"Hello, leaders of Scientology. We are Anonymous. Over the years, we have been watching you. Your campaigns of misinformation, your suppression of dissent, your litigious nature: all these things have caught our eye. With the leakage of your latest propaganda video into mainstream circulation, the extent of your malign influence over those who have come to trust you as leaders has been made clear to us. anonymous has therefore decided that your organization should be destroyed. We are anonymous. We are legion. We do not forgive. We do not forget. Expect us." A Message to Scientology January 21, 2008.
And thus war was declared.
Usually I would steer clear of a religion blog, but folks, if you haven't heard this story, open your ears and listen to the tales, as I have heard it so far. I come to this sordid opus of hatred and deviance courtesy of two sources. First, my old roommate, a card carrying Atheist, informed me of this months ago, but I was blind to the relevance, certainly to the magnitude. Second, Maxim magazine, which I hope will not mind that I have used their intriguing title. What this is about is a cult and a group of people that have come together without ever knowing each other.
According to the Maxim article, Anonymous was started on a website message board. It was in regards to a video of Tom Cruise ranting and raving like a mad man about the virtues of his so-called religion, some would call it a cult, though some would call Judism a cult. Since I adore Judi I can't see why she shouldn't have a cult, but that's a different blog. In this video, which was taken off of You Tube by the litigation team of the Scientologists, Cruise, a vocal spokesman, made statements like this: "Being a Scientologist, when you drive past an accident, it's not like anyone else. As you drive past, you know you have to do something about it because you know you're the only one that can really help." Yeah, not those police or paramedics. They don't know shit. Please, someone get me an overpaid actor. But the little thespian didn't stop there. No, he added: "We are the authorities on the mind... We are the way to happiness." Um, these people are the authorities of the mind? The folks that don't believe in doctors or therapy or pills. No pills! For the love of Jeebus, they must be stopped. Who, who will stop this hideously ignorant mob from taking over the world.
The Cyber junkies.
On 4chan.org the keyboard clickers went crazy. These people have actually done some good work in identifying pedophiles in chat rooms or when they en mass attacked the website of a white supremacist leader. That's all well intended group mentality, the problem is that the mob has no Capo di tutti Capi, no boss of bosses, no leadership. That has in turn had them bomb MySpace with gay porn spam and call in real bomb threats to the Super Bowl. That's not so good. And the Scientologists now have a leg to stand on by calling them "terrorists". It started out with a web site attack, flooding the Scientology website with phantom users and slowing it to a crawl. Black faxes, solid black sheets of paper, were faxed in large numbers to Scientology fax machines, draining them of ink. Pizzas were send by the hundreds. Pranks mostly, certainly nothing worthy of mention in the "legitimate" news.
On March 15th over 600 protesters donning black suits and Guy Fawkes, V for Vendetta style masks closed in on the Celebrity Center in Los Angeles. They held signs that read "Tax The Cult" and "Honk if you think Scientology is a Cult". Peaceful, though a gun was allegedly sighted in the hands of a Scientologist who when asked why he would brandish a gun at a peaceful demonstration, said, "I'm not here for a peaceful protest, friend". Tensions were sky rocketing. And it's not over yet, not by a long shot. Anonymous is gearing up for more demonstrations in it's bid to destroy the Scientologists. More to come...
But I have this to say. Scientology, whether I believe it to be complete crap or not, is a religion protected by the Constitution of the United States of America. We all have the right to choose which God we worship, be is Jesus, God, Allah, Ganesha, Xenu or Jeebus. The last group that got any press for trying to destroy another religion were the Nazis. I can make that comparison, because whether Scientology is a cult or not, it's labeled a religion, if people are so desperate for answers that they believe the nonsense on which Scientology was predicated, then so be it. It's their right to be suckered in. And as much as I would exhaust every breath in my lungs to call them sheep headed for the slaughter, I respect their right to be slaughtered. Anonymous doesn't. Anonymous is cowardly. Anonymous has no agenda except to destroy a group of people with different ideals. That is a hate organization.
Thoughts? Comments?
Dixie Cup of Love: Hard to think about love when dealing with this, so I give it to The Human Race.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Friday, July 25, 2008
I am Jack's Broken Dream
"When I grow up to be a man, will I dig the same things that turn me on as a kid? Will I look back and say that I wish I hadn't done what I did? Will I joke around and still dig those sounds." The Beach Boys from "When I Grow Up"
The nurse and I were having a pow wow about her job after I gulped down the gel caps of jolliness that colored the inside of my Dixie cup like Rainbow Brite went bulimic in it. I asked the dealer of my dreams if it had been her life long goal to be a nurse at an imaginary mental institution. Of course she has hoped to be something else, but sometimes life takes an unexpected turn. She had aspired to be a Senegalese sous chef, but apparently there isn't a big job market for the preparation of cuisine from Senegal. Had I always dreamt of being an under inspired unpaid blogger, she asked. Touche, harlot.
