688 Spring Street
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There was a comment at Chamblee54. “Steve Loehrer – So tell me what you
know about Rose’s Cantina. I booked the music there from 1978-80 –
Thorogood, Delbe...
23 hours ago
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Sigh: the folks at the New York Times must be ecstatic. They've discovered another newsmaker who makes everybody happy. "Pastor Mark" Driscoll is a nouveau-Calvinist minister with a foul mouth and R-rated YouTube videos.
Needless to say, the article is straight out of the Tiger Beat school of journalism. Pastor Mark is "unconventional," as if he's more Russell Brand than Anita Bryant in Diesel jeans. His retro views are "cool," he looks "hip." They repeatedly mention "indie rock," and even the URL contains the word "punk."
Odd, considering his beliefs. I mean, I don't think the members of Pavement ever told their girlfriends that God wants them to submit to men. I'm pretty sure the Sex Pistols didn't think stillborn babies spent eternity burning like shiskabobs in hell.
He's described as "hypermasculine." Yeah, in his "fashionably distressed jeans," with baby face, hands tentatively in pockets, and Madonna microphone across his mouth. He looks like an audience member at Austin City Limits who's going to text his friends when Hootie & the Blowfish take the stage.
That last flattery seems to be prompted by Pastor Mark's irritation with the modern portrayal of Jesus "as a wuss who took a beating and spent a lot of time putting product in his long hair.” Jesus has been transformed into "a Richard Simmons, hippie, queer Christ," a "neutered and limp-wristed popular Sky Fairy of pop culture that . . . would never talk about sin or send anyone to hell."
The words slide by without a comment from the starry-eyed writer. It's clear from his words that Pastor Mark is an idiot. But it would have been nice if, presented clearly with the evidence, the writer had dropped her flirtation for a minute or two and called him a homophobic, misogynistic asshole too.
The second stupidest article in the Times today surely has to be this piece in which a doctor complains that a lot of kids today have no manners.
You know what? I don't care if they swear, flip me off, or kick me in the shins with their little plaid Keds. They're not even in the same league as dudes who charge me $200 and keep me waiting an hour to jam a finger up my ass.
Needless to say, the article is straight out of the Tiger Beat school of journalism. Pastor Mark is "unconventional," as if he's more Russell Brand than Anita Bryant in Diesel jeans. His retro views are "cool," he looks "hip." They repeatedly mention "indie rock," and even the URL contains the word "punk."
Odd, considering his beliefs. I mean, I don't think the members of Pavement ever told their girlfriends that God wants them to submit to men. I'm pretty sure the Sex Pistols didn't think stillborn babies spent eternity burning like shiskabobs in hell.
He's described as "hypermasculine." Yeah, in his "fashionably distressed jeans," with baby face, hands tentatively in pockets, and Madonna microphone across his mouth. He looks like an audience member at Austin City Limits who's going to text his friends when Hootie & the Blowfish take the stage.
That last flattery seems to be prompted by Pastor Mark's irritation with the modern portrayal of Jesus "as a wuss who took a beating and spent a lot of time putting product in his long hair.” Jesus has been transformed into "a Richard Simmons, hippie, queer Christ," a "neutered and limp-wristed popular Sky Fairy of pop culture that . . . would never talk about sin or send anyone to hell."
The words slide by without a comment from the starry-eyed writer. It's clear from his words that Pastor Mark is an idiot. But it would have been nice if, presented clearly with the evidence, the writer had dropped her flirtation for a minute or two and called him a homophobic, misogynistic asshole too.
The second stupidest article in the Times today surely has to be this piece in which a doctor complains that a lot of kids today have no manners.
You know what? I don't care if they swear, flip me off, or kick me in the shins with their little plaid Keds. They're not even in the same league as dudes who charge me $200 and keep me waiting an hour to jam a finger up my ass.
Monday, January 12, 2009
This afternoon Judge Ronald L. Ellis turned down prosecutors' request to
have Bernie Madoff's bail revoked. Since the press is offering few details on the subjects, let's imagine the way it must have gone.
PROSECUTION: Judge, the people of New York would like to petition the court to have Bernie Madoff's bail revoked.
DEFENSE: Your honor, jailing my client would be unfair. He is already being watched around the clock, plus he's posted ten million dollars in bail.
PROSECUTION: Mr. Madoff has stolen fifty BILLION dollars. That's like a man who stole five hundred dollars posting a dime.
AUDIENCE MEMBER: And a goddamn stolen dime!
JUDGE: Quiet in the courtroom! Mr. Prosecutor, if you want me to revoke Mr. Madoff's bail, you'll have to prove that he is either a flight risk or a security risk.
PROSECUTION: Judge, the man has stolen more money than anybody in the history of the world. You really think he's going to spend his final years in jail? Plus, look at that crazy smile. The man obviously thinks our judicial system is a joke.
DEFENSE: Objection! Mr. Madoff has always had a freaky smile.
Mr. Madoff smiles wanly. In the audience, men scream and women faint.
PROSECUTION: Your honor, last week Mr. Madoff attempted to transfer over a million dollars worth of jewelry to his family and friends, violating the terms of his bail. Clearly he doesn't believe that laws apply to him.
JUDGE: Well, I see your point, but the court needs to give this careful consideration. After all, when you can afford to hire the very best lawyers, you deserve a judge who'll give your case serious thought. (PAUSE) Mr. Madoff, do you promise not to send any more valuables to your friends and relatives via U. S. mail?
MADOFF (thinking): Lemme just get this clear. You haven't said anything about FedEx, DHL, or remote-controlled animals?
JUDGE: No, I haven't.
MADOFF: Your honor, I can live with that.
