God: Jealous and quick to anger. Passive aggressive. Likes to watch people suffer and become philosophical about it. Sends his children to do his dirty work and thinks its funny that this is widely considered virtuous and self-sacrificing. Known to kill on a grand scale. Thinks it’s funny to balance eternal souls on an impossible, endless enigma.
Hobbies include being vengeful and jealous, laughing at people doing odd things when they think they are alone, and working in the shop making incredibly life-like carvings of bizarre, impossible creatures to leave laying around on Earth for the inquisitive to discover and fight about.
Snickers whenever the phrase “All the World’s a Stage” is uttered.
Beer drinker, likes pills.
Satan: God’s wife. Thinks she got screwed in the divorce. The real talent in the family. God never gets her jokes, usually gets mad and claims she’s mocking him which she finds very funny.
Prefers the fashion of the Fifties. Invented the term “Nuclear Family”. Good friends with Jacqueline Kennedy-Onassis and thinks Aristotle Onassis is hot. Likes powerful men.
Hobbies include being ironic, writing pop songs, and meddling with the subconscious.
Likes to shave her pubic hair into the goateed, horned, male image of the devil and make it wink at whatever young man is going down on her in whatever alley behind whatever bar.
Wine drinker, likes marijuana.
Jesus: Only Son. A disappointment.
Gentle and unassuming and often requires a Fatherly bail-out. Attention seeking. Will starve himself in the desert if things aren’t going his way even though his mother would give him the world if only he’d eat a little from time to time.
Has trouble negotiating the balance between his mother wanting him to simply give girls a chance, “Just in case this messiah scheme of your Father’s turns out like all his other cockamamie ideas” and his father pressuring him to smite and cast down people who pick on him.
Hobbies include, you know, just hanging around.
As we look in on these celestial beings, Satan has called God up to discuss Jesus' behavior on earth:
Satan: "I'm just worried about him. He's fucking up. I don't know what to do, I'm at my wit's end."
God: "Well, what's he doing?"
S: "Nothing. He's down there telling people to be nice to each other. That's it. That's all I get for my investment. It's not right."
G: "Give him time. I was just speaking with him the other day. He’ll come around. Believe me, these people won't know what hit them."
S: "Yeah, OK. I hope you're right. Anyway, want to hear a joke?"
G: "Not really, but go ahead."
S: "All right, here goes: How many of You does it take to screw in a light bulb?"
G: "How many of Me does it take to— I don't know, how many?"
S: "Ha! Ha! That's funny."
G: "What? Wait. Is that it? Is that the joke?"
S: "Yeah. Hee hee."
G: "I don't get it. That's it? What? I don't get it."
S: "Ho ho! It just gets better and better."
G: "What, goddamit, what? Dammit Lucrecia, you’re doing it again."
S: “You just have no idea."
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
So, Finally What Did Happen...
The night before the events that I'm about to describe occured, we observed this moon over the treetops of our neighborhood. No one there had seen a moon just like it before, not at that time of year. We were cooking out and drinking. Every so often someone would say that he or she heard something or some animal crunching through the woods behind the house. I heard it too now and then but figured it was a deer or armadillo and left it at that, and continued to tip my cups. It turned out to be a fun cookout despite the fact that the moon never left that spot in the sky. The moon never traveled. I noticed but didn't mention it to anyone else. I didn't want to party to end.
The next morning I went into the forest to see if I could find a hint as to what it was that was marching around during our cookout. I didn't find any tracks, but I did come across this un-natural pairing of a pine tree and an oak. They were intertwined from the roots to the limbs. It was strange because, where normally one tree would force out the other for resources, these trees seemed to gain strength from each other. In many places it was difficult to know where one tree would begin and the other end, as if the very fibers of the bark had come together somehow.
I heard this rustling noise to my left and when I turned to look I saw a small evergreen shake and suddenly appear to grow arms. It started to move toward me and said in a very big voice, "Believe it or not, you're under my spell, and until you're released, you'll do as I tell."
Obviously I turned to run without even a thought, but I tripped on a bramble and fell. The tree had made chase and was nearly on top of me when I turned my head. I rolled over to face it, but crawling backwards all the time.
Then this creature jumped out from behind the tree and hopped right onto my chest. He was about two feet tall and light as a feather. He grabbed me by both ears and kissed me on the mouth, which is the only reason I didn't scream.