Growing up I never wanted to be a fireman, a cop, a doctor, or a lawyer much to the chagrin of SuperMom. I'm sure she would have preferred that I had chosen a career that would have offered a little stability and income, but she is quite proud of what I have accomplished as a writer. But even that wasn't what I though life would have in store for me. See I wanted to be like Spielberg, no not Jewish, I wanted to be a director. I thought that winning the Oscar in any other category was somehow a lesser award. But when you find your talent, you go where it takes you. I would be thrilled beyond the worlds knowledge to get the bald man statue for writing, but that wasn't what I wanted as a kid.
My sister was once asked what she wanted to be when she grew up and she didn't hesitate before saying cocktail waitress. That's setting the bar to a nice attainable level, don't you think. I'm mean if you're gonna dream, make it as banal as possible. Thing is, her dream was realized, mine, not so much. Maybe she was onto something. Maybe.
I've always been a dreamer, and I'm not the only one. My brother once told me that though I was poor and he was handsome and well to do with the cash flow, that he envied the fact that for what it was worth I have chased my dream. Not always the case. I will say that for the last 6 years I have really made an effort to go after it with some gusto. This year I have taken bigger steps than I have ever taken before, and next year I will go even further. The hardest part about being a writer is finding someone to read your work, I've found that here. The next step is finding someone that can open a door to the career side of it. I will, I have drive and determination, and you have no idea how great it will feel to quit HellJob.
Today's question comes in a few parts. What did you want to be when you grew up? Are you still in pursuit of that dream? Where did it derail? What's your new dream?
Dixie Cup of Love: Christine Basch, guidance counselor who told me that writing was a stupid career choice.
The nurse and I were having a pow wow about her job after I gulped down the gel caps of jolliness that colored the inside of my Dixie cup like Rainbow Brite went bulimic in it. I asked the dealer of my dreams if it had been her life long goal to be a nurse at an imaginary mental institution. Of course she has hoped to be something else, but sometimes life takes an unexpected turn. She had aspired to be a Senegalese sous chef, but apparently there isn't a big job market for the preparation of cuisine from Senegal. Had I always dreamt of being an under inspired unpaid blogger, she asked. Touche, harlot.
Growing up I never wanted to be a fireman, a cop, a doctor, or a lawyer much to the chagrin of SuperMom. I'm sure she would have preferred that I had chosen a career that would have offered a little stability and income, but she is quite proud of what I have accomplished as a writer. But even that wasn't what I though life would have in store for me. See I wanted to be like Spielberg, no not Jewish, I wanted to be a director. I thought that winning the Oscar in any other category was somehow a lesser award. But when you find your talent, you go where it takes you. I would be thrilled beyond the worlds knowledge to get the bald man statue for writing, but that wasn't what I wanted as a kid.
My sister was once asked what she wanted to be when she grew up and she didn't hesitate before saying cocktail waitress. That's setting the bar to a nice attainable level, don't you think. I'm mean if you're gonna dream, make it as banal as possible. Thing is, her dream was realized, mine, not so much. Maybe she was onto something. Maybe.
I've always been a dreamer, and I'm not the only one. My brother once told me that though I was poor and he was handsome and well to do with the cash flow, that he envied the fact that for what it was worth I have chased my dream. Not always the case. I will say that for the last 6 years I have really made an effort to go after it with some gusto. This year I have taken bigger steps than I have ever taken before, and next year I will go even further. The hardest part about being a writer is finding someone to read your work, I've found that here. The next step is finding someone that can open a door to the career side of it. I will, I have drive and determination, and you have no idea how great it will feel to quit HellJob.
Today's question comes in a few parts. What did you want to be when you grew up? Are you still in pursuit of that dream? Where did it derail? What's your new dream?
Dixie Cup of Love: Christine Basch, guidance counselor who told me that writing was a stupid career choice.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
The Heckler
"Does it hurt? Oh, it really doesn't matter, Does it burn? Oh, I don't feel a thing. Does it sting? Oh, yeah, it really doesn't matter. Does it hurt?, Oh, I don't give a damn. When I find myself falling and I hit the bottom, It only makes me laugh" Oingo Boingo from "It Only Makes Me Laugh"
I started to wonder today as the nurse came in my room looking like Russell Crowe in a bad mood if there was any joy left in her pathetic, imaginary life. Were there moments of hysterical laughter when she lets her guard down completely and just rolls on the floor (for those of you who don't understand those words it means ROFLMAO, basically, damned Internet)? Who makes the nurse pee her pants a little? And thinking of that, well, it disgusted me a bit, then I started thinking about the people that make me laugh.
