The "debate" was, as I fully expected, just a joint stump speech event. The candidates ignored the substance of most of Jim Lehrer's questions and delivered the scripted, carefully crafted, vetted, and rehearsed talking points that they regurgitate every day out on the campaign trail. They might as well have taped their comments and let the TV networks run those. Lehrer could just have asked random questions to the camera and then a producer could just run random answers from the candidates...the effect would have been remarkably similar to what we actually got.
If the much ballyhooed "undecided" voters (I find it very hard to believe that anybody is undecided about these guys at this late stage of the game) need more to convince them one way or the other I hope they find what they need in the remaining "debates". Me, I'm opting out...wake me when it's November 2nd.
Thursday, September 30, 2004
The Proust Questionnaire
Each issue of Vanity Fair ends with a noted person answering the so-called Proust Questionnaire. Marcel Proust didn't actually create the questions...they were a party game in his time and his answers are the ones which have become the most famous. There were actually two sets of questions...one he answered when he was 13 and another, more extensive, list that he answered when he was 20. This is the latter list with my own responses:
Your most marked characteristic?
An inquisitive mind
The quality you most like in a man?
Intelligence
The quality you most like in a woman?
Intelligence
What do you most value in your friends?
Intelligence, loyalty, and humor
What is your principle defect?
Reticence
What is your favorite occupation?
Writing
What is your dream of happiness?
Loving and being loved
What to your mind would be the greatest of misfortunes?
Not being able to love or be loved
What would you like to be?
A grown-up
In what country would you like to live?
The USA
What is your favorite color?
Midnight Blue
What is your favorite flower?
Yellow Rose
What is your favorite bird?
Bald Eagle
Who are your favorite prose writers?
Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Toni Morrison, James Baldwin, John Irving, Gilbert Hernandez
Who are your favorite poets?
Emily Dickinson, Nikki Giovanni, Langston Hughes
Who are your favorite heroes of fiction?
Ralph Ellison's "Invisible Man", Owen Meany, Lazarus Long, Superman
Who are your favorite heroines of fiction?
Beloved, Hermione Granger, Luba
Who are your favorite composers?
Johann Sebastian Bach, Duke Ellington, Lennon and McCartney, Bob Dylan
Who are your favorite painters?
Leonardo da Vinci, Claude Monet, Peter Paul Rubens,
Who are your heroes in real life?
My mother, Jimmy Carter, John McCain, Linda Ellerbee
Who are your favorite heroines of history?
Harriet Tubman, Sojourner Truth, Eleanor Roosevelt
What are your favorite names?
Christopher Michael, Gabriel, Angelica
What is it you most dislike?
Closed minds
What historical figures do you most despise?
Hitler, Idi Amin, "Bull" Connor
What event in military history do you most admire?
D-Day
What reform do you most admire?
The Civil Rights Act of 1964
What natural gift would you most like to possess?
The ability to play musical instruments
How would you like to die?
In my sleep at the age of 113
What is your present state of mind?
Relatively calm
To what faults do you feel most indulgent?
People talking without listening
What is your motto?
Go with the flow
Your most marked characteristic?
An inquisitive mind
The quality you most like in a man?
Intelligence
The quality you most like in a woman?
Intelligence
What do you most value in your friends?
Intelligence, loyalty, and humor
What is your principle defect?
Reticence
What is your favorite occupation?
Writing
What is your dream of happiness?
Loving and being loved
What to your mind would be the greatest of misfortunes?
Not being able to love or be loved
What would you like to be?
A grown-up
In what country would you like to live?
The USA
What is your favorite color?
Midnight Blue
What is your favorite flower?
Yellow Rose
What is your favorite bird?
Bald Eagle
Who are your favorite prose writers?
Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Toni Morrison, James Baldwin, John Irving, Gilbert Hernandez
Who are your favorite poets?
Emily Dickinson, Nikki Giovanni, Langston Hughes
Who are your favorite heroes of fiction?
Ralph Ellison's "Invisible Man", Owen Meany, Lazarus Long, Superman
Who are your favorite heroines of fiction?
Beloved, Hermione Granger, Luba
Who are your favorite composers?
Johann Sebastian Bach, Duke Ellington, Lennon and McCartney, Bob Dylan
Who are your favorite painters?
Leonardo da Vinci, Claude Monet, Peter Paul Rubens,
Who are your heroes in real life?
My mother, Jimmy Carter, John McCain, Linda Ellerbee
Who are your favorite heroines of history?
Harriet Tubman, Sojourner Truth, Eleanor Roosevelt
What are your favorite names?
Christopher Michael, Gabriel, Angelica
What is it you most dislike?
Closed minds
What historical figures do you most despise?
Hitler, Idi Amin, "Bull" Connor
What event in military history do you most admire?
D-Day
What reform do you most admire?
The Civil Rights Act of 1964
What natural gift would you most like to possess?
The ability to play musical instruments
How would you like to die?
In my sleep at the age of 113
What is your present state of mind?
Relatively calm
To what faults do you feel most indulgent?
People talking without listening
What is your motto?
Go with the flow
Monday, September 27, 2004
Which Matrix Persona Am I?
You are Morpheus, from "The Matrix." You
have strong faith in yourself and those around
you. A true leader, you are relentless in your
pursuit.
What Matrix Persona Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla
an orphan (one in a sporadic series)
From time to time, ideas come to me...lines, snippets of dialogue, even whole scenes...that have nothing to do with whatever I'm working on at the time. Sometimes these random writings are incorporated into full-blown pieces...and sometimes they remain as orphans, tantalizing teasers from the fickle muse that have no home. This then is one of the orphans which has been languishing in a file since it was born. This is the prologue for a novel that I plan to finish one day (though it will have to wait in line.) The working title is 400 Years to Protect:
*****
Contrary to expectation the revolution was not televised.
It came, instead, with almost no fanfare...plans given wing in the cool blue shadows of the night; plans shaped and refined in plain sight, for long tense years, in supposedly omniscient sunlight.
It came at as the result of decades of surreptitious planning, as a result of the sweat and blood and passion of thousands marshaled to what could be construed as a fool’s errand of heretofore unprecedented guile and scope. And it came as steely inspiration borne out of anger for slights real and imagined; borne out of a simmering need for vengeance and a conviction that the promise can indeed be fulfilled for one and all.
The revolution came with bullets and threats of bullets...with delicately orchestrated coups along the information superhighway and in the back recesses of the military-industrial complex.
The armies fell from within...the media fell from without.
The revolution struck at midnight. Six times. The few died...startled out of their complacency instants too late to save themselves...some falling in gathering pools of blood without being aware of why they had been killed.
The many slept...blissfully unaware that their world had shifted off its axis and was now spinning in a new, unpredictable rotation. They would wake as the world came round to the sun again but the implications of the new order would not be readily apparent.
And in a corridor that seethed with power and intrigue, a tall man in a neatly tailored black suit strode, flanked by eight heavily armed men and four heavily armed women in crisp khaki uniforms. Each had skin in varying shades of earth tones...tan and red and myriad shades of brown...each had steely resolve in their dark, piercing eyes.
They met no resistance in these halls as they marched, straight and true, to their destination.
Marcus William Jackson, paused for a moment at the great doors in front of them. The moment was, at long last, at hand. He took a deep breath and reached for the door's handle. With a confident twist, he turned it and threw the door open.
Inside the large office three men were huddled around the telephone on the desk trying to get an outside line. They all jumped, surprised and fearful, as the door slammed opened and a dozen soldiers streamed into the room fanning out in a precise half circle.
"Wh-what is the meaning of this?" the tall man behind the desk stammered, his face ashen and his eyes moist.
