Ok. New blog.

http://thisthingofblogness.blogspot.com/

I'll be bored with it in about five years, too.

The New Leaf Cafe. It’s a restaurant in Fort Tryon Park, which is beautiful. The restaurant is owned by Bette Middler. There’s a slope up to it, and grass as green as money, and dogwood trees the color of frosted lipstick. Because the restaurant is near the Cloisters, there’s a few tourists; because it’s uptown beyond the concept of ‘Uptown’, there are a lot of locals.

The New Leaf Cafe. Brunch on a Sunday. A shame it was an overcast day.

Thursday I was here with Greg. Took the day off to do something--anything--with him, because we never get a day off at the same time. So, Thursday, we went to the Cloisters, and walked around Fort Tryon Park, and, like, enjoyed ourselves, which we seldom do. We try but life is messy and... whatever. So we took a day to enjoy a day, if you know what I mean. There was some sun, and there were trees and flowers, and we just took a day to enjoy each other and to enjoy colors. You know?

And we saw a three-legged miniature poodle lift his body up to take a piss. No kidding--the dog heaved himself up onto his front legs to spray the trunk of a white dogwood tree, his couple-less third leg stretched out.

So. Brunch on a Sunday. Back at New Leaf, where Greg and I ate that Thursday.

Thursday was extremely bright and vivid. The sun was out Thursday, and the nature popped. But on Sunday, the sky was overcast, and everything was through a scrim. Flowers were dull. Trees were purple. The air was heavy, processed. And the view of the river, crisp on Thursday, was muddled and vague.

Brunch: it’s a great needless wonderful thing. Brunch is good because it promotes the idea of pancakes and liquor. Brunch lets you have french toast and a Bloody Mary at the same time. Brunch gives you a basket of muffins and a slice of cantaloupe. It combines all the elements of indulgence without the guilt. All while sitting at a table with a cloth on it. It’s the cherry on the top of a sundae.

The friend who invited me to this brunch, Jon, knew this about me: I’ve been very depressed and reluctant to associate with anyone.  That I’ve been trying to re-calibrate. So imagine this: I’m sitting at a table with four other guys, and I’ve seen three of them naked.

And here’s what we’re talking about: Restaurants downtown, Philip Glass, and who’s doing what for this or that show. Set design.

Only we’re not all talking about those things. They’re talking about them. I’m listening. And all I can think about is how awful I feel. And I feel awful because I’ve seen three out of four of them naked.

Here’s this: Thursday with Greg. Bright, blue, clear. At a museum, kissing on a terrace, walking through a park holding hands and gawking at three-legged miniature poodles peeing whole-bodied onto the trunk of a blossoming tree.

And here’s this: Sunday, sitting at a table of four guys who’ve all seen me at my absolute worse, and I have no way to show them my absolute best because they’re talking about things I don’t know about.

And there’s this: Greg knows. He knows I’m a failure at some things, that I failed him. He knows that I went through a period of... stuff. Of misguided selfishness, and of healthy limit-testing. Or something. Anyway, Greg knows. And he still loves me, and I love him, but I have a hard time loving myself. And I don’t mean that in a ‘oh god I’m gonna cut myself’ way, but in a ‘oh god I can’t believe I put us through that’ way.

Anyway.

Brunch on Sunday, at a table where most are naked to me, and Greg’s at work, and Jon thinks he’s doing a nice thing by getting me out to associate with people who’ve seen me naked and disturbed. And there’s a guy to my left, who lived in Israel and Sri Lanka, and Jon to my right, and a basket of muffins, and a cup of coffee, and everyone is talking about what food is good at this or that restaurant, and all I can think about is, Wow, I wish Greg was here because I am totally incapable of participating in this in-depth discussion on restaurants in Chelsea. Greg doesn’t mind butting in and commandeering conversation. I, however, just like.... oh, look at the muffins, and [insert inappropriate language here].

At one point, meth came up. I was already having a pathetic fallacy with the overcast day and missing Greg and all that. The guy to my left said that people who do meth “obsessively clean their apartments,”  and I blanked out for a moment, stared into space, wanted to cry, then turned to Jon to my right. Jokes were made about forming a meth-staffed cleaning service (Crystal Clean). And I laughed. Also, I missed Greg. And felt embarrassed. For what I'd done a short time ago. And I wished I could enjoy the brunch at the New Leaf Cafe, owned by Bette Middler, because I'm trying to move on. But I can't.

A friend recently complained about my views on religion. “You’re just angry,” he said. “You should talk to someone who has a sophisticated view of religion.” Which is a condescending thing to say, I think. It implies there are people who have an uncomplicated relationship with their assorted gods, angels and saints. It implies a hierarchy of belief.

I’ll admit this, however: I see no difference between church and a Star Trek convention.

At a Star Trek convention, you always have extremists, speaking in Klingon and reciting the passage from "ST:TNG, third episode, second scene" like it's "Leviticus 20:13".

You also have people analyzing the tropes and devices of the Star Trek universe. People who bring coherence to a scattered, opportunistic corporate franchise.

You have your average Convention Day fan of Star Trek, who simply enjoys feeling a part of an extended family, and wouldn’t recognize Klingon from Portuguese, nor know the meaning of “mything in the present.”

And of course, at a Star Trek convention, you have the presence of Gene Roddenberry, his voice, his vision, his gift to the world.

One might be an extremist or one might be a intellectual when it comes to Star Trek, but I think it’s all one and the same: “fan-wanking,” which is a fun term to know. I myself have been prone to fan-wanking Joss Whedon’s stuff from time to time. But I lost my fan-wanking faith years before Whedon, during the time of the television series, “The X Files.” One can construct beliefs as they wish, but the truth is it’s all about the whim of the writers on any given day.

To scorn the Star Trek faithful is too easy for me, and dishonest since I like the show and find its vast, contradictory Bible fascinating. Compelling characters, sometimes! Interesting plot twists, occasionally! Spock’s death and resurrection! The Genesis project! The first collection of episodes (known as The Original Show) so full of wrath and revenge! The second collection (known as The Next Generation) so full of aphorism and redemption! Who wouldn’t find all that interesting?