He did a back flip off my chest and landed on both feet right into a deep bow with a flourish. He spoke in Old English, which luckily I had studied in school, and said (translated), "You've come across some old mates of mine, the ones that I did intertwine. Lovers they were and lovers they are; thankful they be to their lucky star."
I remained on the ground gasping, but over his shoulder I looked toward the two trees intertwined. His bright eyes, locked on mine, saw clearly what I did and he said, "Aye, they be the two, the two without eyes; but they see more than you do whether dark or clear skies."
I took a breath as if to speak, but he put a finger to his lips, grabbed me by the hand and (how shall I describe it?), he dove into the ground, right through the leaf litter and the dark mulchy earth, with me in his grasp. The ground broke before us like water until we reached a kind of cavity. We fell through and landed hard on hard ground, on our feet. I looked up and saw these gates, these luminescent gates that opened into what I hoped to never know. The creature leapt to my shoulder and whispered in my ear, "Oh, now that's where you'll go, believe me I'm sho'; I've done this befo', so down we shall throw." And so through the gates we went; him one way, me another.
The first thing I saw was all these people worshipping a giant fish. They chanted, "Ooom a stasa, Ooom a stasa, Wasa Stasa, Ooom a stasa" over and over again, and so caught up in the groove that they failed to notice the great hook that would descend and lift them one by one into the tank to be immediately swallowed up by the fish. In the brief moments before the fish would swoop in, the chanting would grow louder and more intense, and then the person would be eaten and the chanting would quieten down again. The whole time the little creature watched my eyes intently. Finally he motioned with his hand that I should take a seat and enjoy the show, but I reeled in horror.
The huge fish lunged in and swallowed up a little child, a girl, and I began to beg the imp to take me away, to take me home, or anywhere else. I was crying and scared. The beast laughed a big laugh and jumped right up on top of my head and shouted, "Sum Tally Tally Poppa! Yum Umma Umma Drop!" Instantly we were transported.
I entered a strange world where children weren't born, but fell from the sky...
where giants would chase you down and force you to listen to their string duets...
where the Incredible Hulk ran a gallery and was a famous aesthete...
...where you would never get by without your tommygun.
And suddenly I was falling, falling. Everything went black, but the sensation of falling never left me. I was falling backwards, not tumbling and I began to find the sensation comforting......until I woke up in the bathroom of a working class rock and roll club, asleep under the urinals,
covered in piss, with something colorful dribbling from my mouth. I stumbled out into the bar. The moment I was seen everyone began to applaude and smile at me, but no one would touch me. The bartender wouldn't serve me, so I headed for the door.Just as I put my hand on the handle to go out I heard a voice behind me say, "For all ye been through, ye deserve to see, not both but just only one tit-tee. A journey it's been, but with a
mouthful of bile, I recommend you go home and sleep for a while." And so I did. I never did see that little guy again, but if I ever do, I'm going to blow his head clean off, because I'm never going back into those or any other woods again without a shotgun. Oh, and I chopped those fucking trees down.
Friday, May 05, 2006
Interesting Post
It has been an interesting morning. I can't really go into it right now, but believe me, if I were to tell you about what's been going on this morning, you would be very, very interested. Let me put it this way: Your jaw would drop to the floor. That's how interesting you would find the events I've lived through today already.
Harrowing doesn't even start describing this day. Blood curdling is more like it. Like when you're watching one of those medical dramas on TV, like ER, and the swinging doors to the emergency room suddenly bang open and a woman pushing a gurney flies through real fast, shouting instructions like, "I need 50 cc's of pentathol and a nitrogen drip. Now Dammit!" OK, if you look on the faces of all the other people standing around in different shades of medical clothing just before they start to dart off and follow the woman pushing the gurney's instructions... That's what your face would look like if I were to tell you about my morning so far.
