That Murdered Tennessee Minister

Yet another randomly provided example of the total non-existence of God, if you ask me.

Here'a a guy that (so far, although if there's dirt, the press will have it in short time) was beloved in his community. He was a man of God, spiritual, giving, genial, outgoing, described by many as charismatic. So far, everyone had good things to say about him. And the press has described both his father and grandfather as paragons of Christian virtue, dedicated men of spirit who ministered to many.

As much as I run down organized religion, I've got to admit that these are good guys. They do things I don't have the heart to do, especially the patience to do. They believe in what they're doing, and they genuinely help people. They are community leaders, and I give my respect (although I think they are ludicrously mistaken in the beliefs that motivate their actions).

And this good guy is murdered by his wife. We'll find out soon enough what the motive was. Maybe the husband was a pedophile, or gay, or beat the wife. Maybe he insulted her cooking, or her hair.

Or maybe she just wanted out of the marriage and like so many narrow-minded murderer-idiots who have gone before her, figured she'd just off the guy and solve all of her problems. Wrong answer.

So, if this guy really was a man of God, how did God take care of his dedicated servant? How did God reward this guy for being a family man, for populating the world with three more little Christians? How did God communicate to him that the work he was doing was good and positive? Well, God had him shot, by his wife, no less.

The truly devout would say that Satan did it, that the devil got into the wife to thwart the will of God. They'd say that evil achieved a temporary victory over good, another minor skirmish in the eternal (but only 2000-odd years in the true Christian cosmology) war between the good and the bad. The truly devout could and would even chalk this up to the Big Guy himself, saying that the poor, doomed minister was just so great, such a wonderful person, that God decided to end his suffering and toil on Earth and just beamed him right on up to heaven to hang out with Him and the angels, etc.

If God called him home, why did he have to get shot by the wife? How does that benefit the wife? How does that position the children for the rest of their lives, that their mother murdered their father? Is this the kind of thing God would do? Is this how he'd leave little children? If he was beaming the guy up to heaven, why couldn't he just expire in his sleep, or give it up in the middle of the sermon, complete with golden light and a dying admission that God was calling him home? Now that would be a good way to do it, if it had to be done.

But no. The guy is just dead. The children are now wards of the state, and hopefully they've got some good family members who can take them in. He'll get a pretty funeral, folks will say nice things, and he'll go down in local lore as the minister who was killed right there in the parsonage, by the wife. The wife, she'll get life in a Tennessee prison, maybe even the death penalty (most certainly deserved, if she did it and it was pre-meditated). Where is God in all of this?

I'm sorry, but I see no presence of God whatsoever. I see just another sad story of how life is unpredictable, and how it is quick and random and completely final in its eye-blink capriciousness. That couple may have been in love once, and it may have been 15 years ago, or it may have been last week. Maybe he told her that the macaroni and cheez tasted like shit for last Sunday's dinner, and that was the one thing that shattered it for her. Maybe she just wanted his insurance so she could get a new car and move out of Tennessee. That's the truth of it: no God, just the random twists and turns of human life.

Dealing with the Homeless

(photos not original to the article.)

"L.A. Investigating Alleged Patient Dumping," by Greg Risling, AP
March 24, 2006

Authorities are examining a surveillance tape that shows an elderly woman wandering Skid Row in a hospital gown and slippers as they investigate the practice of hospitals and police agencies dumping homeless people downtown.

Carol Ann Reyes, 63, of Gardena, was taken from a Kaiser Permanente hospital in Bellflower on Monday to the downtown area known as Skid Row, authorities said.

A surveillance camera outside the Union Rescue Mission showed Reyes walking from the direction of a taxi that had just driven away. She wandered the street for about three minutes before a mission staff member brought her inside.

City officials have been looking into the alleged dumping of homeless people in Skid Row, a ramshackle area downtown.

Several hospitals have acknowledged that they put some discharged indigent patients with nowhere else to go into taxicabs headed to the area because it offers a chance for getting services and shelter. Los Angeles police also are investigating whether other law enforcement agencies dump people without anywhere else to go downtown.

"We have been looking into homeless dumping for some time, and this (tape) gives us another example of what has been going on," said Frank Mateljan, a spokesman for the city attorney's office.

Diana Bonta, vice president of public affairs for Kaiser Southern California, said the hospital attempted to find a shelter for Reyes, but when that failed, it was determined that she would be taken to the Union Rescue Mission. Hospital officials are trying to find out why Reyes, who was in the hospital after suffering a bad fall, was left on the street still wearing her hospital gown and slippers.

The incident violated hospital policy and will not occur again, she said.

"We have a policy of treating our patients with compassion and care," Bonta said. "This should not have happened."

Andy Bales, president the Union Rescue Mission, where Reyes remained, said the incident was the third in the past week in which security cameras caught taxis dropping people in the area. The problem will continue until a coordinated discharge plan between hospitals and shelters is created, he said.

"We just can't drop people off like baggage," he said. "We can't have a society where these people have nowhere to turn when they need care."

State Sen. Gil Cedillo of Los Angeles, a Democrat, has introduced a bill that would prohibit any arresting agency from taking people who need drug treatment, mental health services or shelter outside their jurisdiction.

Los Angeles County officials are also considering establishing five regional homeless centers in an attempt to reduce dumping, the Los Angeles Times reported Friday.

The regional homeless centers plan would spread the responsibility of caring for the homeless to suburbs instead of concentrating it downtown, the newspaper said. Each 30-bed center would operate 24- hours a day and would accept people from hospitals, police and care providers. The goal would be to find the resident permanent housing and services such as mental health and substance abuse treatment, officials said.
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Okay, there's the front end. And now for the rest of the story.