Well, a lot of people. Some people go to American Idol conventions instead.

Anyway. I said I saw no difference between church and Star Trek conventions, but that isn’t true, of course. I naturally see a difference, mostly in application rather than in design. Star Trek, despite its superficial appearance of character diversity--which only exists as a plot device to encourage conflict, a necessary component of any fictional work lasting 40-plus years--manages to convey the need for tolerance of others. Tolerance is rewarded; intolerance is punished. Whatever. Aside from an abandoned script written by David Gerrold for the Original Series (Gerrold also wrote the “Trouble with Tribbles” episode), no gay characters have popped up on any of the incarnations of Star Trek. Or if they have, I missed them--I am, after all, a casual, Sunday Trekkie rather than a devout one. Gerrold’s script, “Blood and Fire,” was written in the 1960s, ignored by Paramount, and eventually filmed last year, when a few of the truly devout Trekkies got together to pool their money, cast actors, and produce the episode themselves.

How sophisticated of those devout fans!

Those with religion, rather than fandomism, occasionally do the same thing. There are pockets here and there in the various religions communities where gays are treated with  respect. Some of these communities even push for same-sex marriage. Some think they’re edgy because they’re not calling for every gay person in the world to be strung up and killed, too.

And it is an issue for me, a personal hang-up, that I not extend respect to any person who does not extend to me that same respect. So, no, I’m not a fan of Mormons, or the Westboro Baptists, or anyone who thinks it’s okay to treat my relationship with Greg as something less than what it is. I include myself in that bunch, I might add: I haven’t always treated my relationship with Greg with respect.

But what I also find chilling is that my associate up there who insisted I need to talk with more sophisticated religious individuals is himself gay, and said that during a discussion about the recent Mormon intervention in the Prop 8 debacle in CA. It wasn’t the sentiment that I found chilling--he made a valid point, and I’ve tried to be less hostile since then--but the word. “Sophisticated.” Beliefs are the opposite of sophistication. Particularly religious beliefs, which are, I believe, more nuanced than sophisticated, and devoid of critical thinking, in that the whole point of subscribing to a religion is to share some sort of non-critical group assumptions about a given “truth.”

Those quotes around truth, by the way, aren’t meant to be dismissive or sarcastic. Those quotes simply mean that truths are one thing, facts are another, and different groups have different truths. The point where all “truths” intersect is, I suppose, the grey area where things like 9/11 happen, and the Crusades, and all that.

So, back to “sophisticated.” I think that if you talk to anyone about their spiritual beliefs, you’ll find a complicated, multifaceted relationship between that individual and the god(s) of their choosing. But to me, personally, it’s all fan-wanking. One can be a sometime-attendee of a Star Trek convention, or one can dedicate hours and years learning the lingo and sewing the Klingon vestments so as to appear as Worf, or one can dedicate his or her scholarly life to forcing some sort of intellectualized legitimacy into the text; and one can be a casual attendee of religious services, or go into the clergy, or become a theologian. Or degrees within.

It’s all sophisticated sophistry. Which is all well and good for “truth,” but doesn’t change the fact that I can’t marry and have a nice tax credit.

...The real story now is the new post-election Cold War that’s rapidly developing between McCain aides, Palin aides, conservative bloggers, conservative teevee hosts, conservative columnists… basically any GOP operative with a half-decent Rolodex and a certain moral flexibility. They are all shitting on each other. This is the greatest Cold War we’ve ever had the pleasure of covering. Let’s try to make some sense of it.


So begins Wonkette's incomplete documentation of the implosion of the Republican party. All that Bush loyalty is out the door and headed for the nearest Red State bar for a drink.

What seems to be happening now is that the GOP is looking at Sarah Palin, and she doesn't appear to them to be some moose-hunting beauty pageant contestant, but rather a well-dressed Martin Luther. If they don't break her now, she'll be nailing a screed to the door of Rush Limbaugh's compound by the end of the week.

For years--decades--the GOP has been the party of very Rich Bastards. And those very Rich Bastards knew that there wasn't enough of them to sway elections or gain office--because they are RICH! in a way that most of us are not-- so in the 1980s they came up with the idea of courting the Religious Right vote. It's funny, but the 'party of values' leaders never really cared about 'values;' they only cared about making more money for the Rich Bastards in power, and they were happy to use the Religious Right "values-voters". How'd they do this?

Easy. With the Democrats being godless terrorists too liberal for the average American (sad, but true; the 1980s Democrats might as well have been speaking Martian when it came to conveying to the American people their message), the GOP was able to assure the average values-voter that they'd end abortion, push gays back into the closet, and make Blacks return to the back of the bus. Naturally, the GOP couldn't care less about any of these social issues, but they needed a large voting bloc in order to get themselves into Congress and the White House so they could maintain their wealth and influence.

The leaders of the Religious Right--Dobson, Falwell and the like--were all too happy to supply those voters. In exchange, the GOP promised the Religious Right that they'd take care of all those pesky social issues troubling the Christian souls. And so, for 30 years, the GOP paid lip-service to anti-gay, anti-abortion, racist agendas, allowed their candidates to be trotted around the church circuit, and pretending to be interested in "family values." Meanwhile, they deregulated Wall Street, set up war-profiteering machines, and convinced poor people that forcing rich people to pay taxes was un-American.

Even though the GOP was asking regular Americans to vote against their economic interests, they were able to Svengali them into feeling good about it because the GOP was also promising a return to the good old days, where there were no gays, no Blacks, and no goddamn abortions. Comfort food for crappy times where the Rich Bastards controlled most of the wealth.

But the GOP didn't give a good shit about what the hell went on in society. They were interested in the money, and in protecting Rich Bastards from the losing of said money.

It is only now that the stupid Religious Right have caught on to this. The Religious Right have suddenly noticed that abortion is still legal, that Blacks are now, you know, in the White House, and that we gays are running around free from stoning and hanging (sure, Prop 8 in CA passed, but it will be overturned because it's a last-gasp effort, and even the REPUBLICAN governor of CA hates the proposition).

