into the country. He was on his way to Memphis to visit the grave of the recently departed Elvis when my grandmother picked him up and plunged a ceremonial dagger into the back of his neck.
The dagger had been a gift to her from Grumar Daemonicus, the crazy old satanic high priest that lived in the boarding house. My grandmother had once hidden Grumar in her basement when the local church came looking for him, hoping to burn him at the stake for practicing witchcraft. In return, he had given my grandmother the dagger that, according to legend, had been carved from the bones of a long dead god.
This god, Viseroghagoth, was said to be so horrifying that anyone glimpsing its true form would be driven instantly insane. Such was the case of Galgamor, a Sumerian priest who received such horrifying visions that he finally tore his own eyes from his head and drowned himself in the Euphrates River.
Galgamor's remains were discovered in a clay pot by Dr. Reginald Reese, noted archeologist and expert on ancient cultures. Dr. Reese uncovered the urn while on a routine dig, but was devoured by a ravenous swarm of scorpions as he was attempting to decipher the strange cuneiform text.
When word of her husband's grisly death reached her in Salt Lake City, Emily Reese could scarcely contain her joy. For years, she had been suffering in silence, secretly in love with their maid Marie, yet she dared not speak of her forbidden passions. But now, with her husband out of the way, Emily and Marie were at last free to love. Their lingering embrace became a passionate kiss, and before they knew what had happened, they were lost in a white flash of hot, blinding lust. Their naked bodies entwined, their pale and sweaty flesh pressed together as, wordlessly but in unison, they brought each other to the sheer pinnacle of ecstasy. And Emily wept, because she had never known love could be so primal.
When they had finished, Marie left Emily sleeping so she could go downstairs and start dinner. While she was waiting for the water to boil, her mind drifted to her brother Maurice, whom she hadn't seen since he had been dispatched to Iraq to assassinate Saddam Hussein. It had been six years, and she hadn't heard a word from him. She was remembering his sad eyes and his kind smile when she reached for the boiling pot and burned her fingers. Gasping, she jerked away and accidentally knocked over a mason jar full of grease.
The grease spread across the stove and immediately burst into flames. Foolishly, Marie tried to extinguish the fire by pouring water on it, which only caused it to spread further. Before she knew it, the curtains were on fire. Marie tried desperately to make it upstairs to where Emily was sleeping, but was quickly overcome by the smoke. She passed out on the stairs, and never made it out alive.
"What a senseless waste of human life," said Bill Sadler, a local fire fighter and deacon, as he presided over Marie's funeral. The entire congregation wept, but none more bitterly than Emily, who had been miraculously spared in the raging inferno. "But for me," Bill went on, his voice quavering with poignancy, "the most tragic thing is that this whole horrible incident could have been avoided if only Marie had used a potholder."
-----------------------
I submitted this short story to a literary magazine called "Axe Factory Review" last November, because they said they were looking for "quirky, off-center, offensive and annoying" stories. The manuscript was returned to me with a Post-It note attached. And written on the Post-It note was:
"You need to weave this a little better to get it past the maws of Axe Factory's guardian spirits. Send $8 for a sample."
Yeah. Cute. But pretty much par for the course. Most of these literary magazines like to hawk their subscriptions even while they're telling you how much your writing fucking sucks. But the funniest part was that, written on the manuscript itself (right around the 7th paragraph), was a single comment. And it read:
"What boarding house?"
So apparently, Mr. Axe Factory Guardian Spirit Wrangler was okay with the story up to that point. I can just see him reading it and making his notations. "Hmmmm... sock loops... right... right... uh huh... bayonet... right... giant halibut... got it... killing drifters... hmmmm... Jim Morrison... I see... uh huh... ceremonial dagger... uh huh... WAIT! WHAT FUCKING BOARDING HOUSE?"
I imagine he was so upset by this point that he dropped the skull from which he'd been drinking port and began frantically waving his silk lace handkerchief to ward off "the vapors." And as the naked serving boys scrambled to fetch his briar pipe and his fur-lined cape, he cried out in an effeminate voice, "By the flaming tits of Percy Bysshe Shelley!" Then, I'm pretty sure he crapped his pants.
