squidbag

Activist Judge Censors Faith

In Indiana, a divorce court judge has ruled that a couple cannot teach their child Wicca, because it is not a "mainstream religion."  The website that this story comes from actually refers to Wicca as an "unorthodox religion."  (welcome to Indiana) Shit, that's not their fault.  I'm sure that, like Judaism and Catholicism, orthodox Wiccans are easier to pick out when they wear their special hats.  The special hat system is huge in most religions.  Maybe that's what that pointy job is for.  Sheds a whole new light on Oz, doesn't it?  The "wicked" witch of the West a victim of religious persecution?  What business is it of yours if she wants to shack up with a bunch of monkeys?  Aside from the public health issues, of course.(Everyone knows that people getting down with monkeys just makes more Republicans, and it's not like we need them.)

Anyway, I think I was talking about this insane fuckwit doorknob of a judge who has decided that he can not only subvert the protections of the US Constitution, but also hand down rulings that have no clear import or means of implementation.  What the hell is a mainstream religion?  I, for one, would have thought that people who got messages from an invisible God telling them what to do were outside of the mainstream until we elected one President.  Is Unitarianism mainstream?  What about Satanism, or Stanism, the worship of Stan?  What about agrarian faiths that preach a return to simpler things, or separatist beliefs where you can have more than one wife?  Religion is divisive by its very nature, so step off this "mainstream" shit and sit down.

This is ridiculous.  It's not like the parents were arguing about this: they're in agreement.  The judge don't like it, so he's stepping on the freedom of religion from the bench.  This must be what all the GOPers in Congress are afraid of when they're talking 'activist judges,' yeah?

Crab Orgy Bothers Prudish Fish

Proving once again that the human race is piddling about when it comes to getting down, 50,000 fucking crabs all got together in an orgy of...well, just a big crab sex orgy, actually.  Careful reading of this attached article would seem to imply that there's some crab orgy porn (www.craborgyporn.com?) available for anyone who might be interested, as well.  Scientists at this point are only speculating that this gathering was for breeding purposes, but that sounds more like clueless scientists who elected to drop back and punt, yeah? 

GUY: "Why did these crabs gather here, Mr. or Ms. Australian Scientist?" 

SCIENTIST:  "Probably to fuck.  Hey, is that on?  Never you mind, let's get a beer."

Why do large groups congregate in nature?  For the food or for the fucking.  There was no food, so the scientists made their best guess.  The important thing was that they got it on video.  I'd like to see that video, especially with its original audio track, sprinkled here and there with "fucking creepy, mate."  My two favorite things about this article are the quote about this "scaring the hell out of the fish," (apparently one or two fish called their councilfish, and lamented the state of the bay) and the fact that this is not a rare event.  Crab orgies happen all the time.  Nice.

Et Cetera

Christie and Max pulled out this afternoon headed for first Nashville, and then Wisconsin.  I can't go because of my job.  I am meeting them in Nashville on the 10th of June, however, on their way back from the vacation, so that C & I can do our 10th anniversary in a bed & breakfast she picked out.  I'm sitting here realizing that by doing that, I will have worked four four-day weeks in a row.  I guess that'll keep me from turning into one of those people I know who dedicate their lives to a faceless, soulless corporation, struggling throughout the many years to convince themselves that it matters, that a difference has been made - only to find that, if they make it to pension and retirement without getting the axe for some real or imagined infraction that probably matters not a gnat's fart in a hurricane, they have given up the only life they will ever have (unless they're Hindu) to sell stuff.  To further ram product and commodity down into the unfeeling and uncaring gullets of the capitalistic masses who already have so much fucking bric-a-brac they're choking our mudball with their garbage and shit and cast-off waste.  I'm not sure if I was ever in any particular terrible danger from this, but this seems like a good additional precaution, this taking of the time off.