JUDGE (banging the gavel): The request is denied, and court is adjourned. (PAUSE) Let's get out of here: I just saw a rat run by wearing a tiara.
have Bernie Madoff's bail revoked. Since the press is offering few details on the subjects, let's imagine the way it must have gone.
PROSECUTION: Judge, the people of New York would like to petition the court to have Bernie Madoff's bail revoked.
DEFENSE: Your honor, jailing my client would be unfair. He is already being watched around the clock, plus he's posted ten million dollars in bail.
PROSECUTION: Mr. Madoff has stolen fifty BILLION dollars. That's like a man who stole five hundred dollars posting a dime.
AUDIENCE MEMBER: And a goddamn stolen dime!
JUDGE: Quiet in the courtroom! Mr. Prosecutor, if you want me to revoke Mr. Madoff's bail, you'll have to prove that he is either a flight risk or a security risk.
PROSECUTION: Judge, the man has stolen more money than anybody in the history of the world. You really think he's going to spend his final years in jail? Plus, look at that crazy smile. The man obviously thinks our judicial system is a joke.
DEFENSE: Objection! Mr. Madoff has always had a freaky smile.
Mr. Madoff smiles wanly. In the audience, men scream and women faint.
PROSECUTION: Your honor, last week Mr. Madoff attempted to transfer over a million dollars worth of jewelry to his family and friends, violating the terms of his bail. Clearly he doesn't believe that laws apply to him.
JUDGE: Well, I see your point, but the court needs to give this careful consideration. After all, when you can afford to hire the very best lawyers, you deserve a judge who'll give your case serious thought. (PAUSE) Mr. Madoff, do you promise not to send any more valuables to your friends and relatives via U. S. mail?
MADOFF (thinking): Lemme just get this clear. You haven't said anything about FedEx, DHL, or remote-controlled animals?
JUDGE: No, I haven't.
MADOFF: Your honor, I can live with that.
JUDGE (banging the gavel): The request is denied, and court is adjourned. (PAUSE) Let's get out of here: I just saw a rat run by wearing a tiara.
Plain, everyday TV programs turn quite surreal when you fast-forward them half-smashed on martinis. Which, really, is the only way to watch an awards show.
Mostly I paused the Golden Globes for speeches: Ricky Gervais, Tina Fey, Colin Farrell. Otherwise, the few times I stopped it was because I couldn't believe what I was seeing. I thought I saw Christopher Walken trying to break out of a straitjacket, but it turned out to be Renee Zellweger in some fashion-forward gown. Gepetto pounding nails into Pinocchio was actually Paul Giamatti eating dinner. And a big white bird regurgitating worms into the mouth of a baby bird was really Jessica Lange and Drew Barrymore presenting an award.
Otherwise the only thing I remember is the name Al Schwartz in the credits. Maybe it's because of all the Holocaust movies they featured, but I was absolutely startled that a professional man in Hollywood hasn't done something about that name. We must have argued about it for half an hour.
"It's patently, obviously offensive!" I said.
"You're always imagining offensive things in the trivial," said my friend Dak Cowe.
Mostly I paused the Golden Globes for speeches: Ricky Gervais, Tina Fey, Colin Farrell. Otherwise, the few times I stopped it was because I couldn't believe what I was seeing. I thought I saw Christopher Walken trying to break out of a straitjacket, but it turned out to be Renee Zellweger in some fashion-forward gown. Gepetto pounding nails into Pinocchio was actually Paul Giamatti eating dinner. And a big white bird regurgitating worms into the mouth of a baby bird was really Jessica Lange and Drew Barrymore presenting an award.
Otherwise the only thing I remember is the name Al Schwartz in the credits. Maybe it's because of all the Holocaust movies they featured, but I was absolutely startled that a professional man in Hollywood hasn't done something about that name. We must have argued about it for half an hour.
"It's patently, obviously offensive!" I said.
"You're always imagining offensive things in the trivial," said my friend Dak Cowe.
Yes, that's right: here at Perdue we're committed to offering your family a wide variety of processed poultry items made from absolutely nothing but real ingredients.
What do we mean by "real"? We stand behind the very strictest dictionary definition, ensuring that everything that goes into our vast array of fine products will exist in a quantifiable state, with measurable mass and gravity, as certified by scientists with advanced degrees. Our team of crack quality control inspectors will check and double check every single product that arrives in our warehouses, ensuring that they exist in a stable state in both time and space before allowing them to proceed to your plate.
But that's not all. We also make a solemn promise to you that we will never ever use any imaginary, mythological, or phantasmagorical ingredients in anything that we sell. We refuse to adulterate our delicious FUN SHAPETM nuggets with leprechaun meat, nor any part of elves, fairies or trolls. We maintain a strict hands-off policy in regards to any fantastical creatures, whether they live in the sea, beneath bridges, or under mushrooms at the bottom of your garden.
We promise every ounce of protein in our turkey meatballs is from some form of poultry, untainted by the flesh of centaurs, griffin and djinn. We swear that our deli Sandwich BuildersTM are devoid of any meat taken from abominable snowmen, sea monsters, or unicorn. While other companies might spot the body of a succubus by the side of the road and scrape the flesh from its winged haunches to serve as low-cost filler in their breaded chicken nuggets, we at Perdue will just clutch our rosaries to our chests and drive right on by.
Perdue Farms: You'll be putting something in your mouth. You have our word on it.TM
Friday, January 9, 2009
Caving Into Relentless Questioning, Vince McMahon Admits He's Not Going to Cave in to Relentless Questioning
From a Congressional investigation into steroid use in professional wrestling comes this exchange with WWE Chairman Vince McMahon:
David J. Leaviss [senior investigative counsel]. In your trial, in the trial of Dr. George Zahorian, you admitted to having used steroids on at least one occasion.
