I found out a while ago from a coworker that there were people on-staff who were afraid of me. When she named them, I didn’t even know who they were
Distant or Daydreaming?
Defense Rests
Have you heard? GOP Golden Child Senator John Ensign from Nevada announced last night that he had an affair with a former campaign staffer. Ensign, the fourth ranking leader in the GOP who many speculated was eyeing a run at the White House in 2012, supports the Defense of Marriage Act and voted to add a Constitutional amendment to ban gay marriage.
A few years ago, Senator Ensign led the call for the resignation of GOP Senator Larry Craig from Idaho. You remember him, right? The senator caught trying to solicit sex in a Minnesota airport men’s room? Yeah. Senator Craig also voted for the Constitutional banning of gay marriage and supported the Defense of Marriage Act. He’s still married to his beard…I mean, his wife. But he’s no longer a senator.
All of this, of course, was started by Bill Clinton, who signed the Defense of Marriage Act into law while he was president. And we all know the length [ahem] of his marital indiscretions. (Oh, by the way, John Ensign was one of the loudest voices, along with then GOP Representative Newt Gingrich, calling for Clinton to resign for his marital dalliances).
Speaking of Newt, he’s another gay marriage opponent who was called out for diddling someone other than his wife. Well, Wife Number Two. He’s been married three times. His third wife is the one he was fooling around with while still married to his second wife.
And let’s not forget those very vocal media supporters of gay marriage bans and defending the “sanctity” of marriage. Mr. Rush Limbaugh, for instance. Married three times. Divorced three times. Bill O’Reilly. Only one wife. Also one sexual harassment suit filed against him in 2004 by a former Fox television producer, Andrea Mackris, who claimed that O’Reilly called her repeatedly for sexually explicit conversations involving, among other things, vibrators and falafel (the latter being what O’Reilly thought a loofah was called). The suit was settled out of court, with O’Reilly allegedly paying Mackris several million dollars, more than likely just to make her go away so he could continue on with his own “defense of marriage” ranting.
Hmm. Who else…how about another Democrat? Marion Barry, unrepentant crack whore. Married four times. Divorced four times. Last month, Barry was the only hold-out vote on a D.C. bill that would recognize same-sex marriages performed in other states. Although Barry claims to support gay rights, his vote was contingent upon the fact that “The Black community is just adamant against [gay marriage].” Hmm. There were lots of White people adamantly against desegregation back in the day, weren’t there, Mr. Barry? Bet you’re glad the politicians from those days didn’t use your lame-ass excuse when they voted.
And what is it exactly that these staunch “defenders” of marriage are fighting against?
- One of the first same-sex marriages to legally occur in San Francisco was between 83-year-old Phyllis Lyon and 87-year-old Del Martin. They were only married for just shy of three months before Martin passed away. Prior to their legal nuptials, however, they’d been together for 56 years.
- Actress Lily Tomlin has been with Jane Wagner for almost 40 years.
- Actor George “Sulu” Takei recently married his partner, Brad Altman. Prior to their nuptials, they’d been together for 21 years.
- Wisconsin Representative Tammy Baldwin has been with Lauren Anzar for more than a decade.
- Actor Richard Chamberlain has been with Martin Rabbett since the mid-1970s.
- Mary Cheney, daughter of former vice dick President Cheney…er, former vice president Dick Cheney, has been with Heather Poe for almost 20 years.
- Playwright Tony Kushner has been with Mark Harris for more than a decade as well.
Wait. I’m sorry. Who exactly is defending the sanctity of marriage again?
Hate is NOT a Crime
The phrase “hate crime” has always made me uncomfortable in a very Orwellian way, and the feeling has returned in full force in light of the recent events at the Holocaust Museum. Hate is not a crime. Hate, like love or fear or anger, is an emotional response. Hate cannot be policed. Hate cannot be arrested. Hate cannot be punished by the law.
Oh but wait. It can be. In fact, there are several documented instances in which those accused of hate crimes have received stronger punishments than those who have committed comparable “non-hate” crimes. What I do not understand is this: Are not all criminal acts driven by some kind of emotional urge? Lust for money, lust for power, lust for control, crime of passion, crime of regret, crime of greed, crime of hate. How is murdering your neighbor because you hate him for being Black any different than murdering your neighbor because you hate him for having a Lexus and a Rolex? How is raping the woman at the bar who refused to dance with you because she is gay any different than raping the woman at the bar who wouldn’t talk to you even though she was dressed “provocatively”? Isn’t the end result the same in both scenarios? One crime was committed under the emotion of hate, the other under the emotion of greed and/or lust. Should one receive a sterner punishment than the other?
