It's very strange how late night Net-surfing through the wonders of Wikipedia and a nice, crystal tumbler of Jameson's on the rocks can lead you to such strange posting material.

Let me explain: I started off on my late-night jaunt, having worked from 12:45 PM until 10:45 PM on a bus line that runs just north of being a royal pain in the ass.  I went home, spent a little time with my sleepyhead wife, and kissed her goodnight before going out to confront the horrors of the Internet head-on.  That, my devoted peeps, is when I ran head-first into Andrea Dworkin.

You're not familiar?  Oh, let me don the infamous Hat Of Snarkiness, then.  Andrea Dworkin is a seminal figure in the feminist movement (motto: "Women are real people too, duh!") and one of the most controversial--not to mention psycho--figures in in its ranks.  Until I read the Wiki article, I only knew three things about Dworkin, those being:

1)  She had the novel idea that all sexual intercourse, no matter how loving or how many candles were lit, amounted to rape.

2)  She had published literally scads of material on the subject, and while everyone seemed to know her name, very few people could be found who could actually tell the truth when saying, "Yes, I've read her material and no, I don't think she was at least partially unbalanced."

3)  She was an absolute whacko, and saying this is sort of like saying that Ted Bundy was a bad bet in the dating department.

I could also mention that she was the kind of ugly that Jabba the Hutt regularly wrote long, soulful sonnets about, but that would be unnecessarily mean and hey, I'm not that guy.  That's not how I do things around here.  It should also be noted for the record that I was woefully incorrect in regards to Thing #1; she merely argued that the point that only heterosexual sex had been lionized in film, print, theater and so on, and therefore society at large was a bunch of churlish, heelish brutes who probably thought women should be barefoot and pregnant at all times.  Like that's anything close to being realistic in the modern era of the two-income household, right?

Anyhow, with a plethora of time and a tasty tumbler of hard booze before me, I dived into the article.  Dworkin got her start when she went to the Netherlands to interview a bunch of anarchists and ended up married to one of them.  This guy was apparently a true prince of the land, and when I say this, I mean that he used to beat the shit of out her in the time-honored manner practiced by douchebags all over the globe.  It got so bad, in fact, that she was willing to smuggle a case of heroin through customs in exchange for a plane ticket out of the country, her rationale being that either way the trip ended, she'd certainly be fixed for life.

Now, I can certainly understand the desire to get away from a psycho who will kill your soul, as evidenced by my experience with the Enemy Of Fun.  I get that, people.  I'll state for the record that I don't know anything about Dworkin prior to this period; meh, who knows?  Maybe she was a very happy woman, perhaps she was always perpetually waiting for that other shoe to drop... truth be told, I don't know.  It's possible that this unnamed Danish anarchist (the worst kind, in my opinion) was simple the straw that broke the camel's back, the last in a string of jackasses, sociopaths and shit-for-brains-alpha-males that systematically broke her down until she saw most men as the enemy, and not just The Enemy, but brothers and sisters, THE ENEMY!

Maybe.  Then I read an account of her life partner, the horrifically emasculated John Stoltenberg, whose wonderful essay "Why I Stopped Trying To Be A Real Man" is linked here for your convenience.  During their time together, he said he was gay (repeatedly and publically) and she said she was a lesbian (again, repeatedly and publically).  Then it comes out, after her death in 2005, that they got married in 1998.  However, nothing was ever disclosed about it because it was felt by these two median geniuses that people would be confused and interpret their commitment ceremony as some type of ownership.

It seems to me that this woman could spent much of her time doing something else... like, possibly being happy... if somebody had managed to explain to her that wanting to fuck somebody is not the same as wanting to repress them.  Is looking at somebody and reducing them to the "would I bang you" question not giving a person their total due as a human being?  No question that the answer to that question is yes.  Do we do this on what amount to a more-or-less constant basis every day or at the very least, once in a blue moon?  Yes, we certainly do.  Oh, and is this an unforgiveable crime?  No.  Goddamnit, this is biology in action and I'd say that I'm sorry that it doesn't correspond with what people think is actions that should be taken by "nice people," folks...  but I'm not.  I believe in honesty and integrity, and while it's a nice fantasy, this just isn't a valid representation of real life.

It also seems to me that for somebody who was soooo outspoken during her life, she certainly whiffed big-time when it came to the honesty card being played in terms of her own marriage.  You know, that soulful connection to another that you should be proud to trumpet to the heavens?  If you don't at least give that some sort of public due, you are a charlatan.

Thoughts are appreciated.

12:43 AM and I'm listening to my cats tearing our living room apart.  Good Lord, do I hate night runs.

Well... that's not entirely correct.  What I hate is coming home at just this side of eleven o'clock and finding my wife soundly asleep in bed or coin-flip odds of being deliciously drowsy and on the verge of succumbing to the Sandman.  My brother-in-law is usually headed off to his room as well at that point, which leaves as the king of a very quiet, very dark castle.  So what do I do?  After I bump through Livejournal and MySpace I check the latest sports updates, hem and haw over various tidbits on Fark.com, and after that...