Mr. McDevitt [Vince McMahon's attorney]. That's false.
Q You didn't admit to using steroids?
Mr. McDevitt. He didn't even testify in his trial. He didn't have to testify in his trial. We whipped the government's ass in 19 days without putting a witness on. Get your facts right. He didn't testify in the trial.
Q Is it true that your lawyer in that trial, Ms. Laura Brevetti, submitted that you had received steroids from Dr. Zahorian for personal use?
A I believe so.
. . .
Q Several witnesses that have contacted the committee as part of the investigation have shared their perception that you may be using steroids or other performance enhancing drugs.
Mr. McDevitt. Fine. Do you have another question? We're not commenting on that.
Q Several witnesses have shared their perception of that and they have told us that in their view this perception weakens the Wellness Policy because it creates a sense that steroid use in the WWE is tolerated. Mr. McMahon, have you used steroids since 1996?
Mr. McDevitt. Stop. Do you have any other questions? Do you have any other questions?
Mr. Leviss. So you're instructing him not to answer.
Mr. McDevitt. Do you have any other questions?
Mr. Leviss. I do.
Mr. McDevitt. I don't have to instruct him. These are voluntarily.
Mr. Leviss. Sure.
Mr. McDevitt. Do you have any other questions?
Mr. Leviss. I do.
Mr. McDevitt. What are they?
Mr. Leviss. Is he not going to answer that question?
Mr. McDevitt. I'm not going to allow you to harass this man. How is that pertinent to anything about whether this wellness program works? And you came in here today professing you have an open mind and you're telling me that you didn't have this in mind when you wrote this list? Bullshit.
Mr. Leviss. I just finished telling you that there are witnesses who have expressed to the committee their perception ‐‐
Mr. McDevitt. I don't care about what your unnamed witnesses have said about your perception. You can take them and do with them what you want.
Q Mr. McMahon, have you used human growth hormone since 1996?
Mr. McDevitt. Do you choose to answer those questions to these people, Vince?
Mr. McMahon. No.
Mr. McDevitt. You now have your answer.
Q You're choosing not to answer the question or are you saying, no, you have not used it?
A I'm choosing not to answer the question.
Q Have you used any other performance enhancing drugs since 1996?
A I'm refusing to answer the question.
Q It wasn't clear to me on the steroid question whether ‐‐
Mr. McDevitt. Well, too bad if it wasn't clear. Do you have any other questions?
Ms. Safavian. We have not asked for names of any individuals in this investigation.
Mr. McDevitt. No, not one person.
. . . .
Q I would like it to be clear. I asked whether you've used steroids since 1996, and I'm not clear whether you're choosing not to answer that question or not?
A I'm not answering your question.
Mr. Leviss. Okay. Thank you. Anything else? Do you have anything else?
Ms. Safavian. No, we do not.
David J. Leaviss [senior investigative counsel]. In your trial, in the trial of Dr. George Zahorian, you admitted to having used steroids on at least one occasion.
Mr. McDevitt [Vince McMahon's attorney]. That's false.
Q You didn't admit to using steroids?
Mr. McDevitt. He didn't even testify in his trial. He didn't have to testify in his trial. We whipped the government's ass in 19 days without putting a witness on. Get your facts right. He didn't testify in the trial.
Q Is it true that your lawyer in that trial, Ms. Laura Brevetti, submitted that you had received steroids from Dr. Zahorian for personal use?
A I believe so.
. . .
Q Several witnesses that have contacted the committee as part of the investigation have shared their perception that you may be using steroids or other performance enhancing drugs.
Mr. McDevitt. Fine. Do you have another question? We're not commenting on that.
Q Several witnesses have shared their perception of that and they have told us that in their view this perception weakens the Wellness Policy because it creates a sense that steroid use in the WWE is tolerated. Mr. McMahon, have you used steroids since 1996?
Mr. McDevitt. Stop. Do you have any other questions? Do you have any other questions?
Mr. Leviss. So you're instructing him not to answer.
Mr. McDevitt. Do you have any other questions?
Mr. Leviss. I do.
Mr. McDevitt. I don't have to instruct him. These are voluntarily.
Mr. Leviss. Sure.
Mr. McDevitt. Do you have any other questions?
Mr. Leviss. I do.
Mr. McDevitt. What are they?
Mr. Leviss. Is he not going to answer that question?
Mr. McDevitt. I'm not going to allow you to harass this man. How is that pertinent to anything about whether this wellness program works? And you came in here today professing you have an open mind and you're telling me that you didn't have this in mind when you wrote this list? Bullshit.
Mr. Leviss. I just finished telling you that there are witnesses who have expressed to the committee their perception ‐‐
Mr. McDevitt. I don't care about what your unnamed witnesses have said about your perception. You can take them and do with them what you want.
Q Mr. McMahon, have you used human growth hormone since 1996?
Mr. McDevitt. Do you choose to answer those questions to these people, Vince?
Mr. McMahon. No.
Mr. McDevitt. You now have your answer.
Q You're choosing not to answer the question or are you saying, no, you have not used it?
A I'm choosing not to answer the question.
Q Have you used any other performance enhancing drugs since 1996?
A I'm refusing to answer the question.
Q It wasn't clear to me on the steroid question whether ‐‐
Mr. McDevitt. Well, too bad if it wasn't clear. Do you have any other questions?
Ms. Safavian. We have not asked for names of any individuals in this investigation.
Mr. McDevitt. No, not one person.
. . . .
Q I would like it to be clear. I asked whether you've used steroids since 1996, and I'm not clear whether you're choosing not to answer that question or not?