"You need to weave this a little better to get it past the maws of Axe Factory's guardian spirits." Christ. How much pretension can you fit on one fucking Post-It note?
One night, my mother and sister and I were just sitting there, making potholders and watching Quincy. It was this really interesting episode where Quincy was investigating some guy that had died, but what I remember most of all was this commercial for Grape Nuts cereal.
The commercial sticks in my mind because there was this old man in the ad who was feeding Grape Nuts to his grandson, just like my grandfather used to do to me. I would often ask him, "Grandpa? How come they call them Grape Nuts? They don't have grapes or nuts in them?" And my grandfather would just laugh softly and tell me to shut the hell up before he sliced my freakin’ throat with a bayonet.
My grandfather was a little high strung because he spent 3 years in a Japanese POW camp during WWII. He finally escaped one night when he broke the neck of one of the guards with his bare hands, dressed the guard in his rags, and left him in his cell. He then donned the guard's uniform and made his way into the streets. Some Philippine rebels took pity on him and helped smuggle him to Hawaii in a gigantic halibut. Grandpa returned home a hero, but was never the same.
My grandmother, in the meantime, had believed my grandfather to be dead and had been so stricken with grief that she was unable to cope. At last, she found that killing drifters abated the pain somewhat. Even when Grandpa returned, she found herself unable to stop. She would spend her evenings cruising the highway in her green Ford LTD and picking up hitchhikers.
One of these hitchhikers, surprisingly enough, was Jim Morrison himself! Turns out he had faked his death in Paris to get away from the fans and surreptitiously made his way back into the country. He was on his way to Memphis to visit the grave of the recently departed Elvis when my grandmother picked him up and plunged a ceremonial dagger into the back of his neck.
The dagger had been a gift to her from Grumar Daemonicus, the crazy old satanic high priest that lived in the boarding house. My grandmother had once hidden Grumar in her basement when the local church came looking for him, hoping to burn him at the stake for practicing witchcraft. In return, he had given my grandmother the dagger that, according to legend, had been carved from the bones of a long dead god.
This god, Viseroghagoth, was said to be so horrifying that anyone glimpsing its true form would be driven instantly insane. Such was the case of Galgamor, a Sumerian priest who received such horrifying visions that he finally tore his own eyes from his head and drowned himself in the Euphrates River.
Galgamor's remains were discovered in a clay pot by Dr. Reginald Reese, noted archeologist and expert on ancient cultures. Dr. Reese uncovered the urn while on a routine dig, but was devoured by a ravenous swarm of scorpions as he was attempting to decipher the strange cuneiform text.
When word of her husband's grisly death reached her in Salt Lake City, Emily Reese could scarcely contain her joy. For years, she had been suffering in silence, secretly in love with their maid Marie, yet she dared not speak of her forbidden passions. But now, with her husband out of the way, Emily and Marie were at last free to love. Their lingering embrace became a passionate kiss, and before they knew what had happened, they were lost in a white flash of hot, blinding lust. Their naked bodies entwined, their pale and sweaty flesh pressed together as, wordlessly but in unison, they brought each other to the sheer pinnacle of ecstasy. And Emily wept, because she had never known love could be so primal.
When they had finished, Marie left Emily sleeping so she could go downstairs and start dinner. While she was waiting for the water to boil, her mind drifted to her brother Maurice, whom she hadn't seen since he had been dispatched to Iraq to assassinate Saddam Hussein. It had been six years, and she hadn't heard a word from him. She was remembering his sad eyes and his kind smile when she reached for the boiling pot and burned her fingers. Gasping, she jerked away and accidentally knocked over a mason jar full of grease.
The grease spread across the stove and immediately burst into flames. Foolishly, Marie tried to extinguish the fire by pouring water on it, which only caused it to spread further. Before she knew it, the curtains were on fire. Marie tried desperately to make it upstairs to where Emily was sleeping, but was quickly overcome by the smoke. She passed out on the stairs, and never made it out alive.