I think it is incendiary and intolerable to allow any government entity to label an emotion as a crime. This is as close to the Thought Police as we have ever come in this country…and that’s saying a lot considering who our last president was. Policing who we hate is as dangerous as policing who we love. Hate is not the crime. The action inspired by hate is what should be policed. But how is the policing of a premeditated “hate crime” any different from the policing of any other premeditated crime? It’s not, and it shouldn’t be. As disdainful as groups like the Ku Klux Klan or the Aryan Nation are, they are protected under the First Amendment. Their hatred is bilious and corrosive to their members…but what they believe, what they feel is not a crime. It only becomes a crime when they act on it, and only then can the law step in.
Of course, that begs the question, how can we step in before the hatred leads to a criminal act, as it did at the Holocaust Museum. You want to stop “hate” crimes? It’s the same as stopping any crime. Try investing less money into prisons and more into schools. Try spending less time writing bills to police emotions and more time writing bills to increase funding to afterschool programs, accessible housing, improved community facilities, access to suitable employment and the training to perform these jobs. Try spending less time feeding the emotional blood lust and more time feeding the intellect
Abnormally Attracted to Tori
Is it sad that of the three posts that I have made about music thus far, two of them have been about Tori Amos? Is it sad that this is the second post in a row in which I blather on insipidly about red-haired icons of my misspent nerdy youth (never mind that the red hair isn’t real in this instance; these Titian tresses are bottle-born)? Even stranger, another red head who goes by a name other than the one granted her at birth (she was born Myra Ellen; “Tori” is a misspelled and odd reference to the Tories of British political persuasion)?
Ah, screw it. I don’t care. I know very little about music. I know only what I like. And I like Tori. Beyond the gorgeous vocals and a skill at piano playing that would make Beethoven weep, there is a wellspring of strength and complexity within Tori Amos that envelops you instantly. Plus, she radiates this hypnotic omnisexual magnetism that I daresay not even Ann Coulter could resist (though I’m sure Ms. Amos would prefer if she did).
But let’s reel it back for a moment to the topic at hand: Tori’s latest release, Abnormally Attracted to Sin. I’ve been giving it a steady listen since its release on May 19. It’s not her greatest release. I think, though, that an artist who has been at her craft as long as Tori has been is allowed ebbs and flows. I think this is the beginning of a flow, a recovery from American Doll Posse, which was the tail end of an ebb begun with The Beekeeper.
Personally, I did like a lot of The Beekeeper. But it was in desperate need of an editor. That seems to be the problem with AAtS as well. While I’m glad that Tori has pulled back a bit from the more experimental existence of American Doll Posse (a place she dips into every now and again, as she did with Strange Little Girls and Boys for Pele), I long for a bit more of a tight ship, so to speak. I appreciate her desire to give me a lotta bang for my buck with tons of songs and videos, but I’m a strong believer of the “less is more” argument. Plus, you always want to leave your audience wanting for more.
Another thing that I’ve found both comforting and distracting about AAtS is that it’s so very reminiscent of some of my favorite previous Tori releases, like From the Choirgirl Hotel or the new portion of To Venus and Back. It’s another rare instance in which she allows outside musicians to merge with her enviable piano skills, to a moderately successful end. The CD, in fact, starts out with several strong electronica-chill pieces, with “Strong Black Vine” breaking out at the beginning with strings vaguely reminiscent of the hook from Led Zeppelin’s “Kashmir.”
Still, it loses its way toward the end, and even at the height of its greatness, it makes me wistful for these earlier works; several times, in fact, I’ve abandoned AAtS to listen to one or the other of these previous favorites. I’d still recommend AAtS to die hard Tori fans. If I were introducing someone to Tori’s music, though, I would dig all the way back to the beginning and Little Earthquakes. Even with all her releases since her debut, this remains not only my favorite Tori CD, but one of my favorite CDs of all time.
I guess the bottom line with me is that I can find something to enjoy on each of Tori’s releases (granted, I only have one song on my iPod from Strange Little Girls and I skip around quite a bit on Boys for Pele and American Doll Posse). And, before you assume, no, it’s not a guarantee that I will remain faithful to those musicians from my adolescence who are still making music. I abandoned Aerosmith not long after they decided it would be a good idea to let former RATT songwriters start scripting their warbling. And Madonna? Oh noes. I think Confessions on a Dance Floor was a last gasp at the fringes of former greatness. If she continues to make the music she made on her last release, I’m going to humbly decline to listen anymore.