I have a simple question: Why aren't these shitheads in custody? If they are engaging in criminal behavior, such as vagrancy or loitering, urinating/defecating in public places, illegal occupation of dwellings (squatting), trespass, weapons or drug violations, assault, illegal panhandling, why aren't they in handcuffs in the local jail awaiting booking, arraignment, trial, and disposition? There are laws to deal with these shiftless bums, so why aren't they being enforced?

If they are drug addicts, why aren't they involuntarily incarcerated for mandatory treatment, that is, after they've been arrested for possession or possession with intent to distribute. That would give them plenty of time to kick in jail.

If they are mentally incompetent, why aren't they in the care of their lawful guardians (and the legal guardians being made to execute the duties for which they are designated, or being forced to relinquish custody), or made wards of the state and then dealt with appropriately? If you're homeless and insane, then you need involuntary committal, disposition to a public treatment facility, where you are no longer a danger to yourself and/or others, where you can receive the care that is best for you, and that is in the express interest of the state to provide to you.

The problem here, and everywhere in the USofA these days is that it's okay to be homeless. It's okay to be a reeking panhandling bum, intimidating people on the street into giving up their money because you don't have the goddamn personal discipline to go out and get your own. The personal freedom that makes America so goddamn great has progressed to the ridiculous point where now it's okay to be a drug-addicted, alcoholic, mentally unstable, filthy, aggressive, angry loner who refuses to live by the basic rules society was founded upon. Now it's okay to be an undue burden on society, publicly.


Hey, if you want to live on your own, then go off and live on your own. Just don't ask me or anyone else for money. Eat your dinner out of the dumpster, if you want to live under the overpass. Get your clothes from the charities. And if you're a drunk or a drug addict, then you get everything that's coming to you for engaging in that kind of behavior, addiction, sickness, problems with the law, and problems with the criminals who prey upon people like you.

I pay taxes so that this kind of thing should not be taking place. Sure, I don't really like giving the government my money, but I consider it a civic duty, everyone's public duty for living in the society in which we live, to pay taxes. And I expect my taxes will go to something positive, like schools and hospitals and police and firefighters--and taking care of the goddamn homeless bums. Whether they're arrested, chased off, or committed, they should be taken care of. Get rid of 'em.

If a homeless person--let's be semantially accurate here, the proper word is "bum"--can stand at the downtown stoplight and harrass motorists for 7 hours a day for spare change, then he can put his ass to work at the car wash, or at the liquor store moving boxes, or delivering papers, sweeping the street, anything. But no, he doesn't want to be tied to someone else or answerable to anyone or anything. He wants his wine- and crank-fueled freedom, and society has just gotten used to having bums like him around. They're just another part of the urban landscape, like the streetlights and the bad public art. It's just the way it is, to have filthy, deranged shitheads clogging the city streets and sidewalks, with their grime-crusted hands out.

Go off and live in the woods if you want to be alone and free of society, taxes, bosses, whatever it is that has set you off. If you don't want to be alone, then clean yourself up and find some self-respect. Make your way in the world, like the vast majority of us do, every single day. Earn some money legitimately, respectfully, and don't you ever, don't you ever fucking give me the slightest bit of attitude about my eternal refusal to give you as much as a penny to further enable your irresponsible, non-contributory lifestyle. If you're a bum, you are absolutely worthless, utterly without any merit as a human whatsoever. No benefit, no value-added, nothing positive about you being on the planet whatsoever. You are a scavenger, a human buzzard picking at what everyone else has left. If you can't be bothered to contributed, then neither can I. I contribute to charities and causes, but I'll never contribute to self-centered shitheads who feel entitled, who are stupid enough to rant about their right to have a place as totally free urban urchins.

Those Unthinking, Rude Concert People

My wife signed us up for a season of concerts and shows, and this one was a jazz show. Neither of us had heard of the singer, or anyone in her band, but it was a weekend night out, away from the house and kids, something that 40-something parents look forward to doing. I even managed to talk my wife into wearing some sexy underwear. No guarantee of anything happening once we got home, of course, but maybe I was just helping her mentally get there. Any time away from the white cotton grannie panties is good time.

We got to the hall early, and took our seats a good 15 minutes before the show. I put my cell phone on silent, and we were ready. The show opened, and it was okay. I liked the band just vamping before the singer made her entrance, in some impossible sequined thing that sparkled like the very Milky Way. Big hair, big nails, big make-up, blue-white teeth visible even from the 5th row, she was up there doing her thing, and enjoying herself. Her singing was okay, nothing to knock me out, and definitely better than I could ever do, but it wasn't something that kept me on the edge of my seat.

She did about three numbers, about a quarter of the way into what I figured would be a one-hour set, when the Rude Concert People (RCP) entered.

First, they didn't wait until she was done with a song, and then quickly and discreetly enter the hall during the applause. No, they just came right on down the steps, all three of the large women, talking among themselves, cutting up, acting just as they did in the car, at home, on the way in. And this was no hockey arena turned jazz club. This was an intimate performance theater in a major urban center for the arts. We were relatively close, maybe only five rows, up and back, putting us probably about 35 feet from the performer and her band. No doubt they could pick up on this entrance. Maybe that's what the RCP wanted. That in itself was a rude enough start.

They slid into the row and seats immediately behind me and proceeded to get comfortable. That began with one asking a guy behind me, loudly, "You using that seat?" He whispered a negative, and they proceeded to spread right on out, an empty seat between each of the three of them. That, of course, meant they had to raise their voices to keep talking to each other, to hear each other over the din of the performance they had paid to see.