Jackson stepped through the half circle and stood in the middle of the room staring at the men at the desk. "Mr. President," he said softly, his dark brown eyes cauldrons of simmering emotion, "things have changed."
©2004 Neverending Rainbow Enterprises, ltd. All rights reserved.
*****
Contrary to expectation the revolution was not televised.
It came, instead, with almost no fanfare...plans given wing in the cool blue shadows of the night; plans shaped and refined in plain sight, for long tense years, in supposedly omniscient sunlight.
It came at as the result of decades of surreptitious planning, as a result of the sweat and blood and passion of thousands marshaled to what could be construed as a fool’s errand of heretofore unprecedented guile and scope. And it came as steely inspiration borne out of anger for slights real and imagined; borne out of a simmering need for vengeance and a conviction that the promise can indeed be fulfilled for one and all.
The revolution came with bullets and threats of bullets...with delicately orchestrated coups along the information superhighway and in the back recesses of the military-industrial complex.
The armies fell from within...the media fell from without.
The revolution struck at midnight. Six times. The few died...startled out of their complacency instants too late to save themselves...some falling in gathering pools of blood without being aware of why they had been killed.
The many slept...blissfully unaware that their world had shifted off its axis and was now spinning in a new, unpredictable rotation. They would wake as the world came round to the sun again but the implications of the new order would not be readily apparent.
And in a corridor that seethed with power and intrigue, a tall man in a neatly tailored black suit strode, flanked by eight heavily armed men and four heavily armed women in crisp khaki uniforms. Each had skin in varying shades of earth tones...tan and red and myriad shades of brown...each had steely resolve in their dark, piercing eyes.
They met no resistance in these halls as they marched, straight and true, to their destination.
Marcus William Jackson, paused for a moment at the great doors in front of them. The moment was, at long last, at hand. He took a deep breath and reached for the door's handle. With a confident twist, he turned it and threw the door open.
Inside the large office three men were huddled around the telephone on the desk trying to get an outside line. They all jumped, surprised and fearful, as the door slammed opened and a dozen soldiers streamed into the room fanning out in a precise half circle.
"Wh-what is the meaning of this?" the tall man behind the desk stammered, his face ashen and his eyes moist.
Jackson stepped through the half circle and stood in the middle of the room staring at the men at the desk. "Mr. President," he said softly, his dark brown eyes cauldrons of simmering emotion, "things have changed."
©2004 Neverending Rainbow Enterprises, ltd. All rights reserved.
Sunday, September 26, 2004
Jacko 101
The fabled Yale University held a conference...attended, we're told, by 18 scholars from various U.S. Universities...to discuss the "sexual, racial and artistic aspects of Michael Jackson's life and music".
Don't know about you but me I'm glad to know that our institutions of higher learning are putting time and effort towards exploring the important figures and issues of our day. This might, to some more cynical that I, seem like a frivolous waste of time and resources...an intellectual junket disguised as a serious conference on an important topic...but I ask you what could more important that breaking down the multi-faceted life and cultural impact of a sexually-ambiguous, racially-morphing accused pedophile and self-proclaimed "King of Pop"? Get with the program, people!
Hopefully once they finish this investigation hopefully they can move on the sociological impact of the colorful life and...um..."music" of Britney Spears. Thank whatever intellectual gods there be that Yale is on the cutting edge of the educational frontier.
Don't know about you but me I'm glad to know that our institutions of higher learning are putting time and effort towards exploring the important figures and issues of our day. This might, to some more cynical that I, seem like a frivolous waste of time and resources...an intellectual junket disguised as a serious conference on an important topic...but I ask you what could more important that breaking down the multi-faceted life and cultural impact of a sexually-ambiguous, racially-morphing accused pedophile and self-proclaimed "King of Pop"? Get with the program, people!
Hopefully once they finish this investigation hopefully they can move on the sociological impact of the colorful life and...um..."music" of Britney Spears. Thank whatever intellectual gods there be that Yale is on the cutting edge of the educational frontier.
Thursday, September 23, 2004
mea culpa
Jimmy Swaggart has broken out the sackcloth and ashes and apologized for his comment about killing any gay man who looked at him "that way" (after complaints were lodged with the Canadian network that broadcast the sermon with the offending passages and at Swaggart's headquarters in Baton Rouge.)
Swaggart said he has jokingly used the expression "killing someone and telling God he died" thousands of times, about many people.
"It's a humorous statement that doesn't mean anything. You can't lie to God -- it's ridiculous," Swaggart told the Associated Press. "If it's an insult, I certainly didn't think it was, but if they are offended, then I certainly offer an apology."
Thanks, Jim, I'm sure that makes everything all right for those who just didn't understand your wacky sense of humor. Praise the Lord and pass the collection plate.
Swaggart said he has jokingly used the expression "killing someone and telling God he died" thousands of times, about many people.
"It's a humorous statement that doesn't mean anything. You can't lie to God -- it's ridiculous," Swaggart told the Associated Press. "If it's an insult, I certainly didn't think it was, but if they are offended, then I certainly offer an apology."
Thanks, Jim, I'm sure that makes everything all right for those who just didn't understand your wacky sense of humor. Praise the Lord and pass the collection plate.
a rose
The babies never smiled so it was hard to know if were pleased to see me when I arrived every weekday afternoon but I liked to imagine that they were. I don’t know exactly why I volunteered at the hospital…and I certainly don’t know why I took the task that nobody really wanted to do…but there I was spending time with the terminally-ill babies.
I had no medical training but there were doctors and nurses and dutiful monitors for that. Me, I just talked to the babies…held them…fed them…rocked them…held conversations with them that they sometimes seemed to actually be participating in. I prayed that they got as much out of the fleeting hours as I did.
I never asked what afflictions the babies had. And I never asked what happened when one of the babies present one day was absent the next. I just talked to them…laughed with them (or at least, laughed and smiled for them.) It was a bittersweet and wonderful way to spend my afternoons.
It was a rainy Thursday afternoon when I first noticed Carmen. She was a frail yet oddly vibrant little thing…not destined to spend long in this world I was told. Her mother, unable to deal with her too imminent mortality, had not been able to bring herself to bond with the child…she had not even given the girl a name.
The child barely fit in my ungainly paw of a hand when I lifted her up from her crib to feed her. “What’s her name?” I asked the nurse who brought over a bottle of formula as I settled into the rocking chair set in the room for the feeding of the babies.
Mrs. Wilson, the attending nurse, shrugged sadly. “Doesn’t have one,” she said. “Her mother feels so…guilty, I guess…that she can’t even bring herself to look at the little one.”
I took the bottle after settling the baby. “Well, that won’t do,” I said softly smiling at the tiny girl nestled in the crook of my arm. The baby, startlingly calm with large, dark, wizened eyes, looked up impassively. “Carmen Rose,” I said, the name blooming brightly in my head as our eyes met and focused on each other. “Just between you and me and Nurse Wilson, we’ll call you Carmen Rose.”
“Why that name?” Mrs. Wilson asked.
“I dunno,” I admitted, “it just feels right for her.”
Mrs. Wilson smiled opaquely and nodded. She walked off and I put the nipple of the bottle to Carmen’s thin lips. “There’s a good girl,” I said softly as the baby began to drink.
Carmen was not going to get better. I knew that. But I rocked her everyday anyway…I took her into my heart anyway.
It was clear but cool Tuesday afternoon when I last held Carmen. As I walked the hall towards the intensive care nursery the cold ache in my heart told me what I was going to find. A doctor was there, Mrs. Wilson was there, Carmen’s mother…whom I had only seen fleetingly in the weeks I’d been rocking Carmen…was there.