Anyway, the Religious Right that was grafted on to the GOP in the 80s has now gotten wise to the fact that abortion will never be done in, and gays will someday be happy to marry and divorce as much as straights. The Religious Right is pissed. They're lining up behind Sarah Palin. The Rich Bastards don't like Sarah Palin for all the reasons that the Average Americans DO like her: She's not exactly rich; she's folksy; she's got the power of her own convictions; and, in her own way, she truly does have the good of the regular people at heart. Sarah Palin does not protect Rich Bastards. She may be misguided in her attempts, but she truly believes she can help Average Joes.

Now, I don't believe Sarah Palin even knows what Average Joes want--because, in my own experience, Average Joes don't care about homos, and would kill anyone that told their daughters what to do-- but I do believe she knows what Average Joe Bible-packs want. She was chosen as McCain's running mate specifically to appeal to those Average Joe Bible-packs. See, McCain wanted Joe Lieberman to be his running-mate, but because Joe Lieberman is an iffy Jew who supports abortion rights, McCain was informed that there would be a 'civil war' on the floor of the Republican Convention. John McCain was never a 'values' candidate. He never gave a darn about the legislation of values. So he needed someone who could run with him as a gosh-darn Christian candidate, and fire up the Religious Right voting base. Use the Religious Right once more.

What's happening now is that the Rich Bastards have gotten a taste of just how badly they need the Christian Right, and the Christian Right have realized that they don't have actual power--they are stooges for Rich Bastards. It's an impasse. The Rich Bastards of the GOP are trying to put the Christian Right in their place by savaging the concession-candidate Sarah Palin, and the Christian Right are trying to remind the GOP that they'd be nothing without them. Already, FOX News is putting out oodles of stories about how dumb Sarah Palin is, and the leaders of the Values crowd are pushing back, calling for boycotts of FOX News. Supporters of Sarah Palin are trying to fling blame at McCain's camp, and McCain's camp are shooting at Palin's camp. What you've really got is a political war between the GOP Rich Bastards, and the Religious Right who vote them into office.

Meanwhile, the left should suck it up, gird their loins, and prepare for very real fights on social progressive issues, as the Rich Bastards are running scared and don't want to lose more money, and the Religious Right see Sarah Palin as some sort of fucked-up Messiah.

Keep watching the Prop 8 battle in CA. If gays truly do lose the right to get married, then Americans have lost the right to be free.

Joe the Plumber cleans out my election-night catharsis

I took a Ron Paul sized crap after it was official that a got-damn half-brother was gonna be my next president. Clogged up the motherfucking toilet. Immediately called a plumber. Not five minutes went by before a plumber showed his ass up.

Me: Wow. Thanks for coming over so quick.

Plumber: I was in the area. Jon Voight lives just down from you. I was watching the election results at his place.

Me: No shit?

Plumber: Well, I was parked outside his house waiting for him to ask me in. Met him at a rally once, thought he might like to hang.

So I took the motherfucker up to my bathroom and showed him the toilet. I was kind of embarrassed about the giant got-damn turd jamming up the bowl.

Plumber: Don’t worry about it. I’ve seen bigger turds.

He then formally introduced himself. Joe the Plumber.

Me: Damn, I guess you have seen bigger turds. That whole McCain campaign felt like one long four-month shit.

We laughed.

Me: So, Joe the fucking Plumber. You actually doing some motherfucking plumbing. What's up man?

And Joe opened himself up to me. Not in a gay way--I’m in California and we don’t do the gay thing no more.

Plumber: I feel used, Sam. McCain’s people promised me that they were gonna dump that Palin bitch and make me his running mate, so I did everything I could to keep McCain happy. Every time Cindy flushed her pills down a hotel toilet, I was there to unclog it. Every time Bristol cut herself, I was there to clean the blood off the sink. Every time Todd manscaped himself in the shower, I was there to pull the hair out of the drain. And John would tell me, “Joe, you’re doing a heck of a job. My friend, it’s only a matter of time til I get rid of this future Lens Crafter spokesperson and make you my running mate.”

Me: No shit?

Plumber: No shit. Straight-up, Sam-Jack, I was determined to keep all of McCain’s pipes clean. And I knew more about pipes than Sarah Palin, so I knew I’d be more useful in the White House than her.

Me: Well, hell yeah. That White House has some old motherfucking pipes. A Vice President needs to know how to keep that shit clean. Don’t want no cranky President screaming about how his tub’s all clogged up and shit, like the ghost of Taft is sitting in the U-bend.

Plumber: Uhm. What?

Me: William Howard Taft. 27th President who was so fat he got stuck in the ... Never mind. Go on, Joe. Tell me some shit.

Plumber: There was this one time when I was called in to take a look at Sarah’s pipes.

Me: I bet. We all wanted to take a look at her pipes. Got-damn.

Plumber: And she met me at the door wearing a towel. Which wasn’t a big deal because she liked to meet everyone in a towel. “Help me, Joe the Plumber,” she said. “You’re my only hope.” Turns out she'd dropped her acceptance speech in the shower. It got lodged in the drain-pipe. Took me four hours to pull it out.

He picked up my plunger, which I kept at all got-damn times beside the toilet because I never know when a giant shit’s gonna come out. Seriously, it’s like I got George Lucas up in my colon, and sometimes he pushes out a small Howard the Duck turd, and sometimes he pushes out a giant Crystal Skull sized turd.

Instead of using the plunger end, Joe flipped that motherfucker over to use the wood end, and shoved my shit down the got-damn drain.

Plumber: I think you’re clear. You can flush now.

Me: You going back over to Voight’s?

Plumber: No.

Joe took a broad stance and put his got-damn fists on his hips.

Plumber: I've cleaned out your toilet, Mr. Jackson. Now, I've got to clean out all Americans' toilets. I'm going to Congress.

And he left. I didn't even get to pay that motherfucker the $250,000.00 I owed him for getting my Ron Paul turd down the got-damn john.

I'm in Harlem watching McCain's concession on a crappy tv in a cafe while the crowds churn outside. For every 'boo' in McCain's Arizona, there are cheers here in Harlem. Polite cheers, as if the crowd here is hoping the crowds in Arizona will understand: We're all Americans, for once. It's a wonderful moment.