Then one kicked me in the back. Not a tap, a little nudge, but a nice hard kick right above where the back of my seat ended. No word of apology, not until I turned around and looked at her silently, and she managed to somehow force out a weak, reluctant, "Uh, sorry."

And then came the coats. It was late winter, so was cold outside. Where to put their coats? Me, I would think the two empty seats between them would be perfect, but apparently that wasn't good enough, as all of a sudden all three of their coats, hats, scarves and gloves landed on my outstretched arm into the empty aisle seat next to me. One big pile, just dropped down onto the seat like dirty laundry. And with a most definitely audible thump as the spring-loaded theater seat descended with the weight. Some of the gloves landed on the floor at my feet, and I made no move to pick them up. Did I catch the singer looking over in our direction? Maybe; I couldn't be sure.

Then once they were settled, one had to get out her phone and play with it. Then came the beeps and whistles as she did whatever she was doing, most likely text-messaging. That went on for an entire song. Then apparently they were all settled and ready to really enjoy the show, now almost 25 minutes old, of which they'd been present for about ten. They signaled their presence with gospel-style interjections such, "Hmmm, girl!" and "You sing it, chil'" as the performer on stage did her thing. No, not quiet vocalizations to signal their sync with the performer, how something she was doing was touching them, but loud, take-notice-of-me blurbs that everyone in the goddamn theater was hearing. And it was all going on right behind me, over my left shoulder. That went on for every song, for as long as they stayed at the show. And they were the only folks doing it.

Which was only about another fifteen minutes. With what I assumed to be about 15 minutes left in the one-hour set, they began their departure preparations. At least that ended the loud interjections directly into the show. More talking and huffing, discussion of post-show plans, where are the car keys, and then the jingling as they were located and gotten out. Then the reaching down to get the mass of coats and such from the seat next to me. (I was going to be goddamned if I was going to help pick up their junk, and they were wise not to ask me for some help.) So, the one on the end just got up out of her seat and picked up all of their junk, as the singer continued to do her professional thing.

Then all three stood and took forever to put on all of their garments as the song finished up. Through the applause and into the next song they dressed, and then rumbled loudly up and out of the theater, just the way they'd come in. Was it me, or did I sense a collective sigh of relief once they'd departed? I was very happy they'd gone.

This had to be just about the rudest bunch of folks I've ever encountered at a show. Sure, at rock concerts I've seen drunk hecklers and idiot stoners, but usually the performer takes them down or security knocks them down in no time. But these asshole-ettes were just at that level were they were incredibly obnoxious to those of us who wanted to see the show and disrespectful to the performers, but not quite to the level where direct action was warranted. I was hoping the performer would just stop mid-song and let them have it, but was disappointed.

And that's really the story. No ugly confrontation, and therefore no real resolution, other than them leaving. Just another observation on the total ignorance and likely selfishness of the rude and ignorant, that's all.

What I Saw at the Elementary School Game Night

It's Game Night, or Silent Auction Night, or Get Fitness Night, always something . . . and all of these events qualify for the discussion which follows.

As always, an event at the elementary school is something I anticipate. I love to go there and just watch the people. The people-watching is not nearly as good as at the mall on a weekend, or at the airport, or on a busy downtown corner on a sunny day, but it's still pretty good. It's folks I already know, or at least know by face, quite a few personally, and some by reputation and gossip, so there's not a huge amount of variety. It's the interaction, the dress and dress codes, the posing that goes on, all of that. I watch them being themselves, and not being themselves, trying to do this and that, and it never fails to entertain.

First there's the vice principal. The principal at the school is a joyless crone on the downhill slide of increasing incompetence, who's just lost her will for the responsibilities she's got. She's more engaged in district politics and public relations to care about what the students are doing and how they're being taught. She cares more about parking spaces than class size, more about paintballers in the woods behind the school than incompetent teachers who belittle and under-serve the kids. Her focus is almost exclusively up and out, rather than down and inside her building. Thank goodness for the vice principal, the guy who really runs the school. He is universally respected, and I think he's earned it. He truly cares about the kids, and he's a no-shit disciplinarian, too. He'll drop a suspension right on down when it's needed, which too many administrators are too fearful to do these days.

But the VP here also considers this space his very own. Hell, he's been in the school for close to 20 years (what kind of conclusions do you make about a guy who's been a Vice Principal for 20 years?) In an environment dominated by women, all of those female teachers and administrators and librarians and the lunch staff and the custodial and specialist staffs--all women, all perfectly menstrually synchronized--he is the center of attention. The women know it, and so does he. He's the cock of the walk, and they way he moves in the school clearly demonstrates that. I was introduced to him last year--he already knows who I am--and the jerkoff wouldn't even look at me while we shook hands and I offered my introductory hello. He couldn't be bothered to acknowledge another parent, another man inside his space, so he just wouldn't even look at me as we made our nice-nice talk. He was busy scanning the room, 'doing his job' or some bullshit. Instant turn-off. He dresses well, and is respected in the building, but he's got to let go of this perception that men in his building are somehow a threat to his turf. He can have that turf. At first glance, a school like this is the ultimate target-rich environment, tons of women, and precious few men (and what men there are, are either gay or effectively dis-masculine). But then again, the school is a henhouse, too, and those women absolutely thrive on gossip and yap. If there isn't any drama or news or gossip, then they'll make it up, so it's a very dangerous place, from a target-rich environment standpoint.