“Do you want to hold her before I disengage the machines?” the doctor asked as I walked into the room.
I thought, for a confusing second, that he was talking to me but he was talking to Carmen’s mother.
Carmen’s mother was pale and frail looking with liquid, haunted, tear-reddened eyes. She shook her head and took a half step back. “I can’t,” she said in a pained whisper of a voice.
The doctor nodded. “I understand,” he said as he reached to switch off the machines that were keeping Carmen alive.
“Wait,” I said before I could stop myself. “She shouldn’t die alone.”
Mrs. Wilson looked around at me and then she quickly moved over and pushed the rocking chair next to Carmen’s crib. I sat down and Mrs. Wilson gingerly lifted the still child and put her in my arms.
“You did good, little Rose,” I said, touching her still face. I glanced up at the doctor and nodded ever so slightly. He pressed a switch and the machines went silent. The room went silent. The world went silent.
I’m not sure how long I sat there…rocking ever so slightly…before Mrs. Wilson took Carmen Rose out of my hands. I rose and took a deep breath. I walked towards the door without looking back. I paused by Carmen’s mother who was crying thick, bitter tears.
“How did you know?” she asked, not looking up at me.
“Know what?”
She looked up into my eyes. “My grandmother’s name was Carmen Rose, too.”
We held the moment of shared grief between strangers for a minute and then we parted. I left the room as she moved towards her daughter.
A couple of days later Mrs. Wilson called me to give me the address of the church where the service was going to be held. I thanked her all the while thinking to myself that there was no way that I was going.
But, of course, I did. I sat at the back of the church even though there were precious few people there. I stared at the tiny, open casket not hearing a word the pastor said. As the service ended I rose and walked up the aisle to the casket. I placed a single white rose on Carmen Rose’s little body and turned away. I caught the eye of Carmen’s mother and nodded. She, nestled in the arms of an older woman who looked much like her, nodded back smiling ever so slightly. I walked out of the church.
The next afternoon, I went back to the hospital…back to the babies.
©2004 neverending rainbow enterprises, ltd. All rights reserved.
I had no medical training but there were doctors and nurses and dutiful monitors for that. Me, I just talked to the babies…held them…fed them…rocked them…held conversations with them that they sometimes seemed to actually be participating in. I prayed that they got as much out of the fleeting hours as I did.
I never asked what afflictions the babies had. And I never asked what happened when one of the babies present one day was absent the next. I just talked to them…laughed with them (or at least, laughed and smiled for them.) It was a bittersweet and wonderful way to spend my afternoons.
It was a rainy Thursday afternoon when I first noticed Carmen. She was a frail yet oddly vibrant little thing…not destined to spend long in this world I was told. Her mother, unable to deal with her too imminent mortality, had not been able to bring herself to bond with the child…she had not even given the girl a name.
The child barely fit in my ungainly paw of a hand when I lifted her up from her crib to feed her. “What’s her name?” I asked the nurse who brought over a bottle of formula as I settled into the rocking chair set in the room for the feeding of the babies.
Mrs. Wilson, the attending nurse, shrugged sadly. “Doesn’t have one,” she said. “Her mother feels so…guilty, I guess…that she can’t even bring herself to look at the little one.”
I took the bottle after settling the baby. “Well, that won’t do,” I said softly smiling at the tiny girl nestled in the crook of my arm. The baby, startlingly calm with large, dark, wizened eyes, looked up impassively. “Carmen Rose,” I said, the name blooming brightly in my head as our eyes met and focused on each other. “Just between you and me and Nurse Wilson, we’ll call you Carmen Rose.”
“Why that name?” Mrs. Wilson asked.
“I dunno,” I admitted, “it just feels right for her.”
Mrs. Wilson smiled opaquely and nodded. She walked off and I put the nipple of the bottle to Carmen’s thin lips. “There’s a good girl,” I said softly as the baby began to drink.
Carmen was not going to get better. I knew that. But I rocked her everyday anyway…I took her into my heart anyway.
It was clear but cool Tuesday afternoon when I last held Carmen. As I walked the hall towards the intensive care nursery the cold ache in my heart told me what I was going to find. A doctor was there, Mrs. Wilson was there, Carmen’s mother…whom I had only seen fleetingly in the weeks I’d been rocking Carmen…was there.
“Do you want to hold her before I disengage the machines?” the doctor asked as I walked into the room.
I thought, for a confusing second, that he was talking to me but he was talking to Carmen’s mother.
Carmen’s mother was pale and frail looking with liquid, haunted, tear-reddened eyes. She shook her head and took a half step back. “I can’t,” she said in a pained whisper of a voice.
The doctor nodded. “I understand,” he said as he reached to switch off the machines that were keeping Carmen alive.
“Wait,” I said before I could stop myself. “She shouldn’t die alone.”
Mrs. Wilson looked around at me and then she quickly moved over and pushed the rocking chair next to Carmen’s crib. I sat down and Mrs. Wilson gingerly lifted the still child and put her in my arms.
“You did good, little Rose,” I said, touching her still face. I glanced up at the doctor and nodded ever so slightly. He pressed a switch and the machines went silent. The room went silent. The world went silent.
I’m not sure how long I sat there…rocking ever so slightly…before Mrs. Wilson took Carmen Rose out of my hands. I rose and took a deep breath. I walked towards the door without looking back. I paused by Carmen’s mother who was crying thick, bitter tears.
“How did you know?” she asked, not looking up at me.
“Know what?”
She looked up into my eyes. “My grandmother’s name was Carmen Rose, too.”
We held the moment of shared grief between strangers for a minute and then we parted. I left the room as she moved towards her daughter.
A couple of days later Mrs. Wilson called me to give me the address of the church where the service was going to be held. I thanked her all the while thinking to myself that there was no way that I was going.
But, of course, I did. I sat at the back of the church even though there were precious few people there. I stared at the tiny, open casket not hearing a word the pastor said. As the service ended I rose and walked up the aisle to the casket. I placed a single white rose on Carmen Rose’s little body and turned away. I caught the eye of Carmen’s mother and nodded. She, nestled in the arms of an older woman who looked much like her, nodded back smiling ever so slightly. I walked out of the church.
The next afternoon, I went back to the hospital…back to the babies.
©2004 neverending rainbow enterprises, ltd. All rights reserved.
Tuesday, September 21, 2004
autumn falls
And on the morrow it comes...falling softly and surely upon us as it always must and always will...autumn. On the Equinox, day is balanced almost exactly by night and autumn falls softly upon our lands and, more importantly, upon our hearts and souls.
Autumn falls marking the end of the proverbial lazy, crazy days of summer with its vibrant yellows and sparkling sky blues and the beginning of a new, more reflective time colored with lustrous browns and quiet, burnt oranges and cool, crisp midnight blues.
Autumn falls and with it, the harvest and the golden harvest moon. And with it, a time for dreaming during long, wistful nights, a time for soft prayers of healing and wonder and thanksgiving. And with it, a time for endings and beginnings...bittersweet but not unwelcome for that...for cool sunshine and soft rains and the first whispers of winter's coming frost.
Autumn falls and we retreat and expand...we hunker down by our hearths and, when the spirit calls, we brave the brisk night air undaunted by the icy kisses of October winds or November rains.
Autumn falls...bright summer gone, dour winter to come in its time...and we fall... joyfully, guilelessly, thankfully...with it.
Namaste.
Autumn falls marking the end of the proverbial lazy, crazy days of summer with its vibrant yellows and sparkling sky blues and the beginning of a new, more reflective time colored with lustrous browns and quiet, burnt oranges and cool, crisp midnight blues.