I suppose I can be a little more forgiving of Ms. Amos because she’s not center stage, but still she perseveres. This is obviously something that she loves to do. She is obviously overflowing with ideas and concepts and mythologies that scream to be released. She is the original “strange little girl,” with a quirky, keen intellect and a deliciously dirty humor. Plus, she’s a Maryland-raised hometown girl who once walked the same streets that I now call my home. What’s not to love about that?
Flood Gates
Did you know that Gates McFadden once studied mime? Or that Brent Spiner is her son’s godfather?
Did you know that Gates isn’t really her name? Well, it kind of is. Gates is her middle name. It was her mother’s maiden name. Her full name is Cheryl Gates McFadden. She was born in Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio, on March 2, 1949. I always used to wonder if she and Majel Barrett ever had any chats about growing up in the Buckeye State (Ms. Barrett was born in Columbus, which I think is about 2 hours away from Cuyahoga Falls). For a while, though, she used to tell people that her birthday was August 28 because she was a little worried about telling people her real birthday. I find that strange but in an endearing way since it was only the month and day she changed
Flashback Friday: Chuck E. Cheese
At Chuck E. Cheese you can act like a kid,
You can have more fun then you ever did!
You can wiggle, you can giggle, you can flip your lid!
Chuck E. Cheese’s, where a kid can be a kid!
Look at that punim! This is the face that launches a thousand memories for me. Be honest: Who among my age group didn’t celebrate at least one birthday with The Big C and his Pizza Time Players? (American responses only, please 😉 )
It used to be that the childhood birthday party spot was McDonald’s, with its Happy Meals and Playland and silly characters like Grimace or Mayor McCheese (tangent: I would so eat my own head if I was a member of the McCheese clan). But then Chuck rolled into town, with his flashy arcade, cardboard-flavored pizzas, and animatronic stage shows. How could a purple glob and a scary clown ever compete with all that?
To be fair, if you aren’t a child, this might qualify as one of the modern circles of hell. Constant electronic video game noises, seizure-inducing light displays everywhere, screaming children, mediocre food…oh yeah. Dante would have definitely considered this a suitable punishment for someone.
Still, there was something so very magical about this place when I was 7 years old. This was the first non-Disney place where I ever saw animatronics up-close, and I remember being mesmerized by how they moved, how they blinked, how they talked (apparently, I was too young to notice the accompanying whir of servos each time they moved).
The last time I ever went to Chuck E. Cheese’s for myself was, strangely enough, my Junior year of high school. We and the Seniors decided that we wanted to go for our Christmas party (of course we didn’t call it a holiday party; we were fundamentalists, dammit!). So the last day of school before our Christmas break, we loaded up into a bus and headed off. We were practically the only ones there minus a handful of little toddlers and their moms.
Still, the games were all running, the pitchers of Coke were coming fast and furious, and we were just happy to be away from school. The one disappointment was that the animatronic characters weren’t on. I guess they didn’t think we were a big enough crowd to warrant the expenditure of electricity it took to fire up the Pizza Time Players.
That was okay with me, though. I’m a big mechanical nerd. I love to take things apart and see how they work. So while everyone else was either off in the arcade or scarfing down pizza, I climbed up onto the stage to check out the how of it all. Minus a few apathetic glances from the staff, no one even noticed…or so I thought. So I happily poked and prodded at Chuck and his band for a little while before walking back to the front of the stage.
Now picture it, if you will: I’m standing on the stage, right in front of Chuck E. Cheese. In his “off” position, his paws are at his sides. Right near the stage is the table where some of my friends are sitting, along with our homeroom teacher, who is chaperoning us. I start telling them about how cool all the animatronic characters look up close. Suddenly, the stage flickers to life. The lights blink on, the soundtrack fires up, and all those dull, silent animatronics spring into action. Next thing I know, Chuck’s paw is heading where no mouse paw has gone before. Or since.
Yes. I was goosed by Chuck E. Cheese.
Needless to say, I side-stepped as quickly as I could to avoid any further animated sexual advances from Mr. Cheese and jumped down from the stage. I couldn’t see any staff, but I have no doubt that there was laughter at my expense. I sure know there was from my classmates…and my homeroom teacher.
To be honest, I laughed, too. Hell, I still laugh at that memory. How many people can honestly say they’ve been goosed by a rodent? I think the only other memory of CEC that competes is when we went for my little cousin’s birthday. Someone dressed in a Chuck costume came out to greet all the kids…and then there was a “wardrobe malfunction” and his foot fell off. Now tell me that’s not more traumatic than a little goose.
