Hollywood Gomorrah

Sunday night's Oscar show was an affront to everything pure, right-side-of-the-fence, non-fornicating Christian American colonialists hold dear.

Obviously the show was man-hating. So appalling, that gender hating speech by Patricia Arquette.

‘It’s our time to have wage equality once and for all and equal rights for women in the United States of America!’

I'm not a misogynist, but I'm tired of women bitching about how they don't get paid enough and how they want the freedom to breast feed and it's so hard to manage a career and be a mother and the meals and household. Yeah, you're a real empowered woman, you crybaby. You go girlfriend in your $10,000 Rosetta Getty asymmetrical bodice and lecture me about how you're being kept down. You got Meryl Streep all wet.

Just like all the black people shuckin' and jivin' 'cuz of slavery. I'm not racist, but get over it. LBJ gave you your Civil Rights Act so stop bitching. We gave you reparations, awarding the Oscar to 12 Years a Slave last year. Then you demand another hand-out for Selma. Why did the camera keep showing black people and that POS Oprah? Fucking racist.

And those race-baiting speeches by John Legend and Common. Complaining that voting rights are being "compromised right now." Uh - John, the Supreme Court ruled we don't need the Voting Rights Act anymore because it infringes on states' rights and we've become a post-racial society. If I see a dude struttin' at the mall, dressed all pimp, I don't see his color. I just see an American, but you keep making race an issue.

Complaining about all the incarcerated black males. Yeah, like they didn't do anything to land in prison. Ever heard of black-on-black crime? But you don't go marching about that, do you? Just throw a baby fit when some law breaking thug happens to get killed by a white cop. Helloooo! Just do what the officer says and you won't have to worry about getting murdered.

 Eddie Redmayne won Best Actor. Yeah, give it to the guy who played an atheist.

Ida for best foreign film. Naturally, give it to the anti-Semitic film. You don't stand with Israel. You love Muslims.

Why did a Mexican win for Best Director - Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu? Talking about dignity for the illegals who "built this immigrant nation." Don't you mean "illegal alien nation”? They're already taking our jobs and making us have to press 1 for English thanks to Barrack Hussein Obama.

Bagdad Penn actually had a funny line: "Who gave this sonovabitch his green card?" I guess it's okay for that anti-American, terrorist lover Sean Penn to say it. But if a conservative makes a racist joke, it's a bad thing. Hollywood double-standard.

Why give the Best Adapted Screenplay award to Graham Moore? Because he made a film about a gay guy? Then he talks about suicide. Oh I get the message. It's because LGB youth are four times more likely to commit suicide than their straight peers. So you think that entitles you to special rights? Lots of kids get bullied.

Hollywood loves gays. Having Neil Patrick Harris host. How come we don't have real Americans like Bob Hope and John Wayne hosting the Oscars anymore? Of course Neil would prance in his underwear and show off his hard, firm abs and muscular biceps, the bulge in his tighty whites.

Wait, somebody just told me Neil was parodying a scene from Birdman. Oh I'm sorry, I was focusing on homoeroticism.

Questioning the hive mind

Editor's note: My good friend, Fiona, is an intelligent woman so when she recently asked me to write a blog about a certain experience she had, I suggested, "You feel so passionate about it. Why don't you write it?" So here it is - the first guest blog Ive ever posted. For years I've known Fiona to be industrious, creative and and a savvy business woman. She's aways been independent-minded as her column shows. It also reveals her to be a good writer.

It was nearly a decade ago.  I remember being so excited to hear that a new bible study was going to take place at the country church we’d been attending for almost a year.  I’d wanted to get involved with the women’s ministries, and for an introvert like me this seemed the perfect opportunity to get to know some of the other ladies.  I anxiously dropped my signup sheet in the offering plate when it came around.  This was my chance!

The study was one from a nationally-known Christian leader named Beth Moore based out of Houston, TX.  I’d heard great things about her bible study groups.  She takes a book of the bible and expounds upon verses you might not even take a second glance at.  This particular study was one about the book of Daniel called Daniel: Lives of Integrity, Words of Prophecy.  It sounded somewhat mysterious—prophecy?  I was a young Christian mom, hungry to learn and grow with my fellow females.