Autumn falls and with it, the harvest and the golden harvest moon. And with it, a time for dreaming during long, wistful nights, a time for soft prayers of healing and wonder and thanksgiving. And with it, a time for endings and beginnings...bittersweet but not unwelcome for that...for cool sunshine and soft rains and the first whispers of winter's coming frost.
Autumn falls and we retreat and expand...we hunker down by our hearths and, when the spirit calls, we brave the brisk night air undaunted by the icy kisses of October winds or November rains.
Autumn falls...bright summer gone, dour winter to come in its time...and we fall... joyfully, guilelessly, thankfully...with it.
Namaste.
Monday, September 20, 2004
shall we gather by the river?
Words of Christian charity and love from the pulpit of one of the Lord's most faithful (that business with the...um...harlot back in '87 notwithstanding) servants, the right honorable Reverend Jimmy Swaggart:
"I'm trying to find the correct name for it...this utter absolute, asinine,
idiotic stupidity of men marrying men. I've never seen a man in my
life I wanted to marry. And I'm gonna be blunt and plain; if one ever
looks at me like that, I'm gonna kill him and tell God he died."*
That sound you hear the collective sigh of heartbroken gay men from coast to coast who now have to put their dreams of being with an enlightened soul like Mr. Swaggart aside forever.
Swaggart goes on to praise President Bush's call for a Constitutional amendment that would define marriage as being a union of 1 man and 1 woman (until death or, in roughly about 50% of the cases, acrimonious divorce, do them part) and to hurl a little righteous invective at lawyers and judges who, at least in his mind, support gay marriage. He does, magnanimously, later say that he's not trying to put gays down (kill them yes...but put them down, no way)...that they need salvation and pity in order to see the sinful error of their ways (which, he proclaimed forcefully several times, the bible calls an "abomnation! (sic)" )
The congregation applauded appreciatively throughout this part of the sermon (a flurry of hearty cries of "Amen!" could be heard when the preacher said he'd kill somebody and then lie to God about it) and there was much joy...Christian love, tolerance, and forbearance...flowing in righteous abundance. Hallelujah.
*****
*I watched Mr. Swaggart's sermon on a video link I found on AMERICAblog, a firebrand left-leaning blog which I found my way to via a Google search when I went to verify the quote above as being accurate (naively, this being a "man of God" giving a sermon from the pulpit of a church, I thought it might not be.)
"I'm trying to find the correct name for it...this utter absolute, asinine,
idiotic stupidity of men marrying men. I've never seen a man in my
life I wanted to marry. And I'm gonna be blunt and plain; if one ever
looks at me like that, I'm gonna kill him and tell God he died."*
That sound you hear the collective sigh of heartbroken gay men from coast to coast who now have to put their dreams of being with an enlightened soul like Mr. Swaggart aside forever.
Swaggart goes on to praise President Bush's call for a Constitutional amendment that would define marriage as being a union of 1 man and 1 woman (until death or, in roughly about 50% of the cases, acrimonious divorce, do them part) and to hurl a little righteous invective at lawyers and judges who, at least in his mind, support gay marriage. He does, magnanimously, later say that he's not trying to put gays down (kill them yes...but put them down, no way)...that they need salvation and pity in order to see the sinful error of their ways (which, he proclaimed forcefully several times, the bible calls an "abomnation! (sic)" )
The congregation applauded appreciatively throughout this part of the sermon (a flurry of hearty cries of "Amen!" could be heard when the preacher said he'd kill somebody and then lie to God about it) and there was much joy...Christian love, tolerance, and forbearance...flowing in righteous abundance. Hallelujah.
*****
*I watched Mr. Swaggart's sermon on a video link I found on AMERICAblog, a firebrand left-leaning blog which I found my way to via a Google search when I went to verify the quote above as being accurate (naively, this being a "man of God" giving a sermon from the pulpit of a church, I thought it might not be.)
Sunday, September 19, 2004
oops, she did it again
I can sleep easy tonight knowing that Britney Spears, everyone's favorite musically-challenged pop tart, is an honest woman (again.) Married...until death or pre-nup sanctioned divorce...do them part. She's happily married to a backup dancer who left his pregnant actress girlfriend for her (this paragon of emotional stability and candidate for Father of the Year traded up on the star ladder...Brit better hope that Madonna doesn't become available or his eyes may suddenly wander) and this marriage has already broken the 55-hour record she set with her last blessed union back in January. Ms. Spears has proven to be quite the classy gal over the past few years and I'm pleased to see that things continue apace for her. All I can say is: You go, girl!
Saturday, September 18, 2004
easy money
one stepped up, one stepped back,
one loosened up her shoulder strap,
she couldn't speak, her knees got weak,
she could almost taste that
easy money...
Good news, folks, it looks like my financial situation is rosy as hell right now. Yesterday I got the exciting news that I've won $10,000,000 in the Super Mega Jackpot Lotto (or something like that)...and heck, I didn't even know I'd entered it. Hello, Easy Street!
Donald Trump is a sucker to work as hard as he does in order to become a billionaire...me, I'm just sitting back and waiting for the e-mails to roll in with all of my untold wealth just a mouse click or two away.
Why just this morning yet I got the news that I'd won $1,000,000 in yet another lotto and a helpful fellow from Nigeria alerted me that someone with the same last name as me (apparently a long lost relative...what are the odds of that happening?!? Wow!) left $37,000,000 in a bank account and he's willing to do the legwork towards securing it if I split the proceeds with him. Well, why wouldn't I??? $18 1/2 million bucks is not too steep a price to pay to get what's coming to me!
Man oh man, I've made almost $30,000,000 in the past 12 hours and I haven't had to lift a finger. What a wonderful, wonderful world we live in. God bless the USA...and, especially, God bless the Internet, the place where dreams come true.
"Easy Money" words and music by Rickie Lee Jones
(c)1978 Easy Money Music (ASCAP)
one loosened up her shoulder strap,
she couldn't speak, her knees got weak,
she could almost taste that
easy money...
Good news, folks, it looks like my financial situation is rosy as hell right now. Yesterday I got the exciting news that I've won $10,000,000 in the Super Mega Jackpot Lotto (or something like that)...and heck, I didn't even know I'd entered it. Hello, Easy Street!
Donald Trump is a sucker to work as hard as he does in order to become a billionaire...me, I'm just sitting back and waiting for the e-mails to roll in with all of my untold wealth just a mouse click or two away.
Why just this morning yet I got the news that I'd won $1,000,000 in yet another lotto and a helpful fellow from Nigeria alerted me that someone with the same last name as me (apparently a long lost relative...what are the odds of that happening?!? Wow!) left $37,000,000 in a bank account and he's willing to do the legwork towards securing it if I split the proceeds with him. Well, why wouldn't I??? $18 1/2 million bucks is not too steep a price to pay to get what's coming to me!
Man oh man, I've made almost $30,000,000 in the past 12 hours and I haven't had to lift a finger. What a wonderful, wonderful world we live in. God bless the USA...and, especially, God bless the Internet, the place where dreams come true.
"Easy Money" words and music by Rickie Lee Jones
(c)1978 Easy Money Music (ASCAP)
Friday, September 17, 2004
So Odd it Must Be True #1
Reuters has a little story (click on the title above to go to it) about a Spanish man who tried to sue his wife for domestic abuse because she refused to have sex with him for 5 consecutive days.
The judge, of course, tossed the case out but you have to admit that it is an interesting way of interpreting "domestic abuse". Though, that said, the guy needs to get a clue I think...trying to use a law most often used against wife beaters as a way of forcing your wife to have sex with you says more about him and his shortcomings (no pun and/or inference about his anatomical attributes intended ;-) than it does about her (maybe she just wasn't in the mood for a week, dude...just relax and use that pent up energy to do something else until she's more receptive.)