...after that, I usually compose an entry that is extremely off-the-cuff, just as a blog righteously should be.  Which reminds me:  there's a community that bites_the_sun (and I have to say for the record, Helen, that's one of the coolest handles I've stumbled across) introduced me to called LKH Lashouts (I know, no neat LJ symbol, bad Jesse who is HTML-retarded, so there) where they basically flay the literary skin off the crumbling bones that is the Laurell Hamilton name.  I have to say, I agree with most of what they say, with the exception of the all-too-frequent "blog flogs" that they do.

Here's how a blog flog works.  You decide, as is your Internet right, to post a bunch of stupid, lame drivel to your blog.  What the fuck, right?  Just a blog, after all.  Who hasn't been guilty of that?  Hell, I even put myself on the altar and allowed a bunch of pretentious douchebags to slit my throat over it, and I laughed up a storm at how God-awful serious they took it all.  This isn't serious.  This is just Livejournal, so put down the thesaurus and nobody gets hurt.

Nice thought, huh?  Only these people take a glee that is somewhere just this side of unholy in ripping to shreds every last sentence she decides to post to her own.  Now it may be true (and it most certainly is) that Missus Hamilton hasn't written anything worth a fart between the bedsheets since Obsidian Butterfly, and we acknowledge this.  But tearing up a blog?  Come on, people.  That's like picking on a kid in a wheelchair in the rain.  For example, if you wanted to go after my electronic throat based on what I've been writing lately in The Long Dark Tea-Time Of The Soul, here's the last ten candidates not including this one:

Putting myself over about how I have persisted on my writing over the years, even while those mean, nasty publishers and agents refuse to accept my genius.  Proclaiming my love of cleaning and talking about what I'm going to watch on television these days.  A meme that proves I am indeed sm@rt.  Getting wet boxers over NaNoWriMo.  A lengthy, well-planned and intelligent diatribe that nobody probably read over why people in Sacramento are acting like sunstroked mongoloids over the "arena tax."  A quick and dirty rundown about how it works, along with a call to arms, about NaNoWriMo.  Bitching and whining about how Firefox isn't displaying images in LJ properly, boo-hoo.  An entry about where I was on 9/11/01.  A meme with some R-rated material and general heelishness.  And finally, to round the sordid pile out, another meme that has some half-naked and fully naked women in the pictures as it represents what a swinish, piggish male like myself likes in his LJ interests, up to and including including the deliciously edible porn goddess Miss Christy Canyon.

Fucking A, people... you could burn me at the stake for just that last sentence alone.

So as far as killing people for their blogs go, I'm not on that bandwagon.  I've grown particularly irritable at Brutal Honesty as of late, because the people there are incredibly, unbelievably hypocritical.  As far as I'm concerned (and maybe I'm alone on this, wouldn't be the first time), if you fuck your best friends' signifigant other and cop to it, you have no right to lambaste somebody else for doing something equally as shitty.  I think sometimes the only reasons I maintain a membership in that community is that so when somebody is getting dogpiled by the usual list of soulless, sociopathic fuck-chops, I can ring in and say, "Hey, that entry was pretty good.  Thanks for entertaining me, and ignore these jackass, hypocritical swine.  They all have a dire need to not only get fucked, but are shameless attention whores who wouldn't dare to speak to somebody in real life this way, because they know they'd get their teeth piledriven down their throat.  So goddamnit, keep posting!  If nothing else, it pisses these cowardly twat waffles off!  :D"

So yes, in some ways, I like night runs.  They result in meandering entries like these.

Have fun... because it's only Livejournal.

(EDIT:  There's much more to the story than just what was been written here.  Basically, this little war has been going on for about... well, my entire life.  In order to fully frame this incident, keep in mind that my mother is a die-hard socialist who believe the government should pay for everything; education, food, housing, medical, etc.  Now keep firmly in mind that she doesn't work, moved to Washington so she wouldn't have to pay state income taxes and shops in Oregon so she doesn't have to pay a sales tax.  However, she hates the rich because they pay proportionately much less on taxes.  Because paying zero is so much better.  Are you blinking yet?  Welcome to my world.)

My mother and I are feuding again.  I'm sure this comes as no shock at all to emilia_romagna, but my mother has become less and less connected with reality as the years have gone on.  We've fought about everything; money, politics, the state of the nation (most of those battles coming during my brief and ill-advised flirtation with Republicanism in college) and more recently, society as a whole.  Here's the summaries of our respective positions:

MY MOTHER BELIEVES:  that our society is in an inexorable slide downward, as it has been for the last quarter-century or so, and now there is very little that can be done to stop it.  We have become somewhat of a prisoner of our own ignorance, from the vast numbers of people who cannot read to the even more astonishing amount of people who cannot think critically if their lives depended on it.  Due to our anti-intellectual stance in this country, we have sneeringly derided those who might be able to better lead us out of the quagmire we find ourselves in, and therefore we are unavoidably and indubitably screwed.

I BELIEVE:  that correct though she may be--and she is--this does not excuse her from having a fucking job.

...I decided to bring this entry out of the archives.  It's about America's Favorite Vampire, Maury Povich.