There is one job that I know, aside from employee of HellJob, that I would never like to attempt, that is Stand-up Comedian. I like to think that in written form I'm a hoot, but standing in front of a room full of strangers and deciding that they are all gonna laugh, that's tough. But when someone does it well it can be a splendid sight to behold. For me, there's a few people that I can watch stand with the microphone in hand and just cackle.
Eddie Izzard. Not in everyone's taste I understand. But those that value a sense of intelligence and wit love the transvestite. I will admit that I was leery to check his show out at first. After all, what's funny about a man prancing around in woman's clothing? It was a mistake on my part to judge the product by the box it came in. My old roommate Aaron tried with the temerity of an ant moving a rubber tree plant to get me to watch it, then one day, while stoned, I caved in and am forever glad that I did. The man is just brilliant. If you haven't seen Dressed to Kill and Glorious, Netflix them now. Do not delay, you probably won't be disappointed.
Dave Chappelle. Such an influence on me was the special "Killing Them Softly" that I named one of the main characters in my first play "Chip". Some find him to be too anti-white male but get over it, as long as there are different races it will be part of stand-up. The Chappelle Show on Comedy Central did some of the funniest stuff I had ever seen on TV and it was a shame that he freaked out over getting paid and being pressured. Hopefully we have not seen the last of him. For that would be a huge loss.
I have been watching Last Comic Standing this season, as I was a huge fan of Josh Blue, and I have to say that the way they are treating women on this show is an outrage. Esther Ku was funny, I don't care how annoying her laugh was, her stand up was top notch, and she was gone in the first elimination. Eliza is an assassin. Two times she has been on the showdown, two times she has sent the other comics packing. She's funny, guys, get over it. Women are just as funny as we are, and they have boobies. I only add the boobies thing because I'm a fan and a pig. If you haven't figured that out by now you shouldn't be reading the Asylum.
Which comedians make you laugh? Who do you not like at all?
Dixie Cup of Love: The Funny Chicks.
I started to wonder today as the nurse came in my room looking like Russell Crowe in a bad mood if there was any joy left in her pathetic, imaginary life. Were there moments of hysterical laughter when she lets her guard down completely and just rolls on the floor (for those of you who don't understand those words it means ROFLMAO, basically, damned Internet)? Who makes the nurse pee her pants a little? And thinking of that, well, it disgusted me a bit, then I started thinking about the people that make me laugh.
There is one job that I know, aside from employee of HellJob, that I would never like to attempt, that is Stand-up Comedian. I like to think that in written form I'm a hoot, but standing in front of a room full of strangers and deciding that they are all gonna laugh, that's tough. But when someone does it well it can be a splendid sight to behold. For me, there's a few people that I can watch stand with the microphone in hand and just cackle.
Eddie Izzard. Not in everyone's taste I understand. But those that value a sense of intelligence and wit love the transvestite. I will admit that I was leery to check his show out at first. After all, what's funny about a man prancing around in woman's clothing? It was a mistake on my part to judge the product by the box it came in. My old roommate Aaron tried with the temerity of an ant moving a rubber tree plant to get me to watch it, then one day, while stoned, I caved in and am forever glad that I did. The man is just brilliant. If you haven't seen Dressed to Kill and Glorious, Netflix them now. Do not delay, you probably won't be disappointed.
Dave Chappelle. Such an influence on me was the special "Killing Them Softly" that I named one of the main characters in my first play "Chip". Some find him to be too anti-white male but get over it, as long as there are different races it will be part of stand-up. The Chappelle Show on Comedy Central did some of the funniest stuff I had ever seen on TV and it was a shame that he freaked out over getting paid and being pressured. Hopefully we have not seen the last of him. For that would be a huge loss.
I have been watching Last Comic Standing this season, as I was a huge fan of Josh Blue, and I have to say that the way they are treating women on this show is an outrage. Esther Ku was funny, I don't care how annoying her laugh was, her stand up was top notch, and she was gone in the first elimination. Eliza is an assassin. Two times she has been on the showdown, two times she has sent the other comics packing. She's funny, guys, get over it. Women are just as funny as we are, and they have boobies. I only add the boobies thing because I'm a fan and a pig. If you haven't figured that out by now you shouldn't be reading the Asylum.
Which comedians make you laugh? Who do you not like at all?