It's a wonderfully weird world sometimes and I'm glad I live in it.
The judge, of course, tossed the case out but you have to admit that it is an interesting way of interpreting "domestic abuse". Though, that said, the guy needs to get a clue I think...trying to use a law most often used against wife beaters as a way of forcing your wife to have sex with you says more about him and his shortcomings (no pun and/or inference about his anatomical attributes intended ;-) than it does about her (maybe she just wasn't in the mood for a week, dude...just relax and use that pent up energy to do something else until she's more receptive.)
It's a wonderfully weird world sometimes and I'm glad I live in it.
Thursday, September 16, 2004
the long slow fade?
I suspect, and I will be happy to be wrong about this, that Senator Kerry is not going to be elected President of the United States come November. It may be close but I don't think he has the right combination of vision, presence, aggressiveness, and charismatic charm to unseat an inexplicably popular sitting President.
Especially since he continues to campaign like he's already lost. He's constantly reacting to things thrown his way by the other side, constantly invoking the ghosts of Vietnam, and he apparently has no substantive message of his own, no firm foundation to work from. To be constantly redefining who he is and what he stands for at this late stage of the game does not inspire confidence. His best argument seems to be that we should vote for him because he's not George W. Bush (granted that's a good enough argument for me...but I'm not sure it's going to engage the moderate and left-leaning electorate enough to get out and vote with the numbers and enthusiasm it's going to take to unseat W.)
We are, as a nation, probably more polarized politically than we have been since the height of the Nixon Administration and, yes, the Vietnam War and it seems quite unlikely to change in the next four years (the President, who snuck into office in 2000...through the grace of Florida Election officials, the unbelievably wrong-headed Gore campaign, and the Supreme Court...claiming to be a "compassionate conservative" who was a "uniter not a divider" has proven to be neither of those things...quite the opposite in fact.)
Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe there's a groundswell of dissatisfaction with the status quo ready to rise up and storm the polls on the first Tuesday in November (and in the process make George Bush the younger a one term Chief Executive like Bush the elder.) Maybe Kerry will rise out of his plodding morass of a campaign and prove himself to be a leader one can follow with pride and conviction. Maybe the debate(s) will show the difference between the two contenders in a way that will sway the (supposedly)undecided voters.
Maybe.
But I'm not holding my breath.
Especially since he continues to campaign like he's already lost. He's constantly reacting to things thrown his way by the other side, constantly invoking the ghosts of Vietnam, and he apparently has no substantive message of his own, no firm foundation to work from. To be constantly redefining who he is and what he stands for at this late stage of the game does not inspire confidence. His best argument seems to be that we should vote for him because he's not George W. Bush (granted that's a good enough argument for me...but I'm not sure it's going to engage the moderate and left-leaning electorate enough to get out and vote with the numbers and enthusiasm it's going to take to unseat W.)
We are, as a nation, probably more polarized politically than we have been since the height of the Nixon Administration and, yes, the Vietnam War and it seems quite unlikely to change in the next four years (the President, who snuck into office in 2000...through the grace of Florida Election officials, the unbelievably wrong-headed Gore campaign, and the Supreme Court...claiming to be a "compassionate conservative" who was a "uniter not a divider" has proven to be neither of those things...quite the opposite in fact.)
Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe there's a groundswell of dissatisfaction with the status quo ready to rise up and storm the polls on the first Tuesday in November (and in the process make George Bush the younger a one term Chief Executive like Bush the elder.) Maybe Kerry will rise out of his plodding morass of a campaign and prove himself to be a leader one can follow with pride and conviction. Maybe the debate(s) will show the difference between the two contenders in a way that will sway the (supposedly)undecided voters.
Maybe.
But I'm not holding my breath.
Wednesday, September 15, 2004
the last laugh
William Shatner has been the butt of many jokes about his acting talent (or, more to the point, his seeming lack thereof.) I was a big fan of the original Star Trek...yes, I'm of an age where I could watch the original during its original network run...and even I have indulged at jibe or two at the erstwhile Enterprise Captain's shortcoming as a thespian.
As he's grown older, Shatner seems to stop taking himself so seriously and, in the process, has become a more accessible and engaging performer. His commercials for Priceline.com (including and especially the latest campaign with Leonard Nimoy) are charming, funny, self-deprecating advertising gems.
And now, this most reviled of actors, has gone and won himself an Emmy for his guest stint on "The Practice" last season. Will wonders never cease? I was never a viewer of that show but I fondly tip my hat to the Captain just the same. It is, it seems, quite true that he who laughs last laughs best.
As he's grown older, Shatner seems to stop taking himself so seriously and, in the process, has become a more accessible and engaging performer. His commercials for Priceline.com (including and especially the latest campaign with Leonard Nimoy) are charming, funny, self-deprecating advertising gems.
And now, this most reviled of actors, has gone and won himself an Emmy for his guest stint on "The Practice" last season. Will wonders never cease? I was never a viewer of that show but I fondly tip my hat to the Captain just the same. It is, it seems, quite true that he who laughs last laughs best.
Tuesday, September 14, 2004
an orphan (one in a sporadic series)
From time to time, ideas come to me...lines, snippets of dialogue, even whole scenes...that have nothing to do with whatever I'm working on at the time. Sometimes these random writings are incorporated into full-blown pieces...and sometimes they remain as orphans, tantalizing teasers from the fickle muse that have no home. This then is one of the orphans which has been languishing in a file since it was born. This scene was the beginning of what was going to be a story about a series of five interconnected relationships...a man and his lover, the same man and his wife, the wife and her ex-husband, the ex-husband and his current wife, that wife and her lover...but it never really got going and all that was written was this opening bit.
*****
The old man sighed heavily and began to murmur; he rolled over and twitched slightly, wrestling with demons in his sleep. Jacob, having long since given up trying to go back to sleep himself, found it all enormously endearing. The humid night made it too uncomfortable for blankets and even the thin fabric of the sheet seemed too much to bear and it was cast down just below their waists.
Jacob marveled at the old man…the slight, soft paunch underneath the unruly shock of gray-streaked black chest hair, the leathery skin that showed its age with casual grace…and resisted, just barely, the urge to lay his head on the man’s chest.
In the morning they would be polite and distant, stealing glances and making innocuous conversation. In the morning, they would dress, suddenly shy and exposed, quickly and make no reference to the passions indulged in the heat of a summer’s night.
In the morning, the old man would casually mention the imminent return of his wife of 24 years and Jacob would pointedly ignore the comment.
In the morning they would part and not see each other again until some furtive night when the old man’s wife was away and Jacob would be, despite impassioned promises to himself, glad to welcome him back into his lonely apartment and his welcoming bed.
©2004 neverending rainbow enterprises, ltd. All rights reserved.
*****
The old man sighed heavily and began to murmur; he rolled over and twitched slightly, wrestling with demons in his sleep. Jacob, having long since given up trying to go back to sleep himself, found it all enormously endearing. The humid night made it too uncomfortable for blankets and even the thin fabric of the sheet seemed too much to bear and it was cast down just below their waists.
Jacob marveled at the old man…the slight, soft paunch underneath the unruly shock of gray-streaked black chest hair, the leathery skin that showed its age with casual grace…and resisted, just barely, the urge to lay his head on the man’s chest.
In the morning they would be polite and distant, stealing glances and making innocuous conversation. In the morning, they would dress, suddenly shy and exposed, quickly and make no reference to the passions indulged in the heat of a summer’s night.
In the morning, the old man would casually mention the imminent return of his wife of 24 years and Jacob would pointedly ignore the comment.