All the hate is turning into good-will. All the resentment is turning into happiness. It's brilliant here. Many tears. The only person anyone here hates is Sarah Palin, and I agree with them. I miss the old John McCain, and mourn the campaign he could've run if he'd never sold himself out.

But Obama's president and I'm amazed.

Greg's working at Apple tonite, but he called me to let me know that the place was 'rocking' and that they were all joking about how I must be crawling on the ceiling about now (he called before the networks made the call official). I'm not on the ceiling--I'm on the ground. And, as I said, amazed.

It's an incredible thing, this win. Politics aside, this is an incredible win for America.

Gushingly yours,
Marc

So yes, Greg and I stood in line at W. with about nine thousand old people, and what amused me the most was that 9000 old people showed up for a screening of W. It was as if Oliver Stone's W. was The Dark Knight of the Greatest Generation. Also--ha ha--the entire movie was shown in a huge room brooded over by carved elephants.

Greg and I sat in the balcony next to--no shit--Statler and Waldorf. Two old men who hoo-ed and haw-ed during the pre-film commercials, the coming attractions, the film itself, and then MST3K'd their way thru the closing credits. Seriously. During the commercials (and I have no idea why we have to sit thru commercials when we already paid for a movie ticket; that's like sitting thru a commercial during 'Dexter,' when you already paid for Showtime), our Statler and Waldorf commented on everything, from the creepy baby talking about how easy it is to by stocks via e-trade ("He clearly didn't read the Wall Street Journal today! Hwaaaa-hahahaha!") to the trailer for The Spirit ("I could make a better movie in my colonoscopy! Hwaaaa-hahahaha!") to the first appearance of Dick Cheney in the film ("Dreyfus looks just like him!" "Yeah, maybe he'll shoot the Attorney General in the face! Hwaaa-hahahaha!").

I can only hope that these two real-world Statler and Waldorfs attend every film Greg and I see, forever and always.

Two rows in front of us was a mom and her kid. The kid was about 15, and kept his iPod earbuds plugged into his ears until the movie started. The mom kept looking around expectantly, and shoo-ing squatters away from the 200 seats she was attempting to save for whatever guests she was hoping to host. At some point, a kid who was clearly her younger son, made his way down the aisle, and shouted at his older, iPod'd brother, "Take the goddamn iPod out of your ears, you rude asshole," before siting down next to his mom. Then later, the father showed up with a few of the younger brood. The mom plucked the earbuds out of her son's ear and said, "You are a goddamn asshole." The younger brother said, "Told ya." The father said, "Stop being a dick."

Statler and Waldorf were sitting on Greg's right, and I was on Greg's left. To MY left was a middle-aged guy in yuppie-casual clothes, and three empty seats. He was speaking into his telephone. "No, honey, I've got the best seats. Just come along the aisle and... see, I'm waving at you." And he was. He was waving frantically. "No, I don't know where you are, but these seats are better... I'm right in the middle of the fucking screen, honey. No, I don't care where you are. Look over here. Bring Barb and Herb over here. We're sitting here."

And soon his Honey, still yelling into her phone, and Barb and Herb, who looked shell-shocked, sat down beside him.

The thing about W. is that it promised some release, some come-uppance, some Magnificent Ambersons. Didn't deliver. People in that audience wanted to see blood, and instead got a polite and thoughtful justification of George W. Bush's life. There on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, during a sold-out show across from Lincoln Center, I am certain that all of us hoped to find some criticism, some Paul Krugman column come to life; all we got was a sometimes-funny, mostly half-assed attempt to humanize a man who'd taken away civil liberties, sent our children to war, denied us marriage, and robbed us of our retirement funds.

What W. proved to be was a campaign promise: it failed to live up to what it could've been, because Oliver Stone pulled punches. Still, it was fun to watch, even if the 'George Bush greatest hits' thing became tiresome.

And it was a film of 'greatest hits.' All of GWB's greatest lines were there, from '...fool me once...' to 'now watch this pretzel'.

W. was sold out the first weekend because the ticket-buyers were expecting more. What they got was a film that mulled over things already made obvious by careful observation ("And obfuscation! Hwaaa-hahahaha!")

As we shuffled out with the crowd, Greg said, "Where was Colin Powell's resignation?" I replied, "Maybe that was the first part in Stone's trilogy." And I said that because I can't imagine that W. is the final version of the GWB presidency. Why, W. didn't even touch on the wire-tapping.

Last weekend, Greg and I stood in line for (and eventually saw!) W., Oliver Stone's new film. We bought the tickets early in the day, online, and then went to 72nd and Broadway, to Urban Outfitters. Because I needed a new bag. Because my old bag was worn out. And just so you know: after two years, I now have a new bag.

I bought it two days later. It was impossible to buy it on the day we went to see W.

Urban Outfitters, btw, was filled with people. Greg and I kicked around the the store for a while, trying on hipster hats and shoes and playing around with a fellow customer's large dog. I dunno why, but a youngish woman with a very large chocolate Lab seemed to be everywhere, on every floor, that we were, so we gave in and tackled the dog. The youngish woman told us, mid-dive, that her dog was "well socialized," which is more than I could say for Greg or me. We didn't care about the dog's social skills--we were just happy to have a giant Lab to roll around with for a while. So we did--we rolled around on the floor with the dog, in the middle of the suggestion of aisles at the Urban Outfitters on 72nd.

The tickets for W. were for 7pm. This dog-frolic was at 6ish pm. I'd picked out my new bag (again, purchased a few days later), but the well-socialized dog seemed more happy about attention than about how snazzy I looked with that bag. At some point, Greg and I ended up in a line to purchase the bag. We both smelled like dog.

About that line: It was long. For a weekend on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, the 72nd St. Urban Outfitters thought that three registers was plenty, so a long line had formed, snaking around the female-ish clothing to a part of the store that I'd like to call 'boring.' Totally boring. No impulse items to consider, no toys to play with. No dogs to roll around with.

The time was about 6:20pm.

"We should probably go," I said.

"You got tickets for 7. We've got time," Greg replied.

"We've got tickets, but there'll be a line to get seats," I said.

"Crap. You think?"