(rubs hands together gleefully)  Oh, yes.  Here comes the pain.

Before I jump in with teeth bared, I must pause to say hello to a new friend and introduce all of you to seferin, who comes highly recommended from some people on my f-list.  As a person who also loves science-fiction I heartily approve of the idea of approaching the stars from an intelligent and literary point of view... which makes a wonderful transition into today's flogging.  So welcome, seferin, and pull up a bar stool for a text-only beatdown in the making.

Lately I've been having an ongoing dialogue with tsumi_x over writing, which is always a welcome diversion from the crushing disappointment of much of modern life.  The question has been raised about what it takes to get one's self published, something which I am still waiting on an answer myself.  I can tell you all that one of the needed elements is definitely not talent, as proved by 2005 Pulitzer Prize-winning author Marilynne Robinson latest effort, Gilead.

( Now That My Knife Is Sharpened, What Can I Cut With It? )

When I listen to the radio, it's always talk.  Never music, just talk.  Part of this is because for the most part I can't stand the vast majority of music that is being produced these days (something which extends beyond my well-known loathing of hip-hop into almost all other genres as well).  Part of this is because I have over 1,200 MP3's and therefore can make a CD mix of anything I like, so I'm taken care of there.  Bust mostly, it's because as I said in an earlier post, the art of conversation and dialogue is a lost one and I like to remind myself that there are practitioners of it still alive in the radioactive sludge that is our fair country.

I have four channels I listen to on a regular basis; two of them are sports talk, being KHTK 1140 and KNBR 680 out of San Francisco.  The other two are mostly poltical/sociological, 1320 KCTC (the Air America affiliate, featuring liberal talk) and KSTE 650 (the mostly conservative talk station).  Though I'm not a liberal, I identify with many of their platforms and causes because I have a strange thing called "common sense" that tells me an educated, medically insured society is a good thing and letting business police themselves results in things like Upton Sinclair's The Jungle.  Crazy talk, huh?

The one I used to enjoy the most on Air America was Randi Rhodes, but sadly, I have turned against the Queen Of Liberal Radio with a vengeance.  I still enjoy Al Franken quite a bit, but his schtick is quite a bit different than hers.  And if you hold Ms. Rhodes dear and fear that I am about to spit on an icon, let me assure you that I intend to do just that.  If you're one of her devoted defenders, you may wish to quietly hit BACK on your browser.  I won't hold it against you.

There are three reasons why I stopped listening to the show, and they had nothing to do with her politics or her feelings about the current administration.  Like her, I believe the people occupying the highest branches of government should be horsewhipped, and that's just for starters.  So the reasons for my defection are as follows:

1)  RANDI ISN'T DEPENDABLE.  Every third day, it seems, there is a "Best Of" show taking place or a replacement host in the studio.  I know there are meeical issues that arise.  I know she gets vacation.  I know that sometimes you just get sick (as I am while I type this, serving as living proof).  But when I tune in and hear something about nine billion dollars in Iraq that has disappeared, I know I'm hearing something from four months ago.  That just doesn't work for me, and I end up changing the station so I can hear what Satan Boy Hannity is lying about today.

2)  RANDI HAS A SKEWED VIEW OF THE SOCIETY WE LIVE IN.  In the wake of the 2004 elections, she screamed about how she couldn't believe that a little over half the country seemed to be so dumb as to get hoodwinked by flag-waving, scary stories about how mysterious terrorists would blow us up if John Kerry was elected and blatant lies by the so-called Swift Boat Veterans For Truth.  "It is impossible!" she shrieked.  "People are not that gullible!"  If somebody is this out of touch with how this country is really operating these days, I truly feel sorry for them.

You have to remember that in this country the median IQ score is 100, which means there's a whole hell of a lot of folks huffing in at double-digit levels.  If this sounds like I'm being superior, well, I am.  The argument has been made over and over again that IQ is not a "true measure of intelligence" and while there's a grain of truth to that, it also leaves out the part about how IQ measures a person's ability to learn.  Those who do not learn are stuck at that 16-year-old high school level for the rest of their lives, and think about the vast majority of teenagers you see these days and their abilities in regards to critical thinking.  Now remember, at 18 you get the right to vote... and that's how we ended up where we are right now.

If you need any more persuason, consider this:  in this country, being called "a member of the intellectual elite" is actually a considered an isult to most people.  Personally, I'd be more inclined to wear it as a fucking badge of honor.  So Randi gives people much more credit than they deserve, and frankly, that's quite sad from somebody who comes across as being very intelligent herself.  I guess she can't admit that the truth just plain sucks.

3)  RANDI IS A BIG GODDAMN HYPOCRITE.  Of her many complaints about the scum that goes by the names of Limbaugh, Hannity and Savage, Randi loves to beat the drum about all the nasty and dirtry tricks they do, especially to those who call in with opposing viewpoints.  The thing is, she does all the same things without even a trace of irony.  Talking over the top of somebody as they try to make a point?  Check.  Turning down their call so she can go on and have her unfettered say-so on the subject they called to talk about and therefore they can't interrupt her?  Check.  Most of the time only letting somebody on with an opposing viewpoint who is almost incoherent so they can get easily laughed off the show?  Check and mate.