It's weird, because I tell people that my wife and kid are out of town for a couple of weeks, and I frequently get one of the two same responses:  "What are you going to get up to with them gone?"  or, "Bet you'll enjoy the break."  The first one curdles my blood (because my blood is easily curdled) because it seems to imply that I can now finally cut loose and have those cocaine & hooker parties where we kill a virgin at dawn and summon the Dread Lord Cthulhu that I've had on the back burner all this time.  The second one bothers me because of what it implies about everyone else.  No, I don't particularly "enjoy the break."  I get everything I need to do done within hours, and then find myself with eons to kill.  I don't live with these people because I have to, I live with them because I want to.  Even a child, you can choose to have, and then mold into someone you'd like to live with.  I'm sure this will grow more difficult - but still, you see my point.  I have a car, I could leave whenever I want to - check the papers, people (and especially men) do it all the time.  Aside from the fact that I would instantly become an asshole for life, there's nothing stopping me from leaving.  Except desire and willpower.  All relationships are built on that.  You have desire most of the time, and when that isn't doing it for you, you kick in that will to keep at the thing.  When you find yourself using more will than desire - time to check yourself before you become an Ice Cube song.  I can only assume these people around me are unhappy at home.  Which would explain a lot.  Especially about the way they dress.

You can tell the house is quiet, though - my run-ons are a lot worse.

Anyway, I felt the need to share some stuff, like this - MTV has apparently been cowed by the dogs at the White House - and you know they're dogs, that place went to the dogs long ago - and got into an argument about NIN performing a song in front of an image of Prez Dubya Monkeyface.  That gave Trent Reznor the opportunity to say this, which I thought was great: "We were set to perform 'The Hand That Feeds' with an unmolested, straightforward image of George W. Bush as the backdrop. Apparently, the image of our president is as offensive to MTV as it is to me."  Feels good to have a band you've been listening to since jump take a stand now and again.

Then there's this, which is pretty screwed up, about a woman who's being brought up on charges for helping her daughter get an abortion after the girl was impregnated by her stepfather.  (This is Broward County, ya'll.  COPS started here.)  What the fuck, people?  I see a case of incest, I see parental consent - what more do you fuckers want?  We have a spokesman for the cops saying, "She was protecting her daughter and her husband, thinking we would not have any evidence and would not be able to pursue it."  Oh, that's alright then.  I suppose that's the only possible explanation.  It couldn't have had anything to do with this woman not wanting her daughter to carry to term the spawn of a rape, compounding the crime and ruining the lives of at least four people?  Yeah, probably not.  I mean, the cops said and everything.

In other news of the South, the KKK is making a comeback - maybe - in Durham, NC.  Shit.  Well, I can say something positive about Pensacola, here, which I have been encouraged to do whenever I see the opportunity (which is damn seldom) - I have never seen anyone burn a cross in Pensacola, FL.  And it's not like there aren't crosses to go around.  We got thousands.  Come on down and get one, they're just a-sittin' around every damn place.  I can't think of the Klan without thinking of the scene in American History X when Lamont, the guy Derek has to work with in the prison laundry makes fun of them by putting a white sheet over his head and doing some good 'cracker' impressions.  Well, that and this cover from Preacher.

So, yeah - with all that out, I think I'm going to go see Sahara and XXX: State of the Union at the Silver Screen tonight.  Each movie will cost me a buck, so how bad can they really be?  Anyway, as I've mentioned, the Silver Screen has tables and chairs, and the best snack bar (with beer) you can imagine.  That's a plan.

What Would Max Do?

Max & Christie go to the same school.  Max is pre-K, and Christie teaches.  Max's schoolyear ends one day before Christie's does, and the as-yet-undertermined summer program hasn't started yet.  This is the story of how I was railroaded into taking a day off.  Poor, pitiful me.  As always, Max and I had a fantastic time together yesterday.  I made him cinnamon-raisin pancakes (which I've just about got the proportions perfected on) and we went and saw Madagascar.  We went to the comic store, had lunch, and had an impromtu playdate with Beth and her daughter, Peyton.  Max jumped a personal hurdle by ascending to the highest level of the McDonald's playland ant farm thing, something he's been reluctant to do up to this point.  We fixed his bubblegun and went for a walk, and we finished off the day with my in-laws, and they bought dinner and gave him a singing dog toy.  What more could a kid ask for?

Well, let me tell you.  During our lunch, I explained to Max that he didn't have to go back to school for awhile, that he was headed to Wisconsin to see a raft of people, and that this was only the beginning of his Summer vacation.  Once it sunk in for him that he would have a long time off, I asked him what he would like to do with his Summer.

1. Catch Captain Hook and put him in jail.  ("I thought they got Captain Hook."  "No.  He's still out there.  We have to find him."  I love how ominous my kid is sometimes.)