So, it's Game Night this time, and all of the parents of the K-6 kids are there. It's barely ordered chaos, with the kids running all over like crazy, totally psyched, and the parents chit-chatting. There are the ever-present volunteers, the same women who volunteer for everything. They're always here, at every event, at the pool for every event, doing the Girl Scouts and the Boy Scouts and the sports and anything else they can get themselves into. What I see in them is a desparate, clinging, pathetic need to be seen and valued and told they're doing good. They feel they lost themselves in motherhood, and it seems pretty clear their men don't pay any attention to them, so it's neck-deep into the activities and volunteering so they can have a sense of place and worth outside the home. Pretty sad, if you ask me. They always look so harried, so rushed, so busy, and their kids seem to be the ones who are more in need of parental love, affection, and attention than a lot of the other kids. Go figure.

Then there are the young hotties. These are the moms, usually of the younger kids, who got married early, and are now moms early. They're late 20s, usually with the older (4-8 years) husband. (Background: we're in a community of professionals who clearly waited to have kids, so there are a lot of 40-somethings with elementary school-age kids.) So, he's a contemporary of most, and she's a comparative youngster. Hell, just a few years ago these women were hard-partying sorority girls going to Cabo for spring break, showing their tits for roving video guys. I don't quite get the vibe of them being lost in motherhood yet; they've still got all that young energy so that it's not pulling them down and in. They're still focused on doing good, at whatever they do, and looking young and hot and sexy when they get the chance. And at a thing like this, they certainly do. They're thin and attractive. Their clothes are tight, and fit very well. They're great fun to look at, with great teeth, great hair, and such perfect skin. These are the MILFs of dreams, just the kind you find featured in certain places. But, alas, still a bit too young for me.

Then there are the professional moms. These are the ones who arrived 90 minutes late, along with the professional dads. They're in their professional clothes, that sad and sorry, asexual Nancy Reagan-looking pforessional garb that makes them look older than they are. They're hard at work, and the required transition to Mom at the school function is a fascinating one to observe. The uniform they've got on requires formalism and that raging professional detachment and authority, just what's working for them in the office. But there with the kids, it's mom-this and mom-that, and they've got to shift into the mode. That's a very tough switch for more than a few of them to make. Great fun to watch the dynamic tension between the two.

And at our school is the US senator's kid. The guy is so perfect, he looks like some guy from a Ralph Lauren ad. The perfect hair, with the perfectly graying temples. The perfect slacks and Harris tweed jacket. And when he really gets his informal on, he pulls off the jacket to reveal a button-down custom-tailored shirt that looks like it was made for James Bond. His shoes are perfect, and so is his belt. The break in his slacks is right out of the catalong. His smile is flawless, and he's always smiling. He knows a few folks, but still works the room like the goddamn politician he is, unable to turn himself off. He'll look you in the eye, give you a nod or say hi, but other than that, you're just another vote. You can't engage him on anything of real substance or import, because he could be quoted or cited. He doesn't know you, so there's no way he's going to trash-talk the shitheads on XXX Lane who don't mow their lawn, or talk about drinking beer all day with his buddies as he put up a basketball goal. None of that from this pretty boy.

The senator's wife is there too, and she's the slightly backgrounded context model from the same Ralph Lauren ad. Perfect clothes and hair and smile, too. Perfect body, a good 15 lbs below ideal weight. Always smiling, always gracious, practicing for when she's the First Lady. Yeah, like she isn't thinking that exact thing over and over and over. Her role-playing is perfect, the hip and informed yet wonderfully and handily ignorant home-maker, the perfect companion and well-read partner who has no opinion on any issue. All referrals are to the executive assistant, to the handler, and to the husband. Of course, their kid shows signs of emotional neglect, so needy for attention, approval, affection and love. Sad, but not unexpected.

And then there are the moms who are just beaten down by the whole gig. They were barely competent to act as adults in the first place, then they married and bred. Now the ones who pay are the kids. These are the moms who can barely get themselves dressed and the house together, let alone prepare and care for kids. Their kids are the ones with the snotty noses, dirty clothes, who run loose because that's all they know how to do. These are the kids in ratty t-shirts with long hair, doing whatever the hell they want because that's all they know how to do. Either the parents just don't car, or don't have the intellect to realize what's going on, but it's certainly not responsible parenting.

Even worse than those who just can't cope with kids are the ones who can but refuse to. They're still too wrapped up in themselves, consciously and actively maintaining a life they imagined they had before it was "impacted," even "ruined" by the arrival of children (I've overheard both of those words). These are the ones spending their money on clothes and cars for themselves, who hire the au pairs and the foreign nannies, the women who truly raise their kids. These are the parents who are too wrapped up in their careers, in the next promotion and raise to care about being a scout leader for their kid. These shitbird parents are too busy thinking of themselves to be a sports coach for their kid. These are the parents who drop their kid off at the day care at 6:00 a.m. and don't pick up the kid until the very last minute in the evening, at 6:00 p.m. So what kind of interaction does a child like that have with that kind of parent? Yeah, rushing, moving, getting to a specific place at a specific time so the parent can drive off and do something that's clearly more important than what the kid thinks is important. You think the kids can't figure this out?

Then there are the partyers. These are the successful professionals who just can't let go of that weekend partying. These are the dumbass parents who are always on long weekend to Cabo or Jamaica, the ones who host the (often notorious) neighborhood parties. These parents are tight with the lifeguards at the pool, because they buy the lifeguards beer, and the lifeguards think they're cool to be hanging with the hip oldsters. These parents are the ones with guitars who've taught themselves a couple of Dylan or Eagles tunes, and they stand around and have ridiculous sing-alongs at their seriously alcohol-fueled parties. Hey, if that's their gig, then fine.

