Friday, January 29, 2010
As a long-time Morrison fan, I found this interesting. But I sure as shit hope old Mojo Risin' has better shit to do in the afterlife than hang around his grave site and watch the idiot tourists. Fuckin' borin', as Sid Viscious would say.
I was an idiot tourist at Morrison's grave site in 1984, and I didn't see dick. I feel so cheated.
Whenever I am happy to see someone leave, I always say, "He/she was about as welcome as the asshole from Porlock."
Person from Porlock
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
The Person from Porlock was an unwelcome visitor to Samuel Taylor Coleridge during his composition of the poem Kubla Khan. Coleridge claimed to have perceived the entire course of the poem in a dream (possibly an opium-induced haze), but was interrupted by this visitor from Porlock (a town in the South West of England, near Exmoor) while in the process of writing it. Kubla Khan, only 54 lines long, was never completed. Thus "Person from Porlock", "Man from Porlock", or just "Porlock" are literary allusions to unwanted intruders.
Coleridge was living at Nether Stowey (between Bridgwater and Minehead). It is unclear whether the interruption took place at Culbone Parsonage or at Ash Farm. He described the incident in his first publication of the poem:
"On awakening he appeared to himself to have a distinct recollection of the whole, and taking his pen, ink, and paper, instantly and eagerly wrote down the lines that are here preserved. At this moment he was unfortunately called out by a person on business from Porlock, and detained by him above an hour, and on his return to his room, found, to his no small surprise and mortification, that though he still retained some vague and dim recollection of the general purport of the vision, yet, with the exception of some eight or ten scattered lines and images, all the rest had passed away like the images on the surface of a stream into which a stone has been cast, but, alas! without the after restoration of the latter!"
Steve and I fought almost the entire way. Motherfucker kept crossing the dividing line in the back seat with his hands when the Moms wasn't continuously observing us as any good mother fucking well should have done.
On the way out to Seattle, we made a stop in Salt Lake City and took a tour of the BIG Mormon Tabernacle. I was personally excited, because that was Donny and Marie's church, and maybe we'd run into them worshipping and shit. Also, Donny and I could get married right there on the spot. How convenient!
Anyhoo, early in the tour, the guide pissed the Moms off when she explained that unless you are married in the Mormon Church, your marriage is not recognized by God. The dumb ho made the REALLY BIG MISTAKE of informing the Moms that she and Daddums would not be married in heaven. What? The OUTRAGE! This meant that basically Steve and I were BASTARDS! Her precious progeny were BASTARDS!
That was the end of our tour of the Tabernacle. It may have been one of the shortest tours ever given there. Sadly, I did not encounter a single damn Osmond, not even stupid fat Jimmy or Earle and Verle (or whatever the older dweeby brothers who were not in show biz were named).
One night, after quite a few libations, they started to argue about the quickest way back to town. This went on for awhile, and I imagine their voices got louder (slurry, but louder), as drunk voices will do, and finally, the two drunks decided to settle the bet by racing back to town, each taking his own "shortest" route. Believe it or not, nobody won the damn bet, because Buck and Gramps smacked into each other at a cross street in the middle of town.
Truth really is stranger than fiction. Also, Gramps and Buck were pretty dumb.
Link to post: http://theexaminedlife-sheria.blogspot.com/2010/01/two-voices-remember-50th-anniversary-of.html
Thursday, January 28, 2010
[This post will anger the Moms. Sorry Moms!]
[In my bro's defence, Dr. Bronner DID say you could brush your teeth with the shit, but then again, I think we have established that Dr. Bronner was sort of mental. You could probably douche with that shit, too, but I'm not going to try it.]
It has been brought to management's attention that some individuals throughout the company have been using foul language during the course of normal conversation with their co-workers. Due to complaints received from some employees who may be easily offended, this type of language will no longer be tolerated. We do, however, realize the critical importance of being able to accurately express your feelings when communicating with co-workers. Therefore, a list of 18 New and Innovative 'TRY SAYING' phrases have been provided so that proper exchange of ideas and information can continue in an effective manner.
Number 1 TRY SAYING: I think you could use more training.
INSTEAD OF: You don't know what the f___ you're doing.
Number 2 TRY SAYING: She's an aggressive go-getter.
INSTEAD OF: She's a f___ing bit__.
Number 3 TRY SAYING: Perhaps I can work late.
INSTEAD OF: And when the f___ do you expect me to do this?
Number 4 TRY SAYING: I'm certain that isn't feasible.
INSTEAD OF: No f___ing way.
Number 5 TRY SAYING: Really?
INSTEAD OF: You've got to be sh___ing me!
Number 6 TRY SAYING: Perhaps you should check with...
INSTEAD OF: Tell someone who gives a sh__.
Number 7 TRY SAYING: I wasn't involved in the project.
INSTEAD OF: It's not my f___ing problem.
Number 8 TRY SAYING: That's interesting.
INSTEAD OF: What the f___?
Number 9 TRY SAYING: I'm not sure this can be implemented.
INSTEAD OF: This sh__ won't work.
Number 10 TRY SAYING: I'll try to schedule that.
INSTEAD OF: Why the f___ didn't you tell me sooner?
Number 11 TRY SAYING: He's not familiar with the issues...
INSTEAD OF: He's got his head up his a__.
Number 12 TRY SAYING: Excuse me, sir?
INSTEAD OF: Eat sh__ and die.
Number 13 TRY SAYING: So you weren't happy with it?
INSTEAD OF: Kiss my a__.
Number 14 TRY SAYING: I'm a bit overloaded at the moment.
INSTEAD OF: F__ it, I'm on salary.
Number 15 TRY SAYING: I don't think you understand.
INSTEAD OF: Shove it up your a___
Number 16 TRY SAYING: I love a challenge.
INSTEAD OF: This f___ing job sucks.
Number 17 TRY SAYING: You want me to take care of that?
INSTEAD OF: Who the f___ died and made you boss?