So here's the thing: Greg and I learned that getting tickets to movies does not guarantee a decent seat. We learned this the hard way. We bought tickets for Peter Jackson's King Kong once, and showed up 15 minutes to showtime, right, and ended up sitting on the very front row. All we saw of King Kong was his nostrils and paws. Since then, we'd made it a habit to show up early for any movie we intended to see because, while ticketed for the show, there's a real fight to get good seats.

I dumped the bag (which, as I said, I got two days later,) and Greg and I walked in a rush to Lincoln Square, about 5 blocks down.

Greg and I have gone to movies at the Lowes Lincoln before, but we've only had to line up (tickets in hand) for a few movies. We lined up for The Dark Knight, for instance. We lined up for The Return of the King. We lined up for Iron Man and the last Star Wars and Indy films.

Something told me that we'd have to line up for W. as well. And I was right. Ditching the Urban Outfitters bag turned out to be wise. At 6:30pm, well before the 7pm show, there was one of THOSE lines for W.

We got in line--for SEATS!--about 10 spaces in front of where we'd gotten in line some months earlier for The Dark Knight. During DK's opening weekend, Greg and I stood on the Lincoln Loews' stair landing. For W., Greg and I stood on the steps.

There were no dogs to frolic around with.

So here's the thing: we were going to see W., a movie about, naturally, George W. Bush, and a movie that made some modest business around the country. But here in NY, on the Upper West Side (or Upper LEFT Side), W. was attracting BATMAN-SIZED crowds. If Greg and I had not abandoned the bag (again, bought two days later), then we would have been so far back on line that we'd've been forced to sit, King-Kong-like, on the first row.

But the line was long already. Full of--get this--OLD people. Very old people. Like, 60 year olds, who were so astounded that they kept taking pictures of the line, and exclaiming to one another about how they'd never stood in line after getting tickets in their lives. I'm sure they'd stood in line BEFORE getting tickets.

The tracking numbers for W. nation-wide, btw, on opening weekend, indicated that most of the audience disliked Bush. Most of the audience, according to the numbers, were old liberals who disliked Bush and expected more from Oliver Stone's movie. I am certain that most of the audience did not play around with a dog in a department store before-hand, nor did they attempt to purchase a really cute bag.

What I am certain of is that most of OUR audience, the audience we stood in line with, did not like lines and hadn't been to a movie on opening weekend since Ben-Hur.

(to be con't)

At one point during the night, Greg and I joined a group heading out to "enjoy the night air" in the parking lot. The group included the groom, three or four people I didn't know, and the groom's cousin-in-law, a late-forties guy in construction who'd had so much whiskey and weed that his face was as red as blood. Nice guy tho. I'd met him a few months earlier at the bachelor's party.

Also with us was the groom's god-sister (whatever that is), a late-thirties woman with a nice figure, thick long black hair, and wearing a dress that cut low across her chest.

I held the door open for everyone to lumber up the stairs leading outside to the parking lot. After the god-sister passed through, only me and the red-faced cousin-in-law were left. He stood for a moment even as I gestured for him to go thru the door. The rest of the group disappeared around the first landing of the stair. As the god-sister's dress disappeared around the corner, the red-faced cousin-in-law shook his head quickly as if shaking off a trance.

"God damn," he said, putting one hand on my shoulder. "Even someone like you gotta notice a rack like that."

"Well yeah," I told him. "I can't help but stare at it. It might pop out at any moment."

He laughed and pushed me through the door. "It's just right there, you know?"

"The dress isn't right there. That's the thing."

Later, standing around a car, watching everyone pass around a severely-stressed one-hitter, I noticed the cousin-in-law. The guy's eyes were practically glued to the god-sister's breasts. In other circumstances, it would've been creepy, but in this case it was hilarious. Maybe it was a contact high, but watching him made me giggle, and I couldn't stop giggling. While some other guy tried to chat her up--telling her how beautiful she was and all that, with a drunken slur--the red-faced cousin-in-law gaped at her precariously-placed tits. The more the other guy chatted up the god-sister, the more the red-faced cousin-in-law gaped.

I honestly don't blame him. Her breasts did keep everyone, even everyones like me and Greg, in a state of suspense.

I was standing in line for the open bar, at a wedding in New Jersey, when I got a text message. It was from a friend in New York. It was, "Did you know you're voting for someone who's pals with terrorists?!?"

Which was an unusual text to receive while standing in line at an open bar, at a wedding in Jersey. I mean, shouldn't the text have been more along the lines of, "OMG!!! Ur vting 4 t rist!" or something equally inscrutable? Plus, the friend in question seldom, if ever, sent such random texts--usually, he sent practical, goal-oriented texts. "U have my dvds. I need them," for instance, or "Buzzer not working Come down and open the damn door."

Assuming the person behind me was, out of alcohol-deprived boredom, reading my phone's screen, I texted back, "What the hell r u talking about?" and got this response: "A terrorist i tell you. A terrorist."

Why I was in that line is another story. Greg's friend, and therefore my friend by association, was getting married, at long last, to the woman he'd been living with for years. John and Kristen are their names. John hosts a weekly D&D game (and here 'D&D' is short-hand for whatever role-playing game the group feels like--mostly they all smoke weed and watch cartoons and occasionally attempt one role-play game or another (or is it 'roll-play,' since the games typically involve dice, while 'role-play' usually involves lube?)).

Anyway, John and Kristen were getting married at a mountain lodge in Bear Mountain, New Jersey, which isn't that far from here as the crow flies, but an incredible journey when you go by rented car.

The wedding ceremony, I'm told, was beautiful. We made it just in time to miss it, which I can't say disappointed me. As the bride and groom assured us, "Ah, you're here for the fun part anyway."

Which turned out to be true. Despite my time in line for the open bar, I remained sober, but I can't say the same of anyone else in attendance. It's a safe bet that most everyone at the wedding--a hundred or so people--were high on either booze or weed, or both, or other things. The line for the bar was, at any given time, longer than the occasional conga line breaking out on the dance floor. There were more people huddled around cars in the parking lot than huddled around the buffet. It was like being at my high school prom again, if my high school had been populated by kids with the good sense to get drunk and smoke weed rather than mill about in uncomfortable clothing feigning interest in dancing to Boyz II Men.