A I'm not answering your question.
Mr. Leviss. Okay. Thank you. Anything else? Do you have anything else?
Ms. Safavian. No, we do not.
Today's Screenwriting Lesson: Hancock
The script for Hancock earned its writers four million dollars. What qualities, exactly, made it worthy of such largesse? Read through the excerpt below and note the finely detailed characterizations and plot details that are the hallmark of a professional's prose, and see the finely-tuned flow of tension, conflict, and resolution that mark the money-making script.
Jason Bateman's first wife dies while giving birth. Years later, fate deals the saintly single dad another soulmate and the perfect replacement mom in Charlize Theron. But then Hancock, the Dysfunctional SuperheroTM, barges into their lives and threatens to split them apart. What's Hancock's story? Why do he and Charlize keep exchanging longing glances? Is he -- gasp! -- going to break this blissful union of two souls apart?
CHARLIZE THERON: I can't keep this a secret any longer, Hancock. You and I are the last two in a long line of superheros. We were made by the Gods in matched pairs, but for some reason if we spend any time together we'll physically weaken and eventually die. In ancient Mesopotamia we helped build the pyramids, and we nearly died. We kept Krakatoa's lava from spreading to Java, and we nearly died. We steered the comet Kahotek away from planet Earth and we nearly died. Right now we're both getting weaker. We're no longer immune to bullets or fire, and in fact even a well-placed punch could take us out. Hancock, we've been kind of friends for over three thousand years, but if we want to live another three thousand years one of us must seek his fortune elsewhere.
HANCOCK: Oh, okay.
THE END
Jason Bateman's first wife dies while giving birth. Years later, fate deals the saintly single dad another soulmate and the perfect replacement mom in Charlize Theron. But then Hancock, the Dysfunctional SuperheroTM, barges into their lives and threatens to split them apart. What's Hancock's story? Why do he and Charlize keep exchanging longing glances? Is he -- gasp! -- going to break this blissful union of two souls apart?
CHARLIZE THERON: I can't keep this a secret any longer, Hancock. You and I are the last two in a long line of superheros. We were made by the Gods in matched pairs, but for some reason if we spend any time together we'll physically weaken and eventually die. In ancient Mesopotamia we helped build the pyramids, and we nearly died. We kept Krakatoa's lava from spreading to Java, and we nearly died. We steered the comet Kahotek away from planet Earth and we nearly died. Right now we're both getting weaker. We're no longer immune to bullets or fire, and in fact even a well-placed punch could take us out. Hancock, we've been kind of friends for over three thousand years, but if we want to live another three thousand years one of us must seek his fortune elsewhere.
HANCOCK: Oh, okay.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Bernie Madoff realized his scheme was falling apart. What he hadn't spent he'd lost in bad investments, and investors were getting suspicious. He decided he had to act fast.
So he wrote out checks to his relatives for every penny that was left.
Bernie Madoff belongs in a jail cell. With O. J. Simpson. And a long blonde wig stapled to his head.
So he wrote out checks to his relatives for every penny that was left.
Bernie Madoff belongs in a jail cell. With O. J. Simpson. And a long blonde wig stapled to his head.
My friends confuse me sometimes. Like, out of the blue, my friend Michael sent me a copy of Boys in the Band. "Thought you'd find this interesting!" said an attached note.
For a nanosecond I thought, jeez, that's nice.
And then, why the fuck did he think that?
You know Boys in the Band, right? For gay people it's like Saw, Scream, and The Ring all rolled up into one. A bunch of panty-waisted, pansy-assed queens have a birthday party, which naturally means limp wrists, paisley ascots, and verbal abuse. I first saw it in the 70s, and couldn't believe it. Like some bitchy critic said, every word is a lie, including "and" and "the." They parade the latest in gay apparel -- short shorts, tank tops, berets -- and run to the bathroom to snort coke and slather on another layer of wrinkle cream. A stripper appears, stirring dissent in the ranks. Back off, you old faggot! This queen's paying for that cowboy-hatted hottie to make me temporarily forget the Middle-Aged Gay Hell of Fading Looks. Drinks are drunk and speeches are made about how we all hate ourselves.
Thanks, Michael! I'll try to fit this in on Sunday night!
I flip the box over and over in my hands. It's impressive, and weighty. I'm looking for a sticker that says something like "Now, with more self-loathing!" Included on the disk are three "featurettes." There's audio commentary. It's been remastered. What, grainy images of stereotypical self-hatred just weren't good enough? Now we can see our mincing butt-bandits in HD? Cool! And now if we get through the whole thing without killing ourselves, we can flip to the outtakes.
Days later, I'm still wondering why Michael gifted me. Now, I'm not saying we should forget about this film, but it belongs in a drawer at the Gay History Archives marked HORRIFYING rather than in somebody's DVD player. It should be stuck in a time capsule along with enormous cellphones and Don Rickles.
Because why, exactly, would somebody want to watch it? Has time given it some campy charm? Are all the minority groups going postmodern? I'm wondering if black people are exchanging copies of Roots or Mandingo. With flowery little notes attached: "After you pick up your dry cleaning and have a glass of Chardonnay, take a look at how white dudes used to buy and sell our folks!"
Curiosity gets the best of me and I give Michael a call. I casually steer the conversation around to the DVD, and how surprised I was to get it. "I thought you could use the fashion tips," he declares.
Girlfriend's always been a bitch.
For a nanosecond I thought, jeez, that's nice.
And then, why the fuck did he think that?