Number 18 TRY SAYING: He's somewhat insensitive.
INSTEAD OF: He's a pr_ck.
Well I went into the movie yesterday thinking I was just going to see a sci-fi romp. Little did I know it would change my life forever. I sat in the theater after it was over just stunned, and then I began to cry. I was ripped apart with feelings I had never had before, hate for myself and my species, hate for my capitalistic and worthless society, and a feeling of such despair that I would never be able to know the Na’vi or their superior culture and way of life. I was there just thinking and crying for about 15 minutes before an usher asked me to leave. I told him I never wanted to leave and he was confused for a second. Then he said I had to go and if I wanted to see this “crappy movie” again I’d have to pay for another ticket. Well to cut to the chase it got a bit heated at that point and we ended up in a shoving match. The police officer who took me out of there didn’t seem to care either. When I told him he was a tool of an oppressive society that is destroying the world he laughed at me. Now I’ve got a charge against me for public disturbance but I don’t care. Hopefully that jerk usher got fired.
The next day I saw it at a different theater in 3d. All of a sudden the world was as real as my own. At the end I stood up and started telling the people that they were the bad guys and were killing the Na’vi everyday with their western society. I said look at Afghanistan! I got cussed out and had a soda thrown on me but I wore those like a badge of honor, I felt like a Na’vi standing against human oppression and sickness. I just wished I had a weapon at that point and could have fought like Jake did. Jake was so strong. I began to wish that I could be like a new Hitler, only instead of exterminating one race I’d do the whole human race then shoot myself at the end. My mom always said I get too wrapped up in this stuff but she is an idiot who is just as much part of the problem as every other American. I told her when I got home and she cried but I don’t care anymore, I’m 35 and I can do what I want in my room and don’t have to take any “medicine” if I don’t want to. Did the Na’vi take pills to “get better” Did the Indians? Nope. I just wish I could stop thinking of this; it’s more than a movie. My Mom used to think I was too into WoW but that was just a game. I quit playing and told my guild wife there to just forget me. This feels real, that is just stupid now. I don’t even really want to go into work.
Sorry for a long first post. I’m in an emotional state right now and just wanted to vent with other believers. I wish I could wake up and be in a real world, not this hell hole we have created on Earth. I don’t know if I should cry or be mad anymore.
[I know it's mean, but I am still laughing over this post. In fact, I will probably laugh the WHOLE REST OF THE DAY.]
Bronner is an 85-year old (as of 1993) German immigrant who hangs out in Escondido, California. He's not an MD or strictly speaking a rabbi, but claims he's got the equivalent of a PhD in chemistry, which I guess makes him a master chemist. He's also not your average soap maker. Whereas Messrs. Procter and Gamble dream (well, dreamt) of enzymes and long-chain fatty acids, Bronner dreams of world peace.
Bronner wants to convince mankind of the virtues of the "All-One-God-Faith," which, together with the "Moral ABC," his answer to the Ten Commandments, will unite the human race. The details of this can be a bit hard to follow. For example: "Replace half-true Socialist-fluoride poison & tax-slavery with full-truth, work-speech-press & profitsharing Socialaction! All-One! So, help build 4 billion Hannibal wind-power plants, charging 96 billion battery-banks, powering every car-factory-farm-home-monorail & pump, watering Babylon-roof-gardens & 800 billion Israel-Milorganite fruit trees, guarded by Swiss 6000 year Universal Military Training," etc.
Talking to the doc on the phone is the audio equivalent of reading one of his labels. He can be pretty linear when he wants to be, but eventually always veers off into a rap about the Essene rabbis and whatnot, delivered in a nutty-professor German accent. Believe me, it's an experience.
Bronner has had an eventful life. The son of a Jewish German soap maker, he emigrated to the U.S. and pleaded with his father to do the same when the Nazis came to power. The old man refused. One day Bronner got a postcard with the words, "You were right. --Your loving father." He never heard from his parents again.
Initially settling in the midwest, Bronner married the illegitimate daughter of a nun, who eventually became suicidal and died in a mental hospital. (He says she was tortured by the hospital guards.) He also began devising his plan for world peace. Fittingly, he took to the soapbox to promote it. One of his listeners, Fred Walcher, was so inspired that in 1945 he had himself crucified in Chicago in order to publicize the plan. (He survived.)
Later Bronner was arrested while trying to promote his plan at the University of Chicago and was committed to a mental hospital. He escaped three times, finally fleeing to California in 1947. He's been there cranking out soap and soap labels ever since.
Despite his eccentricities, Dr. Bronner has built his soap company into a prosperous concern, mostly by sheer force of personality. In the early days he would set up a table at health food conventions. If a dealer strayed within ten feet, Bronner would pounce and not let go until he'd gotten an order.
But things didn't really take off until he was discovered by the counterculture during the 60s. With the aid of his sons Jim and Ralph, who handle production and sales, he currently sells some 400,000 gallons of liquid soap and 600,000 pounds of bar soap a year. He says he's now worth $6 million--not bad, he notes drily, for somebody who's supposedly nuts.
Bronner's birth control method involves using lemon juice and Vaseline as a spermicide. While it's true the high acidity in lemon juice will kill sperm, doctors say it could also cause your insides to become irritated or burned. Besides, Vaseline isn't water soluble. You'd be clogging up your insides and wreaking God knows what kind of havoc. With all respect to Bronner, I'd advise sticking to diaphragms.
— Cecil Adams
Here is the link: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emanuel_Bronner
p.s. SB uses a lot of dashes and exclamation points, too! Does that mean my ass is ripe for the funny farm? If you answered yes, fuck you.
Thanks for the honour Miss A.!
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
God bless Morgan's sweet family. When I think back to some of the chances I took when drinking at her age, I realize it could have been me very easily. I am sorry this happened to Morgan. Poor sweetheart. May she rest in peace.
Link to story: http://www.truecrimereport.com/2010/01/morgan_dana_harrington_missing.php
Chuck went a little whacko with all that NRA shit towards the end, but that happens sometimes as we age. It can't always be dignified, people. We do the best we can.