In the morning they would part and not see each other again until some furtive night when the old man’s wife was away and Jacob would be, despite impassioned promises to himself, glad to welcome him back into his lonely apartment and his welcoming bed.
©2004 neverending rainbow enterprises, ltd. All rights reserved.
moderate and comfortable
We San Diegans are, I will admit, a sometimes whiny lot when it comes to our weather. Last week's heat...totally predictable and expected...was the source of much complaint even though we KNEW it wouldn't last. Moderate and comfortable is something that we're used to when it comes to our weather...spoiled souls that we are...and when it deviates from that we don't hesitate to complain.
It's going to be comfortable today...warm but not too warm, not very humid...and we are, for the moment, happy campers here in "America's finest city".
(We'll find something to whine about tomorrow perhaps :-)
It's going to be comfortable today...warm but not too warm, not very humid...and we are, for the moment, happy campers here in "America's finest city".
(We'll find something to whine about tomorrow perhaps :-)
Monday, September 13, 2004
my heroes have always been...
Football players are not, by and large, "heroes". Nor are most other professional sports players. This is not to say that football players (and other athletes) cannot be brave, selfless, heroic people...I'm sure that some indeed are...rather it is to say that referring to professional (not to mention amateur and even Olympic) athletes as "heroes" simply because they play a game well devalues the true meaning of heroism.
Some one running into a burning building to save someone else is a hero...someone running to catch a touchdown pass is a talented athlete...here in America, where hype and hyperbole too often hold sway in public discourse, we too often blur that important distinction.
All that said, there is absolutely nothing wrong with celebrating the achievements of athletes who reach deep within themselves and perform at the highest level that they can achieve.
It is in this spirit that we tip our hats to the gridiron "warriors" who opened the new NFL season with sterling performances. We tip our hat to the fire still in the aged (by professional football standards anyway)arm of Raiders Quarterback Rich Gannon...to the relentless grace and heart of Broncos running back Quentin Griffin, a diminutive (again by football standards) young powerhouse possessing an incredibly compelling combination of drive, skill, humbleness, speed, strength and intuition...to Redskins coach Joe Gibbs, back on a winning sideline after being away for a dozen years...to them and many others who took the field and left their blood, sweat, and tears there this first weekend of the campaign.
My heroes may be firefighters and police officers, soldiers in the line of fire and parents and teachers in the ongoing mission to try to guide and inspire our children...but I also have an abiding fondness for the men who play a sometimes brutal, sometimes glorious game and I tip my proverbial hat to them as the games begin in earnest.
Some one running into a burning building to save someone else is a hero...someone running to catch a touchdown pass is a talented athlete...here in America, where hype and hyperbole too often hold sway in public discourse, we too often blur that important distinction.
All that said, there is absolutely nothing wrong with celebrating the achievements of athletes who reach deep within themselves and perform at the highest level that they can achieve.
It is in this spirit that we tip our hats to the gridiron "warriors" who opened the new NFL season with sterling performances. We tip our hat to the fire still in the aged (by professional football standards anyway)arm of Raiders Quarterback Rich Gannon...to the relentless grace and heart of Broncos running back Quentin Griffin, a diminutive (again by football standards) young powerhouse possessing an incredibly compelling combination of drive, skill, humbleness, speed, strength and intuition...to Redskins coach Joe Gibbs, back on a winning sideline after being away for a dozen years...to them and many others who took the field and left their blood, sweat, and tears there this first weekend of the campaign.
My heroes may be firefighters and police officers, soldiers in the line of fire and parents and teachers in the ongoing mission to try to guide and inspire our children...but I also have an abiding fondness for the men who play a sometimes brutal, sometimes glorious game and I tip my proverbial hat to them as the games begin in earnest.
Saturday, September 11, 2004
Friday, September 10, 2004
We are America
We are America. We define ourselves with heroism and hubris; with amazing acts of foresight and courage…and with stubborn acts of self-righteous anger and unthinking cruelty. We define ourselves with pride and piety, with patriotism and prejudice. We stand tall…titans walking the halls of history like we owned them.
We are buoyed by our triumphs and hardly slowed by our setbacks. We are America. And we are defined by our swords and our ploughshares…by our often noble hearts and our sometimes ignoble lusts…by love and honor, hate and folly…by our welcoming arms and our willingness to exact a price for being different.
And, undeniably, we are defined by tragedy. We celebrate our heroes and wise men, our victories and breakthroughs but we define our history…we define ourselves…most often through the bittersweet prisms of tragedy, loss, and, we hope and pray, redemption.
From the arrival of the first slave ship in the fledgling Colonies to the takeoff of the last helicopter from Saigon…from the blood on the streets of colonial Boston to the blood on the sands of the storied Middle East…our history, our very national identity, is constantly being forged in a crucible of pain and tragedy…a litany of names, dates, events, and places that both inform and define us as a people:
The Boston Massacre…the War Between the States…Manifest Destiny…Ford’s Theater…the Little Big Horn…the Great Depression…December 7, 1941…Hiroshima…Dealy Plaza…Malcolm and Martin and Bobby…Wounded Knee…Kent State…Watergate…Challenger…the Alfred P. Murrah Building…
September 11, 2001.
Blood and fire mixing with anguish and resolve…names and dates and places (those mentioned and so very many more)…instants forever seared into the collective conscious…we are America, defined by sacrifice and greed…by righteousness and infamy…by triumph and, so very often, by tragedy…by all that which makes us, in all of our flawed, wondrous glory, so very alive…so very human…so very American.
©2004 neverending rainbow enterprises, ltd. All Rights Reserved.
We are buoyed by our triumphs and hardly slowed by our setbacks. We are America. And we are defined by our swords and our ploughshares…by our often noble hearts and our sometimes ignoble lusts…by love and honor, hate and folly…by our welcoming arms and our willingness to exact a price for being different.
And, undeniably, we are defined by tragedy. We celebrate our heroes and wise men, our victories and breakthroughs but we define our history…we define ourselves…most often through the bittersweet prisms of tragedy, loss, and, we hope and pray, redemption.
From the arrival of the first slave ship in the fledgling Colonies to the takeoff of the last helicopter from Saigon…from the blood on the streets of colonial Boston to the blood on the sands of the storied Middle East…our history, our very national identity, is constantly being forged in a crucible of pain and tragedy…a litany of names, dates, events, and places that both inform and define us as a people:
The Boston Massacre…the War Between the States…Manifest Destiny…Ford’s Theater…the Little Big Horn…the Great Depression…December 7, 1941…Hiroshima…Dealy Plaza…Malcolm and Martin and Bobby…Wounded Knee…Kent State…Watergate…Challenger…the Alfred P. Murrah Building…
September 11, 2001.
Blood and fire mixing with anguish and resolve…names and dates and places (those mentioned and so very many more)…instants forever seared into the collective conscious…we are America, defined by sacrifice and greed…by righteousness and infamy…by triumph and, so very often, by tragedy…by all that which makes us, in all of our flawed, wondrous glory, so very alive…so very human…so very American.
©2004 neverending rainbow enterprises, ltd. All Rights Reserved.
Wednesday, September 08, 2004
are you ready for some...
Thursday night it begins again. Hank, Jr. will sing the song (in whatever variation the producers have concocted this year) and then Al and John will take the mike and usher us into the new season.
The new NFL season.
I'm not as jazzed as I might have been in younger days...parity and free agency have reduced the League to pale shadow of its former glory...but I'm ready just the same. My Sundays are cleared...my Monday nights are cleared as well...my fantasy teams are drafted and ready to rumble...yes, I'm ready.