"What a senseless waste of human life," said Bill Sadler, a local fire fighter and deacon, as he presided over Marie's funeral. The entire congregation wept, but none more bitterly than Emily, who had been miraculously spared in the raging inferno. "But for me," Bill went on, his voice quavering with poignancy, "the most tragic thing is that this whole horrible incident could have been avoided if only Marie had used a potholder."
-----------------------
I submitted this short story to a literary magazine called "Axe Factory Review" last November, because they said they were looking for "quirky, off-center, offensive and annoying" stories. The manuscript was returned to me with a Post-It note attached. And written on the Post-It note was:
"You need to weave this a little better to get it past the maws of Axe Factory's guardian spirits. Send $8 for a sample."
Yeah. Cute. But pretty much par for the course. Most of these literary magazines like to hawk their subscriptions even while they're telling you how much your writing fucking sucks. But the funniest part was that, written on the manuscript itself (right around the 7th paragraph), was a single comment. And it read:
"What boarding house?"
So apparently, Mr. Axe Factory Guardian Spirit Wrangler was okay with the story up to that point. I can just see him reading it and making his notations. "Hmmmm... sock loops... right... right... uh huh... bayonet... right... giant halibut... got it... killing drifters... hmmmm... Jim Morrison... I see... uh huh... ceremonial dagger... uh huh... WAIT! WHAT FUCKING BOARDING HOUSE?"
I imagine he was so upset by this point that he dropped the skull from which he'd been drinking port and began frantically waving his silk lace handkerchief to ward off "the vapors." And as the naked serving boys scrambled to fetch his briar pipe and his fur-lined cape, he cried out in an effeminate voice, "By the flaming tits of Percy Bysshe Shelley!" Then, I'm pretty sure he crapped his pants.
"You need to weave this a little better to get it past the maws of Axe Factory's guardian spirits." Christ. How much pretension can you fit on one fucking Post-It note?
Friday, April 23, 2004
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! FUCK!!!!
Confession time. I’ve been in love with a married woman for a year and a half now.
A lot of my married friends are probably squirming nervously right now, wondering how to let me down gently. Well, knock that shit off! It isn’t you, okay?
So I know what you’re thinking. Wow, in love with a married woman! How could THAT possibly go wrong?
Thing is, she loved me too. Or she said she did. I’m seriously starting to think that the only key to this girl’s heart is not being her husband.
But you’ll have to bear with me. She’s this incredibly beautiful, funny, smart, sexy woman and at first, I couldn’t believe my luck that she was actually interested in me. I was terrified to tell her how I really felt, afraid that I was going to frighten her off. But she coaxed me and said all these amazing things and totally convinced me that I could trust her, that I had nothing to fear. So I told her I loved her, and she told me she loved me.
Here. I’ll cut to the punch line. She’s been involved with someone else since last year. All that bullshit she fed me about how special I was, about how I made her feel, about how much she cared for me? I can only assume it served her just as well the second time she used it.
Fuck.
And the thing is, I don’t even know how hurt I’m allowed to be about this. I mean, how indignant can I get when I’m accusing her of cheating on her husband with somebody besides me? It’s not like I’m on the high moral ground here. There’s no way I can write this story and make myself the hero or the hapless victim.
I’m just a dumbass who should have known better.
How long did she string me along? I knew something was up, but I was terrified to confront her because somehow I didn’t think I’d be able to bear hearing the truth. Now that I know, I only wish I'd known sooner.
But she couldn’t be bothered to tell me. She apparently decided it would just be easier to ignore me and avoid me until I got bored and went away. Did she even feel guilty about treating me like that? Or was I just a joke to her?
FUCK!!!
If you’re reading this (and you know goddamned well who you are), then you should know I’m not over you. I may never be over you. I think about the times we shared together, and it makes me hurt so badly I can’t imagine ever feeling happy again.