Dixie Cup of Love: The Funny Chicks.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Going Hot
"You either love or you despise. There's just no time for compromise. The days have gotta move real fast. We know that nothing's gonna last" The Stranglers from "Burning Up Time"
The nurse came in to administer my lithium luggage with a copy of one of my favorite magazines under her arm. A rag that has been around since the 60's and covers everything from music, movies, to politics and corruption. And every now and again it puts out a "Hot List". Seeing the magazine pressed between her bicep and implant got me to thinking that it's time I got some insight on you.
Sorry about this one, but it should be fun. I have had a busy couple of days at HellJob and it has left me in a mental state akin to a trash bag full of Jell-o. So, today, I'm asking for you to help. I want to know what you think is "Hot", what for you, at this very moment, is making you feel good, making you lustful, making you angry. I present the "Asylum's One and Only, Hot List"
Hot Starlet: Maggie Gylennhaal.
Hot Band: The Kills
Hot Director: Adam McKay
Hot Team: Will Ferrell and John C. Reilly
Hot Car: Ferrari California
Hot Movie: TheDark Knight
Hot Hero: Kristen Bell
Hot Food: Kickin Pig Bar-be-cue
Hot Religion: Anonymous
Hot Model: Marissa Miller
Hot Sports Star: Natalie Coughlin
Hot Buzz: State of Play
Hot Daddies Girl: tie Brooke Hogan and Miley Cyrus
Hot Online Dating Bio: 38, SWM, blogger with good vocab and strong opinions about music, seeks large breasted woman with brains.
Hot Gadget: MacBook Air
Hot Mama: Angelina Jolie
Hot City: Las Vegas
Hot Arm Candy: Reformed porn stars
Hot Dead Guy: Heath Ledger
Hot Live Guy: Seth Rogen
All right, that's kind of all I have time for, so, I want to hear your Hot List. Run down the same categories, skip the ones you don't want to answer because they make your brain hurt or what not. Just remember, there are no wrong answers and I will be judging you. Hee Hee.
Dixie Cup of Love: Jann Wenner
The nurse came in to administer my lithium luggage with a copy of one of my favorite magazines under her arm. A rag that has been around since the 60's and covers everything from music, movies, to politics and corruption. And every now and again it puts out a "Hot List". Seeing the magazine pressed between her bicep and implant got me to thinking that it's time I got some insight on you.
Sorry about this one, but it should be fun. I have had a busy couple of days at HellJob and it has left me in a mental state akin to a trash bag full of Jell-o. So, today, I'm asking for you to help. I want to know what you think is "Hot", what for you, at this very moment, is making you feel good, making you lustful, making you angry. I present the "Asylum's One and Only, Hot List"
Hot Starlet: Maggie Gylennhaal.
Hot Band: The Kills
Hot Director: Adam McKay
Hot Team: Will Ferrell and John C. Reilly
Hot Car: Ferrari California
Hot Movie: TheDark Knight
Hot Hero: Kristen Bell
Hot Food: Kickin Pig Bar-be-cue
Hot Religion: Anonymous
Hot Model: Marissa Miller
Hot Sports Star: Natalie Coughlin
Hot Buzz: State of Play
Hot Daddies Girl: tie Brooke Hogan and Miley Cyrus
Hot Online Dating Bio: 38, SWM, blogger with good vocab and strong opinions about music, seeks large breasted woman with brains.
Hot Gadget: MacBook Air
Hot Mama: Angelina Jolie
Hot City: Las Vegas
Hot Arm Candy: Reformed porn stars
Hot Dead Guy: Heath Ledger
Hot Live Guy: Seth Rogen
All right, that's kind of all I have time for, so, I want to hear your Hot List. Run down the same categories, skip the ones you don't want to answer because they make your brain hurt or what not. Just remember, there are no wrong answers and I will be judging you. Hee Hee.
Dixie Cup of Love: Jann Wenner
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Days of Day-Glo Revistied
"From what I've been and what I've seen, From top to bottom, I am obscene. It stands in my place, It spits in my face. It's shame, shame! It's shame!" Rollins Band from "Shame"
When the nurse came in to give me my pharmaceutical cocktail for the morning I couldn't help but notice that she was sporting a New Kids On The Block push up bra under her uniform. Though the site of her silicone laden chest cannons bravely trying to escape the confines of the garment was eye attracting and appealing, it was said delicate that had me questioning her very sanity. Perhaps it was time I strapped the nurse to a gurney and tortured her as she has me for all these long months. Her rock-n-roll persona was straining for credibility when compared to her choice of boy band lingerie. But seeing the shocking display of fan adoration got me thinking.