2. Build a submarine.  (It will be hard not to paint it yellow.)

3. Ride horses again.  A white one. (I can only assume that this is a reference to the fund-raiser we went to where there were Clydesdales.  So he liked this, apparently.  As far as the white one goes, I guess if you're dreaming - go all out.)

4. Play guitars with Uncle Brian.  ("You know, you can play guitars with Uncle Jesse, too.  And Aunt Julia plays violin."  "A violin is not a guitar."  "I know, but they can be played together without any negative effects."  "Okay.")

5. Talk to a cow.  (???)

6. Go and play in my park.  (Presumably won in some high stakes late-night toddler poker game.)

7. See all my friends. (No elaboration.)

8. Play a game.  ("With who?"  "I like to play games with Daddy."  "Cool.  Who else?"  "Mommy."  "Who else?"  "Aunt Kate and Uncle Eric and Uncle Jesse and everybody.")

9. Talk to the babies. ("Which babies?"  "All of them."  "That's kind of a tall order, who are you talking about?"  "Baby Whitney, and Baby Ben and Baby Raya."  "Is that all the babies?"  "Yeah.")

10. Be Green Lantern.  (We're still working on the oath.)

He stopped with ten, since he saw me writing this down (I had to borrow one of his crayons and a napkin) and he said ten was all you needed.  I guess he's trained to base ten already.  We got distracted after that with coloring a picture of a birthday cake that he drew, and then our food came.  If anybody's got any comments they'd like to leave for Max, (like some of you did for his artwork) I always read them to him.

"I Have Fucked 'til I'm Blind!"

All my life.  All my life, there has been some lunatic weirdo who has brought up blindness in conjuction with doing anything 'abnormal' with your dick.  Masturbate, and you'll go blind.  90% of motherfuckers walking around would be blind if that were true.  Wet dreams, fantasizing, improper cleaning, expansion aids, steroids, caffeine - you name it, and there's some crackpot older relative, religious representative, even in one notable case, a quack sawbones - who will tell you not to mess with your dick unless you are A) Taking a Leak, or B) Having Protected Sex, Preferably Missionary Position, Preferably in Wedlock.  These same people do want you to clean your dick - in the abstract - but also acknowledge that over-cleaning can lead to Onanism, and even God will tell you not to "spill your seed upon the soil."

So it comes as no surprise to me that Viagra (pictured above) and Cialis are making people blind.  I've been warned about this shit all my life.  Once again, crazy people have some sort of non-linear access to the truth.  And make no mistake - it's happening.  Two statements, taken together, are enough to convince me of this.  The first one?

"There is no evidence showing that NAION (non-arteritic anterior ischemic optic neuropathy - basically, as I understand this, spontaneous optic nerve failure) occurred more frequently in men taking Viagra than in men of similar age and health who did not take Viagra." 

Maybe it's just me, but that sounds a lot like a drug company not admitting fault and making an attempt to avoid a slew and a half of class actions.  "Folks took our shit and went blind, but it's inconclusive as to whether or not they might've gone blind anyway."  The second statement combined with the first one is what provides the humor here - this is from Dan Watts, spokesman for Pfizer, a company about to branch out into sticks and dogs:

"We are in discussions with the FDA to update our language to reflect these rare ocular events that have occurred."

"Rare ocular events."  Nice.  Tell that to the blind guys.  And, I can't help but think George Carlin would like to get tickets to an "ocular event."  Shit, especially if it's rare.  Of course, the downside of this for the rest of us is that Mike Ditka and former Senator Bob Dole will be blind.  Probably a lot fewer commercial for boner drugs on TV, though.

(A year's worth of spam about off-brand, aftermarket C1alis will be available to the first person to correctly identify the source of the quote used as the title for this entry.)

Tortured Rationalizations

While most of the rest of the US was distracted watching Carrie Underwood beat Bo Bice (who should, according to the people I work with, have won, if only for the a capella Badlands song he sang) on American Idol, Amnesty International was having a little contest of their own.  Winning the "Most Improved" award in the area of "newest and best torturing and infringements upon the basic rights of people" was the United States, taking home the statuette (which I believe is called the 'Stabby') for flushing copies of the Koran down the toilet, (probably maybe yes) flushing the concept of inborn human rights into the sewers, and flushing the people interred in the American 'Gulag' in Gitmo completely out of existence.