Harrowing doesn't even start describing this day. Blood curdling is more like it. Like when you're watching one of those medical dramas on TV, like ER, and the swinging doors to the emergency room suddenly bang open and a woman pushing a gurney flies through real fast, shouting instructions like, "I need 50 cc's of pentathol and a nitrogen drip. Now Dammit!" OK, if you look on the faces of all the other people standing around in different shades of medical clothing just before they start to dart off and follow the woman pushing the gurney's instructions... That's what your face would look like if I were to tell you about my morning so far.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
Obviously the person in this photo {removed} is telling someone on the other side of the lens to fuck off. Well, I ask you; is she telling YOU to fuck off, or simply the camera operator? How would you feel if indeed it was you who is supposed to fuck off? You'd probably feel nothing as you don't know this person, nor do you know what might have sparked her ire. Also, you instinctually know from markers in her facial expression that this particular 'fuck off' is performed with a certain since of what we now call 'irony,' but what we used to call 'love.' Also, the little head she has growing out of her hair is smiling which is also a good sign that what she means by that finger there is, yes indeed, 'fuck off,' but more in the sense of, "I hope you fart loudly next time you're in church" and not, "I hope you are drafted and have to die in Iraq."
I can plainly tell you that she was telling the photographer to fuck off. It was me, and I just didn't know when to quit. I still don't much of the time.
Friday, March 03, 2006
This is the view from my back door sometime this last summer. That is my cat, Monkey. I've since had to put Monkey on a diet as she is having trouble "reaching."
This is a flower on the campus of the University of Mississippi. I should say, it was a flower on campus, but the ravages of time and the inescapability of the seasons have doubtless reduced this flower into dust and other like particles. The bee is probably dead too.
This is August, my son by circumstance, fate, proxy or whatever. Do you see the look on his face? This is Christmas. He has already opened various gifts including a bunch of plastic things he asked for with blinky lights and so on and the real, wooden practice samurai sword that I bought for him to replace the shitty little wooden sword he has all but destroyed. The look on his face in this picture is as he is opening a tube full of gumballs. Not the samurai sword. The motherfucking gumballs.
Here I am
I'm starting to stress. How in the world does a 35 year old man find himself with the jitters at the fact that he's about to enter "the world" after college? I need a job and I want it to be in Austin from where I hailed more than a decade ago, and I'm concerned at the prospects like any normal 23 year old should when he leaves University. But what really kinda scares me is that all along in my life as I was cooking my ass off to pay the bills, I knew plenty of folk with no degree in kick ass jobs, and plenty of other folk with great degrees in shit fuck jobs and now that I've almost completed a degree in Philosophy I feel that I am more qualified that some to ask the question, "What the fuck is a job, anyhow?"
It's a funny little word. How can a word that works well prefixed with 'hand-,' 'boob-,' and 'blow-,' be such an angry thing when preceded by another little word, "No." Or put the word "shitty" in front of the word "job" and what have you got? You start thinking that Chris Walken's character in "The Deer Hunter" had a pretty good job there toward the end of the movie. Better than total uncertainty.
It's a funny little word. How can a word that works well prefixed with 'hand-,' 'boob-,' and 'blow-,' be such an angry thing when preceded by another little word, "No." Or put the word "shitty" in front of the word "job" and what have you got? You start thinking that Chris Walken's character in "The Deer Hunter" had a pretty good job there toward the end of the movie. Better than total uncertainty.
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
Thursday, October 20, 2005
Thursday, October 20, 2005
Getting started, letting go
One of the first difficulties in playing hide and seek with your child at Wal-Mart is that, by the rules of the game, you have to be out of sight of each other. There is something instinctual about not walking away from a child of six in a public sphere. Well, I say "instinctual" when perhaps I should say "habitual."
Because this is how they get you. Fifty years ago parents thought nothing of sending their children, even young children, out by themselves to run errands or just to play and be involved with the world. It's a matter of nostalgia these days where you will hear people say, "Well, that was a simpler time. There wasn't as much crime and you never heard anything about child abductions."
Exactly. You never heard about them, but they were happening. They've always happened.
The fact is, your child, my child, is extremely unlikely to be kidnapped by a stranger. It's something on the order of, or less likely than, being struck by lightening, however these days children are warned to talk to no one, they are patted down at schools; they are surrounded by enemies. As parents, by buying into the paranoia, we are crippling our children.
The question is: Why all the fear? Who does it benefit?
Some answers might be found if you look at where the money is going. Right now our federal gov't is debating whether and how much to cut from all the social programs we have in order to pay for Katrina reconstruction, however, in the few cases where someone suggested cutting a little from Homeland Security--well, you know intuitively that those suggestions didn't go over well.
The words "political suicide" come to mind.
But keep in mind that more people die on our roads every month than died in New York on September 11. Every Month.