While out shopping for the necessities of life in the Slow, bug spray, ultra powerful antiperspirant, and alcohol, I spied SuperMom thumbing through a magazine whose sole purpose seemed to be to dupe addle minded, love lorn teenage girl out of their usually undeserved allowance. No it wasn't O Magazine, the O standing for Oppressor, it was some silly glossy dedicated to boy band of the minute, The Jonas Brothers. The newest is Disney's continuing juggernaut on the good and wholesome market, after all their last big star is starting to turn the way of her Mouseketeer predecessor. Miley is the new Britney. Only a mater of time before some over tattooed angst ridden pseudo pop punk knucklehead lands a sperm to her billion dollar eggs. With that inevitability looming on the horizon the Mouse needs a new way to bilk millions from the coffers of the masses. Enter Jonas-mania.
No, SuperMom is not a fan of the Jonii, but my ultra spoiled niece is in the grips of mad infatuation. The fandom that comes with being a pre-teen in the Disney Age. Matter of fact if her mother would have put all the monies she has spend on Disney related garbage during my nieces 12 years and invested it in a savings account, I'm pretty sure my niece could attend Harvard, all four years. And now SuperNana, as she would be called by my niece, is adding to the dollar total. I understand that part of childhood, even the teen years, is to attach yourself to a band of questionable credibility. We all have a shirt hanging in our proverbial closets that makes us, as adults, wonder what we were thinking.
For all my rock pedigree there are skeletons that I am only showing the light of day so that you, my dear readers and fans, may have a laugh at me while shamefully realizing that you have just as many bone daddies in your own arsenal. Sure, I had the "Frankie Says Relax" T-shirt. I'm actually not too ashamed of that one. But for a girl named Tammy Francis I became a neon wearing Wham! fan. Yeah, okay, enough with the laughter. She was short and super hot, and there was nothing I wouldn't do to play with her boobies, including selling out my own musical taste. Amazing how I let the objects of my hearts affections effect my own tastes. Even now if I was in pursuit of a wily female that liked a musical genre that normally I would abhor, I would find something redeeming in it. I am no shepherd in this regard, just a mere sheep.
Some of these emotional interludes have actually left me with great tunes that I may not have listened to without said strumpets influence. My undying love for Dayna brought me the joy of the Old 97's, Cari is so closely tied with my love of the Gear Daddies that it's impossible to separate the two, Annie is linked to the soundtrack from "Grease" like a liner not, and without Judi there would be no Jenny Lewis in my life, no Rilo Kiley in my itunes. Not all the bands have been winners, mind you. With Michelle it was, sadly, Bryan Adams. Not good at all really, but still meaningful. I guess I just wish some, not all (Australians are exempt due to swinging great taste and living on the bottom of the world), but some of the women that I adore had better taste in music.
What skeletons are you hiding in your CD collection?
Dixie Cup of Love: Tammy Francis.
When the nurse came in to give me my pharmaceutical cocktail for the morning I couldn't help but notice that she was sporting a New Kids On The Block push up bra under her uniform. Though the site of her silicone laden chest cannons bravely trying to escape the confines of the garment was eye attracting and appealing, it was said delicate that had me questioning her very sanity. Perhaps it was time I strapped the nurse to a gurney and tortured her as she has me for all these long months. Her rock-n-roll persona was straining for credibility when compared to her choice of boy band lingerie. But seeing the shocking display of fan adoration got me thinking.
While out shopping for the necessities of life in the Slow, bug spray, ultra powerful antiperspirant, and alcohol, I spied SuperMom thumbing through a magazine whose sole purpose seemed to be to dupe addle minded, love lorn teenage girl out of their usually undeserved allowance. No it wasn't O Magazine, the O standing for Oppressor, it was some silly glossy dedicated to boy band of the minute, The Jonas Brothers. The newest is Disney's continuing juggernaut on the good and wholesome market, after all their last big star is starting to turn the way of her Mouseketeer predecessor. Miley is the new Britney. Only a mater of time before some over tattooed angst ridden pseudo pop punk knucklehead lands a sperm to her billion dollar eggs. With that inevitability looming on the horizon the Mouse needs a new way to bilk millions from the coffers of the masses. Enter Jonas-mania.
No, SuperMom is not a fan of the Jonii, but my ultra spoiled niece is in the grips of mad infatuation. The fandom that comes with being a pre-teen in the Disney Age. Matter of fact if her mother would have put all the monies she has spend on Disney related garbage during my nieces 12 years and invested it in a savings account, I'm pretty sure my niece could attend Harvard, all four years. And now SuperNana, as she would be called by my niece, is adding to the dollar total. I understand that part of childhood, even the teen years, is to attach yourself to a band of questionable credibility. We all have a shirt hanging in our proverbial closets that makes us, as adults, wonder what we were thinking.