In a week when the trial of Lyndie England plods forward as her lawyers ditch the pre-trial hearing, and the Red Cross confirms that basically, Newsweek punked out under pressure from the goons over at the Monkeyface Administration and that even the FBI's got reports of Koran desecration if you'd like to take a quick look at them - we also get this report, reminding us, that as object leaders of the world, we suck.  On top of all this, the most startling revelation of this week was that Pvt. Lyndie England is believed to pregnant (bad enough) with Charles "Vlad" Graner's evil little hellspawn.  The concept of breeding for people involved in this thing is atrocious, (especially with her being retarded and all) but these two should have sterilized a long time ago.  And if there's any justice in the world, they will be.

By an angry Iraqi with a blunt knife and a feces-encrusted copy of the Koran.

The Fantastic Rockman

This gentleman on the left is Benjamin J. Grimm, soon to be movie star, founding member of the Fantastic Four, Jewish kid from Yancey Street, and known to Marvel Comics fans everywhere as the ever-lovin' blue-eyed Thing, the idol of millions.  In terms of superhero names, the FF are pretty obvious: The mystery-free Invisible Woman & Human Torch, the somewhat egoistic Mr. Fantastic, and the guy who got screwed when picking superhero names, this guy, The Thing.  My three-year-old son, Max, loves the Thing.  He can pick him out on the screensaver I downloaded from the movie's website, he has a 10" action figure doll of him in his room, he has several comics with the Thing in them, (and indeed, has picked them out based solely on the Thing's presence on the cover) and he oft pretends to be the Thing.  Max doesn't call the Thing the Thing, though, he calls him Rockman.

More often than not, when confronted with a new item, Max will turn to us and ask - What/Who is that?  That is Yoda, that is a ocelot, that is a blender, that is on fire, that is a pair of scissors and please hand them to me.  When it came to this character, though, Max just kind of followed the Superman/Batman/Spider-Man rule, and went with Rockman.  Makes sense, right?  I tried briefly to talk him out of this, but it leads to this "Who's on First" type situation:

ME:  Hey, Max, who's this?

MAX: Rockman.

ME: But, what's Rockman's name?

MAX: (regarding me as if I might be a bit dim) Rockman.

ME: But Rockman's name is the Thing.

MAX: The thing named Rockman.

ME: Okay.

Aside from the fact that weird, Moebius loop conversations of this kind don't do a thing for my relationship with my son or my own sanity, I have no great burning desire to talk him out of something he seems to believe in very strongly.  He has an unshakable faith on this issue, a near-religious conviction about Rockman.  Also, it's funny to me and his mom (though we can't laugh where he can see it) and adorable too.  So:  LONG LIVE ROCKMAN!!!

Aliens Ate My Buick

The Thomas Dolby album, "Aliens Ate My Buick" was one of my favorites the same summer I read Watchmen all the way through for the third time, the same summer I finished the Hitchhiker's books, got laid on the beach while on a vacation, and started really getting used to being insomniac.  (The first time you're up all night, it's kind of cool.  You begin to tailspin a little at about three weeks.)  I used to go on these vacations to Destin, FL, back when it was just beginning to make its transition from "quaint little fishing village" to "quaint fishing village-themed tourist place."  It was me, a cousin, an aunt, and my grandparents, and despite my having come from Tennessee, the person I had sex with on the beach was not my cousin.  (very nice Okie girl, fourth time we met up) My grandmother used to keep a pretty close eye on what I read, sort of, and a pretty close ear on my music.  She caught most of my rap and metal, but Thomas Dolby got right past her.  Probably because of his conservative haircut on the cover.

This is one of the ones I played until it fell apart, along with Licensed to Ill, Raising Hell, Green, Fear of a Black Planet, Doo Dad, Flood, Mystical Shit, Vulgar Display of Power, Danzig I, Live at Folsom Prison, and What a Wonderful World.  Just good solid fucking albums. There was lots of other music I liked, and still like, but these are some of the major staples, and actually, truly represent albums I played to death.  (Nice cross-section of the noise in my head, too.) Most of them I had on cassette, one or two, I actually had vinyl.  "Aliens" has been somewhat hard to nail down since my tape copy exploded two cars ago, but I recently purchased it for three bucks from a woman in Kansas.  Ebay.  I have it on CD now.  (Amazon apparently has skillions of them for the purchase - go get one.)  I've been thoroughly enjoying the songs about sex, drugs, society, masturbation and sports cars that my grandmother managed to not keep me from listening to  sixteen years ago, when I had both my knees and a skater punk haircut.  I must have listened to this album one hundred times or more back in the day, and can sing the entire thing.  Unfortunately, no one's paying me to do that.