So, back to the boy. I found a way inside myself to do it. I took careful consideration of the possible risks and decided to trust my head this time which told me that the fear is an illusion brought on by years of social programming.
If I'm going to help this boy fight the real evil he will face in life, not media evil, then I would have to push off of the life raft. I would have to let go of his hand and say, "OK. I'm it. You go hide, anywhere in the toy section, and I'll count to twenty and then try and find you."
I figured it would be best to start in a small area. Searching for a wiley six year old in the whole of a Super Wal-Mart would be daunting to say the least. Baby steps.
I let go of his hand.
Because this is how they get you. Fifty years ago parents thought nothing of sending their children, even young children, out by themselves to run errands or just to play and be involved with the world. It's a matter of nostalgia these days where you will hear people say, "Well, that was a simpler time. There wasn't as much crime and you never heard anything about child abductions."
Exactly. You never heard about them, but they were happening. They've always happened.
The fact is, your child, my child, is extremely unlikely to be kidnapped by a stranger. It's something on the order of, or less likely than, being struck by lightening, however these days children are warned to talk to no one, they are patted down at schools; they are surrounded by enemies. As parents, by buying into the paranoia, we are crippling our children.
The question is: Why all the fear? Who does it benefit?
Some answers might be found if you look at where the money is going. Right now our federal gov't is debating whether and how much to cut from all the social programs we have in order to pay for Katrina reconstruction, however, in the few cases where someone suggested cutting a little from Homeland Security--well, you know intuitively that those suggestions didn't go over well.
The words "political suicide" come to mind.
But keep in mind that more people die on our roads every month than died in New York on September 11. Every Month.
So, back to the boy. I found a way inside myself to do it. I took careful consideration of the possible risks and decided to trust my head this time which told me that the fear is an illusion brought on by years of social programming.
If I'm going to help this boy fight the real evil he will face in life, not media evil, then I would have to push off of the life raft. I would have to let go of his hand and say, "OK. I'm it. You go hide, anywhere in the toy section, and I'll count to twenty and then try and find you."
I figured it would be best to start in a small area. Searching for a wiley six year old in the whole of a Super Wal-Mart would be daunting to say the least. Baby steps.
I let go of his hand.
Sunday, October 16, 2005
Ta DAH!
Here's a picture from Hulk's "coming out" party. We had a doctor friend come over to give Hulk those Botox injections he's been wanting which is why his smile looks more like a grimace. The doctor assured us that Hulk's smile will return in a couple of days.
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
Danger!
Man! These blog things can be kinda dangerous.
I ate at a Mexican restaurant tonight and had two bathtubs of unsweetened iced tea. You have to specify unsweetened iced tea in the South. Sweet tea is par usual. Anyway, I drank my weight in iced tea at about 8:30 pm and now I'm awake. AWAKE.
I already went for a walk. I walked around the block trying to look into the windows of all my neighbors. Just from the street, mind you. It's not illegal if it's from the street.
I wasn't trying to do no peeping. I was spying. I got a ticket recently for making too much noise. No warning. Nothing. Cop just walks up and hands me a fucking ticket. $211.
Sure I was making noise, but how are you supposed to know that you're bothering someone if you have no warning? Sure, sure, a reasonable person might have assumed the noise was great enough to disturb a neighbor, but who on this earth ever said I was reasonable?! No one ever did.
So I was spying, trying to suss out the MthrFcker who called the cops on me.
The other day I went down to the court and took a gander at the noise ordinance. Two things jumped out at me: The words "Health and Safety" and "Inside" as in INSIDE the domicile, as in a person's health and safety must be threatened from within their home or it doesn't count.
This is where the Baptists come in. When I went to the pretrial thing to plead INNOCENT and schedule a trial, the judge looked at the ticket and said, "Mr. Rushing. It says here the officers issued this citation at two A. M. in the morning." He paused and looked at me. He kept looking at me. I realized that he was hoping the fact of the hour would sink in. He was trying to bore it into me. He was hoping for me to realize that Jesus would not have been out at 2:00 on a Saturday night because, technically, that's Sunday and Jesus is hung up on technicalities.
I live in Oxford, MS. This is the town in which it is illegal to sell cold beer at a gas station or grocery store. Did you get that? They can sell you beer, just not on Sunday, and never can they sell it to you cold. Ahem, ahem... THE LAW REQUIRES THAT IF YOU ARE GOING TO SELL BEER TO A PERSON, PRESUMABLY AN ADULT WITH ADULT CAPACITIES, YOU ARE NOT TO SELL IT TO THEM COLD.