However, the one that really got my goat was her railing about the right-winger's use of "name-calling," which to be fair they use with annoying regularity.  Although she doesn't go quite to the depths that whacko Mike Malloy does, Randi does have quite a razored tongue when it comes to savaging the idealogues of the Republican Party.

And truth be told?  Hey, that's fine.  One of the greatest failings of the liberal movement has been their unwillingness to rain fire and brimstone upon people who are plainly wrong, instead taking the high road and saying sweetly that everybody is entitled to their opinion without being attacked.  To this I say:  bull-fucking-shit.  If somebody is a flaming jackass who is a shameless and grotesque liar and distorter of truths (like say, Limbaugh or Hannity), then call them on their crap.  Don't sit by with your suit buttoned up and simply glower sternly at them.

That being said, you cannot claim the moral high ground if you do the same things your enemy does and while undeniably hilarious, saying that the Vice-President sleeps in an underground tomb and is only roused from his coffin when dire proclamations have to be made makes you a... well, a name-caller!  Al Franken, my favorite radio host by far, has absolutely no problem with throwing down verbal smack on somebody and in returns expects to take some shots.  In a street fight, you can't cry foul if somebody throws sand in your eyes and Randi cries foul all the time even while reaching for her next scoop of kitty litter.

Ah, that felt good.  Been wanting to say all that for a while.  That was probably boring for you, but it sure did the trick for me.  Self-indulgence, thy name is Livejournal.

Before I Begin Today's Post:  Tonight will mark the new episodes of Stargate: SG-1, Stargate: Atlantis and Battlestar Galactica.  Friday nights finally have meaning again.

Now, on with the body count.

I've been giving some editorial advice lately to somebody who harbors dreams of becoming a published writer and the question was raised by this person if they had the right stuff (all puns aside) to join that fraternity/sorority.  I think every person who has a love of words has probably wondered that to themselves, and in her case, the answer is yes.  The turns of phrase works, the dialogue is fine and this person obviously has a love of words, the most important criteria of all.

How exactly that translates out to chances of realizing said dream, however, is a crap shoot.  Getting published is a gamble where the odds are highly stacked against you.  In order to scale this ivory tower, you need to have three elements in order:

1)  A sellable idea

2)  The ear of somebody who can make this happen

3)  An assload of luck

Notice that nowhere in there did I mention the word "talent," and for a very good reason; talent is not necessary.  It's nice to have and it will certainly go a long ways toward staving off the wolves, also known as "book reviewers," but in no way is it needed in order to get into print.  If you don't believe me, consider the case of the novel Star by Pamela Anderson--yes, that Pamela Anderson.  The same one whose talent is getting naked in skin rags and running in slow-motion on various beaches.  Not only was this book published and given a sizable push (bad enough), it also spawned a sequel because apparently there is a vast, crushing need for printed crap that cannot be sated by one novel alone (which given the writer of this post's current situation, is absolutely fucking teeth-gnashing).

To date, I have been trying to get published in the novel format for fifteen years.  To date, I have not gotten any further than the finding an agent phase, which worked out about as well for me as the German invasion of Poland did for all those Jewish settlers.  So I keep on keeping on, doing the submission process, waiting for the response, screwing up my courage again and then lathering, rinsing and repeating.

At its simplest form, here is the biggest problem with the publishing industry, although this can be modified to suit music, acting or any other profession you want where not everything is judged by a strict set of criteria.  Ready?  Here we go...

It's all subjective.

Do you like Britney Spears?  No, I don't mean naked; I mean her music.  Do you?  If you're on this friend list, chances are your answer was something negative or a rude farting noise, which I agree with.  However, seventy-six million album sales is a lot of egg for us to scrape off our collective faces.  Does that make us wrong?  No, just different, and while publishers want to get new and exciting literature (meaning "different") out there into the world and therefore fulfill the demands of "art," they also have a bottom line to adhere to and printing presses do not roll if the bills do not get paid.

As a curtain call, here's some facts about the publishing business to consider.

Fact:  70% percent of all books published every year do not make a single cent of profit.

Fact:  in 2002, over 150,000 books were published.

Fact:  at 55 percent of total sales, popular fiction is still the title belt holder.

Fact:  a second printing order for a book is often smaller than the first run.

Fact:  10,000 sales is generally the point at which a book breaks even and begin to start earning royalities for the author and profit for the publishing house.

Fact:  5,000 sales is considered a successful run for a fiction novel.

Fact:  six weeks is the time frame given for a book to sell.

Fact:  book store patrons spend eight seconds looking at the cover and fifteen seconds looking at the back.

Fact:  81 percent of people feel they have a book inside them.

Fact:  six million manuscripts are currently making the publishing rounds.

Fact:  68 percent of books are bought by women.

Fact:  one-third of high school graduates never read a book ever again.

Here's a biblical quote, one of the few times you'll ever see me pull something from that book:  Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me...