When we got home, Greg was happy. "You didn't insult anyone. You didn't hide in the bathroom. You were funny as hell."

(It's true. I was funny as hell. I've discovered that if I say nonsensical things or make terrible puns, people assume I'm being either insanely witty or ironically droll; it turns out that's what everyone else does, too.)

During the reception, there was only one moment where I felt I'd failed Greg. It was during the bride and groom's first dance. The song was that Bryan Adams song from 'Robin Hood,' which didn't at ALL make me cringe. John and Kristen looked so beautiful and in love, dancing alone on the floor as we, their friends and family, watched from our wine-glass and flower decorated tables. John and Kristen kissed once, and we cheered. They kissed again, and we applauded. John went in for a long tonsil-grabber, and we gave a standing ovation. Then the mistress of ceremonies turned on her mic and shouted above Bryan Adams' treacle: "Now all couples! Come on out here and join!"

Greg touched my shoulder and gestured, smiling broadly and looking at me with that Roberta Flack 'look of love' thing that makes me happy I have him. But I shook my head. "You know I don't dance," I said over the music, but weakly.

We'd already been homophobe'd once that night, when a photographer came around to take pictures of each couple at each table. The photog had taken pictures of three of the couples at our table, and as Greg and I did quick checks of our hair and our teeth, waiting to be treated the same, the photog bolted off to other tables and other couples. Innocent mistake, I know--neither of us are "obviously" gay, but we'd both like to assume that we're clearly a couple. Our table immediately all pulled out cameras and made us pose. But for some reason that moment made me feel closety, and as Greg sat there waiting on me to take him to the dance floor, I knew I wouldn't do it.

And I didn't. And Greg kept staring at me with his big eyes. And I felt like a gay Uncle Tom, playing it safe rather than risking an upset of the social balance.

As for the "You're voting for a terrorist" thing, I indeed am. The Terrorist will eventually help the photographer think twice before passing over Greg and me for a couples picture, I think, while the War-Hero could care less.

I wasn't gonna do another Palin entry. Then I saw this:




Here's the thing about Sarah Palin: she's not very smart.

This fact might come as a shock to most people, but it's the truth. She's a lot of things. She's dynamic, interesting, determined, ambitious, well-meaning, well-loved. She's shrewd, certainly, but shrewd doesn't mean intelligent. Shrewd is another way to say that an ignorant person can bullshit without appearing to bullshit. In politics, to obviously bullshit, you have to be smart, but to bullshit without seeming to bullshit, you have to be shrewd.

In the above interview clip, Couric asks Palin for titles of magazines and newspapers. That's it. Not hard, right? Not like Katie was asking for Palin to name world leaders or state capitals. You could name some. Even if you haven't touched glossy paper in decades, you could directly bullshit Katie by naming 'Time' or 'Sports Illustrated' or 'People.' Even if it's been a lifetime since you smudged your fingers with the ink from a newspaper, you could lie to Katie and say you've read the New York Times or USA Today, the Anniston Star or the Sacramento Bee. But not Sarah Palin. Rather than directly bullshit, Palin shrewdly says, "I've read most of them, again with a great appreciation for the press, for the media."

Think about that answer for a moment.

In fact, put that answer in context.

She told Katie Couric (in a previous episode of "The Sarah Palin Chronicles") that she felt she was being mocked by the media. Here's the transcript:


COURIC: You've cited Alaska's proximity to Russia as part of your foreign policy experience. What did you mean by that?

PALIN: That Alaska has a very narrow maritime border between a foreign country, Russia, and on our other side, the land-- boundary that we have with-- Canada. It-- it's funny that a comment like that was-- kind of made to-- cari-- I don't know, you know? Reporters--

COURIC: Mock?

PALIN: Yeah, mocked, I guess that's the word, yeah.

COURIC: Explain to me why that enhances your foreign policy credentials.

PALIN: Well, it certainly does because our-- our next door neighbors are foreign countries. They're in the state that I am the executive of. And there in Russia—

COURIC: Have you ever been involved with any negotiations, for example, with the Russians?

PALIN: We have trade missions back and forth. We-- we do-- it's very important when you consider even national security issues with Russia as Putin rears his head and comes into the air space of the United States of America, where-- where do they go? It's Alaska. It's just right over the border. It is-- from Alaska that we send those out to make sure that an eye is being kept on this very powerful nation, Russia, because they are right there. They are right next to-- to our state.

Palin sounds like Angela Chase trying to justify her love of Jordan Catalano to Brian Krakow. A self-conscious inarticulate mess.

So. Magazines and newspapers? "I've read most of them, again with a great appreciation for the press, for the media." That's a shrewd answer. It's not a bullshit, smart answer. But shrewd. None of her base care what she reads, and would prefer that she doesn't read. To admit she's read the Anchorage Daily News would befuddle the people who are likely to cast a vote for her and the old guy on November 4th.

We all know she could've named a few publications. With those teeth, any moron can see she's spent some time in a dentist's waiting room leafing through Better Homes and Gardens. She's not directly bullshitting Katie Couric. She's shrewdly trying to identify with likely Palin voters.

"I've read most of them, again with a great appreciation for the press, for the media." Some people might say that answer proves she's an unread hack. Others will say she's refusing to play Couric's game. But only a fool would call her answer an attempt to bullshit. If Forest Gump can win Best Picture, Sarah Palin can win the election. Like Gump, Palin is an Everyperson, slightly retarded, who shrewdly suggests that brains and education are irrelevant.

And who cares if she's not the top of the ticket? She's the one drawing all the attention of all the magazines and newspapers she doesn't read. Vote Palin/McCain 2008.

Here's the interview of Sarah Palin sitting down (again!) with Katie Couric--because, I guess, Brian Williams would be too harsh and Charlie Gibson's already proven he's much too judgmental. This time, for the second round of interviews with Katie, Sarah brought along John McCain. Why? I don't know. Watching this interview, I got the feeling that McCain's about three seconds away from leaping out of his chair and strangling Palin for being such a dumbass.

And what's worse: for all the talk about sexism, McCain still treats Palin as if she's his favorite, not-too-bright daughter. He repeatedly says, "I'm so proud of her," as if her ability to string together two words into a semi-coherent sentence means she should be getting cookies from Couric rather than more pointed questions.