When I first moved here, I walked around Walmart for an hour looking for the cold beer. I saw stacks of beer, warm, all over the place, I just couldn't find the coolers with the cold beer. So I left and went to a gas station, and again, I looked and looked and could not find the cold beer. So I asked and the lady behind the counter said in her Southern emphysema voice, "You're not from around here are you?"
Oxford is also the place where bars can be open until 1 am on Thursday and Friday, but not Saturday because that's technically Sunday, EXCEPT ON A GAME DAY. Jesus apparently likes Ole Miss football and reserves the witching hour of the Sabbath on home game days to have a little snort of the hooch.
Anyway, the reason I illustrate these bizarrities is to show that this place has no business charging me $211 for being a little noisy one night. This place is out of wack and needs readjustment. The Feds did it once, years ago and left a couple bodies behind. If it we'ren't for the Feds black people would still not be allowed to attend Ole Miss. Wack I tell you.
So, how in the shit am I going to threaten someone's health and safety inside their home with what is essencially a boombox? My tax dollars are being used to torture and kill people. Now I must suffer the indignity of a redneck cop smugly handing me a ticket that says I am making too much noise? I am poor. Like most poor people I live very close to other poor people. EXCEPT, right down at the end of my street, just within earshot of the interested, there are people who are not poor, who are Southern Baptists, one of which is himself a redneck cop. Inside those houses there is no way I was threatening anyone's health and safety with my boombox, but if a door were cracked and a pinched and bitter face were to hear the sinners regailing themselves with a celebration of music and sex and alcohol and DRUGS with Blacks and Mexicans and single women who should know better, then wouldn't it be a favor to those sinner's souls and to the baby Jesus to call the police and tell them just a little lie, that you were in your bed and stood it as long as you could, but finally you just had to get up and call because you didn't know what to do, instead of the truth which was that your acid reflux was kicking in and, as you usually do, you got out of bed to find some antacids which, strangely, took the form of two pieces of leftover fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, chocolate cake and (well why not) three bowls of icecream, and that's when you saw the headlights going toward where those sinners live, so you poked out your head and worried for the health and safety of my soul. God Bless You.
I ate at a Mexican restaurant tonight and had two bathtubs of unsweetened iced tea. You have to specify unsweetened iced tea in the South. Sweet tea is par usual. Anyway, I drank my weight in iced tea at about 8:30 pm and now I'm awake. AWAKE.
I already went for a walk. I walked around the block trying to look into the windows of all my neighbors. Just from the street, mind you. It's not illegal if it's from the street.
I wasn't trying to do no peeping. I was spying. I got a ticket recently for making too much noise. No warning. Nothing. Cop just walks up and hands me a fucking ticket. $211.
Sure I was making noise, but how are you supposed to know that you're bothering someone if you have no warning? Sure, sure, a reasonable person might have assumed the noise was great enough to disturb a neighbor, but who on this earth ever said I was reasonable?! No one ever did.
So I was spying, trying to suss out the MthrFcker who called the cops on me.
The other day I went down to the court and took a gander at the noise ordinance. Two things jumped out at me: The words "Health and Safety" and "Inside" as in INSIDE the domicile, as in a person's health and safety must be threatened from within their home or it doesn't count.
This is where the Baptists come in. When I went to the pretrial thing to plead INNOCENT and schedule a trial, the judge looked at the ticket and said, "Mr. Rushing. It says here the officers issued this citation at two A. M. in the morning." He paused and looked at me. He kept looking at me. I realized that he was hoping the fact of the hour would sink in. He was trying to bore it into me. He was hoping for me to realize that Jesus would not have been out at 2:00 on a Saturday night because, technically, that's Sunday and Jesus is hung up on technicalities.
I live in Oxford, MS. This is the town in which it is illegal to sell cold beer at a gas station or grocery store. Did you get that? They can sell you beer, just not on Sunday, and never can they sell it to you cold. Ahem, ahem... THE LAW REQUIRES THAT IF YOU ARE GOING TO SELL BEER TO A PERSON, PRESUMABLY AN ADULT WITH ADULT CAPACITIES, YOU ARE NOT TO SELL IT TO THEM COLD.