I’m not over you. But right now, I hate you more than I’ve ever hated anyone in my entire fucking life. I’m glad your husband caught you, and I’m glad it wasn’t with me. The fact that you’re utterly miserable too is my only solace.
So now I’m going to concentrate on putting this travesty behind me. After all, it’s time to move on to my next unhealthy relationship.
And that, my dear, is what we call “closure.”
Confession time. I’ve been in love with a married woman for a year and a half now.
A lot of my married friends are probably squirming nervously right now, wondering how to let me down gently. Well, knock that shit off! It isn’t you, okay?
So I know what you’re thinking. Wow, in love with a married woman! How could THAT possibly go wrong?
Thing is, she loved me too. Or she said she did. I’m seriously starting to think that the only key to this girl’s heart is not being her husband.
But you’ll have to bear with me. She’s this incredibly beautiful, funny, smart, sexy woman and at first, I couldn’t believe my luck that she was actually interested in me. I was terrified to tell her how I really felt, afraid that I was going to frighten her off. But she coaxed me and said all these amazing things and totally convinced me that I could trust her, that I had nothing to fear. So I told her I loved her, and she told me she loved me.
Here. I’ll cut to the punch line. She’s been involved with someone else since last year. All that bullshit she fed me about how special I was, about how I made her feel, about how much she cared for me? I can only assume it served her just as well the second time she used it.
Fuck.
And the thing is, I don’t even know how hurt I’m allowed to be about this. I mean, how indignant can I get when I’m accusing her of cheating on her husband with somebody besides me? It’s not like I’m on the high moral ground here. There’s no way I can write this story and make myself the hero or the hapless victim.
I’m just a dumbass who should have known better.
How long did she string me along? I knew something was up, but I was terrified to confront her because somehow I didn’t think I’d be able to bear hearing the truth. Now that I know, I only wish I'd known sooner.
But she couldn’t be bothered to tell me. She apparently decided it would just be easier to ignore me and avoid me until I got bored and went away. Did she even feel guilty about treating me like that? Or was I just a joke to her?
FUCK!!!
If you’re reading this (and you know goddamned well who you are), then you should know I’m not over you. I may never be over you. I think about the times we shared together, and it makes me hurt so badly I can’t imagine ever feeling happy again.
I’m not over you. But right now, I hate you more than I’ve ever hated anyone in my entire fucking life. I’m glad your husband caught you, and I’m glad it wasn’t with me. The fact that you’re utterly miserable too is my only solace.
So now I’m going to concentrate on putting this travesty behind me. After all, it’s time to move on to my next unhealthy relationship.
And that, my dear, is what we call “closure.”
Wednesday, April 21, 2004
I remember when the movie “Bad Santa,” came out last year, and all of these rocket scientists and brain surgeons started blasting the movie, posting negative reviews and barely legible rants about how you shouldn’t take your kids to see it. AND THANK FUCKING GOD FOR THESE VIGILANT WATCHDOGS!!! If only the movie industry would come up with some kind of rating system to designate which movies are for grownups and which movies are for kids, then maybe we wouldn’t have to rely on a bunch of stupid, inbred, cousin-humping retards to point out the naughty films.
Seriously. If you were dumb enough to take your child to see “Bad Santa,” then you’re too dumb to have children. It’s time for the government to intervene.
But I understand that being a dumbass parent is a full-time job, and you occasionally find yourself wishing somebody would step in and share a bit of the responsibility. Well, you’re in luck!
There’s this Christian organization called the ChildCare Action Project, and these guys apparently spend all of their free time going to movies so they can count the curse words, exposed breasts, and decapitations. They then plug these numbers into some complicated formula to determine if a movie is suitable for family viewing. And when they’re not at the movies, I imagine they spend an awful lot of time licking light switches or trying to walk down the sidewalk without stepping on any cracks.
For a real laugh, check out their analysis of the Star Wars series, where they cite the films for such offenses as (and I swear to God I’m not making this up):
Forced hibernation
Levitation
Choking to avenge wrongs
Unholy ethereal beings
Child slavery
Disappearing bodies
Statue nudity (Damn you, John Ashcroft!!!!!)