Hell, we've even got a few swingers in the neighborhood. I find that extremely amusing, and it's so fun to watch this group of roughly 8 interact in public. I always have to wonder if they're thinking that I--and everyone else that knows these gossipy tidbits--is studying all of them and thinking what kind of sexual combinations have and will go on between them. It's like fitting imagined puzzle pieces together.

And then there are the magnet kids and parents. Our school gets a bunch of kids from a real shit-hole area on the other side of the Big Road. Lots of crime and immigrants and that kind of unhealthy mix. The kids are usually pretty good, although by elementary school it's already clear which kids are going to end up in prison or dead from drugs and which ones will succeed. It's surprisingly easy to make this determination. Usually, these folks don't come to these things. They can't, or don't want to. I can't say I blame them, as they'd feel and genuinely be out of place. That's sad, sure, but it's true, too.

Delightful Christian Bigot, Pat Robertson

Yeah, it's been awhile, but he's back at it again. Now Pat's calling Muslims "satanic." I'll give him this, when he's talking about terrorists, he used the word "fanatic," which is spot-on accurate. But then he took that extra Christian step, the one that none of them born-agains can resist, to say that anything they don't like or don't understand or which threatens them in any way, is inspired, sponsored, manipulated, controlled, or (your word here) by Satan himself.

Well, of course, that has to be the answer. If simple observable sciend from a third-grade classroom shows how water pressure can drive a toy train or a toy rocket, and that same verifiable, incontrovertible science, the science that powers the Internet and aircraft flight and the electronics that make these Christians their coffee every morning, is applied much more deeply and intricately to observe and catalog the boundless infinite-ness of space and the billions of years of cataclysmic and randomly violent existence, with nary a speck of evidence to show the existence of God or Jesus or the Garden of Eden or Noah's Flood, then it must be the work of the devil. Pure Luddites, at least when it comes to the big-picture stuff that they can't begin to intellectually fathom anyway.

So Pat has called the bad-guy Muslims "satanic." Well, that's not really new, is it? And it's only to be expected. My main observation here is that this is kind of the end of the line when it comes to insults and put-downs and how you demonize the other side. Naturally, it closes off any kind of debate. If you've got on a black turban and an unshaved beard, then you're in league with the Horned One, and there's really no point in talking at all, since you're after all of our souls, burning in the Fiery Pit, etc. So, there's no point in any sort of engagement with these folks. The only answer is violence, open attack, both physically and rhetorically.

So where does Pat go next? Since this is the Christian equivalent of dropping the "Fuck you" bomb in an argument, where does he take it from here? You can't back off this kind of talk, especially when we're talking about the Black Prince. My only guess is that Pat probably will take this to some kind of End Of Days scenario, link it up with the Armageddon theme to really get those Midwest non-thinkers quaking in their sensible shoes. Hell, if there's an army of devil-controlled troops out there fighting us, then this must signal the end times, that the devil finally has been roused from his lair and is now walking the earth in plain form to take control and establish his dark dominion, right?

So it's only a matter of time until the truly righteous and good and Christian-ly intolerant start floating on up to Heaven, right? Or just flat-out disappear--poof!--like in the Left Behind series. Now, how long will it take Pat to get to this kind of speech? Days, or weeks? Or will he hold off on it, since predicting the end of the world still hasn't worked out for any preacher whatsoever, since the beginning of time and organized religion. Pat's a smiling, intolerant bigot and bully, sure, but he's also most likely smart enough to know that in the grand End Of The World roulette, he'd probably not break even. That would be bad for his credibility, at least what credibility he maintains among the dull flock who follow him because they can't think on their own.

So, Pat, surprise us all and say something new. Put some biblical demonic names to the satanic leaders. Be the righteous and brave, and put some names to figures we're encountering today. Pick up that flaming sword and wade into the battle, instead of standing in the back and making speeches over the heads of those you and your Bush-Cheney cabal are sending in.

Buy Some

Saw this ad in the latest Time magazine, and it just caught my attention. It's not that I need a new copier or two or 32 dozen for my growing national defense concern. It's not that I have any interest whatsoever in Kyocera products, never having owned or bought one. The appearance of the ad caught my eye, which, after all, is the exact purpose of the ad in the first place, right?

The very first thing that I asked myself: is this a true photograph of a real woman, or is this some grotesque digital composite? I have no formal training, no way to examine the picture to make the determination, no way of knowing the answer to my musings, but something tells me she's not real. There's just something there, a digital gaydar, if you will, that is giving me the creeps about the questionable humanity of this alleged female corporate shill.

But no matter. Once the ad caught my attention, fulfilling almost all of its purpose, I had to study it. It's fascinating, truly.

Okay, they're selling a computer printer here. It has stuff, and it does stuff, prints stuff, and it will serve you in your business as you do your capitalist thing. Yeah, I got it, and blah blah blah. But why is the printer, the focus of the advertisement after all, taking up what appears to me to be less than 20% of the total photo space of the advertisement? I'd think you'd want to push your product to the front (which it barely is doing), to make it big and bold, so prospective customers could get a good look at it. But what is pushed to the front, and what we're really looking at is the skirt.

This woman is easily taking up 25% of the available space in the photo. And she is in the closest of foreground, with the product for sale just barely in front of her. Why is that? Why is the chick bigger than and upstaging the product for sale? Which one exactly is for sale?