When I first moved here, I walked around Walmart for an hour looking for the cold beer. I saw stacks of beer, warm, all over the place, I just couldn't find the coolers with the cold beer. So I left and went to a gas station, and again, I looked and looked and could not find the cold beer. So I asked and the lady behind the counter said in her Southern emphysema voice, "You're not from around here are you?"
Oxford is also the place where bars can be open until 1 am on Thursday and Friday, but not Saturday because that's technically Sunday, EXCEPT ON A GAME DAY. Jesus apparently likes Ole Miss football and reserves the witching hour of the Sabbath on home game days to have a little snort of the hooch.
Anyway, the reason I illustrate these bizarrities is to show that this place has no business charging me $211 for being a little noisy one night. This place is out of wack and needs readjustment. The Feds did it once, years ago and left a couple bodies behind. If it we'ren't for the Feds black people would still not be allowed to attend Ole Miss. Wack I tell you.
So, how in the shit am I going to threaten someone's health and safety inside their home with what is essencially a boombox? My tax dollars are being used to torture and kill people. Now I must suffer the indignity of a redneck cop smugly handing me a ticket that says I am making too much noise? I am poor. Like most poor people I live very close to other poor people. EXCEPT, right down at the end of my street, just within earshot of the interested, there are people who are not poor, who are Southern Baptists, one of which is himself a redneck cop. Inside those houses there is no way I was threatening anyone's health and safety with my boombox, but if a door were cracked and a pinched and bitter face were to hear the sinners regailing themselves with a celebration of music and sex and alcohol and DRUGS with Blacks and Mexicans and single women who should know better, then wouldn't it be a favor to those sinner's souls and to the baby Jesus to call the police and tell them just a little lie, that you were in your bed and stood it as long as you could, but finally you just had to get up and call because you didn't know what to do, instead of the truth which was that your acid reflux was kicking in and, as you usually do, you got out of bed to find some antacids which, strangely, took the form of two pieces of leftover fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, chocolate cake and (well why not) three bowls of icecream, and that's when you saw the headlights going toward where those sinners live, so you poked out your head and worried for the health and safety of my soul. God Bless You.
Monday, September 12, 2005
Baptists Suck. Jesus Freaks Rock.
Today I experienced the Rapture!
On the University of Mississippi campus was a family of young Jesus Freaks holding enormous signs and passing out tracts. What made them truly wonderful is that their signs included such slogans as, "Go to God, Not to Church."
Now, I am not religious, and for God's sake not Christian, though I could have a good conversation with you about the "Man," so try and imagine my joy at seeing these young, rich, spoiled, white SUV driv'n Baptist (shithead) kids red-in-the-face hollaring at these other kids, quite plainly dressed, who's mission was only to point out the obvious hypocrisies of modern Christianity.
A Holy War!
I wish I'd known. I'd have made a killing on Molotov Cocktails. $2.00 a piece.
It was strange, the anger from the Baptist side. They were seeing red and looking positively MURDEROUS. The screaming was delicious. Their puny world was being challenged and without any wisdom they attacked the invaders without asking, "Well, am I perfect in my beliefs? Could I find room to be better?" No. Tradition was at stake.
Days like this I wish there was a hell for these hypocrites to fall into, and of course, I'd have to be there too, just to see the look on their faces. But this is nothing original.
But seriously, Witch trials contained less wrath that today's Christian vs. Xmas rally. There is limitless joy in seeing a Christian face twisted with hate.
Unless of course there is rope at hand.
I'm thinking about joining this merry band of Christian busting Christians for two reasons. I will go to any length to piss off a Baptist and, the girls were HOT! I mean, H-O-T hot. Tall, svelt, blonde, eager. They could teach me to pray. I mean REALLY pray. Pray till it hurts.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Why am I here?
I don't have cable. Additionally one cannot pick up network channels where I live, not with reasonable reception. Always fuzzy and coming in and out. I'd rather not catch the beginning of Conan's stupid monologue if I can't see the end of his stupid monologue.
I would get cable except that I can't get my mind around how much it costs A YEAR. I could buy a nice guitar every year for the cost of cable.
But Discovery Channel, and The Daily Show...
or guitar.
What would you do?
I would get cable except that I can't get my mind around how much it costs A YEAR. I could buy a nice guitar every year for the cost of cable.