That's you, Constant Reader.  You're the one who's with me and together, as long as we keep our hopes and standards up, I think we might just see this thing through.

I've been a bad Jesse lately.

Remember how a while back I said I was starting work on that science-fiction novel that had been bubbling away in my head for years, just waiting for the right time to be spilled forth upon this earth like the seed of Onan?  Remember how I said how excited I was to finally be starting that one?  Remember how I said that I needed to get a break from Underworld, because I didn't want to burn myself out on the continuing saga of Kyle and Angelique?

Well, you can officially forget that I said all that.  In my own defense from... myself, I guess... I have almost finished the prologue of the sci-fi work.  That would be a grand total of about 1,000 words, give or take an odd sentence or two.  However, a quick blitz on Word reveals my last update to that particular file was about a month ago.  Meanwhile, the Underworld road block has been blasted to smoking bits and at this very moment, I am typing this update prior to heading out so I can score a nice table at Starbucks and scribble in the old dog-eared notebook some more before my afternoon run.  Or maybe I'll just do it on the couch.

Crap.

I mean, don't get me wrong; I love Underworld, and I certainly love the continuing Ring Of Fire series.  It's just that... well, I don't this book to become an unfinished one, like the other three that I have.

(As an aside:  there's really nothing more Upper-Class Twit Of The Year Competition winner than an unpublished author moaning about unfinished novels, isn't there?  thought not...)

As an added note, I am coming very close to completely cancelling the Alpha Reader Project.  Contrary to popular belief, bad feedback is actually preferrable to no feedback, and thus far I am less-than-enthused with the response that has been received.  If this sounds like a bitch... well, it is.  If I don't hear something soon, I'll go back to having Lady Jade, Cindy and Sargeant Dave from Iraq be the critiquers.  Fair notice has been served.

I'm bitchy today, even after a bubble bath.  What a world we live in.  Out.

Woman Has Baby Number Sixteen.

I remember when she had #15; she was interviewed on The Don & Mike Radio Show and she was every bit as sappily religion-fried as this CNN article makes her out to be.  They drive a mini-bus around town; have to with enough children to outfit three basketball teams.  I think the crowning touch is that all her kids' names start with the letter J.  They are:

Joshua, 17; John David, 15; Janna, 15; Jill, 14; Jessa, 12; Jinger, 11; Joseph, 10; Josiah, 9; Joy-Anna, 8; Jeremiah, 6; Jedidiah, 6; Jason, 5; James, 4; Justin, 2; Jackson Levi, 1 and Johannah Faith.

When I heard about this, I said:  "My God, that woman's uterus must be like a trampoline."

Can anyone think of a better punch line to this story than I did?

When I checked my This Just In As Signs Of The Coming Apocalypse inbox, I found the following:

Gold Teeth With Jewel-Encrusted Spinners.

I'll give you a second to gape in horror and then flick through the rest of the site.

Okay, so this begs the logical question:  who the fuck buys shit like this?  I mean, seriously... what sort of an idiot do you have to be to look at gold teeth you slip over your natural choppers with diamonds on little wheels and think, "You know, I think this is a needful thing.  Who cares about that whole planning for the future and saving for a rainy day school of thought?  Teeth with spinners is definitely where it's at."

For a moment going past the idea of rotating jewels atop one's teeth (and believe me, it's really hard to stop staring at that particular train wreck), a quick perusal of the rest of the site reveals other designs equally as retarded and even more horrifically expensive.  Of particular note is the T-196 design, which appears to be white gold encrusted with diamonds, weighing in at a cool $1340.00, also available in yellow, white and red gold.  Until this moment, I was not even aware that you could get red gold outside of certain David Eddings novels.

Be that as it may, my life has been in no way enhanced by knowing this fact.  Not one bit.  However, I know one thing for a stone-cold fact:  if my kid ever came home with something like the disasters I saw on this and too many other web sites to adequetely report on, I think--no, I know--that I would have to kill him.

This is the kind of stuff I find on the Internet when the Sunday football games really suck.  Hooray for me.

I haven't been posting lately because I've been existing in a barely-contained state of pissed off.  I know, you're shocked.  I'll wait a couple minutes whiloe you get over your laughing fit.

Example time in the old corral:  today on the bus, a guy asked me for directions which is a normal enough occurance.  After I gave them to him, he then laun ched into his version of Capsule Update, in which a complete stranger gives me the 411 on what's been going on with their morning.  I didn't ask for it, but I got it anyway.  Remember the good old days when people would arrive at a place and shut the fuck up?  No cell phones, no singing along with the iPod... it was composed, blessed silence.  That's why I love an empty bus so much; I can talk to myself without being interrupted.

But I digress.

The man didn't live in town; he had come to Sacramento from Los Angeles for a shot in a truck driving academy.  Why he could not accomplish this same feat in Southern Califnria I have no idea, but it's always nice to welcome somebody to the work force, especially if they're going to be union.  The thing was, the gods were not smiling upon him.  He had been DQ'd from the academy, because this morning they had turned up a black mark on his record.

"What sort of a black mark?" says I, keeping my eyes on the road as we coast to a stop.