You know Boys in the Band, right? For gay people it's like Saw, Scream, and The Ring all rolled up into one. A bunch of panty-waisted, pansy-assed queens have a birthday party, which naturally means limp wrists, paisley ascots, and verbal abuse. I first saw it in the 70s, and couldn't believe it. Like some bitchy critic said, every word is a lie, including "and" and "the." They parade the latest in gay apparel -- short shorts, tank tops, berets -- and run to the bathroom to snort coke and slather on another layer of wrinkle cream. A stripper appears, stirring dissent in the ranks. Back off, you old faggot! This queen's paying for that cowboy-hatted hottie to make me temporarily forget the Middle-Aged Gay Hell of Fading Looks. Drinks are drunk and speeches are made about how we all hate ourselves.
Thanks, Michael! I'll try to fit this in on Sunday night!
I flip the box over and over in my hands. It's impressive, and weighty. I'm looking for a sticker that says something like "Now, with more self-loathing!" Included on the disk are three "featurettes." There's audio commentary. It's been remastered. What, grainy images of stereotypical self-hatred just weren't good enough? Now we can see our mincing butt-bandits in HD? Cool! And now if we get through the whole thing without killing ourselves, we can flip to the outtakes.
Days later, I'm still wondering why Michael gifted me. Now, I'm not saying we should forget about this film, but it belongs in a drawer at the Gay History Archives marked HORRIFYING rather than in somebody's DVD player. It should be stuck in a time capsule along with enormous cellphones and Don Rickles.
Because why, exactly, would somebody want to watch it? Has time given it some campy charm? Are all the minority groups going postmodern? I'm wondering if black people are exchanging copies of Roots or Mandingo. With flowery little notes attached: "After you pick up your dry cleaning and have a glass of Chardonnay, take a look at how white dudes used to buy and sell our folks!"
Curiosity gets the best of me and I give Michael a call. I casually steer the conversation around to the DVD, and how surprised I was to get it. "I thought you could use the fashion tips," he declares.
Girlfriend's always been a bitch.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Police in Australia are hunting an intruder who broke into a love boutique and had sex with three different inflatable dolls. The intruder then dumped the dolls in a nearby alley.
Police officers have taken DNA samples, fingerprints and pictures of the crime scene.
First to be questioned? Goldilocks.
Police officers have taken DNA samples, fingerprints and pictures of the crime scene.
First to be questioned? Goldilocks.
Another Christian Lies For God
A week into the New Year and we're already knee deep in bullshit. Originally I was going to call this "Christian Author Steals Story to Praise Jesus, Make Cash," but the shit goes far deeper than that.
Seems Neale Donald Walsch, the best-selling author of something called Conversations with God, posted an inspirational story on a religious blog about a Christmas pageant he'd seen. Unfortunately, it turns out this exact tale had been printed ten years earlier in a magazine called Clarity. Written by somebody else.
Mr. Walsch makes odd excuses, saying he must have received it in an email and then "internalized it as [his] own experience.” The story's author, Candy Chand, doesn't buy it. “I have strong issue [sic] with anyone who would appear to plagiarize my work and pretend it is his own,” she scolds.
Well, Candy, I'm going to call bullshit too. Your story is absolutely preposterous, and I'd sooner believe in Herman Rosenblat's apple-tossing little girl or Charlie Crist's heterosexuality than this ridiculous BS.
In the story, a "Winter Pageant" is held in one of those secular public schools that long ago abandoned Our Saviour Jesus Christ. "Because our public school system had long stopped referring to the holiday as 'Christmas,'" Ms. Chand writes, "I didn't expect anything other than fun, commercial entertainment - songs of reindeer, Santa Claus, snowflakes, and good cheer. So, when my son's class rose to sing, 'Christmas Love,' I was slightly taken aback by it's bold title."
Candy, I'm slightly shocked that Jesus hasn't taught you the correct use of apostrophes. But more importantly, I'm startled by the song choice. You say the school system sucked all the Saviour out of the holiday. So, what's this tune about? I can't find any mention of it online. Is it about opening presents with family? Drinking eggnog with friends? Drunken snogging with Santa? It's odd Google has never heard of any tune called "Christmas Love."
As the song concludes, the kids whip out cards that spell out the title. Yeah, we've all seen this before. Donnie and Marie do this in all their TV specials just in case somebody's taking notes. In a serendipitous turn of events, though, the seventh little girl gets her card upside down, making the kids' message read "CHRIST WAS LOVE."
"A hush came over the audience and eyes began to widen. In that instant, we understood the reason why we celebrated the holiday in the first place. Why that, even in the chaos, there was indeed a purpose for all the festivities."
Oh. My. God. How sweet. How heartwarming. Well, EXCEPT FOR THE BUDDHISTS, MUSLIMS, AND JEWS in the audience. They were left out, as always. But God Himself forgot about them, so why the hell shouldn't we?
Meanwhile, I'm absolutely positive a friend of mine went to this exact same performance, but she said the kids got all the letters mixed up. They turned their cards over and spelled out SMOVE CLIT RASH. Well, the entire audience broke out laughing, and then everybody realized there is no god.
THE END
Seems Neale Donald Walsch, the best-selling author of something called Conversations with God, posted an inspirational story on a religious blog about a Christmas pageant he'd seen. Unfortunately, it turns out this exact tale had been printed ten years earlier in a magazine called Clarity. Written by somebody else.
Mr. Walsch makes odd excuses, saying he must have received it in an email and then "internalized it as [his] own experience.” The story's author, Candy Chand, doesn't buy it. “I have strong issue [sic] with anyone who would appear to plagiarize my work and pretend it is his own,” she scolds.
Well, Candy, I'm going to call bullshit too. Your story is absolutely preposterous, and I'd sooner believe in Herman Rosenblat's apple-tossing little girl or Charlie Crist's heterosexuality than this ridiculous BS.