For all my rock pedigree there are skeletons that I am only showing the light of day so that you, my dear readers and fans, may have a laugh at me while shamefully realizing that you have just as many bone daddies in your own arsenal. Sure, I had the "Frankie Says Relax" T-shirt. I'm actually not too ashamed of that one. But for a girl named Tammy Francis I became a neon wearing Wham! fan. Yeah, okay, enough with the laughter. She was short and super hot, and there was nothing I wouldn't do to play with her boobies, including selling out my own musical taste. Amazing how I let the objects of my hearts affections effect my own tastes. Even now if I was in pursuit of a wily female that liked a musical genre that normally I would abhor, I would find something redeeming in it. I am no shepherd in this regard, just a mere sheep.
Some of these emotional interludes have actually left me with great tunes that I may not have listened to without said strumpets influence. My undying love for Dayna brought me the joy of the Old 97's, Cari is so closely tied with my love of the Gear Daddies that it's impossible to separate the two, Annie is linked to the soundtrack from "Grease" like a liner not, and without Judi there would be no Jenny Lewis in my life, no Rilo Kiley in my itunes. Not all the bands have been winners, mind you. With Michelle it was, sadly, Bryan Adams. Not good at all really, but still meaningful. I guess I just wish some, not all (Australians are exempt due to swinging great taste and living on the bottom of the world), but some of the women that I adore had better taste in music.
What skeletons are you hiding in your CD collection?
Dixie Cup of Love: Tammy Francis.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Dreaming
"Have you seen my garden? It is most peculiar. Have you seen my garden? Nothing there that grows looks anything at all like plants. I hear their voices. Let's take the whole day off" Oingo Boingo from "Whole Day Off"
It started out like any other day, or so I thought. I was, as per the norm in this psychedelic fun house, shackled to my bed awaiting the arrival of my antiseptically scrubbed Florence Nightingale from the depths of Hades. My body quivered in negative withdrawal from my daily Dixie cup of addiction fixers, but they didn't arrive. What the hell was going on? The damned nurse called in sick leaving me unmedicated and longing for the affections of my state appointed care taker. A dreadful feeling came over me. What if something serious happened, what if she was never to come back, what would become of me? Then I heard the steroid swollen orderly say that the nurse was out on some rich guys yacht for the day. What a bitch.
The general plan of how to spend a sick day was once laid out to near perfection in a little romp of a film called "Ferris Bueller's Day Off". It was a film that set the bar for how to play ditch at a level too astronomical for the average hooky player to achieve. I mean, seriously, how often do you just happen on a midweek parade? And on the same day as a big league matinee no less. No, that day isn't near perfect, I mean Scarlett Johannson is near perfect, that day is absolute, Stairway to Heaven, perfection.
As for my day of leisure it would begin, if we are talking a perfect day, by me waking up next to a very horny woman with perhaps an accent and an oral fixation. We would wake after an excellent night s sleep to make love as we called in to our jobs and finagled the day off. After bringing each other to the zenith of ecstasy we would adjourn the bedroom for the patio to enjoy coffee and cigarettes while I finished the New York Times crossword puzzle.
I would then leave my strumpet for a spell, hopping on the Harley and bombing down Pacific Coast Highway towards Long Beach where I would pick up comics from Atomic. Of course it would be the day that the new Garth Ennis trade comes out. We would chat comics and movies while watching a Hawaiian Tropics Bikini Contest from his balcony. Inevitably the contest would be short a couple of judges, they would spy us on the balcony, and of course we would help them out. Atomic would end up scoring a sun soaked model and I would hop on the bike and head for Pasadena.
On the way I would get a call from a literary agent telling me that my latest script was just bought for a seven figure payday. Sick day no longer, I would be quitting my job tomorrow. But, on to the City of Roses, where I would spend an hour or two hanging out with the Weezer Kid doing what we do best. We'd listen to the the Red Album as we enjoyed some of natures finest greenery.
I would grab lunch at "The Hat", for pastrami and chili fries, before heading off to see the new Scarlett Johannson/Jessica Biel lesbian love story action flick. With red vines in hand I would enjoy. The sun would be glowing amber in the late afternoon sky as I leave the theater sure that the film will win a bevy of Academy Awards.
The woman with the accent meets me for a romantic dinner of prime rib, baked potato, and Heineken before driving us back to her place where we pick up where we left off before coffee. I would fall into a deep sleep, waking to the day that I quit HellJob.
What your dream day off?
Dixie Cup of Love: The Woman with the Accent.
It started out like any other day, or so I thought. I was, as per the norm in this psychedelic fun house, shackled to my bed awaiting the arrival of my antiseptically scrubbed Florence Nightingale from the depths of Hades. My body quivered in negative withdrawal from my daily Dixie cup of addiction fixers, but they didn't arrive. What the hell was going on? The damned nurse called in sick leaving me unmedicated and longing for the affections of my state appointed care taker. A dreadful feeling came over me. What if something serious happened, what if she was never to come back, what would become of me? Then I heard the steroid swollen orderly say that the nurse was out on some rich guys yacht for the day. What a bitch.