"A DUI.  It was kinda bogus, but hey, what can you do?"

As we stopped at the red light, I turned, raised my glasses and stared at him in my very best help-me-Jesus-meek-and-mild fashion, which he seemed completely oblivious.  I felt conflicted.  On the one hand, this guy was now probably going to go on to a lousy job because when one has such a black mark on one's record, lousy jobs are usually the best one can hope for.  That's something I'd only wish on a few people because... well, if you've done those sorts of lousy jobs, you know exactly what I'm talking about.

On the other hand, I kept hearing It was kinda bogus, but hey, what can you do? echoing through my head over and over.

It was kinda bogus.  No.  Actually, it wasn't.  You were operating a motor vehicle that weighed at least one ton of rolling metal and plastic while under the influence of alcohol.  This is something that ahs been deemed (and rightfully so) completely unacceptable by our society due to the high risk to innocent members of the population due to your stupid and thoughtless act.  I'm sure many folks have done this in their stupid youth, but if you've been caught... then ay-yi-yi, woe is you and rightfully so.

So you applied to drive eighteen-wheelers, vehicles that when stacked and packed can go up to 80,000 pounds.  Forty tons of rolling thunder, blatting down the freeway at sixty miles an hour.  They looked at your record and at the last moment, they caught you.

Honestly?  I'm thankful.

But here still sat this man across from me, wondering now what the hell he was going to do back on his way to that cauldron of Hell known as Los Angeles.  This man who despite his incredible lack of personal responsibility was now about to re-enter the society that I lived in, surely cursing his own "bad luck" and completely glossing over the fact that maybe, just maybe, spending all this time, money and effort to get into a field where he had already proven himself unable to obey the law was an unwise choice.

So I shook my head, slid my sunglasses back down into place and said, "Yeah.  That'll do it, huh?"

People.  They're such interesting animals.  Now if I just had a giant cage...

I think I'd like the Internet a whole lot better if half the people that used it didn't seem to be completely illiterate, utterly insane or stupefyingly boring.

( Huh? )

A great many people (i.e. the stupid ones) are all a-twitter about the latest scandal that in my more paranoid moments I thoroughly believe has been manufactured to take our attention away from the fact that our government is slowly but surely destroying us.  No, not steroid testing in professional sports; I'm talking about the all-important AMERICAN IDOL SCANDAL or, as I have been prone to call it, "Morongate."

Now, a few things must be set straight before going on.  First, I hate this show because it's karaoke.  Got that?  Karaoke.  Talented karaoke, perhaps (and I will admit in some cases inarguably so), but it is karaoke nonetheless, which puts it right down there with women's professional basketball and The Simple Life on my never-see list.  I have never been to
a karaoke bar because I like my versions of Paul McCartney's "Hey Jude" to be sung by, surprisingly enough, Paul McCartney.  Call me a purist; it's just the ABC's of me, m'kay?

Secondly, I will admit I watched the final five episodes during the second season, when Ruben "Fat Man" Studdard challenged Clay "Why Do You Want To Hit Me?" Aiken for the television title.  Studdard won, proving once again America can't distinguish true talent from a shit-on-rye sandwich.  Aiken was clearly the better singer, which just made my disappointment that much greater when his album came out and it was another crappy R&B schmaltz-fest.

Thirdly, this program is on Fox, I can safely say that if it disappeared from my television dial tomorrow, I wouldn't miss it.  True, they have part of the NFL contract, but that's what radios and sports bars are for.

So now it seems that the fix may be in for American Idol, which makes me scratch my head as I say, "So fucking what?"  First of all, I find the concept shocking in the extreme (and when I say "shocking in the extreme," I really mean "not surprising at all") that a program designed to inflict the next pop crooner on the American idiot nation would be rigged.  Considering how manufactured the modern music scene is, this holds all the shock of the sun rising in the morning.  I mean, come on; these people actually call Ashlee Simpson "punk" with no trace of irony whatsoever.  I'd be more surprised if it was an honest show because truth be told, I've felt the fix was in from day one.

Secondly, the guy who is doing the accusing is... well, a douche.  However, Ms. Paula Abdul hasn't said, "This son of a bitch is a liar oh, and by the way, by the time I'm done suing him, he won't have a single piece of TP left to wipe his ass with, much less even have a snowball's chance in hell of having a music career."  What you say can be actually be less damning than silence, Paula.  Think about it.

Thirdly... oh, who gives a fuck?  This is American Idol, folks.  This is a overly-sanitized, dumb-as-a-box-of-rocks popularity contest where it doesn't matter how well you can sing.  If you don't believe me, I offer William Hung as an example of the kind of horror these jackasses have unleashed on our world.  Not to mention Josh the Marine who survived into the final five because... well, because he was a Marine and this was right about the time of the Iraq invasion, so he got a lot of sympathy votes from those shitheads who plaster their SUV with five or six of those goddamn ribbons.  It sure as hell wasn't because he could sing, because saying that he sucked the ass out of the cat would have actually been an improvement over his performances.