As Frank Zappa said as he urged his audience members to get down with their bad selves during the "Be Bop Tango" on the Roxy & Elsewhere album, let's examine this phenomenon.

So, the woman is there to get our attention. An attractive lady always gets attention. Primarily it's male attention, sure, and after all, I think industry and government figures would bear out that most purchasing managers would be of the male persuasion. So you've got that going for you, Kyocera. And, as I've seen over and over again, another woman will look at an attractive woman almost as quickly as a man will. What goes on in the viewing female's mind is a closely guarded secret, but I think it basically has to do with competition.

The female inner monologue may go a little something like this: Who is this competition? Is she prettier? Is she more attractive to the men? Is she taller, thinner? Can I call her 'fat?' Are her breasts bigger, higher, firmer, more attractive than my own? How do her hips compare to mine? Has she got varicose veins? Breast augmentation? Face lift or other surgery? Do I need some surgery? Are they paying more attention to her or me? What has she got that I don't have, and how can I learn from her? Is she a threat? Or is she just trash? She's probably just a worthless slut, all dolled up like that, just to get the men to pay attention to her. She's so insecure, so needy. She probably lives alone with her cats, just where she needs to be, alone and anorexic, the hollow, worthless whore.

But I digress.

But to my mind she's clearly not being portrayed as a shameless tart, not in that outfit, not in that setting, althrough the office setting is well behind her and she's a part of it only by implication.

Okay, the woman has gotten our attention. First of all, she's attractive. Yeah, I guess, but to be honest she doesn't really do it for me. Again, she doesn't look real. More than anything that caught my attenion was that mouth. She's just a hair away from Jack Nicholson's Joker in Batman with the size of that mouth. What does a gigantic mouth say about a woman? Does it imply sexual prowess or capability? Hell, I don't know that one, but I know how well the limited yet significantly large-mouthed Julia Roberts did in Pretty Woman.

The teeth are a perfect white, just short of that overdone, scary blue-white. The makeup is conservative, just right. Here eyes are nice, not remarkable. And her hair is also conservative, again not remarkable.

The jewelry is restrained, not overdone or trashy. Her earrings match her necklace, which I somehow note is not a pearl necklace. Would a pearl necklace connote too much, or be too conservative, too June Cleaver? Too maternal? Se can't have her appearing tied-down or otherwise permanently attached, after all (see the ring bit, immediately below). She's wearing a nice wristwatch, which tells us she's a professional, concerned with time, staying on time, being punctual, etc. And of course, prominently displayed is that left hand, with no ring on that ring finger. So she's available, boys, all you have to do is go after it. The fingernails are plain, with no paint at all, cut modestly. Not even a French manicure. Can I imply from this that she's modest and conservative, not out to play herself up, that she's not trashy? Who knows.

And the body. Is it me, or is she grotesquely thin? I mean, look at the waist. She's probably sporting a 22" waist, 24" at the absolute most. Look at those rail-thin arms in that blouse. I mean, this woman is probably clincally underweight. Of course, this is the ideal for most women, and for some ridiculous reason most of the rest of society has signed up for this crap. I guess for a model, she's the prime specimen, but she looks to me like she most of all needs a sandwich, or a couple of candy bars. She's just way too thin, grotesquely thin.

And the clothing. Standing out most of all is the blouse. Conservative in cut, style, and color. The shiny fabric is an attention-getter, but also may speak to silk or satin, implying a bit of sophistication, a bit of personal indulgence in liking the sensation. It also implies the possibility of a romantic, and dare I say, even sexy/sexual being underneath that restrained professional facade. But the fit of the blouse is interesting. It's just tight enough, just tight enough. The buttons at the top and the next one down pull just a little, showing that clear tension in the fabric across the top of her chest, just a little bit, but there if you're paying attention. This implies something trying to come out, but can it really be those tiny breasts? I'd think advertising folk would have found a grotesquely thin model who'd had her breasts done, at least to a B cup. This shill is sporting an A at the very most. Again, does that make her more maternal, more the marrying kind, the kind of professional girl you can take home to Rhode Island to the parents and show off to the elderly relatives? Yeah, probably. But your buddies from school would be asking you when you'd pop for the breast augmentation.

And finally, the leading advertisement text, the headline: "Brilliant color, most cost-effective, and very well connected." The question leaps from the page--are we talking about that tiny, underplayed computer printer way down there on the page, or are we talking about the brunette immediately to the right? Could go either way.

I'd have to argue that her color display here is not "brilliant." Yeah, we've talked on the blouse, and it's okay. But that apparently gray tweed skirt certainly doesn't qualify as brilliant. The teeth might fit in there, but that's about it.

And is this young lady truly cost-effective? Kind of hard to tell from what we're presented with here, but then again, the overall conservativeness of her outfit and display seem to indicate she's sensible and not prone to gold-digging. That would make her more cost-effective than, say, your best lap-dancing partner Zephyr down at "Spewter: The Gentleman's Oasis."

And finally, is she very well-connected? No way to tell here, but isn't that the ideal for any guy out for a mate, one who has a senator for a dad, is related to the chairman of the SEC, or was once an executive secretary to Bill Gates? If she's well connected, that just makes all kinds of things easier. She'll pull her weight with you, or so it seems.

So in conclusion, I look back and see an extended rant on what is essentially a meaningless computer printer advertisement. Or maybe a meaningless rant on a meaningless ad. Hey, I enjoyed it, so take it any way you'd like.

At the Soccer League Coaches Meeting

I volunteer to coach my daughter's soccer team. It's fun, she digs it, it gets me outdoors, and the other girls seem to have fun, so I'm happy to do it. The worst part, though, is suffering through the spring and fall season coaches meeting. It's the worst.