In the story, a "Winter Pageant" is held in one of those secular public schools that long ago abandoned Our Saviour Jesus Christ. "Because our public school system had long stopped referring to the holiday as 'Christmas,'" Ms. Chand writes, "I didn't expect anything other than fun, commercial entertainment - songs of reindeer, Santa Claus, snowflakes, and good cheer. So, when my son's class rose to sing, 'Christmas Love,' I was slightly taken aback by it's bold title."
Candy, I'm slightly shocked that Jesus hasn't taught you the correct use of apostrophes. But more importantly, I'm startled by the song choice. You say the school system sucked all the Saviour out of the holiday. So, what's this tune about? I can't find any mention of it online. Is it about opening presents with family? Drinking eggnog with friends? Drunken snogging with Santa? It's odd Google has never heard of any tune called "Christmas Love."
As the song concludes, the kids whip out cards that spell out the title. Yeah, we've all seen this before. Donnie and Marie do this in all their TV specials just in case somebody's taking notes. In a serendipitous turn of events, though, the seventh little girl gets her card upside down, making the kids' message read "CHRIST WAS LOVE."
"A hush came over the audience and eyes began to widen. In that instant, we understood the reason why we celebrated the holiday in the first place. Why that, even in the chaos, there was indeed a purpose for all the festivities."
Oh. My. God. How sweet. How heartwarming. Well, EXCEPT FOR THE BUDDHISTS, MUSLIMS, AND JEWS in the audience. They were left out, as always. But God Himself forgot about them, so why the hell shouldn't we?
Meanwhile, I'm absolutely positive a friend of mine went to this exact same performance, but she said the kids got all the letters mixed up. They turned their cards over and spelled out SMOVE CLIT RASH. Well, the entire audience broke out laughing, and then everybody realized there is no god.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
I'm having a hard time reconciling these quotes from Ann Coulter's latest whiny crapfest:
Translated: Ann is very sensitive to slights against single mothers.
The bitches.
Halle, Alicia, Barack, I'm nothing if not supportive. Next time I see you dancing in a club, I'll stick a buck in your g-strings.
[V]arious half-black celebrities insist on representing themselves simply as "black" -- the better to race-bait their way to success. Actress Halle Berry, singer Alicia Keys, and matinee idol Barack Obama were all abandoned by their black fathers and raised by their white mothers. But instead of seeing themselves as half-white, they prefer to see the glass as half-black. They all choose to identify with the fathers who ditched them, while insulting the women who struggled to raise them.
In any event, divorced mothers should be called "divorced mothers," not "single mothers." We also have a term for the youngsters involved: "the children of divorce," or as I call them, "future strippers. . . . " Single motherhood is like a farm team for future criminals and social outcasts.
Translated: Ann is very sensitive to slights against single mothers.
The bitches.
Halle, Alicia, Barack, I'm nothing if not supportive. Next time I see you dancing in a club, I'll stick a buck in your g-strings.
Katie Holmes, fresh off her success in All My Sons on Broadway, is set to appear in the new musical Finding Neverland, based on the romantic tear-jerker film about James M. Barrie and the birth of Peter Pan.
Katie's got the role of a lifetime ahead of her. Inspiring a wee, light-in-the-loafers lad who acts like he's from another planet? You don't get that kind of part everyday.
Katie's got the role of a lifetime ahead of her. Inspiring a wee, light-in-the-loafers lad who acts like he's from another planet? You don't get that kind of part everyday.
We've got Bernie Madoff, and we've got him good. The con man who stole more money than everyone else in the history of the world, added together, is getting what's coming to him as we speak! Smartly, the wise men in charge of this case have chosen to let him simmer in his own juices rather than just throw him right in jail. How humiliating it must be for him to see those fifty-million-dollar Picassos he bought with his tainted cash. How he must flinch when lowering himself into that two-million-dollar gold-plated hot tub financed by his evil deeds. How he must burn with shame knowing that the servants who bring him those multicourse dinners are paid with ill-gotten bucks.
I want to beg for mercy for the poor man, but I know I must resist. He deserves his fate, though I wouldn't wish that fate on anyone. Home detention is far, far worse than any jail in teaching a man the error of his ways. I know most of us would vastly prefer getting anally raped than having to face ourselves every morning in an eighteenth-century handcarved Chippendale mirror.
Poor Bernie made his bed and now he has to lie in it, doomed to reflect on the error of his ways and browbeat himself over the choices he's made.
Well, and hide a million dollars' worth of jewelry in mittens and send them to relatives.
Alas, his scheme was uncovered and the packages intercepted. Ha! The American justice system prevails again, catching some of his ill-gotten goods before they reached their intended targets. There is no mercy for poor Bernie! The man must be dying of embarrassment in his penthouse right now.
I want to beg for mercy for the poor man, but I know I must resist. He deserves his fate, though I wouldn't wish that fate on anyone. Home detention is far, far worse than any jail in teaching a man the error of his ways. I know most of us would vastly prefer getting anally raped than having to face ourselves every morning in an eighteenth-century handcarved Chippendale mirror.
Poor Bernie made his bed and now he has to lie in it, doomed to reflect on the error of his ways and browbeat himself over the choices he's made.
Well, and hide a million dollars' worth of jewelry in mittens and send them to relatives.
Alas, his scheme was uncovered and the packages intercepted. Ha! The American justice system prevails again, catching some of his ill-gotten goods before they reached their intended targets. There is no mercy for poor Bernie! The man must be dying of embarrassment in his penthouse right now.