Surprisingly enough, Chuck E. Cheese is still letting kids be kids. He has, of course, undergone an update or three since I was little (the photo with this post is of the Chuck I remember [but, no, this is not the Chuck who copped a feel]). And sadly, violence has found its way into Chuck’s world, such as several incidents in Pennsylvania. It’s kind of pathetic when adults choose to act in these ways in a place meant to bring joy to children.
BUT…if you’d like to reminisce about the “old skool” Chuck and all his friends, head over to ShowBizPizza.com. ShowBiz used to be competition, but then CEC ended up taking over Showbiz and all the characters joined forces. Or maybe I
50BC09: Book Number 18
Unbeknown to me, Dr. Randy Pausch has been a silent hero in my life for many years. A professor of computer science at Carnegie Mellon University, Dr. Pausch helped train some of the most brilliant, innovative minds to hit the programming world…students who, through his honest and inspirational guidance, went on to become video game programmers, CGI designers for major Hollywood studios, Disney Imagineers. He, along with students and fellow computer geeks, designed Alice, a free program that teaches anyone how to design in a 3-D environment, all the while teaching them the fundamentals of several programming languages. As a geek, these things are my bread and butter.
Dr. Pausch also qualifies as a geek idol because of his own intrinsic geekiness. His wish list of childhood dreams included being in zero gravity; being a Disney Imagineer; authoring an article in the World Book encyclopedia; and being Captain Kirk.
With the exception of the last dream, he captured all these dreams. As for that last wish…well, he came pretty damn close. Not only did he befriend William Shatner in real life, but he served as a bridge officer on the U.S.S. Kelvin alongside George Kirk, father of the future James Tiberius. Yes, look very closely at those opening scenes in the new Star Trek movie and you will see Dr. Pausch. He was the officer who declared, “Captain, we have a visual!” This also means that Dr. Pausch has achieved the immortality of now being listed on Memory Alpha, the greatest Trek database ever.
In 2007, Dr. Pausch participated in Carnegie Mellon’s “Last Lecture” series, a program in which various professors are invited to imagine what they would want to give as a final message in light of an imagined imminent death.
The difference for Dr. Pausch was that he was, in fact, dying. He had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer the year before, and it had metastasized. A month before his last lecture, doctors had given him a prognosis of 3-6 months to live.
How would you cope with such a prognosis? I daresay I don’t know if I could do it with the strength, grace, or humor that Dr. Pausch exhibited. This was a man who lived more positively in his final months of life than most of us live in our entire existence on this third rock from the sun.
Randy Pausch died on July 24, 2008, nearly one year after his grim prognosis. One of his final messages, given to Carnegie Mellon’s graduating class a little more than 2 months before he died, was this:
We don’t beat the Reaper by living longer. We beat the Reaper by living well and living fully. For the Reaper will come for all of us. The question is what do we do between the time we’re born and the time he shows up.
Sometimes it seems that there is so little in this life to give us hope or inspiration. Sometimes it seems like we’re just spiraling ever deeper into disdain and despair. Look at yesterday’s incident at the Holocaust Museum and how the malignancy of hatred slowly consumed a man throughout his entire life. And now his legacy will be one of death and violence and hate.
Yet here was Dr. Pausch, consumed within by a real malignancy, unstoppable and unmerciful. And what is his legacy? Hope. Courage. Strength. When William Shatner learned of Dr. Pausch’s diagnosis and prognosis, he sent a photo of Captain Kirk on which he wrote, “I don’t believe in the no-win scenario.” Cancer may have been Dr. Pausch’s Kobayashi Maru, but it did not defeat his soul. It was never his no-win scenario.
Yes, I’ve chosen to take the schmaltz road in discussing this book. I don’t care. Dr. Pausch is now in my pantheon of geek idols. He was an amazing individual. I urge you all, if you don’t want to read this book, then watch his last lecture. His was an amazing spirit and I’m so grateful for what he has left for us all to discover within ourselves, if we just take the time to look.
Final score: 5/5
[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ji5_MqicxSo&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0x006699&color2=0x54abd6&border=1]
The Malignancy of Hate
I don’t really know what to say about today’s shooting at the Holocaust Museum beyond condolences and questions for which there couldn’t possibly be any satisfactory answers.