Female anatomy ghosting through thin clothing
Ah, it's so nice to see the Lord's work being carried out. Because when I ask myself the age-old question What would Jesus do?, the answer inevitably leads to Jesus sitting in a theater with a plastic counter in one hand and a legal pad on his lap, scribbling furiously every time a naked statue shows up on screen.
Which brings us, I guess, back to "Bad Santa." The geniuses at CAP Ministries didn't get more than 8 minutes into the film before walking out. Kind of ironic that they had no trouble sitting through "The Passion" or "Kill Bill," but "Bad Santa" was enough to send them scrambling for daylight.
Anyway, they were afraid (with good reason, apparently) that some of their less-than-sharp readers would mistake an R-rated film for a family movie, so they got a guest reviewer. My favorite part of the whole thing is the author's disclaimer near the end:
"If anyone entertains thoughts about doing guest commentaries for us, I will not ask anyone to do so because I will not ask you to subject yourself to such filth as Bad Santa."
Thank you, obsessive-compulsive Christian movie reviewer people, for striving against the cesspool of corruption and debauchery that is the MPAA rating system. And thank you for working so hard to more clearly define that blurry line between R-rated and G-rated movies.
And finally, thank you for at least trying to protect kids from parents who are too fucking stupid to raise them.
Seriously. If you were dumb enough to take your child to see “Bad Santa,” then you’re too dumb to have children. It’s time for the government to intervene.
But I understand that being a dumbass parent is a full-time job, and you occasionally find yourself wishing somebody would step in and share a bit of the responsibility. Well, you’re in luck!
There’s this Christian organization called the ChildCare Action Project, and these guys apparently spend all of their free time going to movies so they can count the curse words, exposed breasts, and decapitations. They then plug these numbers into some complicated formula to determine if a movie is suitable for family viewing. And when they’re not at the movies, I imagine they spend an awful lot of time licking light switches or trying to walk down the sidewalk without stepping on any cracks.
For a real laugh, check out their analysis of the Star Wars series, where they cite the films for such offenses as (and I swear to God I’m not making this up):
Forced hibernation
Levitation
Choking to avenge wrongs
Unholy ethereal beings
Child slavery
Disappearing bodies
Statue nudity (Damn you, John Ashcroft!!!!!)
Female anatomy ghosting through thin clothing
Ah, it's so nice to see the Lord's work being carried out. Because when I ask myself the age-old question What would Jesus do?, the answer inevitably leads to Jesus sitting in a theater with a plastic counter in one hand and a legal pad on his lap, scribbling furiously every time a naked statue shows up on screen.
Which brings us, I guess, back to "Bad Santa." The geniuses at CAP Ministries didn't get more than 8 minutes into the film before walking out. Kind of ironic that they had no trouble sitting through "The Passion" or "Kill Bill," but "Bad Santa" was enough to send them scrambling for daylight.
Anyway, they were afraid (with good reason, apparently) that some of their less-than-sharp readers would mistake an R-rated film for a family movie, so they got a guest reviewer. My favorite part of the whole thing is the author's disclaimer near the end:
"If anyone entertains thoughts about doing guest commentaries for us, I will not ask anyone to do so because I will not ask you to subject yourself to such filth as Bad Santa."
Thank you, obsessive-compulsive Christian movie reviewer people, for striving against the cesspool of corruption and debauchery that is the MPAA rating system. And thank you for working so hard to more clearly define that blurry line between R-rated and G-rated movies.
And finally, thank you for at least trying to protect kids from parents who are too fucking stupid to raise them.
Tuesday, April 20, 2004
You know that feeling where you’re in love with someone, and they’re in love with you, and you’re so outrageously happy you can hardly believe it, but somewhere deep inside you, you know you weren’t really meant to be that happy and it’s inevitable that something’s going to come along and fuck it up?