I remember visiting my Uncle Ed in the nursing home, and there was this one guy who was always somehow removing his pants and sitting nekkid from the waist down in his big boy high chair. He wasn't very agile, but boy could that motherfucker whip those pants off! You'd a thought the old fucker had tearaways. Nurses were always chasing him, trying to get his damn pants back on. As a kid, I was semi-traumatized by his shrivelled junk, but I digress. The damn point is that it can't always be dignified, people. If I teach your dumb asses nothing else, let it be that. [I bolded the point, in case you are a republican and too damn thick to figure that shit out.]
Today's shit list:
1) Toilet paper (I don't take that for granted too often because I think of the poor Rebel soldiers without.)
2) Tampons (These would be free if men needed them also. They are up to about seven dollars a box for the decent ones now, and that shit pisses me off, thus ruining my grateful mood.)
4) Not having to go to the eye surgeon today and sit with the old deaf AND blind bitch.
5) Seeing Rick Springfield in concert THREE fucking times! (I shut my hand in the Cadillac door on the way out of the concert hall and DIDN'T EVEN FEEL IT, just due to the sheer HIGH of being within spitting distance of the Rickster. Fucker's aura is magnetic. I still want to marry him and spawn his child. This would also get our Grouchy fucking Hardware Guy REALLY UPSET AND FUCKING AGITATED because he would have to change my last name AGAIN in the E-mail system here at work. If you have seen Grouchy Hardware Guy all worked up, you would understand the majesty of this.)
Okay, that's five. That's about all the damn positivity I can muster up for today.
I loved your blog series. How fascinating. I want to know more when I come and visit. We can eat cereal together. I've been eating a lot of cereal too. I will think of you now whenvever I pour a bowl! Thus, the act of eating cereal will endear you even more to my heart, if that's possible.
Dollhouse Emergency Meeting
As regular readers know, I am currently homeless.Nevertheless, I love Eliza Dushku and want to save her show.
There will be an emergency meeting to save Dollhouse.
Dollhouse unofficial fansite toresimonsen.wordpress.com Tore loves Eliza <3
The meeting will be held on January 14, 2010 in the Downtown Central library in Minneapolis from 1 pm to 3 pm. Mostly collecting signatures for the petition, though I may make some brief remarks.
I planned to discuss the meeting by putting up signs with the Downtown Improvement District. The receptionist behind the desk rejected my sign as too unprofessional and in my personal interest.
Last time I was in Doc's, and this was awhile back, Joe was telling me about a cabin he did some renovation on after a young lady committed suicide there, when her parents cut off her drug money. "Better her than me," Joe said truthfully and matter-of-factly. Since then, the Moms and I use that expression a lot. I love it. Very useful.
The other wonderful thing about Joe, besides the excellent service and good company, is that you can say, "Set 'em up, Joe," when you walk in and sit down. Perfect name for a bartender if you ask me.
If you go in, tip the shit out of Joe, and clean up after your damnself! Don't make Joe do it, motherscratchers.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Also due to the genetic lottery (Did I forget to thank Daddums?), I have a familial history of detached retinas, so now I get to go to the retina doctor for a check BEFORE the goddamn cataract surgery can take place. Motherfuckers will dilate my fucking orbs AGAIN there. Great! [Of course my dumb ass waived the sun glass lenses they offered me to help me drive after today's appointment. I went careening down the roadway, back to work, tears streaming down my fucking face. Won't do that again. Passing motorists probably thought I was a damn afternoon drunk. I still can't see shit, so forgive any typos.]
As some of you may know, I don't like old people. They are smelly, and fuckers are always holding my fat busy ass up. Fuckers are pokey because they are retired and have all the time in the goddamn world. I know, I know--shame on me! Fuck you. I'm just being honest, and it's my blog, SO I WILL FUCKING WELL SAY WHATEVER THE FUCK I WANT. Besides, you don't read me for my compassion, and you damn well know it. NEWSFLASH: I'm not Mother-fucking-Theresa or Princess Di, goddammit.
Anyhoo, I told the Moms my dislike of elders is why (besides the genetic lottery--thanks Daddums!), I have premature cataracts. God, or whatever, finds it hysterical that I have to go spend time in a waiting room with a whole bunch of geriatric motherhumpers.
Sure enough, just after I signed in with the receptionist, a busload of Maria Joseph Care Center pensioners rolled in. This one old bitch couldn't see dick OR HEAR. In fact, she said, "The only thing worse than my eyes is my hearing." Some good fucking Samaritan type wheeled her ass over NEXT TO ME. Thanks a fucking lot! I wanted TO DIE. I grabbed a magazine QUICK-like, lest the old bitch decide to strike up a conversation or some shit. I mean this bat COULD NOT HEAR AT FUCKING ALL, and her ass had a hearing aid!
Every time the poor receptionist called a name, the deaf old bag would shout something like, "WHAT? WHAT NAME DID YOU JUST CALL? I CAN'T HEAR YOU KNOW!" Jesus H. Christ. The poor receptionist tried to get it across to the old bat that it wasn't her that was called, but Deaf Bat couldn't even hear the receptionist assuring her it wasn't her or EVEN SEE the receptionist shaking her head NO IT IS NOT YOU at her. What would the fucking point be? I submit that to all of you compassionate fucking lot. What would the point in living be, if you can't fucking see OR hear? Maybe the old bag's taste buds are really honed, due to the loss of the other senses or some shit. Maybe the old whore lives to eat. Literally. I just can't see the damn point, myself.
A young man waiting with his grandfather looked over at me at one point, when all this shit was going down, and rolled his eyes and said, "I don't want to get old." We were both feeling THE FEAR. You KNOW what I'm talking about.