I recommend getting a copy as soon as you can.  And if you can't recapture the music from my past, tell me about yours, instead.

Actually Overheard

By way of introducing this fact for the Nth time, I will reiterate that I have a management position in a department store.  This gives me all kinds of opportunities to overhear (or indeed, participate in) things I thought you might like to virtually hear:

Overheard from a fellow associate: "I'm still pissed at the French for wussing out over the whole Iraq thing - I mean, I just can't believe how wussy they are."

Female customer to other female customer: "I really don't think yellow's your color.  No, seriously, it makes you look - dead."

From a male customer I couldn't see:  "Dude, we went out like, five times before she was a lesbian.  Well, before I found out about it, anyway.  Maybe she still is, I don't know."

Confused male customer: "Do they sell shoes?  I don't know.  They got TVs and shit, and purses, and those - whaddyacallems?  Bras."

From another fellow associate: "Watch, watch.  See this guy here?  He's a panty sniffer.  Comes in all the time.  The grossest one of these was the guy jacking off in the lobby."

Printed sign, now disposed of by me: HURRICANE SUPPLIES - DO NOT TOUCH IN EMERGENCY

From an adjacent office, so presumably, someone I work with:   "...huge, fat, monsterous.  I just hate myself and all of them."

And my personal favorite:

Me, walking up to customer service desk, addressing two new teenage girls who now work there: "Hi, I cut my finger - I need a band-aid from the first aid kit.  It's - it's under the phone there.  Big red cross on it."

Girl 1: "Wow.  You're like, the third person today to cut your finger."

Me:  "Yeah, I heard that.  Three more and we can summon a demon."

Both girls, in unison: "Really?"

Pseudo-Anniversary

For those of you who were actually in attendance (and conversations in recent years have educated me to the fact that there were a lot more of you than I originally realized), here's a little something special.  Today, May 21st, 2005 is the tenth anniversary of the wedding ceremony, officiated by Rev. Mitchell L. Silverman, in his capacity as a minister of the Church of the Sub-Genius, of myself and the lovely Miss Christie Guy, as she was then known.  This took place once Christie and I had begun to plan (or more accurately, allow her mother and the wedding coordinator to plan, with input from her) our "actual" wedding (the one with the licenses and such).  It was going to take place over the Summer of 1995, in Pensacola, and so a lot of the people who were interested in being there would not be able to make it.  Also, due to the influence of C's mom, there would be no alcohol (officially, anyway) and so we wanted to have a shindig that our friends could enjoy, and that would have booze.  So the idea of the "pseudo-wedding" was born.

It happened at dusk in Palm Court at New College in Sarasota, FL.  Guests were asked to wear black, or shades thereof.  As I have mentioned, we were wed by the Rev. Mitchell L. Silverman, in a ceremony I remember taking about three minutes.  I waited, in a black suit and white shirt with red tie and red Chucks, with my best guys, Eric P. (who also did the music) JB, and Steve Tivador.  Christie processed in to Darth Vader's March, wearing a black dress and druid's cloak, with her attendants, Ilen (made up as DC/Vertigo's Death) & Amanda.  After the ceremony was concluded, we adjourned to the Fishbowl, where we got the party started.

I remember shotgunning a bottle of champagne, Jay Ritchie teaching me to play Plunk, Amanda dancing on the table, Eric's mixes, and sheer joy.  Let me just repeat that for you regular readers - SHEER JOY.  I was glad to have celebrated my love for Christie in this way, and we had a great time.  There are dim, B/W photos of the event, taken by Liz Patterson, and I believe I shall try to scan and post those before day's end.  The above is one, of us opening the first bottle of bubbly.  I would encourage those readers of this blog who were also there to comment with what they recollect about that day in the comments field, thus fueling my pleasant nostalgia on this day.