The general plan of how to spend a sick day was once laid out to near perfection in a little romp of a film called "Ferris Bueller's Day Off". It was a film that set the bar for how to play ditch at a level too astronomical for the average hooky player to achieve. I mean, seriously, how often do you just happen on a midweek parade? And on the same day as a big league matinee no less. No, that day isn't near perfect, I mean Scarlett Johannson is near perfect, that day is absolute, Stairway to Heaven, perfection.
As for my day of leisure it would begin, if we are talking a perfect day, by me waking up next to a very horny woman with perhaps an accent and an oral fixation. We would wake after an excellent night s sleep to make love as we called in to our jobs and finagled the day off. After bringing each other to the zenith of ecstasy we would adjourn the bedroom for the patio to enjoy coffee and cigarettes while I finished the New York Times crossword puzzle.
I would then leave my strumpet for a spell, hopping on the Harley and bombing down Pacific Coast Highway towards Long Beach where I would pick up comics from Atomic. Of course it would be the day that the new Garth Ennis trade comes out. We would chat comics and movies while watching a Hawaiian Tropics Bikini Contest from his balcony. Inevitably the contest would be short a couple of judges, they would spy us on the balcony, and of course we would help them out. Atomic would end up scoring a sun soaked model and I would hop on the bike and head for Pasadena.
On the way I would get a call from a literary agent telling me that my latest script was just bought for a seven figure payday. Sick day no longer, I would be quitting my job tomorrow. But, on to the City of Roses, where I would spend an hour or two hanging out with the Weezer Kid doing what we do best. We'd listen to the the Red Album as we enjoyed some of natures finest greenery.
I would grab lunch at "The Hat", for pastrami and chili fries, before heading off to see the new Scarlett Johannson/Jessica Biel lesbian love story action flick. With red vines in hand I would enjoy. The sun would be glowing amber in the late afternoon sky as I leave the theater sure that the film will win a bevy of Academy Awards.
The woman with the accent meets me for a romantic dinner of prime rib, baked potato, and Heineken before driving us back to her place where we pick up where we left off before coffee. I would fall into a deep sleep, waking to the day that I quit HellJob.
What your dream day off?
Dixie Cup of Love: The Woman with the Accent.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Pools of Sorrow, Waves of Joy
"Say the word and you'll be free, say the word and be like me, say the word I'm thinking of, have you heard the word is love? It's so fine, It's sunshine, It's the word, love." The Beatles from "The Word"
In a strange twist of conformity, the nurse burst into my room with the manic cackle of a hyena with an Angel Dust habit. Twirling like a dervish, shiny colorful pills splaying around the room in a rainbow of hallucinogenic medication. Just as she was surely about to slit my throat with the heel of one of her razor sharp stilettos, one of the steroid downing orderlies tackled her with the exuberance of a juiced up linebacker. That mad man with the grape nuts sized sack saved my bacon. As I thanked him, he informed me that it was no problem, he was warned that earlier in the day the nurse had gotten into the medication prior to her shift after listening to The Beatles "Rubber Soul" for an entire week. Hearing that got me to thinking.
This week the wisdom and power of the Beatles has hit me on a few different fronts. First, while SuperMom humored me by sitting through another viewing of "Across The Universe" we got to chat-chitting about how I have to, sometimes, introduce her to songs from her own generation. It doesn't bother her, because she was basically as square as June Cleaver growing up. She graduated in 1966, prime time to be a peace loving, pot smoking, dancing to the music, hippy, but alas it was not meant to be. She wasn't down with the counter culture, not a motivator, innovator, aviator or eating taters. She was all about West Coast surf music, which is a huge influence on me, but that's for another blog. During this Beatles flavored conversation she informed me that "Hey Jude" was her favorite tune from the Fab Four. A later song? I was floored. I figured, if any song, it would be a Meet The Beatles era tune like "I Wanna Hold Your Hand" or "Love Me Do." Never would I have guessed that she would be a fan of a song with the complexities of "Hey Jude".
Those that know me well can tell you that my favorite Beatles symphony is "While My Guitar Gently Weeps", but the reason may elude even the Atomic One. I was thinking about this earlier this week. When I was a wee Cub Scout of a lad I had a friend named Eric Wood. His pop was our scout master, yes I was a Cub Scout so what, and also his dad was the local fire chief. It was at the Wood house that I first remember hearing the Beatles and "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" was the song. Now whenever I hear it, I am instantly transported Jason Statham style, back tot he simple carefree times of my adolescents.