Most of the time, I dont worry, I just figure I'll get the family genes and build airplanes when I am 80 or something, like my Uncle Gene, or take up square dancing when I'm 90, like my Great Aunt Lela, but who the fuck knows? It's all a roulette, motherdickers. You takes your chances. Did I mention that the Daddums wears hearing aids? I could well wind up like the poor hapless irritating old bag in the waiting room. It could happen. Fortunately, I will likely also inherit a good variety of firearms, coming from the family that I do. [Everybody's all NRA and shit.]
Later in the appointment, they stuck the old blind/deaf bat two rooms down from me, and I heard the eye surgeon shout at her (with the damn door closed) that he'd see her in another two years, and I'm thinking--yeah, right. I'm sure that motherfucking eye surgeon was thinking, maybe I'll get a break, and the old bag will keel over before then, because what's the point in operating? Bitch can't see OR hear.
When my turn for the doc to examine me came, I flat out told that motherfucker that THERE IS NO WAY IN HELL I would do his job. Not for love or money. I told him that I have no patience with the damn elderly. However much money that motherfucker makes, IT AIN'T ENOUGH. He laughed. He really did. I meant that shit though.
Monday, January 25, 2010
That shit is so much better than writing a bitchy grouchy post because it's Monday.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Why have you not called my dear? Surely they would not have let you out on your own before you learned some basic manners. I would lke to think that maybe you were swamped with work, but lets be honest, you weren’t. Graphic Designers aren’t THAT busy to not call me back. Oh, my dear. It has been 22 hours since our amazing date. I have been counting the minutes and then converted them to hours so I know how my longing for you has progressed. It has, my dear. Oh, it has so progressed.
Remember our lovely date yesterday? I do. My mother remembers it too. She made you chicken and dumplings.You should be honored. I thought it would be nice to show you where I came from. My mother thought it was an excellent idea. She really liked you you know. Even though you didn’t talk much. I understand. you were nervous.
Why do you hurt me? Why are you insisting on not opening up to me. Do you know how long I have wanted you? I wanted you long before I asked you out. It kind of hurts to know that all that time invested in you is being wasted. It’s like waiting all year long for a toy and then Santa gives you a defective toy that you can’t even use (by the way, what do you want for christmas?). I’m not saying you are defective, but you need some work. I could help you to become what i thought you were.
Oh, while I am writing this, I am looking at your Facebook. You are so fun in these pictures. My mother and I would have loved to see this side of you. Granted, she would not have wanted you to drink and swear, but you can have fun with out all those tasteless things. However, I like all the sexy shots of you. Why didn’t I see that side of you? Why didn’t you come up to my room? My mother went to bed and you went home. Left me all alone. I went to be that night dreaming about what we would have done if you had been there. Too bad you weren’t there. We had a great time.
Well, call me when you get this, in case you were actually busy with your ART job.
LOVE LOVE LOVE
Incidentally, I agree with nearly everything Mr. Irving has ever said. These are still stupid times.
Pornography and the New Puritans
Date: March 29, 1992, Sunday, Late Edition - Final Byline
By John Irving
THESE are censorial times. I refer to the pornography victims' compensation bill, now under consideration by the Senate Judiciary Committee -- that same bunch of wise men who dispatched such clearheaded, objective jurisprudence in the Clarence Thomas hearings. I can't wait to see what they're going to do with this maladroit proposal. The bill would encourage victims of sexual crimes to bring civil suits against publishers and distributors of material that is "obscene or constitutes child pornography" -- if they can prove that the material was "a substantial cause of the offense," and if the publisher or distributor should have "foreseen" that such material created an "unreasonable risk of such a crime." If this bill passes, it will be the first piece of legislation to give credence to the unproven theory that sexually explicit material actually causes sexual crimes.
At the risk of sounding old-fashioned, I'm still pretty sure that rape and child molestation predate erotic books and pornographic magazines and X-rated videocassettes. I also remember the report of the two-year, $2 million President's Commission on Obscenity and Pornography (1970), which concluded there was "no reliable evidence . . . that exposure to explicit sexual material plays a significant role in the causation of delinquent or criminal sexual behavior." In 1986, not satisfied with that conclusion, the Meese commission on pornography and the Surgeon General's conference on pornography also failed to establish such a link. Now, here they go again.
This time it's Republican Senators Mitch McConnell of Kentucky, Charles Grassley of Iowa and Strom Thurmond of South Carolina; I can't help wondering if they read much. Their charmless bill is a grave mistake for several reasons; for starters, it's morally reprehensible to shift the responsibility for any sexual crime onto a third party -- namely, away from the actual perpetrator.
And then, of course, there's the matter of the bill running counter to the spirit of the First Amendment of the United States Constitution; this bill is a piece of back-door censorship, plain and simple. Moreover, since the laws on obscenity differ from state to state, and no elucidation of the meaning of obscenity is presented in the bill, how are the publishers or distributors to know in advance if their material is actionable or not? It is my understanding, therefore, that the true intent of the bill is to make the actual creators of this material think very conservatively -- that is, when their imaginations turn to sex and violence.
I RECALL that I received a lot of unfriendly mail in connection with a somewhat explicit scene in my novel "The World According to Garp," wherein a selfish young man loses part of his anatomy while enjoying oral sex in a car. (I suppose I've always had a fear of rear-end collisions.) But thinking back about that particular hate mail, I don't recall a single letter from a young woman saying that she intended to rush out and do this to someone; and in the 14 years since that novel's publication, in more than 35 foreign languages, no one who actually has done this to someone has written to thank me for giving her the idea. Boy, am I lucky!
In a brilliant article on the Op-Ed page of The New York Times, Teller, of those marvelous magicians Penn & Teller, had this to say about the pornography victims' compensation bill: "The advocates of this bill seem to think that if we stop showing rape in movies people will stop committing it in real life. Anthropologists call this 'magical thinking.' It's the same impulse that makes people stick pins in voodoo dolls, hoping to cripple an enemy. It feels logical, but it does not work." (For those of you who've seen these two magicians and are wondering which is Penn and which is Teller, Teller is the one who never talks. He writes very well, however.)