But Discovery Channel, and The Daily Show...
or guitar.
What would you do?
Saturday, July 09, 2005
Philosophy professor
Here's part of an email I sent to my Philosophy professor, the good part is near the bottom (isn't is always?):
About the religious stuff: I was a child between religions. While I would not call myself an atheist, I'm purty dern close. I fit your statistic, and I can tell you why: When you are a child in the middle of competing religions you get to see the pettiness and hypocrisy of both. In my case, the Catholics thought of the Protestants as simpletons and the Protestants believed the Catholics were going to hell for worshipping false gods (mary) and for being worldly. They fought over me, for my immortal soul. It was as if I were the Holy Land.
If those desert people would suddenly see their religions as fiction, instantly they would look into the dirt and say, "I killed your children over this!?"
I think evangelical proselytizing has nothing to do with any god. It's a wolf in sheep's clothing. Enculturation. I'm reminded of an image I saw on Television:
A tall, white, lean woman with huge, pinkish, strange hair and thick, colorful makeup in a room full of African children standing on the dirt floor of a classroom. The children are not smiling, they are staring in disbelief at the circus that has come to town, but there is something else in their eyes. These children know want. They know hunger and violence. In the hand of every child (girl, boy, teenager, toddler) was a blond, white Barbie Doll wearing a dress remarkably like the one the lady with the pink hair is wearing, the lady who produced the toys from a cardboard box as she professed, tearfully, practiced, that these poor children don't know about Christmas and baby Jesus andthat that is why she has come to give them presents.
Now, I don't know many Christians who will claim that lady, but there she is nonetheless. Those children were an abstraction to her. If she were capable of seeing the suffering that their bodies suffer, she would interest herself less on their intangible souls adn more on their tangible bodies by going to her own country to convince her own people that there are those who need our help, and that the help should be intellegent and non-ideological.
Shazaam!!!
About the religious stuff: I was a child between religions. While I would not call myself an atheist, I'm purty dern close. I fit your statistic, and I can tell you why: When you are a child in the middle of competing religions you get to see the pettiness and hypocrisy of both. In my case, the Catholics thought of the Protestants as simpletons and the Protestants believed the Catholics were going to hell for worshipping false gods (mary) and for being worldly. They fought over me, for my immortal soul. It was as if I were the Holy Land.
If those desert people would suddenly see their religions as fiction, instantly they would look into the dirt and say, "I killed your children over this!?"
I think evangelical proselytizing has nothing to do with any god. It's a wolf in sheep's clothing. Enculturation. I'm reminded of an image I saw on Television:
A tall, white, lean woman with huge, pinkish, strange hair and thick, colorful makeup in a room full of African children standing on the dirt floor of a classroom. The children are not smiling, they are staring in disbelief at the circus that has come to town, but there is something else in their eyes. These children know want. They know hunger and violence. In the hand of every child (girl, boy, teenager, toddler) was a blond, white Barbie Doll wearing a dress remarkably like the one the lady with the pink hair is wearing, the lady who produced the toys from a cardboard box as she professed, tearfully, practiced, that these poor children don't know about Christmas and baby Jesus andthat that is why she has come to give them presents.
Now, I don't know many Christians who will claim that lady, but there she is nonetheless. Those children were an abstraction to her. If she were capable of seeing the suffering that their bodies suffer, she would interest herself less on their intangible souls adn more on their tangible bodies by going to her own country to convince her own people that there are those who need our help, and that the help should be intellegent and non-ideological.
Shazaam!!!
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Memorial
I listened to George Bush propagandize last night on the radio. I listened in fits and starts. I would put down the dish I was washing, storm into the living room and switch the damn thing off, muttering, "s'all fucking bullshit--fantasy land..." A few minutes later I would re-enter the room quietly and switch it back on. I thought that perhaps he might glib something out about something or another domestic. He tricked me. Never happened.
I imagine that there are men today with tidy hair thinking back fondly on the patriotic words of their commander in chief, wondering what more they can do besides just keep an eye on those swarthy suspects around town and that there are women today who secretly got off last night while their husbands slept, thinking of ole W explaining the national security emergency that requires that he put it in her "behind" while the Secret Service looks on. She feels better this morning. She's quite chipper. She's looking forward to church on Sunday.