We come unhinged so easily, we humans. We think we’re the superior life form, the top of the food chain, and yet we fail at something so seemingly simple as respecting our own kind. Not that I am in any way making light of this tragedy, but wasn’t this one of the prime Laws of Dr. Moreau’s Island? Not to spill blood, that is the Law. Are we not Men? Are we not Humans?
And what sort of malignant hatred could drive an 89-year-old man to do what James Von Brunn did today? A lifetime of anger, bitterness, and blame of all others for his place in life. Blame only goes so far in any situation and in the end, it rests upon our own shoulders how we live the life we’re given. His choices obviously ate away like a cancer any vestiges of reason and compassion. It’s a shame his choices weren’t limited to only destroying himself.
I had hoped to come online and leave a happier entry to reflect my improved health state. Now, however, there is a sadness and a disdain inside that goes far deeper than any physical ailment.
50BC09: Book Number 17
No, I wasn’t reading a biography on Everlast when I said in my last post, “His is the House of Pain.” The original Keeper of the House of Pain, my friends, was Dr. Moreau.
I’ve been a fan of H.G. Wells since my English major days, but this is the first time I’ve read The Island of Dr. Moreau. I love Wells’s simple, clean prose and how easily you fall right into the unnervingly controlled cadence of Moreau’s vivisected insanity. This was also ostensibly a very Wellsian view of man’s changing roles in science and nature, thanks I’m sure in part to all that Darwin dropped on the scientific community fewer than 50 years prior to this novella’s release. It was also disturbingly accurate in regard to how far science could go if left unchecked (see Nazi Germany for experiments far worse than even Wells could have envisioned).
The copy of this novella that I own is one I picked up at my favorite used book store. It’s a Signet version that was released in conjunction with the 1996 Marlon Brando/Val Kilmer movie. I can only imagine that whoever originally purchased this book must have been so frightened/repulsed/disgusted/angered by seeing the movie that they just got rid of the book without even reading it. That’s honestly the only reason I can imagine for ever parting with a copy of this story (but maybe that’s just me).
Okay, pardon my tangential yelling for a moment, but OHMYGODWHATHAFU?!?! What in the bloody, blooming hell is going on in this movie other than whole buckets full of fetid crazy? There are just so many things wrong with this movie. So many terrible, horrible things. And I dare not even imagine the horrors Fairuza Balk must have witnessed while trapped there with the dueling creepiness of Val Kilmer and Marlon Brando. At least, though, we now know from where Remus Lupin really comes (that’s for all you loyal HP/David Thewlis fans).
Ugh. Seriously, I could have gone the rest of my life without witnessing this atrocity. I’ve seen the 1932 version, Island of Lost Souls. I’ve even seen bits and pieces of the 1977 Charlton Heston version. After subjecting myself to the Brando Moreau and his MuMus of Terror, I think I might have to watch the entire Heston version, to cleanse my palate.
Anyway, back to the book. I point out the version of my copy simply because I wanted to note one of the most delightful typographical errors (or perhaps a bored proofreader with a wicked sense of humor) that I have encountered in a while. Rather than discussing the “feline Beast People,” at one point Montgomery tells Prendick about the “feline Breast People.”
Hmm. That’s a whole different part of the island…
Final novella score: 4/5
Final Brando crazy score: Solid 5/5 psycho MuMus.
Xenu Luncheon
This is why I love living so close to D.C. I snapped this shot of Renoir’s “Luncheon of the Boating Party” on Saturday. For free. Usually, you have to pay to tour the Phillips Collection, but several museums and galleries downtown participated in a free museum day this past Saturday, including the Phillips. So we decided to stop by to see how the luncheon was going. Still looks quite colorful and vibrant, even if stuck at a bit of an odd angle in this photo. It’s a bit difficult to get a straight-on shot of this one; it’s without a doubt the most popular piece in the collection, and the room is constantly near capacity. So I snicked this shot off as quickly as I could and kept my fingers crossed that it would at least come out clear.
Unfortunately, the Phillips was the only free museum we visited. I’m in slow combat with a funky warm weather cold right now, so after touring the Phillips and stopping for a cupcake from Larry’s Ice Cream, I was ready to pack it in. I had hoped to find a little medical advice from the local church…but I think I was barking up the wrong tree on this one. They just kept saying that they wanted to audit me. All I wanted was a cough drop! And stop asking me if I believe in Xena and the Galactic Confederacy! Mixing genres like that is just not cool.
Okay, wipe up the milkshake and clean off the bowling pin. I’m definitely finished. Time to go home and sleep this one off…