As I have gotten older my appreciation for the wisdom of the Beatles lyrics has become a major influence on me as a writer. Not only do I quote them at random, but there are certain lines that seem to speak directly to me. "If I fell in love with you, would you promise to be true, and help me understand". I get that on a very non-trusting, I have no clue about women level that has plagued me my entire life. "And anytime you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain, don't carry the world on your shoulders". Sometimes I feel that I am Charles Atlas and the globe is resting in my not so gym chiseled arms. Though I tend to roll with the flow on most things, I sometimes need to remind myself that I am not everything to everyone. And this last one is just now starting to hit me like a baseball bat to the kidneys. "All these places have their moments, with lovers and friends and I still can recall. Some are dead and some are living, in my life, I've loved them all." I miss my California friends deeply, I miss those familiar places, and I have often fell for the right girl at the wrong time, but my love for them was never in doubt. It was true, pure, and painful. Even the ones that blew it off as a simple crush or something else entirely.
The best thing about a song, especially a great song, is that the lyrics and melody combine to illicit different emotions from each and every one of us. The Beatles have an entire catalog of tunes that will makes us laugh, cry, think, love, and want to die. That's the magic of those four lads from Liverpool.
Songs by them that affect you and why?
Dixie Cup of Love: Them All.
In a strange twist of conformity, the nurse burst into my room with the manic cackle of a hyena with an Angel Dust habit. Twirling like a dervish, shiny colorful pills splaying around the room in a rainbow of hallucinogenic medication. Just as she was surely about to slit my throat with the heel of one of her razor sharp stilettos, one of the steroid downing orderlies tackled her with the exuberance of a juiced up linebacker. That mad man with the grape nuts sized sack saved my bacon. As I thanked him, he informed me that it was no problem, he was warned that earlier in the day the nurse had gotten into the medication prior to her shift after listening to The Beatles "Rubber Soul" for an entire week. Hearing that got me to thinking.
This week the wisdom and power of the Beatles has hit me on a few different fronts. First, while SuperMom humored me by sitting through another viewing of "Across The Universe" we got to chat-chitting about how I have to, sometimes, introduce her to songs from her own generation. It doesn't bother her, because she was basically as square as June Cleaver growing up. She graduated in 1966, prime time to be a peace loving, pot smoking, dancing to the music, hippy, but alas it was not meant to be. She wasn't down with the counter culture, not a motivator, innovator, aviator or eating taters. She was all about West Coast surf music, which is a huge influence on me, but that's for another blog. During this Beatles flavored conversation she informed me that "Hey Jude" was her favorite tune from the Fab Four. A later song? I was floored. I figured, if any song, it would be a Meet The Beatles era tune like "I Wanna Hold Your Hand" or "Love Me Do." Never would I have guessed that she would be a fan of a song with the complexities of "Hey Jude".
Those that know me well can tell you that my favorite Beatles symphony is "While My Guitar Gently Weeps", but the reason may elude even the Atomic One. I was thinking about this earlier this week. When I was a wee Cub Scout of a lad I had a friend named Eric Wood. His pop was our scout master, yes I was a Cub Scout so what, and also his dad was the local fire chief. It was at the Wood house that I first remember hearing the Beatles and "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" was the song. Now whenever I hear it, I am instantly transported Jason Statham style, back tot he simple carefree times of my adolescents.
As I have gotten older my appreciation for the wisdom of the Beatles lyrics has become a major influence on me as a writer. Not only do I quote them at random, but there are certain lines that seem to speak directly to me. "If I fell in love with you, would you promise to be true, and help me understand". I get that on a very non-trusting, I have no clue about women level that has plagued me my entire life. "And anytime you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain, don't carry the world on your shoulders". Sometimes I feel that I am Charles Atlas and the globe is resting in my not so gym chiseled arms. Though I tend to roll with the flow on most things, I sometimes need to remind myself that I am not everything to everyone. And this last one is just now starting to hit me like a baseball bat to the kidneys. "All these places have their moments, with lovers and friends and I still can recall. Some are dead and some are living, in my life, I've loved them all." I miss my California friends deeply, I miss those familiar places, and I have often fell for the right girl at the wrong time, but my love for them was never in doubt. It was true, pure, and painful. Even the ones that blew it off as a simple crush or something else entirely.
The best thing about a song, especially a great song, is that the lyrics and melody combine to illicit different emotions from each and every one of us. The Beatles have an entire catalog of tunes that will makes us laugh, cry, think, love, and want to die. That's the magic of those four lads from Liverpool.
Songs by them that affect you and why?
Dixie Cup of Love: Them All.
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