Meanwhile, this morning, I'm wondering how I might build a huge statue or memorial to all the arms and legs lost in Iraq, in bronze. There will be this wonderful pile of bronze arms, legs, feet hands and fingers with quite rough detachment points, and inscribed underneath, the words:
"Your Country Will Really Try, We Swear, To Fund The VA Hospitals You Will Desparately Need For The Next Forty Years Or So. And We Promise Not To Stare."
I imagine that there are men today with tidy hair thinking back fondly on the patriotic words of their commander in chief, wondering what more they can do besides just keep an eye on those swarthy suspects around town and that there are women today who secretly got off last night while their husbands slept, thinking of ole W explaining the national security emergency that requires that he put it in her "behind" while the Secret Service looks on. She feels better this morning. She's quite chipper. She's looking forward to church on Sunday.
Meanwhile, this morning, I'm wondering how I might build a huge statue or memorial to all the arms and legs lost in Iraq, in bronze. There will be this wonderful pile of bronze arms, legs, feet hands and fingers with quite rough detachment points, and inscribed underneath, the words:
"Your Country Will Really Try, We Swear, To Fund The VA Hospitals You Will Desparately Need For The Next Forty Years Or So. And We Promise Not To Stare."
Thursday, June 23, 2005
This Morning
I have a garden out back of the apartment. It's fairly sizable. We are getting too many squash, which is in the nature of squash, nature's over-achiever, sucking up every last drop with tremendous roots to give love to the gardener, at the expense of all else; other vegetables. It's tempting to give them too little room when space is at a premium. They enjoy having room, and they will take what they need, passive aggressively, or perhaps as the martyr, as it is not for themselves that they expand and expand but for you, the one who provided the cramped living quarters.
I walked out there this morning and discovered that I had left the sprinkler pulsed over night. I guess I turned it on at about 6:30 PM and it is now one minute to seven in the morning. There is water everywhere. My neighbors will not want to walk out of their back doors, which they don't do anyway. There are three grown man living together in one apartment. They come home from whatever it is that they do as individuals and then climb into a collective personality and yell at the television. They never transverse more ground than is necessary to get from the car to the apartment or from the apartment to the car. I know them only by their shouts.
The other neighbor is a dumpy belly dancer. She won't be concerned about the water since she is out of town for eight weeks teaching belly dancing at a youth camp to youths. There will be boys there. I can imagine that they have known now for weeks that there will be a belly dancer at their camp experience this summer and that they began masturbating the very evening on which they first heard the news to whatever concept of BELLY DANCER they are able to conjure up. When Alicia the dumpy belly dancer introduces herself dumpily (for her dumpiness is easily 65% personality) the boys in the group will cry inwardly and profoundly. That night as they all try and masturbate without shaking the bunk too violently they will uniformly come to terms with the disparity between the fantasy belly dancer and the dumpy belly dancer and the fantasy belly dancer will take on just enough characteristic of the real one that the masturbation may continue, but continue more interestingly with fleshed out scenarios and the occasional subplot.
With all this water I expect the over abundance of yellow squash and zucchini to continue.
I walked out there this morning and discovered that I had left the sprinkler pulsed over night. I guess I turned it on at about 6:30 PM and it is now one minute to seven in the morning. There is water everywhere. My neighbors will not want to walk out of their back doors, which they don't do anyway. There are three grown man living together in one apartment. They come home from whatever it is that they do as individuals and then climb into a collective personality and yell at the television. They never transverse more ground than is necessary to get from the car to the apartment or from the apartment to the car. I know them only by their shouts.
The other neighbor is a dumpy belly dancer. She won't be concerned about the water since she is out of town for eight weeks teaching belly dancing at a youth camp to youths. There will be boys there. I can imagine that they have known now for weeks that there will be a belly dancer at their camp experience this summer and that they began masturbating the very evening on which they first heard the news to whatever concept of BELLY DANCER they are able to conjure up. When Alicia the dumpy belly dancer introduces herself dumpily (for her dumpiness is easily 65% personality) the boys in the group will cry inwardly and profoundly. That night as they all try and masturbate without shaking the bunk too violently they will uniformly come to terms with the disparity between the fantasy belly dancer and the dumpy belly dancer and the fantasy belly dancer will take on just enough characteristic of the real one that the masturbation may continue, but continue more interestingly with fleshed out scenarios and the occasional subplot.
With all this water I expect the over abundance of yellow squash and zucchini to continue.
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