And so you press on, basking in the joy, fearful that each moment with her is, for some reason or another, going to be your last? Just waiting for the other shoe to drop, so to speak?
And as time moves on, you start to realize that she doesn’t seem to enjoy your company as much as she used to? She won’t say anything, she won’t admit it, but it’s obvious her feelings towards you have cooled, to the point that she can no longer even bring herself to say that she loves you? And when you tell her that you love her, she laughs uncomfortably and changes the subject?
And you feel more and more like a stalker, hopelessly in love with her and lying to yourself constantly, telling yourself that you’re imagining things, that it’s just a phase, that she’ll eventually snap out of it and then she’ll love you like she used to?
And you know in your heart that it’s over, but you’re scared to death to confront her because somehow, hearing her say out loud what you’ve feared for so long is the worst thing you can imagine?
You know that feeling?
I fucking hate it.
And so you press on, basking in the joy, fearful that each moment with her is, for some reason or another, going to be your last? Just waiting for the other shoe to drop, so to speak?
And as time moves on, you start to realize that she doesn’t seem to enjoy your company as much as she used to? She won’t say anything, she won’t admit it, but it’s obvious her feelings towards you have cooled, to the point that she can no longer even bring herself to say that she loves you? And when you tell her that you love her, she laughs uncomfortably and changes the subject?
And you feel more and more like a stalker, hopelessly in love with her and lying to yourself constantly, telling yourself that you’re imagining things, that it’s just a phase, that she’ll eventually snap out of it and then she’ll love you like she used to?
And you know in your heart that it’s over, but you’re scared to death to confront her because somehow, hearing her say out loud what you’ve feared for so long is the worst thing you can imagine?
You know that feeling?
I fucking hate it.
Sunday, April 18, 2004
Christ, I turned 37 today. Thirty-fucking-seven. XXXVII.
There’s no denying it. I’m middle-aged. This is the time in my life when I should be getting hair implants, buying an expensive, red convertible, and leaving my wife for a model in her early 20s. Unfortunately, I’m not married, I don’t know any models, I’m too broke for a new car, and I still have all of my hair.
Actually, as far as mid-life crises go, I guess I handled mine with a bit of class. All I did was quit my job of 8 years to pursue a career as a writer. And no matter how things go, I will always remain convinced that I made the right choice.
Nothing feels better than to walk into your daily meeting on a project so horribly mismanaged that it’s giving everybody involved ulcers, and announce that, as of Friday, you will no longer be with the company. And then you get to spend the rest of the meeting giggling every time somebody else brings up yet another show-stopping issue. Ah, good times.
But I digress…
My party this year was a bit subdued, especially compared to the drunken brawls of the previous two years. A few close friends, and my immediate family. A real grown up party.
*sigh* Dammit.
There’s no denying it. I’m middle-aged. This is the time in my life when I should be getting hair implants, buying an expensive, red convertible, and leaving my wife for a model in her early 20s. Unfortunately, I’m not married, I don’t know any models, I’m too broke for a new car, and I still have all of my hair.
Actually, as far as mid-life crises go, I guess I handled mine with a bit of class. All I did was quit my job of 8 years to pursue a career as a writer. And no matter how things go, I will always remain convinced that I made the right choice.
Nothing feels better than to walk into your daily meeting on a project so horribly mismanaged that it’s giving everybody involved ulcers, and announce that, as of Friday, you will no longer be with the company. And then you get to spend the rest of the meeting giggling every time somebody else brings up yet another show-stopping issue. Ah, good times.
But I digress…
My party this year was a bit subdued, especially compared to the drunken brawls of the previous two years. A few close friends, and my immediate family. A real grown up party.
*sigh* Dammit.
Thursday, April 15, 2004
So I finally went and saw “The Passion of the Christ.” And as you know, it is the duty of all bloggers to publish pretentious reviews of movies we see, because we’re all still operating under the delusion that, somehow, our opinions matter.