The Raiders...the team of my heart...will probably not be contenders this year....but then again they might be. And in either case I will stand by them still (after more than two decades of ups and downs...mostly downs...I am, now and always, a fan of unwavering loyalty and guarded, admittedly rose-colored optimism.)
The Chargers...the team of my hometown...will probably not be contenders either. But stranger things have happened and, however improbable it might seem, it could happen for them too. Anything can happen and that's, as a very wise man likes to say often during the season, why they play the games.
So yes, I'm ready. I'm ready for some controlled mayhem. I'm ready for some brutal ballet. I'm ready for some tackles and touchbacks and touchdowns. I'm ready for some football.
The new NFL season.
I'm not as jazzed as I might have been in younger days...parity and free agency have reduced the League to pale shadow of its former glory...but I'm ready just the same. My Sundays are cleared...my Monday nights are cleared as well...my fantasy teams are drafted and ready to rumble...yes, I'm ready.
The Raiders...the team of my heart...will probably not be contenders this year....but then again they might be. And in either case I will stand by them still (after more than two decades of ups and downs...mostly downs...I am, now and always, a fan of unwavering loyalty and guarded, admittedly rose-colored optimism.)
The Chargers...the team of my hometown...will probably not be contenders either. But stranger things have happened and, however improbable it might seem, it could happen for them too. Anything can happen and that's, as a very wise man likes to say often during the season, why they play the games.
So yes, I'm ready. I'm ready for some controlled mayhem. I'm ready for some brutal ballet. I'm ready for some tackles and touchbacks and touchdowns. I'm ready for some football.
in the matter of war
What difference does it make to the dead, the orphans and the homeless, whether the mad destruction is wrought under the name of totalitarianism or the holy name of liberty or democracy? (Mahatma Ghandi)
In the matter of war, old men puff out their chests and dig in their heels and piously invoke the call to faith...to patriotism...to the will of whatever they perceive God to be. Old men rage and bluster and pompously proclaim the righteousness of the cause stridently and often and with no fear that they could possibly be wrong.
In the matter of war, old men draw lines in the sand and swear to defend them to the very last drop of precious blood. In the matter of war, old men puff out their chests and set their jaws and murmur feckless prayers to the glory of God...and young men...in the matter of war, young men die.
As of yesterday more than 1,000 young American men and women have died in the conflict in Iraq...most of them having been killed after President Bush infamously declared a end to major operations in the area more than a year ago.
The President says that he regrets the loss of life and that we must "honor" the dead by completing the "mission" that he started. Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld says that the lives of the young soldiers are the price we have to pay if we want to win the "war on terror". Senator Kerry says that the casualties prove that the war, which he voted to support, was wrong from the beginning.
Old men pontificating. Young men and young women dying. In the matter of war, it has ever been thus.
In the matter of war, old men puff out their chests and dig in their heels and piously invoke the call to faith...to patriotism...to the will of whatever they perceive God to be. Old men rage and bluster and pompously proclaim the righteousness of the cause stridently and often and with no fear that they could possibly be wrong.
In the matter of war, old men draw lines in the sand and swear to defend them to the very last drop of precious blood. In the matter of war, old men puff out their chests and set their jaws and murmur feckless prayers to the glory of God...and young men...in the matter of war, young men die.
As of yesterday more than 1,000 young American men and women have died in the conflict in Iraq...most of them having been killed after President Bush infamously declared a end to major operations in the area more than a year ago.
The President says that he regrets the loss of life and that we must "honor" the dead by completing the "mission" that he started. Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld says that the lives of the young soldiers are the price we have to pay if we want to win the "war on terror". Senator Kerry says that the casualties prove that the war, which he voted to support, was wrong from the beginning.
Old men pontificating. Young men and young women dying. In the matter of war, it has ever been thus.
Tuesday, September 07, 2004
too hot
I will be the first to admit that there's no agreement on what constitutes "too hot"...some people enjoy having the desert wind sear their lungs while the indifferent sun beats down relentlessly upon their heads...but, that said, I'm here to declare that it is too hot today. It was too hot yesterday. And it was WAY too hot the day before yesterday.
It's September in San Diego and here, at this time of the year (as if to mock the children going back to school ), it's almost always "too hot" (at least for South California folk like me who find absolutely no romance in temperature extremes..."too cold" is no better than "too hot".)
It won't last...it never does. By week's end it will be temperate again and we will, again, take that for granted (we best appreciate things when, however fleetingly, we don't have them.)
In the meantime, the fans are valiantly working at keeping things cooler...my big yellow cup is filled with equal measures of Diet Dr. Pepper and crushed ice...and Jill Scott is the on the box (and she's cool enough to make things more comfortable almost all by herself.) But it's still...still..."too hot"...
It's September in San Diego and here, at this time of the year (as if to mock the children going back to school ), it's almost always "too hot" (at least for South California folk like me who find absolutely no romance in temperature extremes..."too cold" is no better than "too hot".)
It won't last...it never does. By week's end it will be temperate again and we will, again, take that for granted (we best appreciate things when, however fleetingly, we don't have them.)
In the meantime, the fans are valiantly working at keeping things cooler...my big yellow cup is filled with equal measures of Diet Dr. Pepper and crushed ice...and Jill Scott is the on the box (and she's cool enough to make things more comfortable almost all by herself.) But it's still...still..."too hot"...
Sunday, September 05, 2004
a season to remember
Summer's going...not officially until the 20th but Labor Day is the unofficial end of the season...and I look back on the things that made the summer of '04 what it was for me.
Cool things about the summer just past:
One of my novels being taken for consideration by a publisher
(keep your fingers crossed :-)
The Olympics
(despite NBC's efforts to ruin the experience with their heavy handed editing and incessant jingoism, it was still quite an amazing spectacle.)
Watching the horses run "where the turf meets the surf" in Del Mar
(up $300+ for the meet...including one last Sunday in the sun today...not a bad way to spend a handful of weekend afternoons)
The Amazing Race and Big Brother
(silly, giddy, and irresistible these two "reality" shows were just about the only reasons...outside of the Olympics, the news, and reruns of The West Wing...to turn on the TV during these summer months)
Gabriel Garcia Marquez's Living to Tell the Tale, Peter Biskind's Down and Dirty Movies: Miramax, Sundance and the Rise of Independent Film, David Sedaris' Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim, Gilbert Hernandez' Palomar
(cool and wonderful books that made their way off my ever-burgeoning books-to-be-read and into my eager hands for savoring)
The Astonishing X-Men, Luba, Superman/Batman, Powers, 100 Bullets, JSA, Identity Crisis
(cool and wonderful comics that delighted and entertained the unabashed fanboy in me)
And now to autumn:
Cool nights, football (yay!!), a journey to Virginia, Thanksgiving, and who knows what all. I'm confident that it's going to be yet another season to remember.
Cool things about the summer just past:
One of my novels being taken for consideration by a publisher
(keep your fingers crossed :-)
The Olympics
(despite NBC's efforts to ruin the experience with their heavy handed editing and incessant jingoism, it was still quite an amazing spectacle.)
Watching the horses run "where the turf meets the surf" in Del Mar
(up $300+ for the meet...including one last Sunday in the sun today...not a bad way to spend a handful of weekend afternoons)
The Amazing Race and Big Brother
(silly, giddy, and irresistible these two "reality" shows were just about the only reasons...outside of the Olympics, the news, and reruns of The West Wing...to turn on the TV during these summer months)
Gabriel Garcia Marquez's Living to Tell the Tale, Peter Biskind's Down and Dirty Movies: Miramax, Sundance and the Rise of Independent Film, David Sedaris' Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim, Gilbert Hernandez' Palomar
(cool and wonderful books that made their way off my ever-burgeoning books-to-be-read and into my eager hands for savoring)
The Astonishing X-Men, Luba, Superman/Batman, Powers, 100 Bullets, JSA, Identity Crisis
(cool and wonderful comics that delighted and entertained the unabashed fanboy in me)
And now to autumn:
Cool nights, football (yay!!), a journey to Virginia, Thanksgiving, and who knows what all. I'm confident that it's going to be yet another season to remember.