Monday, January 5, 2009
Okay, maybe I'm gullible, but I didn't suspect for a second that a sinister plot was afoot. No, instead I mentally applauded these two pop culture icons for breaking the relentless bounds of peer pressure and disclosing their deepest, darkest secrets: Bill admitting he's homosexual while misspelling his last name, and Britney declaring that her vagina is oversized and dentally-gifted.
But alas, it turned out to be an exquisite hoax.
Bravo, David Sedaris Jr.! You caught me. Now go forth into the world with your sly satire! Bathroom stalls everywhere await.
Instructions I Never Finished Reading
Stir one bag of powdered green slime with 200 gm water, now mix in plastic germs. Slide off top of head, introduce slime, replace top. Make sure puppy mouth closed tight before pour in slime.
Now fun is soon to arrive! Open sick puppy's mouth and await drooling to commence. Using small metal tweezers, attempt to extract colorful germs without touching strange green drool. Remember this: when tweezers touch drool, you get powerful shock that makes fingers smoke and smell odd.
Have fun play time with Shocking Sick Puppy Drool. And look for these other toys by the Bandai Toy Company:
Something Seriously Wrong with Rabbit
Ha Ha We Have to Shoot My Horse
Why Does Happy Cat Keep Eating Human Flesh
Bush Sr. Says Jeb Bush for President!
Somebody give this guy a bag of bread crumbs and leave him by a pond.
Friday, January 2, 2009
The New York Times is so relentless in its praise of Billy Elliot on Broadway that I feel like I should toss a little more fuel on my fire.
The play is about the sheer beauty of dance, but the producers don't actually believe that's enough to entertain us. In one pivotal scene, Billy dances with his adult self. It's more kitschy than beautiful, with Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake blasting our eardrums tinnily, and it takes a couple inexplicable turns. First, acting in tandem, the characters bring out chairs and set them spinning. They hold one corner of the chair's back and spin it like a top on one leg. Call me crazy, but I don't recall this move from Swan Lake. You half think after the next tour jeté they're going to start spinning plates on sticks. This kid could be the next Nureyev if he could juggle flaming clubs.
Then, halfway through this dance Billy starts flying -- you know, soaring across the stage attached to a cable -- to express the sheer joy he feels.
Wait, we think. Dance isn't good enough to express joy?
Mostly, though, when confronted with this adult male dancer, we start to wonder if Billy's made the right choice. The man's definitely been in this for a while. He knows what he's doing. But frankly, he looks a little weird. He's prissy. He's darting from one side of the stage to the other, posing like a Chelsea gym bunny. We expect him to do a set of dumbbell curls before getting a protein shake at the juice bar. He's in a skin-tight leotard, with a dance belt so huge it looks like he's smuggling bratwurst onto the stage.
He leads Billy around the stage like -- okay, I'll say it -- a gay Pied Piper, doing jumps and leaps and waving his arms like Liza Minnelli, and rather than be thrilled to see what Billy will turn into with the proper training we start to wonder if he's made the right choice. Um, aren't there any accounting classes in Wales?
The kid does nothing but dance, and at some point you wonder if that's good. You picture him in any other class in school:
TEACHER: Billy, what's three plus four?
BILLY: Beats me. Wanna see me tap-dance down stairs?
His dancing is so incessant it seems to have overwhelmed normal human emotion:
POOR MINER: Billy, we miners have no hope for the future. If we don't get killed in cave-ins, they're going to close and we're all going to starve. Sure, we thought you were a poofter a few minutes ago, but now we realize you're blessed by Sweet Jesus to have such an amazing skill, because it's that skill that's going to buy your way out of this hellhole. Please, take this fifty cents that I've saved up over the last thirty years, and when you go to London to join the Dance Academy, buy a croissant and think of me.
BILLY: Okay. Watch me pirouette!
In the end, we're not quite as happy as the producers want us to be. Billy's leaving his family and friends to pursue his bright new future, soon to turn into a prissy dude in skintight tanktop and kielbasa shorts. All the miners have been transformed from proud, strong men to politically-correct metrosexuals who're probably heading to Connecticut Muffins when the curtain falls. Look! they shout, twirling around the stage in XL tutus. We're not cretins! We're supportive, fun-loving miners secure in our masculinity who finally see the beauty in dance!
I leave the theatre thinking about the show I really want to see. Somewhere in West Hollywood an odd little boy is born to a fashion writer and a theater critic. The couple want the kid to follow the family profession, but he startles them with his skill at unclogging stuck drains. Eventually the community rallies around him -- "Damn it, kid, I wish I could do something people needed instead of just writing about winter caftans for Men's Vogue" -- and the kid moves to Rialto to open up a Roto-Rooter franchise.
Because, hell, I'm all for the arts, but it's about time somebody stood up and said, hey, you know all those professions that regular people do? They're nothing to freakin' sneeze at.
Give me that, Broadway, and I'll spring for opening-night muffins myself.
The play is about the sheer beauty of dance, but the producers don't actually believe that's enough to entertain us. In one pivotal scene, Billy dances with his adult self. It's more kitschy than beautiful, with Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake blasting our eardrums tinnily, and it takes a couple inexplicable turns. First, acting in tandem, the characters bring out chairs and set them spinning. They hold one corner of the chair's back and spin it like a top on one leg. Call me crazy, but I don't recall this move from Swan Lake. You half think after the next tour jeté they're going to start spinning plates on sticks. This kid could be the next Nureyev if he could juggle flaming clubs.
Then, halfway through this dance Billy starts flying -- you know, soaring across the stage attached to a cable -- to express the sheer joy he feels.
Wait, we think. Dance isn't good enough to express joy?