I’ll be the first to admit, I was prepared to dislike this movie. You see, I used to go out with this girl named Sherry who was really into the whole crucifixion thing. We argued a lot, and slightly more than 100% of these arguments would end with us standing in a parking lot while she screamed at me about Christ’s agony on the cross. “And then they whipped him until the skin came off of his back, with a whip that had hooks on it!!!”
It didn’t matter what we’d been arguing about before. It could have been money, my latest speeding ticket, or which of the Little Rascals was gay. But somehow, she’d inevitably turn it into a religious discussion, and then I’d get the full forensic report on just how ghastly the crucifixion had been.
I was afraid “The Passion of the Christ” would be pretty much the same thing.
When my mom asked me to go see it with her, I agreed. My motive was pretty selfish, I admit. I have no patience for people who trash movies without seeing them, and I was really eager to start trashing this one. So I braced myself for two hours of gut-wrenching horror and bravely made my way to the multiplex.
And it was violent. Horribly, offensively, graphically violent. About three-quarters of the movie are devoted to scenes of utter cringe-worthy brutality. The Gospel According to Mel seems to be that Jesus was born and said some stuff and then he was arrested and bound and beaten and beaten and beaten and then turned over to the Romans, who scourged him and flayed the flesh from his bones and then marched him through the streets with his cross while kicking and beating him and then took their sweet time driving nails into his hands and feet and then raised the cross with such force that it snapped some bones and then a bird ate somebody’s eye and then Jesus died and a guard stabbed him with a spear. Oh, and then he came back to life or something.
But I found it hard to simply disregard this movie, because of the smaller scenes that were lost amidst the carnage. There’s one scene early on, in which we discover that Jesus invented formal dining. We also see Jesus and his mom acting like a mother and son, laughing and joking and being very human. I really liked that scene.
There’s another scene where Jesus is bearing his cross, and he stumbles and falls. Mary then flashes back to a memory of Jesus as a child, stumbling and falling as he played. We see Mary running over to the crying child, comforting him. And as cynical as I pretend to be about this stuff, I had to wipe the tears out of my eyes.
For me, those two scenes elevated the movie to something other than an ecclesiastical snuff film. Those two scenes made me realize just how powerful this movie could have been, if only Gipson and Company were willing to focus on the whole story, rather than just the bloody parts.
But that’s just my opinion. I’m sure Sherry LOVED it.
I’ll be the first to admit, I was prepared to dislike this movie. You see, I used to go out with this girl named Sherry who was really into the whole crucifixion thing. We argued a lot, and slightly more than 100% of these arguments would end with us standing in a parking lot while she screamed at me about Christ’s agony on the cross. “And then they whipped him until the skin came off of his back, with a whip that had hooks on it!!!”
It didn’t matter what we’d been arguing about before. It could have been money, my latest speeding ticket, or which of the Little Rascals was gay. But somehow, she’d inevitably turn it into a religious discussion, and then I’d get the full forensic report on just how ghastly the crucifixion had been.
I was afraid “The Passion of the Christ” would be pretty much the same thing.
When my mom asked me to go see it with her, I agreed. My motive was pretty selfish, I admit. I have no patience for people who trash movies without seeing them, and I was really eager to start trashing this one. So I braced myself for two hours of gut-wrenching horror and bravely made my way to the multiplex.
And it was violent. Horribly, offensively, graphically violent. About three-quarters of the movie are devoted to scenes of utter cringe-worthy brutality. The Gospel According to Mel seems to be that Jesus was born and said some stuff and then he was arrested and bound and beaten and beaten and beaten and then turned over to the Romans, who scourged him and flayed the flesh from his bones and then marched him through the streets with his cross while kicking and beating him and then took their sweet time driving nails into his hands and feet and then raised the cross with such force that it snapped some bones and then a bird ate somebody’s eye and then Jesus died and a guard stabbed him with a spear. Oh, and then he came back to life or something.
But I found it hard to simply disregard this movie, because of the smaller scenes that were lost amidst the carnage. There’s one scene early on, in which we discover that Jesus invented formal dining. We also see Jesus and his mom acting like a mother and son, laughing and joking and being very human. I really liked that scene.