So yes.  While you're pondering these issues, don't think about the fact that our government lied to us on the question of weapons of mass destruction in Iraq.  Don't think about the fake debate concerning Social Security's "crisis."  And for God's sake, whatever you do, don't remember that a decorated war hero who consistently voted for the people's best interests was beaten in a popular election by a guy who sucked up to big business, the super-rich and Saudis, has consistently voted to get them richer while fucking you over, and did his war duty in a "champagne unit" where the hardest thing they had to do was not get bellyaches from farting out too much Chablis.

Think about American Idol instead.  It's good for you, because it has "America" in the title.  Right?

...like hatin' some queers.

These people, along with the current crop of sieg-heiling right-wing fuck-chops that are currently in office in the highest places in our great nation, have done something that a few years ago I would not have thought possible.  They are beginning to push me toward God.

Well... maybe that's not quite accurate.  You see, I don't believe in God--at least, not what the Christians believe God to be as laid down in their various tracts and bastardized versions of the Bible.  In fact, I rather think it's the height of human arrogance to not only classify God, the Supreme Being in the universe, but to claim to know what He wants.  However, people do this all the time.  And folks actually buy this load of horseshit.

Isn't that interesting?  My fellow man, who if they are anything like me often forgets his cell phone at the in-laws or has trouble remembering where his boots are in the morning, are going to claim to know the will of the Almighty.  The all-knowing, all-present, all-powerful and eternal Higher Power is going to be classified by a Miami Dolphins fan named Gene who happens to be tax-exempt because he attached his gravy train to God.  I'll take bullshit for two hundred, Alex.

But the thing is, I'm starting to hope they're right.  Not about that whole will of God thing, because on that, at least, I know they are wrong.  God does not advocate raining a dread disease upon His people.  God wants people to be free, to be happy, to experience love.  At least, he does if you listen to His PR department.

But when Jesus comes back, hoo-boy.  He's going to be pissed.  And in a way, it'll almost be worth it all if the Christians are right and this day of judgment comes, because the look of shock on these people's face as the Son of God lops their domes off with that flaming sword they speak so reverently about will be absolutely priceless.  God said, thou shalt not kill.  He didn't quantify it by saying, "But if the person in question is a pillow-biter, then go ahead and stone them to death and while you're at it, bomb those fucking Arabs, too."  And I'm fairly sure Jesus did not allow himself to get nailed to two pieces of wood by a bunch of Italian fascists just so Gene could avoid his taxes while crying about the need to legislate Janet Jackson's boobies out of existence (or, at least, off my television).

The bottom line is, you can't fool God and these hypocritical, pious, lying scumbags are fucked.  So yeah, I'm looking forward to the Apocalypse.

Unless it comes on a Friday night; then I'll be pissed, too.  That night is reserved for the Sci-Fi Channel.

Praise be to Sci-Fi!  And hallelujah!

...that fat, lying, hypocritical pestilence of the public airwaves? The doctor-shopping, thrice-married, 300-pound, 250 million dollar contract-owning, expensive cigar-smoking, Armani-suit wearing sack of pigshit that goes by the name of Rush Limbaugh? For the best in refuting his idiotic drivel and punching holes in his corpulent carcass, check out:

http://www.rushlimbaughonline.com/index.htm

You may have noticed a thread running through the last two posts. Yes, it's true; I loathe the Powers That Be. Oh, and by the way... I'm not a liberal. In fact, I'm fairly conservative on a lot of things. I'm also decently liberal on others. Simply stated, I'm not a fan of either side but lean toward the left for three reasons:

1) My wife is a big liberal. Yes, that makes a difference, and God bless her for it, because she definitely has more sympathy and understanding in her heart than I do. In the past, I've been called a merciless, cold-hearted elistist son of a bitch with about as much warmth and compassion as... Pol Pot, I guess. They got the merciless and elitist part right, at least. If you've read enough of this blog, you know I'm usually the first to admit my shortcomings.

2) Liberals like education and science. Conservatives like the Bible and "family values." Hmmm. Tough choice. Blind, unreasoning faith that creates tunnel vision, or opening one's self to new ideas and perhaps actually improving the world in which we live instead of sucking it dry like a delicious bottle of Sam Adams? Wow, again, tough choice. Oh, and another thing... news flash: the Earth is more than 6,000 years old, you mulishly stubborn donkeys. Got that?

3) Liberals are not the amazing hypocrites that the conservatives are. Not as many of them are and not nearly as badly, at any rate.

In closing, as Jay and Silent Bob would have said, "Fuck these bastards. Fuck them in their stupid asses." Thank you (bows).

NEW YORK (AP) -- "Gilead," Marilynne Robinson's poetic, modern-day testament of a dying Iowa preacher, won the National Book Critics Circle prize for fiction Friday night.

"I could not be more delighted," said an emotional Robinson, whose novel was her first since she debuted in 1980 with the acclaimed "Housekeeping." Robinson, a faculty member at the University of Iowa's influential Writers' Workshop, praised her school for offering "a wonderful intellectual and spiritual home."

Okayyyyyyyyy...