Mostly, though, when confronted with this adult male dancer, we start to wonder if Billy's made the right choice. The man's definitely been in this for a while. He knows what he's doing. But frankly, he looks a little weird. He's prissy. He's darting from one side of the stage to the other, posing like a Chelsea gym bunny. We expect him to do a set of dumbbell curls before getting a protein shake at the juice bar. He's in a skin-tight leotard, with a dance belt so huge it looks like he's smuggling bratwurst onto the stage.
He leads Billy around the stage like -- okay, I'll say it -- a gay Pied Piper, doing jumps and leaps and waving his arms like Liza Minnelli, and rather than be thrilled to see what Billy will turn into with the proper training we start to wonder if he's made the right choice. Um, aren't there any accounting classes in Wales?
The kid does nothing but dance, and at some point you wonder if that's good. You picture him in any other class in school:
TEACHER: Billy, what's three plus four?
BILLY: Beats me. Wanna see me tap-dance down stairs?
His dancing is so incessant it seems to have overwhelmed normal human emotion:
POOR MINER: Billy, we miners have no hope for the future. If we don't get killed in cave-ins, they're going to close and we're all going to starve. Sure, we thought you were a poofter a few minutes ago, but now we realize you're blessed by Sweet Jesus to have such an amazing skill, because it's that skill that's going to buy your way out of this hellhole. Please, take this fifty cents that I've saved up over the last thirty years, and when you go to London to join the Dance Academy, buy a croissant and think of me.
BILLY: Okay. Watch me pirouette!
In the end, we're not quite as happy as the producers want us to be. Billy's leaving his family and friends to pursue his bright new future, soon to turn into a prissy dude in skintight tanktop and kielbasa shorts. All the miners have been transformed from proud, strong men to politically-correct metrosexuals who're probably heading to Connecticut Muffins when the curtain falls. Look! they shout, twirling around the stage in XL tutus. We're not cretins! We're supportive, fun-loving miners secure in our masculinity who finally see the beauty in dance!
I leave the theatre thinking about the show I really want to see. Somewhere in West Hollywood an odd little boy is born to a fashion writer and a theater critic. The couple want the kid to follow the family profession, but he startles them with his skill at unclogging stuck drains. Eventually the community rallies around him -- "Damn it, kid, I wish I could do something people needed instead of just writing about winter caftans for Men's Vogue" -- and the kid moves to Rialto to open up a Roto-Rooter franchise.
Because, hell, I'm all for the arts, but it's about time somebody stood up and said, hey, you know all those professions that regular people do? They're nothing to freakin' sneeze at.
Give me that, Broadway, and I'll spring for opening-night muffins myself.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
A Heartfelt Wish for the New Year from RomanHans
The more I think about it, the more this Herman Rosenblat business pisses me off. You probably already know he's the latest writer caught fabricating a spectacular memoir. But do you know how the whole ball got rolling? He entered a contest the New York Post ran searching for the best love story. Mr. Rosenblat wrote a "quick couple paragraphs" about an "angel" who visited while he was imprisoned in a concentration camp. A cute little girl in a red dress appeared at the barbed wire fence with bits of food to keep him going: an apple, a piece of bread, a bit of cheese. These offerings provided him with nourishment but primarily gave him hope and the strength to carry on. Torture was no match for this selfless little angel who proved to him that deep down inside people are basically good at heart. Naturally when he ran into her again some years later he jumped at the chance to marry her, and their life together has been truly blessed.
Naturally this heart-warming little story won the contest, and Mr. Rosenblat got an all-expenses-paid night on the town, complete with candlelit dinner, a limo, and tickets to a Broadway show. And the next thing you know Oprah's heard about it, and he gets a free trip to Chicago to be on her show.
Then comes the book deal, and the movie rights.
It's ironic: Mr. Rosenblat defends himself by saying he invented the story to give people hope, but instead the stunt seems to stomp it out. I enter a lot of essay contests, and I've yet to win one. Now I know why. I mean, what chance do us truth-tellers have when other people enter with impossible lies?
Still, despite the human failings we see here, I hold out hope. While my chances of transcending the dire human condition seem squashed like the dirt beneath that little girl's fictional feet, something tells me that my steadfast commitment to honesty will eventually find its reward. Call me naive, call me simple, but despite the fact that every new day seems to bring more proof to the contrary, my new year's resolution is to hold onto that optimism, to never let go of that belief that people are basically good. And one day soon, once the rest of the world comes to the realization that truth alone is the righteous path, the phone will ring for me, too, and an excited voice will announce that I've won an essay contest with my truthful tale of meeting Diego, the guy who tenderly tickled my balls at a Miami Beach gang bang.
Naturally this heart-warming little story won the contest, and Mr. Rosenblat got an all-expenses-paid night on the town, complete with candlelit dinner, a limo, and tickets to a Broadway show. And the next thing you know Oprah's heard about it, and he gets a free trip to Chicago to be on her show.
Then comes the book deal, and the movie rights.
It's ironic: Mr. Rosenblat defends himself by saying he invented the story to give people hope, but instead the stunt seems to stomp it out. I enter a lot of essay contests, and I've yet to win one. Now I know why. I mean, what chance do us truth-tellers have when other people enter with impossible lies?
Still, despite the human failings we see here, I hold out hope. While my chances of transcending the dire human condition seem squashed like the dirt beneath that little girl's fictional feet, something tells me that my steadfast commitment to honesty will eventually find its reward. Call me naive, call me simple, but despite the fact that every new day seems to bring more proof to the contrary, my new year's resolution is to hold onto that optimism, to never let go of that belief that people are basically good. And one day soon, once the rest of the world comes to the realization that truth alone is the righteous path, the phone will ring for me, too, and an excited voice will announce that I've won an essay contest with my truthful tale of meeting Diego, the guy who tenderly tickled my balls at a Miami Beach gang bang.
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