"It's a death knell for creativity, too," Teller writes. "Start punishing make-believe, and those gifted with imagination will stop sharing it." He adds, "We will enter an intellectual era even more insipid than the one we live in."
Now there's a scary idea! I remember when the film version of Gunter Grass's novel "The Tin Drum" was banned in Canada. I always assumed it was the eel scene that offended the censors, but I don't know. In those days, a little naked sex -- in the conventional position -- was permissible, but unpleasant suggestiveness with eels was clearly going too far. But now, in the light of this proposed pornography victims' compensation bill, is there any evidence to suggest that there have been fewer hellish incidents of women being force-fed eels in Canada than in those countries where the film was available? Somehow, I doubt it. I know that they're out there -- those guys who want to force-feed eels to women -- but I suspect they're going to do what they're going to do, unaided by books or films. The point is: let's do something about them , instead of trying to control what they read or see.
It dismays me how some of my feminist friends are hot to ban pornography. I'm sorry that they have such short memories. It wasn't very long ago when a book as innocent and valuable as "Our Bodies, Ourselves" was being banned by school boards and public libraries across the country. The idea of this good book was that women should have access to detailed information about their bodies and their health, yet the so-called feminist ideology behind the book was thought to be subversive; indeed, it was (at that time) deplored. But many writers and writers' organizations (like PEN) wrote letters to those school boards and those public libraries. I can't speak to the overall effectiveness of these letters in regard to reinstating the book, but I'm aware that some of the letters worked; I wrote several of those letters. Now here are some of my old friends, telling me that attitudes toward rape and child molestation can be changed only if we remove the offensive ideas . Once again, it's ideology that's being banned. And although the movement to ban pornography is especially self-righteous, it looks like blacklisting to me.
Fascism has enjoyed many name changes, but it usually amounts to banning something you dislike and can't control. Take abortion, for example. I think groups should have to apply for names; if the Right to Life people had asked me, I'd have told them to find a more fitting label for themselves. It's morally inconsistent to manifest such concern for the poor fetus in a society that shows absolutely no pity for the poor child after it's born.
I'm also not so sure that these so-called Right to Lifers are as fired up about those fetuses as they say. I suspect what really makes them sore is the idea of women having sex and somehow not having to pay for it -- pay in the sense of suffering all the way through an unwanted pregnancy. I believe this is part of the loathing for promiscuity that has always fueled those Americans who feel that a life of common decency is slipping from their controlling grasp. This notion is reflected in the unrealistic hope of those wishful thinkers who tell us that sexual abstinence is an alternative to wearing a condom. But I say how about carrying a condom, just in case you're moved to not abstain?
No one is coercing women into having abortions, but the Right to Lifers want to coerce women into having babies; that's why the pro-choice people are well named. It's unfortunate, however, that a few of my pro-choice friends think that the pornography victims' compensation bill is a good idea. I guess that they're really not entirely pro-choice. They want the choice to reproduce or not, but they don't want too broad a choice of things to read and see; they know what they want to read and see, and they expect other people to be content with what they want. This sounds like a Right to Life idea to me.
Most feminist groups, despite their vital advocacy of full enforcement of laws against violence to women and children, seem opposed to Senate Bill 1521. As of this writing, both the National Organization for Women in New York State and in California have written to the Senate Judiciary Committee in opposition to the bill, although the Los Angeles chapter of NOW states that it has "no position." I admit it is perverse of me even to imagine what Tammy Bruce thinks about the pornography victims' compensation bill; I hope Ms. Bruce is not such a loose cannon as she appears, but she has me worried. Ms. Bruce is president of L.A. NOW, and she has lately distinguished herself with two counts of knee-jerk overreaction. Most recently, she found the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences to be guilty of an "obvious exhibition of sexism" in not nominating Barbra Streisand for an Oscar for best director. Well, maybe. Ms. Streisand's other talents have not been entirely overlooked; I meekly submit that the academy might have found "The Prince of Tides" lacking in directorial merit -- it wouldn't be the first I've heard of such criticism. (Ms. Bruce says the L.A. chapter received "unrelenting calls" from NOW members who were riled up at the perceived sexism.)
Most readers will remember Tammy Bruce for jumping all over that nasty novel by Bret Easton Ellis. To refresh our memories: Simon & Schuster decided at the 11th hour not to publish "American Psycho" after concluding that its grisly content was in "questionable taste." Now please don't get excited and think I'm going to call that censorship; that was merely a breach of contract. And besides, Simon & Schuster has a right to its own opinion of what questionable taste is. People magazine tells us that Judith Regan, a vice president and senior editor at Simon & Schuster, recently had a book idea, which she pitched to Madonna. "My idea was for her to write a book of her sexual fantasies, her thoughts, the meanderings of her erotic mind," Ms. Regan said. The pity is, Madonna hasn't delivered. And according to Mitchell Fink, author of the Insider column for People, "Warner Books confirmed it is talking about a book -- no word on what kind -- with Madonna." I don't know Madonna, but maybe she thought the Simon & Schuster book idea was in questionable taste. Simon & Schuster, clearly, subscribes to more than one opinion of what questionable taste is .
But only two days after Mr. Ellis's book was dropped by Simon & Schuster, Sonny Mehta, president of Alfred A. Knopf and Vintage Books, bought "American Psycho," which was published in March 1991. Prior to the novel's publication, Ms. Bruce called for a boycott of all Knopf and Vintage titles -- except for books by feminist authors, naturally -- until "American Psycho" was withdrawn from publication (it wasn't), or until the end of 1991. To the charge of censorship, Ms. Bruce declared that she was not engaged in it; she sure fooled me.