I hate to tell the Senator and the Governor, but after today, being an expert on a small stretch of Russian coastline is irrelevant. It no longer matters that the good Gov has a mild understanding of Siberian topography. What's now at issue is the fact that McCain has said, time and again, that he's not all that good with economics (and why should he be? When you're as rich and as near death as McCain, the last thing you need to worry about is money). Fine. So perhaps the good Senator should've selected someone who knew a thing or two about money management to play Goose to his Maverick.

Or is that Moose to his Maverick?

Plus, in this clip, there's one thing that REALLY bothers me. It sounds trivial, but Sarah Palin allows the back of her Nehru jacket to rise up almost to the top of her damn bee-hived head. Like it or not, this woman has one thing going for her: she always looks fantastic. She is camera-ready. Now, in what is perhaps the most important follow-up interview since Nixon sat down with Frost (I'm exaggerating), Sarah Palin is so oblivious to her appearance that she forgets the basic rule of politician-being-interviewed-on-tv self-awareness: pulling down the back of your jacket so that it doesn't rise up so high that you appear to be perpetually hunched over?

It's trivial, I know. But it also demonstrates that this woman is not at all prepared for the bigs.

Plus she still sounds like a blithering idiot, even WITH John McCain sitting beside her like Cerberus guarding the gates of Hades from the Couric intruder.

Samuel L. Jackson weighs in on Oprah and the over 9000 penises that are raping children.

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Resolve: this person has it.

Okay, I've thought about it, and there are a few things that bother me about this picture:




1, As I asked in the previous entry, is it cute or offensive to make a 'retard' face while holding a Down syndrome-striken child?

2. Why is Bristol always the one holding this kid? If it wasn't hers to begin with, it is by now because I'm damn sure little Trig has imprinted on Bristol instead of That Bitch.

3. I am not a fan of 4 month olds on airplanes, even if they're flying first class.

4. I'm less fond of pregnant 17 year olds carrying around 4 month olds--and am surprised they're in first class.

5. Bristol seems like a cute kid. Shame about her being knocked up. Shame about her mom being a scary religious fanatic.

6. First class? Why are they flying first class?

7. It's really depressing that this picture was taken by a camera phone and emailed to the mother, Sarah Palin.

8. What the fuck is a camera phone doing out while this plane is in operation? Last time I took MY phone out on a plane, (granted, I was in coach), three flight attendants and a passenger freaked out.

9. God, they're both so cute. Bristol and Trig. I wish I could like their parents more.

Is it polite to make a retard face while holding a Down syndrome baby?

He's much better in writing.

First, there's this:



Then there was this idea I had: A guy asks his friends and family to vote a certain way on Election Day. I mean, instead of giving him presents, this guy expects people to vote for his chosen candidate--which to me seems awful because it goes against the idea of (heh) Democracy.

And here's the beginning of the story:


It was an election year and I was flailing about, an aspiring musician playing gigs on a local Christian television show even though I really wanted to be doing Black Sabbath-y tunes in sold-out stadiums. Three times an hour for three hours, Pastor Pete and his once-lovely wife Patty would throw the cameras’ attention over to my band, and we’d sing things like ‘Jesus is My Friend,’ in a faux-Devo style, or ‘God’s Coming So Grab Your Socks,’ as if we were the second coming of Kurt Cobain.

I never understood why the producers of the show insisted we perform rock pastiche with Christian leanings. Probably because they hoped to make the elderly viewers feel hip and with-it and, you know, relevant. But a song like ‘God’s Coming So Grab Your Socks’ seemed, to me, out of place on a show that spent its non-music time extorting money from viewers who couldn’t give a rat’s ass about relevance or God. I mean, to be honest, all those viewers really wanted was to be in touch with Pete and Patty. Neither God nor my band mattered--forget about being hip and with it.

Anyway, it was an election year. As usual, there was the God Candidate and there was the Satan Candidate.

And here’s what you should know: during September and October of the election year I performed on Pete and Patty’s show, while wearing my crew-cut, my tie, and doing subtle pin-wheels as I played my guitar, and I assured viewers that the God Candidate was the way to vote.

The producers of the Pete and Patty show encouraged the band (and I should use quotes like this: the producers “encouraged...” But if I start using quote marks in this piece about my time on Pete and Patty’s show, I’ll never stop, so I gotta trust that you imagine quote marks around all the right words. So let me begin this paragraph again, because it needs several “quotes” around “words”.)

The producers of the Pete and Patty show encouraged the band to let our youthful enthusiasm inspire the elderly voters to make the right choice. We were not to expressly endorse a candidate. Tax issues and all that. So no official endorsing by us or by Pete and his cracked-out wife Patty. Only encouragement. Vote for the God Candidate wink wink.

You get what I’m saying, right?

Something else you should know: I’d already decided to vote for the Satan candidate that year. What’s more, since I was born in November, just after Election Day, I’d asked everyone I knew to give me a Satan’s Candidate vote for my birthday.

Except I didn’t ask my bandmates. I knew how they’d vote, and how they’d give me what they always gave me on my birthday: a gift certificate to Cracker Barrel or something. I also knew my bandmates would kick my ass out of the band if they knew I wanted Satan’s Candidate to win the election.

Bad times for me. Even though I detested the politics of the show and never liked the people I’d been stuck with to play music for it, I needed the money from the gig, I craved the approbation of my fellow musicians, and I liked being on tv because of the occasional recognition I got while shopping for groceries or going to the gym.

My father told everyone he knew that I was on Pete and Patty. I’m proud to say the ratings never went up a point during my stint.

Mom watched the show before I joined it. I don’t think she cared about the religion or the politics of Pete or Patty, but she certainly appreciated Patty’s unique sense of style. When Patty got a new haircut, Mom got a new haircut. When Patty (after her OxyContin fracas) redefined herself as an autumn instead of a winter, Mom moved from Avon to Mary Kay. When I performed back-up to Patty’s performance of ‘What a Friend We Have in Jesus,’ Mom called to ask if Patty’d been wearing a zip-up or buttoned-up dress.