So if this is her second novel and her first was published in 1980 (with two nonfiction works in between), exactly what, pray tell, have you been doing for the last 25 years--also known is some quaint circles as a quarter of a century--that occupied so much of your time, Miss Robinson?  Because it sure wasn't writing.  When you get right down to it, this is actually kind of amazing.  I mean, in what other field can you let a quarter of a century go by between projects and not have the community you are a part of call you a self-obsessed gazer at your own belly lint who has the stick-to-it-tiveness of a warm can of Crisco?

Her first book won the PEN/Hemingway Award for best first novel and was also nominated for the Pulitzer Prize.  To me, this is absolutely goddamned amazing, or perhaps I should say AMAZING.  Some people bust their asses their entire lives and miss the show; this woman almost wins the Super Bowl on her first trip, then sits back for a quarter of a century and says, "Nah.  I'm good."

Just for kicks, here's a couple paragraphs:

I told you last night that I might be gone sometime, and you said, Where, and I said, To be with the Good Lord, and you said, Why, and I said, Because I'm old, and you said, I don't think you're old. And you put your hand in my hand and you said, You aren't very old, as if that settled it. I told you you might have a very different life from mine, and from the life you've had with me and that would be a wonderful thing, there are many ways to live a good life. And you said, Mama already told me that. And then you said, Don't laugh! because you thought I was laughing at you. You reached up and put your fingers on my lips and gave me that look I never in my life saw on any other face besides your mother's. It's a kind of furious pride, very passionate and stern. I'm always a little surprised to find my eyebrows unsinged after I've suffered one of those looks. I will miss them.

It seems ridiculous to suppose the dead miss anything. If you're a grown man when you read this--it is my intention for this letter that you will read it then--I'll have been gone a long time. I'll know most of what there is to know about being dead, but I'll probably keep it to myself. That seems to be the way of things.

So I ask you, my devoted peeps: is it just me being bitter, or does that excerpt provided as part of a review to get you to salivate and want to buy the novel truly and horrendously suck?

(Warning:  this entry is going to contain some very abusive language, as well some opinions that will be brutally honest at best and horrendously insensitive at worst.  With that said...)

I hate the Maury Povich Show.

 

( Let The Beatings Begin )

A great truism of life is that the later -- or earlier -- it is, the less quality things there are to watch on television. Oh sure, you can watch Denise Austin's Pilates workout or the dreck-of-the-week flick on USA, but when it comes to decent programming, at 2:48 in the morning on a Wednesday you are irrevocably screwed.

That's why I'm currently watching Newlyweds: Nick And Jessica. I freely admit that I am probably not the target audience for this show, and that's being very diplomatic. Oh, hell, why be diplomatic? After all, isn't this what the World Wide Web is for, semi-anonymously slandering others so you can feel good about yourself?

In that case, allow me to be blunt. I loathe pop music in general, and I surely hate this fucking show. Even by the warped standards of reality programs, this one is a goddamn snoozer. The episode I'm currently watching has something to do with Nick and Jessica having a fight, apparently because she was too lazy to look up the local movie times in the newspaper and he called her on it, meaning she's now been in a cute snit for (by my watch) approximately twenty minutes now. Or three days, however the hell they do time on this show. Her and her friend, who happens to spend way too much time hanging out at their house because it's a lot nicer than hers, also got themselves lost while driving the Mercedes, which was equipped with all the latest customer gadgets including satellite navigation.

This begs a few questions and answers from me at this point:

QUESTION: How the fuck does a person get lost, even in Los Angeles, with the GPS navigation system available on the latest model Mercedes?

ANSWER: It helps a whole lot if you happen to be stupid. Two dumb people equal half the brain power, and presto, you don't know where the hell you are. Easy.

QUESTION: If your prospective life partner was a complete dunderhead, no matter how hot they were, would you really want them as anything beyond a transitory fuck?

ANSWER: In this case, the question is moot. Nick and Jessica apparently did not ever have sex before they got married, so if he was saying "I do" so he could later say "I did," this wasn't the greatest decision in his life. Cute girls abound, and he's a pop star. 'Nuff said.

QUESTION: Who the hell watches this show?

ANSWER: Apparently, lots of people. So many, in fact, that they've decided that there will be a second season of this dreck clogging up the airwaves. This is despite the much-overlooked fact that after a year of marriage, Nick and Jessica are not really newlyweds any more.

QUESTION: Would I trade places with Nick Lachey?

ANSWER: Not on your life. In fact, to tell you the truth, I feel sort of sorry for him. No matter how hot somebody is -- and make no mistake about, neuron-challenged or not, Jessica Simpson is a hot little lady -- if they're dumb, sooner or later the sweating stops and you have to listen to them talk. If I had to have a deep conversation with the woman who made the "Chicken Of The Sea" gaffe, I think I would go stark raving mad. My wife is pretty and fun to talk to, so the fact that we're not rich is more than offset by the fact that I don't have to take tranquilizers to function in my marriage.

Okay, the requisite once-ever-three-days update is complete. I don't think I really intended to use the word "fuck" this many times in this update, but what can I say? The spirit of the moment moved me. :) Good night.