Saturday, September 04, 2004
the child within
...there's a child inside that wants to run out and play,
but it doesn't add up...
no, it doesn't add up...
I have circled the sun 48 and 1/2 times now and my claim to dour adulthood is well secured (actually well secured way back into my youth...I have been called an "old soul" more times than I care to count...but that's neither here nor here.) But, that fact notwithstanding, I know and celebrate the child within often and unabashedly.
I think babies and children have the best perspective in the world (looking at the world with, as George Carlin once put it, those wondrous "new eyes" of theirs) and I have no problem getting down on the floor...or the grass...and sharing it with them when they ask. I like puppies, who live for exuberance, and even kittens, who don't but who have their own sometimes haughty charms. I like wonderfully silly cartoons and wonderfully silly pop songs...both from my childhood and here in my dotage...and I think that my Atari 2600 (I got one for my birthday this year) is still the coolest game console ever. I think that Charlotte's Web, Green Eggs and Ham, and The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn are, now and always, among the greatest books ever written.
And I still love super-hero comic books. And comic book heroes. In a world where we have so very few real heroes it's nice to, if only fleetingly, immerse myself in a world where heroes still exist and most times the good guys win and the bad guys, however briefly, slink away in utter defeat. The adult in me knows that it's not the way the world really works...but the child in me enjoys the illusion just the same.
So I celebrate the child within and his bright and ever-vital heroes...Superman and Captain America, Batman and Robin, Wonder Woman and Green Lantern, the amazing Spider-Man and the mighty Avengers, the Justice League of America and an entire Legion of Super-Heroes...and hope that the feeling, brief but utterly engaging, never goes away no matter how old my soul is or however many rides around the bright golden star I eventually end up taking.
"It Doesn't Add Up"
words and music by Carole Bayer Sager and Johnny Vastano
Friday, September 03, 2004
and they're off...
With the conclusion of the Republican Convention last night, the quadrennial dog and pony shows are over and now the two major political parties can hunker down for the 60- day-long homestretch of what will be, I'm sure, a very nasty Presidential campaign.
The GOP did their best to play the "compassionate conservative" card...trotting the moderates out to center stage, stifling the firebrands on the far right, and even backing away from the snarling, ugly keynote speech by "Democrat" Zell Miller (who seemed to have gotten up on the wrong side of the bed on Wednesday)...hoping that it will work this time the way it almost worked in 2000 (luckily for them they had a majority in the Supreme Court to make up for the fact that they didn't garner the majority of actual votes in the country.)
After all of the ruthlessly stage-managed convention hoopla and hyperbole from both parties I'm no more engaged in the race than I was beforehand. It is, I realize, important...but neither of the candidates is very appealing and I will be, as I too often find myself doing, voting AGAINST someone rather than enthusiastically FOR someone. But vote I will... after all, playing our part in the process is the least we can do for the privilege of living in this ramshackle, sometimes-infuriating, sometimes-thrilling, bittersweetly glorious democracy of ours.
The GOP did their best to play the "compassionate conservative" card...trotting the moderates out to center stage, stifling the firebrands on the far right, and even backing away from the snarling, ugly keynote speech by "Democrat" Zell Miller (who seemed to have gotten up on the wrong side of the bed on Wednesday)...hoping that it will work this time the way it almost worked in 2000 (luckily for them they had a majority in the Supreme Court to make up for the fact that they didn't garner the majority of actual votes in the country.)
After all of the ruthlessly stage-managed convention hoopla and hyperbole from both parties I'm no more engaged in the race than I was beforehand. It is, I realize, important...but neither of the candidates is very appealing and I will be, as I too often find myself doing, voting AGAINST someone rather than enthusiastically FOR someone. But vote I will... after all, playing our part in the process is the least we can do for the privilege of living in this ramshackle, sometimes-infuriating, sometimes-thrilling, bittersweetly glorious democracy of ours.
Thursday, September 02, 2004
autumn falls
The show goes on
and the sad-eyed sisters go walking on,
everyone watching all along...
the show goes on
as the autumn's coming
and the summer's all gone...
still without you, the show goes on...
- Bruce Hornsby -
September heralds both endings and beginnings...summer rises and drifts off into memory and autumn...autumn falls. The warm, celebratory days of summer come to an end as the grey, cool and welcoming, bittersweet days of autumn loom on the not-distant horizon. We head back to school and back to work...back to crisp, cool nights and soft, cloudy days...back to the bountiful times of harvest moons and Thanksgivings so close we can almost touch them...almost feel and taste and embrace them.
Autumn falls...quiet as the leaves quitting the grand old trees...soft as the memories (washed in shades of brown and gold and muted blue-gray) of years past with summers far too brief to suit the urge to be carefree in the sunshine and autumns too dear to linger as long as we would like them too once they have taken their annual turn on life's stage.
September...endings and beginnings...the passing of summer, the coming of autumn...autumn falls...and the sad-eyed sisters go walking on...and it's all more than all right.
******
"The Show Goes On" words and music by Bruce Hornsby
recommended listening for soft autumn days and cool autumn nights:
"Scenes from the Southside" Bruce Hornsby and The Range
"Kind of Blue" Miles Davis
"Time Passes By" Kathy Mattea
"Genius Loves Company" Ray Charles (and Friends)
"Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil" Movie Soundtrack
"Harvest Moon" Neil Young
Wednesday, September 01, 2004
be kind to writers and editors month
September, my dear friends, is officially "Be Kind to Writers and Editors Month". This is, of course, as important a celebration as has ever been sprung from the feverish imagination of mankind!
Okay, so perhaps it's not quite that momentous...but would it kill you to give some love to the underpaid, hardworking scribes hunched over keyboards and legal pads pouring out their hearts and souls and waiting...sometimes in vain, sometimes to glorious effect...for inspiration and imagination to turn into tangible magic? No, I think it would not.
(I guess that editors need some love too...though, being the salaried, dream-crushing, nitpicking, rejection letter spewing spawn of the devil that they often are...at least in the admittedly biased eyes of struggling writers...we are not going to worry overmuch about them.)
So kiss a writer...read a poem...buy a book by an author you never heard of (Stephen King, J.K. Rowling, Bill Clinton, Scott Turow, and their "superstar author" ilk have more than enough money in their pockets and bestseller sales to their credit, spread the wealth a little)...get out there and join the celebration. You'll be proud (to one extent or another) that you did.
Excelsior, true believers!
Okay, so perhaps it's not quite that momentous...but would it kill you to give some love to the underpaid, hardworking scribes hunched over keyboards and legal pads pouring out their hearts and souls and waiting...sometimes in vain, sometimes to glorious effect...for inspiration and imagination to turn into tangible magic? No, I think it would not.
(I guess that editors need some love too...though, being the salaried, dream-crushing, nitpicking, rejection letter spewing spawn of the devil that they often are...at least in the admittedly biased eyes of struggling writers...we are not going to worry overmuch about them.)
So kiss a writer...read a poem...buy a book by an author you never heard of (Stephen King, J.K. Rowling, Bill Clinton, Scott Turow, and their "superstar author" ilk have more than enough money in their pockets and bestseller sales to their credit, spread the wealth a little)...get out there and join the celebration. You'll be proud (to one extent or another) that you did.
Excelsior, true believers!
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