It's always 7:00 to 9:00. It never starts on time, and never ends on time. I mean, there are folks in this league who've been a part of it for 20-odd years. With two seasons a year, that means a good 40 of these meetings should be under their belts, and they ought to know how to run one quickly and painlessly. Running these coaches meetings ought to be down to a razor's-edge science with these folks, controlled and scheduled and planned and monitored and efficient in every possible way. Nope, not so.

They can't start on time. Whether it's the genuinely good-natured waiting for volunteer-coach stragglers or their own lack of preparation, they can never get the goddamn mtg going by seven.

And then begins the executive committee and other league officer mutual appreciation and mutual masturbation society. "You're really great," one will say into the mic, and the other will respond, "No, you're really the greatest." The first one will demur and say, "Thanks, but no, I'm not, but you know, it's Blah Blah who is really the greatest," and another masturbatory conspirator will chime in with another different name of who's the greatest. And they all just chant who's so great and wonderful and smart and such a good volunteer over and over, struggling to make it clear to us mere volunteer coaches that they work so much harder, have so much more responsibility, and are ultimately better people than we are, since we're just coaches. It's like these idiots never actually see each other until these meetings, and they use our time to catch up with each other. Okay, I get it. You're senior volunteers in an all-volunteer organization. Your work is hard and long, but you do it for the kids. That's fine, and that's cool, but save the mutual backslapping and butt-stroking for some other time, for a crowd who cares about and/or expects this junk.

And then came the liability discussion. Our fearless leader made a clearly too-bold and too-overarching statement about how coaches could be held liable for certain safety and equipment aspects of the matches. Well, if you were listening, actually paying attention and listening, you'd know that the administrator's statement was over the top, and therefore not really valid. The remark was that one step too far to put the fear into us coaches, to scare us into doing what we're supposed to be doing for field preparation and maintenance. Oh, but no, there must've been about ten dumbass coaches who weren't paying attention, and had to rise up in their dumbass mistaken righteousness to challenge this statement. No common sense on either side, naturally, no thinking past the statements to the reality of the notional situations provided, only one dumbass coach after another wanting to argue with the dumbass administrator, to hear his/her voice in public standing up for themselves. Unbelievable, and it just kept stretching that meeting out.

Then the referee head got up to yap, and just meandered on and on. He said he was only going to talk about two things. He enumerated the first, then the second in clear, concise language, then proceeded to tell us antoher eight or nine things, none of them organized or structured in any way, just random thoughts popping out of his head. Then he sat down, only to stand back up to make another five minutes worth of stupid pronouncements. The guy's a referee, after all, he's supposed to be one of the smart ones. He's been doing this for decades, and he still can't stand up in a meeting and deliver a planned and limited, ten-minute structured and logical talk on his points of emphasis and then sit his ass down?

And speaking of ass, occupying most of my time during this idiocy was stealing glances at the late 30-something soccer mom, straight from work, carrying her extra 25 lbs or so, in her very tight, light-cream slacks, accentuating what she thought to be a nice ass. Yeah, I'd have to agree with her; she did have a pretty good ass, nice and round, and full, too, not one of these ridiculous Paris Hilton, grotesquely little-boy-hips thing. And of course, because she thinks she's hot and is wearing the pants to tell the world that, she's got on her tight black thong, pulled deliciously tight up her ass and snaking down to what I could only imagine would be a delightfully shaved whosis, awaiting whatever lucky human might arrive there. Gotta love an older woman in tight light pants and a dark thong underneath. Always gotta wonder, though: does she really know that it's that visible, that plain to see,right down to the lace patterns swirling, right down to the scalloped edges caressing the descending curve of her cheeks? I'd have to think the answer is yes, which impresses me, that a woman would wear that, make that kind of bold, confident, and no-shit sexy public statement. But then again, how many morons are out there who never take even a second to think of their public appearance? Is she one of those who wears a thong because it's trendy, because she's seen it on TV, and the magazines tell her that she should? Is she wearing it simply to be conformist, to be something she's not? Or maybe she's wearing it for a lucky husband. Yeah, that's the best possible answer, and I hoped it was the right one. You keep it up, thong-soccer-mom, you keep right on doing what you're doing.

At least the coaches in my group were okay. We all agreed it was going on way too long. The newbie husband-n-wife coaching team were too cowed by it all to make any comments at all. They had no idea what was going on.

At least our division director listened to my suggestion about choice of uniforms going to the coaches in the order they showed up to the meeting. I got second choice, thank you very much.

And then finally it was time to pick up our uniforms and gear and get out the door. And it was only 9:18. Home after 9:30 for a bedtime of 10:00. Big fun.

Thursday Stray Voltage

So Karl Rove is "obsessed" with Hillary Rodham Clinton, eh? What exactly is his game? Is it the pure, Nixon-esque paranoia, that clutching Republican fear of anything different and divergent, the ubiquitous 'liberal' enemy that wants to tear down the walls of American defense and prestige and lead us all into the Scripture-prescribed Judeo-Christian apocalypse? Is it his perception of her as a genuine political threat? Or is it that ol' Karl would just really, really like to get into Hillary's pants? I mean, what better way to stick it to the Dems and that lying, adulterous sack of shit Bill Clinton--literally--than to stick it to Hillary herself? It'd be a lot like that dumbass Monica Lewinsky's ultimate motivation: "I blew the President;" Karl could chuckle to Rummy and Cheney and the other pasty white iconoclasts who share his bent worldview, "I banged the former First Lady." Yeah, it's a bit of a high school fantasy, but that's the feel I'm getting from listening to the back n' forth.