But Ms. Bruce wasn't alone in declaring what wasn't censorship, nor was she alone in her passion; she not only condemned Mr. Ellis's novel -- she condemned its availability. And not only the book itself but its availability were severely taken to task in the very pages in which I now write. In December 1990 -- three months before "American Psycho" was published, and at the urging of The Book Review -- Roger Rosenblatt settled Mr. Ellis's moral hash in a piece of writing prissy enough to please Jesse Helms. According to Mr. Rosenblatt, Jesse Helms has never engaged in censorship, either. For those of us who remain improperly educated in regard to what censorship actually is , Mr. Rosenblatt offers a blanket definition. "Censorship is when a government burns your manuscript, smashes your presses and throws you in jail," he says.
WELL, as much as I may identify with Mr. Rosenblatt's literary taste, I'm of the opinion that there are a few forms of censorship more subtle than that, and Mr. Rosenblatt has engaged in one of them. If you slam a book when it's published, that's called book reviewing, but if you write about a book three months in advance of its publication and your conclusion is "don't buy it," your intentions are more censorial than critical.
And it is censorship when the writer of such perceived trash is not held as accountable as the book's publisher; the pressure that was brought to bear on Mr. Mehta was totally censorial. The Book Review is at its most righteous in abusing Mr. Mehta, who is described as "clearly as hungry for a killing as Patrick Bateman." (For those of you who don't know Mr. Ellis's book, Patrick Bateman is the main character and a serial killer.) Even as reliable a fellow as the editorial director of Publishers Weekly, John F. Baker, described "American Psycho" as a book that "does transcend the boundaries of what is acceptable in mainstream publishing."
It's the very idea of making or keeping publishing "acceptable" that gives me the shivers, because that's the same idea that lurks behind the pornography victims' compensation bill -- making the publisher (not the perpetrator of the crime or the writer of the pornography) responsible for what's "acceptable." If you want to bash Bret Easton Ellis for what he's written, go ahead and bash him. But when you presume to tell Sonny Mehta, or any other publisher, what he can or can't -- or should or shouldn't -- publish , that's when you've stepped into dangerous territory. In fact, that's when you're knee-deep in blacklisting, and you ought to know better -- all of you.
Mr. Rosenblatt himself actually says, "No one argues that a publishing house hasn't the right to print what it wants. We fight for that right. But not everything is a right. At some point, someone in authority somewhere has to look at Mr. Ellis's rat and call the exterminator." Now this is interesting, and perhaps worse than telling Sonny Mehta what he should or shouldn't publish -- because that's exactly what Mr. Rosenblatt is doing while he's saying that he isn't.
Do we remember that tangent of the McCarran-Walter Act of 1952, that finally defunct business about ideological exclusion? That was when we kept someone from coming into our country because we perceived that the person had ideas that were in conflict with the "acceptable" ideas of our country. Under this act of exclusion, writers as distinguished as Graham Greene and Gabriel Garcia Marquez were kept out of the United States. Well, when we attack what a publisher has the right to publish, we are simply applying the old ideological exclusion act at home. Of all people, those of us in the idea business should know better than that.
As for the pornography victims' compensation bill, the vote in the Senate Judiciary Committee will be close. As of this writing, seven senators have publicly indicated their support of the bill; they need only one more vote to pass the bill out of committee. Friends at PEN tell me that the committee has received a lot of letters from women saying that support of the bill would in some way "make up for" the committee's mishandling of the Clarence Thomas hearings. Some women are putting the decision to support Justice Thomas alongside the decision to find William Kennedy Smith innocent of rape; these women think that a really strong antipornography bill will make up for what they perceive to be the miscarriage of justice in both cases.
The logic of this thinking is more than a little staggering. What would these women think if lots of men were to write the committee and say that because Mike Tyson has been found guilty of rape, what we need is more pornography to make up for what's happened to Iron Mike? This would make a lot of sense, wouldn't it?
I conclude that these are not only censorial times; these are stupid times. However, there is some hope that opposition to Senate Bill 1521 is mounting. The committee met on March 12 but the members didn't vote on the bill. Discussion was brief, yet encouraging. Colorado Senator Hank Brown told his colleagues that there are serious problems with the legislation; he should be congratulated for his courageous decision to oppose the other Republicans on the committee, but he should also be encouraged not to accept any compromise proposal. Ohio Senator Howard Metzenbaum suggested that imposing third-party liability on producers and distributors of books, magazines, movies and recordings raises the question of whether the bill shouldn't be amended to cover the firearms and liquor industries as well.
It remains to be seen if the committee members will resist the temptation to fix the troubled bill. I hope they will understand that the bill cannot be fixed because it is based on an erroneous premise -- namely, that publishers or distributors should be held liable for the acts of criminals. But what is important for us to recognize, even if this lame bill is amended out of existence or flat-out defeated, is that new antipornography legislation will be proposed.
Do we remember Nancy Reagan's advice to would-be drug users? ("Just say no.") As applied to drug use, Mrs. Reagan's advice is feeble in the extreme. But writers and other members of the literary community should just say no to censorship in any and every form. Of course, it will always be the most grotesque example of child pornography that will be waved in front of our eyes by the Good Taste Police. If we're opposed to censorship, they will say, are we in favor of filth like this?
No; we are not in favor of child pornography if we say no to censorship. If we disapprove of reinstating public hangings, that doesn't mean that we want all the murderers to be set free. No writer or publisher or reader should accept censorship in any form; fundamental to our freedom of expression is that each of us has a right to decide what is obscene and what isn't.
But lest you think I'm being paranoid about the iniquities and viciousness of our times, I'd like you to read a description of Puritan times. It was written in 1837 -- more than 150 years ago -- and it describes a scene in a Puritan community in Massachusetts that you must imagine taking place more than 350 years ago. This is from a short story by Nathaniel Hawthorne called "Endicott and the Red Cross," which itself was written more than 10 years before Hawthorne wrote "The Scarlet Letter." This little story contains the germ of the idea for that famous novel about a woman condemned by Puritan justice to wear the letter A on her breast. But Hawthorne, obviously, had been thinking about the iniquities and viciousness of early New England morality for many years.