There’s another scene where Jesus is bearing his cross, and he stumbles and falls. Mary then flashes back to a memory of Jesus as a child, stumbling and falling as he played. We see Mary running over to the crying child, comforting him. And as cynical as I pretend to be about this stuff, I had to wipe the tears out of my eyes.
For me, those two scenes elevated the movie to something other than an ecclesiastical snuff film. Those two scenes made me realize just how powerful this movie could have been, if only Gipson and Company were willing to focus on the whole story, rather than just the bloody parts.
But that’s just my opinion. I’m sure Sherry LOVED it.
Tuesday, April 13, 2004
“We were not presented with a plan. We were presented with a series of actionable items…”
-Condoleezza Rice, testifying before the 9/11 Commission
Okay, you have got to be SHITTING me! I keep hearing my Republican buddies, often with mouths full of Schlitz and pork rinds, yammer on and on about how “credible” Condi Rice is. Of course, they don’t add “for a colored girl,” but I know that’s what they’re thinking.
But how pedantic is that quote? I mean, JESUS! I’ll have to try the same tactic next time I get pulled over. “I wasn’t speeding, officer. I was simply in a state of advanced acceleration beyond that stipulated by the law.” If the cop is a Republican, I’m sure he’ll let me off with a warning. But if he’s a Democrat, then he’ll issue me a ticket because HE’S JUST A PETTY LIBERAL BASTARD WHO HATES OUR AMERICAN SOLDIERS!!!
Kind of makes me miss the old days, when the Republicans got their flowing white robes in a knot because Bill Clinton wanted to debate the meaning of the word “is.”
Condi also claims that our administration had absolutely no idea that Osama was planning on attacking the US prior to 9/11. Despite the fact that the President was issued a daily briefing on August 6, 2001 that was entitled “Bin Laden Determined To Attack Inside the United States.”
So far, the administration has blamed their failure on the CIA, the FBI, the previous administration, cosmic rays from Jupiter, the cancellation of “Touched by an Angel,” the liberal media, gay marriage, and the French. Richard Clarke apologized for the part he had in the cluster fuck that led to 9/11, and that’s far more than Bush or Condi or the rest of the Legion of Doom have been willing to do.
Of course, that would go against the current administration’s policy, which is apparently to “Fuck everything up, and then pretend like it was what we intended all along.”
-Condoleezza Rice, testifying before the 9/11 Commission
Okay, you have got to be SHITTING me! I keep hearing my Republican buddies, often with mouths full of Schlitz and pork rinds, yammer on and on about how “credible” Condi Rice is. Of course, they don’t add “for a colored girl,” but I know that’s what they’re thinking.
But how pedantic is that quote? I mean, JESUS! I’ll have to try the same tactic next time I get pulled over. “I wasn’t speeding, officer. I was simply in a state of advanced acceleration beyond that stipulated by the law.” If the cop is a Republican, I’m sure he’ll let me off with a warning. But if he’s a Democrat, then he’ll issue me a ticket because HE’S JUST A PETTY LIBERAL BASTARD WHO HATES OUR AMERICAN SOLDIERS!!!
Kind of makes me miss the old days, when the Republicans got their flowing white robes in a knot because Bill Clinton wanted to debate the meaning of the word “is.”
Condi also claims that our administration had absolutely no idea that Osama was planning on attacking the US prior to 9/11. Despite the fact that the President was issued a daily briefing on August 6, 2001 that was entitled “Bin Laden Determined To Attack Inside the United States.”
So far, the administration has blamed their failure on the CIA, the FBI, the previous administration, cosmic rays from Jupiter, the cancellation of “Touched by an Angel,” the liberal media, gay marriage, and the French. Richard Clarke apologized for the part he had in the cluster fuck that led to 9/11, and that’s far more than Bush or Condi or the rest of the Legion of Doom have been willing to do.
Of course, that would go against the current administration’s policy, which is apparently to “Fuck everything up, and then pretend like it was what we intended all along.”
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