I loved both my parents. And I loved them because, in the end, they didn’t care about the bullshit coming out of Pete and Patty’s mouths. They were more impressed with the presentation than the message. Dad: My son’s on television! Mom: How does Patty get her hair so high? Dad: Better television than doing my job! Mom: Does Patty wear Ann Taylor?

There’s no way I can tell you how I got to the point where I was asking them to vote for Satan’s Candidate as a birthday present so I won’t even try. What I will try is to get across what it was like to play guitar on that show. Electric guitar. And sing. I was the lead singer, even though I couldn’t--and can’t--sing.

What I will try to explain is the feeling of being on Pete and Patty’s show. First, Pete would walk onto the set, designed by an angry pastel-hating gay guy who’d been told by the producers to embrace pastels. The set was supposed to make viewers feel as if they’d been invited into Pete and Patty’s home and given access to the special room other visitors were not allowed to enter. The room for show rather than for company. The room that makes you sweat just thinking about it. You know that room. People like Pete and Patty usually have one--with Victorian couches, modern chairs, a bizarre Noguchi-ish coffee table, white carpet, and sheets of plastic covering vinyl lampshades.

Pete would walk out with a microphone and stand in the middle of this set, this warm and pristine and weird and uncomfortable set, and raise his hand above his shellacked hair. “I declare,” he said each day, “that the Spirit is here, and the Sprit is tuned in to The Pastor Pete and Patty Show!”

Each day, the live audience in the studio screamed and yelled. Patty would drift in from one direction or another--no one ever knew where she’d enter from, including the camera operators--to join her husband. Then they’d both point to the band. We were off to the side, beyond the living room set. We’d launch into the show’s theme music.

Before each taping, I’d down a few shots of tequila. And I stood, each taping, to the side of that nightmare of a living room set, guitar up around my chest as if that’s the best way to play electric, and wait for Pete and Patty to point at me. Sometimes I couldn’t even see their bodies through the tequila but I always saw their excited and extended fingers signaling me. I’d jump in the air, my tie slapping me in the face and my crew-cut hair not moving an inch, and I’d do an imperceptible pin-wheel move with my arm, and I’d cue the band to start the Pete and Patty theme music. And every time I did it, from first day to last, I’d pray for God to return, finally. Pete and Patty were big on the Rapture, so I prayed that it would happen, would take all the viewers and producers away so I could cut loose with a cover of ‘Sympathy for the Devil.’

What else would I play in the event of a Rapture? ‘Tears in Heaven’?

Never happened. Instead, I’d lead the band in the theme, settle down, take a seat behind a garden backdrop until I heard Patty exclaim, “And now, more music for Christ!”

Christ didn’t always like music. When I started the show, the band played the opening and closing themes, leaving Christ to watch three solid hours of uninterrupted Pete and Patty without tunes. The show was in its second decade and I’d only been playing for six months. Viewers responded so well to my music, though, that the producers asked us to do a mid-show song, and then a mid-hour song and then, after a few months, a song every fifteen minutes. We were told the audiences liked to hear us just before commercials, but I knew the real reason we were playing more: Patty had fallen off the prescription-drug wagon, and need time to up-right herself.

I liked Patty then. I still like Patty. The day before I debuted on the show, she--not Pete--came up to me and said, “Your hair is great, sweetie, but it won’t work.” This from a woman with hair like the ocean. “People who watch this show want to see your face, and you have such a pretty face.” So I cut it. My hair. Because she asked me to.

Anyway, I’d sit behind the cheesy garden backdrop and wait to hear, “And now, more music for Christ!” The garden backdrop, by the way, was painted on a scrim separating the guts of the show from the outward appearance of the show. In front of the scrim were Pete and Patty, shilling for the Lord in their oddly-designed fake living room of many pastel colors. Behind the scrim was the crew making the show possible. In front of the scrim were bright lights and studio audiences and cameras whirling around like confused ballet dancers; behind the scrim was a depressing group left in darkness, heel-toeing it on a stark wood floor and silently listening for proof that the Spirit was, indeed, tuned in.

My dad once asked why the backdrop seemed to come alive as he watched the show (he always taped the daily episodes and played them back when he got home from work, sitting on the couch beside my step-mom). “I can see those vines move!” he exclaimed. “It was like God got excited to hear you play!” I didn’t have the heart to tell him that an intern had probably tripped over a cable or that a guest’s personal assistant had sneezed because of all the dust. So I told him, “That was me, Dad. When I’m backstage, I can’t contain myself. I worship while Pastor Pete preaches to all you people watching at home.”

Yes. I told him that. Telling him that made him happier to sit down, after a long day at work, to watch three hours of the show he’d recorded just to watch his son play a few songs. What could I tell him? I no longer believed in God because of Pete and Patty?

Pete and Patty never looked back so they never saw the garden backdrop move. It was a crappy backdrop anyway. As offensive as the main set was, the garden backdrop took that offense and magnified it. Pastels and primary colors--ocean blue flowers mixed with blood red leaves and shit brown twigs. There were bushes the color of drag queens and trees the color of Quakers. There was a painted-on gazebo next to a painted-on fountain spurting out purple water. All of it played well on camera, I’m sure.

So. Yes. Pete and Patty welcomed everyone into the sweat-inducing special room of their fake home, and preached Gospel and begged for money as my band sat behind the scrim waiting for our cue to scramble back into our places to play a song. Pete and Patty spoke for a long time about their faith and the faith of their audience, made this or that promise, asked for this or that amount of cash. The trick to being the band’s leader was to listen for that special and specific phrase: “And now, more music for Christ!” It could come at any time. I mean, usually there’d be someone to let you know when Pete and Patty were breaking for commercial but Patty was unpredictable, and sometimes declared more music for Christ in the middle of Pete’s sentence. I don’t blame her. Patty knew Pete was full of shit. So did I. Sometimes you gotta call on Christ just to shut people up.

Behind the backdrop, I’d sit, listening without listening. If I listened, I got angry, so I learned to stare at the backdrop and hear those words, “And now, more music for Christ,” without hearing the words connected to them.

Here’s where I need to mention that I believed in God once, and to assure you that Pete and Patty’s show was not the reason why I lost my faith.