Please remember, as you read what Nathaniel Hawthorne thought of the Puritans, that the Puritans are not dead and gone. We have many new Puritans in our country today; they are as dangerous to freedom of expression as the old Puritans ever were. An especially sad thing is, a few of these new Puritans are formerly liberal-thinking feminists.
"In close vicinity to the sacred edifice [ the meeting-house ] appeared that important engine of Puritanic authority, the whipping-post -- with the soil around it well trodden by the feet of evil doers, who had there been disciplined. At one corner of the meeting-house was the pillory, and at the other the stocks; . . . the head of an Episcopalian and suspected Catholic was grotesquely incased in the former machine; while a fellow-criminal, who had boisterously quaffed a health to the king, was confined by the legs in the latter. Side by side, on the meeting-house steps, stood a male and a female figure. The man was a tall, lean, haggard personification of fanaticism, bearing on his breast this label, -- A WANTON GOSPELLER, -- which betokened that he had dared to give interpretations of Holy Writ unsanctioned by the infallible judgment of the civil and religious rulers. His aspect showed no lack of zeal . . . even at the stake. The woman wore a cleft stick on her tongue, in appropriate retribution for having wagged that unruly member against the elders of the church; and her countenance and gestures gave much cause to apprehend that, the moment the stick should be removed, a repetition of the offence would demand new ingenuity in chastising it.
"The above-mentioned individuals had been sentenced to undergo their various modes of ignominy, for the space of one hour at noonday. But among the crowd were several whose punishment would be life-long; some, whose ears had been cropped, like those of puppy dogs; others, whose cheeks had been branded with the initials of their misdemeanors; one, with his nostrils slit and seared; and another, with a halter about his neck, which he was forbidden ever to take off, or to conceal beneath his garments. Methinks he must have been grievously tempted to affix the other end of the rope to some convenient beam or bough. There was likewise a young woman, with no mean share of beauty, whose doom it was to wear the letter A on the breast of her gown, in the eyes of all the world and her own children. And even her own children knew what that initial signified. Sporting with her infamy, the lost and desperate creature had embroidered the fatal token in scarlet cloth, with golden thread and the nicest art of needlework; so that the capital A might have been thought to mean Admirable, or anything rather than Adulteress.
"Let not the reader argue, from any of these evidences of iniquity, that the times of the Puritans were more vicious than our own."
In my old-fashioned opinion, Mr. Hawthorne sure got that right.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
[Note: We are very proud of Martin in this part of the country. He is from Dayton, Ohio. See, another person from Ohio who's not a damn pinhead.]
Specific Instructions for Lamebrain Florida Retirees: Just click on the little radio button next to the lousiest thespian and then click on the damn vote button ONCE.
My question is: Why did George Peppard wind up with a career that went all A-Team and shit? Fucker was cute.
And wasn't it sort of rascist casting Mickey Rooney as Mr. Yunioshi?
Lonely Heart, my ass. That fucker hasn't spent two minutes alone in years. If it's got a pulse and a vag, he's fucking it.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
If you think Mapplethorpe's art is filth, get the fuck off my page! We don't need gay-hating pinheads here. [Mark's post today has inspired me! Now I'm gettting carried away with booting motherfuckers off my site.]
Me and my chinchilla Ruth would like to go on a double date with a man and his pet chinchilla as well. Are you this man? Ruth is bisexual so the sex of your chinchilla is irrelevant; however, if your female chinchilla is not open to the idea of a same sex relationship it is best you discover this before our double date, as we are BOTH looking for compatible mates.
If you do not own a chinchilla but do own a sex-positive nutria, Ruth will take this under consideration.
Please attach photo of your chinchilla*, i do not need a picture of you: Ruth is very into looks however I value intellect and/or personality more highly.
xoxo Lisa & Ruth
*I am serious. This is not some x-rated code. I would like to make that clear and avoid the unpleasant images i received last time. It was very upsetting to Ruth.
[SB is still laughing over this footnote. I will probably laugh all damn day.]
Check it out here.
I'm having to keep Bella quarantined until her spaying on Friday, and Raj (the Siamese Schlub) always wants in the room with her. He is a fucking fair-weather friend though. At first, I thought Raji missed Bella, but really he was only trying to get in the room to eat her breakfast. When I moved the bowl up high, motherfucker was ready to leave the room, but his fat ass kept coming back over and over, as if breakfast might magically reappear again. It could happen, people. That's not so dumb. If it was there once, it could be there again. I had to keep telling the little motherfucker that there was NO breakfast buffet available. The indignant little fuck sauntered right back out ALMOST AS IF HE UNDERSTOOD THAT SHIT. It was kind of eerie, to be frank. I guess if any cat would know what a breakfast buffet was, it would be Raj. Motherfucker loves to eat. He is THE CHUNK.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Actually, Raj was hysterically funny, bless his heart. He wanted to do the deed. He gave it the old college try, but wasn't big enough to bite the back of Bella's neck and still get it in. He was hunching her like a mad man though. He had the right idea. Fucker just couldn't implement that shit. For once, I wished I had a digital camera. His new nickname is "Trojan Man."
Anyhoo, I had to come in to work early this morning, because I have an exam for Lasik surgery tonight and need to leave work early to make it on time. This shit had better work out. My ass is literally blind as a bat, and my worsening vision is just making me feel old and depressed. I am quite literally legally blind without corrective lenses. I got all the good genes in the family. Thanks Mom and Daddums!
Today is Martin Luther King Jr. Day, as I mentioned, and a little known fact is that it is also General Lee's birthday (talk about irony). I loved General Lee very much, so I always drink to Martin Luther King and General Lee and toast them on this day. It's little known that General Lee worked diligently to help reunite the North and the South as a college president after the War years. He was an honourable man, and I admire him tremendously.
Friday, January 15, 2010
A little further into George W. Bush's tenure, when discussing what Kanye said, the Moms said, "Actually, George Bush doesn't care about anybody. It isn't just black people." A-fucking-men to that shit.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
[Comment from Alice]
Personally I and some others find you totally disgusting, and not at all funny with all your bad language, so, we have decided to stop following you.Just incase you would like to remove yourself from your profile too. [Uhhhmmmm, okay?]