So the name of the company that's going to sell out American national security by letting in container-fuls of terrorists is Dubai Ports World, shortened to "DP World?" Call me a perv, but when I heard that, in my mind I expanded the shortened title to "Double-Penetration World." Yeah, that's pretty raw, but that's how most of the guys I know tend to think, along these lines. Now, I'd be interested in researching the portfolio of Double-Penetration World. I'd love to see what their business model looked like, what kind of perks were offered to employees, and what their past and projected growth look like. I'd love to see the corporate headquarters, and how it's outfitted. The name reminded me of the single largest and most impressive fuck-store I've ever encountered, Vegas Adult World in Las Vegas. Absolutely fascinating place, full of all kinds of stuff I just had never really thought had existed before. Educational as well as entertaining.

So Bush and all of the top levels of our national government had discussed and briefed and consulted on the possible outcomes of Katrina before it all went down, right? That much is clear, now, only because media and public interest groups have used legal processes to force the government to release the proof, the kind of information that for six months they've denied has even existed. Now it exists, and it shows that despite knowing what was coming and what was likely to happen, that no one really made the effort. The President was in the loop, and did nothing. He went on FUCKING VACATION IN CRAWFORD, again. And Chertoff took a trip to Atlanta. No leadership, no dedication, no direct national-level leadership attention to the crisis, none at all. And Brown takes the fall. Yeah, he wasn't much better, and a lot of this rests with him, but not even close to all of it. Once again, our Idiot-In-Chief has shown himself to be a fool, a disengaged, uninquisitive dolt who couldn't lead puppies to a bowl of milk. They all knew beforehand, and they didn't take the action that needed to be done.

And Bush, Inc. is just going to slide this DP World ports takeover under the door? Regardless of the name, are the conspirators in the White House and the Executive Office Buildings really that stupid, that supremely smug and arrogant that they can just make it happen, ignore the law on required reviews, and submit it as a fait accompli for immediate approval? That Bush can wave his hand like some kind of swishy monarch and that we'll all roll over and say, "Sure thing, boss?" That's the arrogance of this White House, of Bush, Cheney, of Rove and their ilk, the unbelievable cynicism that they know what is best, they will do the right thing, and that the American people are too stupid to make decisions, too uninformed, and that they'll just do it all for us. It's the ultimate in condescending paternalism, the smugness and self-assured look down the nose upon those who just don't know the difference. Yeah, I think Ignorant America is just that, but it's another thing completely for the top levels of the elected--and appointed--government to just walk all over us to do what they feel is best, in violation of convention, precedent, and law. Me, I think DP World will do just fine, as they've done in other locations in their business endeavors. Yeah, it's political, but what do you expect? This isn't about security; it's about political posturing and election-year hype. Maybe it's time the Bushies get a taste of the chum they've been spooning to the rest of the world for over five years now.

So why is it that Mohammad (PBUH) cartoons spark violent demonstrations, death threats and fatwas, but when Shia kills Sunni, and Sunni kill Shia, there aren't any demonstrations in Jakarta or at the UN or in Beirut? Why is it when the Sunni destroy a sacred site of a sect within their own religion, there is no global Islamic condemnation of the act of murder and cowardice and terrorism? Why is it when Shia death squads randomly select dozens of Sunni for reprisal murder, that there is no global Shia outrage, with the ayatollahs in Iran issuing fatwas for the death of the murderers? The current estimate of Sunni reprisals deaths in Iraq stands at about 1500 right now, but I don't see any Sunni demonstrations in Western cities decrying the senseless murders. I'm sorry, but I see a grossly imbalanced perspective here. I see willful hypocrisy.

We'll miss you, Don Knotts. Loved you as a kid in "The Apple Dumpling Gang," but really dug you as the leisure-suited uber-dork Mr. Furley. We'll miss you, too, Dennis Weaver. You were perfectly cast as the clueless everyman in "Duel."

Somehow--I think it was the overhyped Mardi Gras coverage--I was reminded of a buddy from quite a few years back who intentionally courted and received an arrest on charges of being drunk and disorderly in New Orleans so he could tell people he was "busted, down on Bourbon Street." That was during his Grateful Dead phase. That was a few years after his country-rock phase, when he took a trip to northeastern Arizona, and spent an entire day "standing on a corner in Winslow, Arizona" in the hopes that girl (my Lord) in a flatbed Ford would drive by. It didn't happen, but he said the drive up and back was quite enjoyable. I've got no idea where Phil, a pilot, mind you, is these days.

I spent my own time at Mardi Gras, way back when the drinking age in Louisiana was 18. I went there as a college rugby player for the Tulane Mardi Gras rugby tournament. Man, what a combination. Four matches in two days, all of which we lost miserably. And three straight days of drinking and partying non-stop. I spent 50 hours in the city, arriving with approximately $550 in cash. I left late on a Sunday evening for the 500-mile drive home, with less than $2 in change and nothing to show for it except three strings of broken beads (the rest given to girls, to no avail), stained clothing, and cuts and bruises and aches and pains. I was shotgun in a tiny Toyota with three other rugby players. The driver fell asleep 20 minutes onto the Ponchartrain bridge, but we were on cruise control and from the right side of the car I just steered us through the sparse late Sunday night Louisiana and southern Mississippi traffic for about 90 minutes until he woke up, with a bit of a start. He wisely opted to switch out, and I got us home safely, no one awake in the goddamn car except me. They were wise not to ask me to pay for gas.