[Response from SB]
Alice in Wonderland,
Thank you. I couldn't be happier. I think you are a whack job, quite frankly. Your fucking romantic poetry makes me want to throw up.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
HARVEY MILK DAY, PEOPLE!!!! [Thank you, Governor Schwarzenegger! Even though I can't understand half the shit that comes out of your mouth, you did a good thing (for a damn republican).]
[Now, this motherfucker is what I call an entrepreneur. Wish I had thought of it first.]
Also, is this ho planning on plopping the fetus out on the jungle floor? Is this some sort of exotic birthing shit?
I love you Harvey, wherever you are. They didn't silence you after all. Fuckers.
By Pete Kotz in Animal Cruelty, unsolved
Tuesday, Jan. 12 2010 @ 7:05AM
Joyce Borgen was driving in rural Minnesota when she saw a cat staring at her by the road. She drove 30 minutes further before deciding she couldn't leave it there in the cold. When she returned, she discovered the cat had been glued to the road... She grabbed it and warmed it up, then took it to the Second Chance Rescue Center in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, just across the border. The 7-month-old cat's nose has been glued to the road and it lost layers of skin elsewhere when Borgen set it free.At first the cat seemed to recover, but it died five days later, perhaps from injuries due to the cold. Animal rescue workers believe some sick little kids are the culprits.
Can you imagine? I certainly wasn't raised that way. I don't think much AT ALL of their generation. I think they are a bunch of spoiled selfish entitled little assholes, by and large (my brother Nick and Cousin Sheila and Jessie Moon and a few others excepted). And yes, I am getting old and cranky and grouchy. Granted. And also, Yankees are ruder over all than southerners. Southerners have better manners, and yes, I am on a rant and feeling bitter about the Civil War this morning. I'll get over it. Maybe after another cup of coffee. By the way, our Rebel soldiers drank shitty chickory coffee, because the damn Yankees high jacked all their good supplies, even their toilet paper. My whole theory of why the Yankees ACTUALLY WON the Civil War hinges on toilet paper (I once considered doing a PhD thesis on it), but that's another story for another day. Yankee Fuckers. Theiving sonsabitches. [Except for Joshua Chamberlain. His ass gets a pass because he was an English professor.]
Thanks for all your lovely inquiries about my rather poor health of late. I love my motherfuckers!
The Doc put me back on an inhaler for asthma after I told her my lung capacity was for shit (That's how I actually put it--The Doc is young and cool, and I have been with her for a long fucking time, because she actually listens and gives a shit, and that's the kind of doctor my Cousin Sheila will be, too. Did I mention how proud of Cousin Sheila we all are? Well, we are. She may cure cancer even.). The Doc said the stress of the past year, with moving and the divorce, probably lowered my immunity and gave the damn asthma a chance to come back and take hold. I haven't been bad enough to use an inhaler for several years now. Did I mention how much I hate the Yankee North? My blood line makes me ill-equipped for such weather. I can't even breathe properly in the cold.
Actually, the first thing I think of when it dumps snow and gets cold, is those poor rebel soldiers in the cold Virginia weather during the Civil War. Those poor souls! And yes, like Shelby Foote, I am always more bothered by the sufferings of Southerners. When there is a disaster, the names of the southern dead listed, always fill me with the most sorrow. And further, I HATE AND DESPISE General Sherman of Ohio with bilious vitriol, but that's another story for another day. The only good thing that sonofabitch ever did was not destroying Savannah. Fucker.
[But I ramble. Back to the doctor visit. I warned you motherfuckers, so don't blame me.]
I also got a shot in the butt. I haven't had one of those since I was a kid, but there's a lot more caboose back there now, and I barely even felt it. My brother and I used to bawl and carry on at the very thought of the doctor's office and a shot. We were girly men, what can my ass say? [I'm sure that Cousin Sheila won't hurt small children with shots. She will be the BEST, most gentle shot giver, EVER. We're VERY PROUD of her.]
Tonight, my lucky ass gets to cat-wrangle TWO kittens into ONE small carrier to get their asses to the vet for kitten shots. In theory, Bella Puppini (a.k.a. The Bloody Fires of Hell) is supposed to sort of mentor Raj, the Siamese/Himalayan Schlub. Basically, I have about five minutes to capture them both and shove their frightened asses in a container meant for one grown cat in order to make the appointment on time. Fun! If I am lucky, I will still have all 10 fingers by nightfall.
Wish me luck!
Monday, January 11, 2010
The Moms told me about this friend of theirs in their retirement park out in Yuma. [He used to be a cop. Go figure.] Anyhoo, the guy went to see the new Sherlock Holmes movie, and the Moms asked how he liked it.
The guy said he didn't like it for three reasons: 1) It is set in the 1800s. 2) It is set in England. 3) It was dark and gloomy.
I love this show. Just love it. I watched all of season 3 over the weekend.
Duchovny's character and I share about the same stress/excitement level about life. We are about one step above a corpse. Depression is good for your blood pressure.
Friday, January 8, 2010
[I still hate IAMS, along with Morrissey, my idol. It was a free calendar, and the pictures of cats were too good to throw away. And NO, I do not have a subscription to Cat Fanciers. Fuck you for thinking that.]
Facebook can suck my ass. It's for socially retarded people.
[Go ahead and let me have it in the comments section. I know it's coming.]
Thursday, January 7, 2010
I have also been saved by the weather here in Ohio today. They are dismissing us at 2:00 due to an incoming snowstorm. Hot damn! Now I can get a nappy in before the big Bama/Texas bowl game tonight.
GO BAMA! [And also Coach Saban is sexy as hell. I'm available Coach Saban, and you might be able to afford me on your salary. Phone moi!]
Monday, January 4, 2010
God bless you, Mr. President. I love you sincerely. You are a good and decent man in a world filled with indecency.