Though I worked outside of the home at the time, I had flexible enough hours to allow me to attend the Tuesday morning sessions.  I eagerly traveled the sixteen miles to the church, happily imagining the conversations that might occur.  Don’t judge; many introverts do this to psyche themselves up for upcoming social interactions.  Or it might be some form of a neurotic hang up, hell I don’t know.

I pulled into the parking lot, nervous but confident. After locating the meeting room just off the sanctuary I found a seat and settled in.  I really didn’t know anyone there outside of a quick handshake and hello on Sunday morning, but I reasoned they were probably excited to have a fresh, new face.  We went around and did the standard introductions of ourselves and then dove right in.  The study would consist of your own workbook (fee partially paid for you by the church) and a weekly video lesson led by Beth Moore herself.  The excitement crackled in the air.  Beth Moore!  I wasn’t sure why the other women were so jubilant at the thought of learning under her, but I was ready to find out.

Our lesson that first week was just an introduction to the study.  Beth Moore had filmed a “personal” greeting to our group, thanking us for our interest in studying the book of Daniel along with her.  It was almost a commercial for the study. She informed us about what was in store for us, a “ride of our lives.”  She told us we were surrounded by “a Babylon” society. The video showed Beth walking in front of jewelry stores, highbrow clothing boutiques, a Tiffany & Co. store. I found it quite interesting that the Beth Moore they showed teaching on stage looked like she probably shopped at all those stores.  Hair perfectly coiffed, tons of volume on top Texas style. Beautiful, flashy clothing.  Perfectly manicured nails.  She even said she worked on writing this study while sitting in the hairdresser’s chair getting her hair cut and colored. She really didn’t look or sound like someone who would be preaching on the evils of a Babylonian society, but I kept my mouth shut and my mind open.

The following two or three weeks she lectured her live audience, and the one at home, upon the evils of what our society has become.  “When my grandmother went to the country store and she stood at the checkout, not once did she glance upon the front of the magazines and think, ‘I think I’m supposed to look like her.’” Cue audience laughter and applause.  “But Beth,” I thought, “You DO look like those women on the magazine covers.”  She’s slim, and blonde, and dressed to the nines.  I didn’t understand how she could preach upon the ridiculousness of looking like a magazine model when she was obviously trying hard to look like one. I decided to bring it up at the end of study when we were asked to share thoughts.  I was legitimately surprised to find my questions met with near-hostile attitudes from the other women. 

“Don’t you think she just wants to look her best for television?”

“Doesn’t she have a right to shop where she wants?”

“Wouldn’t you want YOUR nails manicured if you were going to be on a DVD in front of thousands of people?”            

 “I think you’re missing the point of the study.”

I felt attacked, and frankly stupid for daring to question this woman.  It seemed to me she was saying one thing, but doing another.  I’m not sure if no one else agreed with me, or if they were too afraid to throw in with me, but I sat alone.  They moved on to a closing prayer and I left while the other women stayed for visiting afterwards.

I went back one more time, but I just couldn’t get over not being allowed to question the study leader.  I’m inquisitive by nature, and I suppose I do tend to question leadership when there seems to be no one else questioning. Blindly following is an impossibility to me, and I came to realize the hive-mind mentality in small church groups is the status quo.

You see, small to medium size churches are a lot like high school.  There are cliques within the upper echelons of church society and it’s the unstated purpose of other church-goers to aspire to be accepted into their circle. I tried for many years to become one of them, first at our country church, and later at a larger suburban church we attended.  I went to women’s ministry events whenever possible, invited church leaders over for dinner, and went to every get together I was invited to attend. I really tried to fit in.

Then one day, I mentioned to the pastor’s wife that I was not a fan of Joel Osteen.  She was baffled.  How could I not be?  He’s saved thousands of souls, he’s a champion for God!  I explained my reasons, reasons I’m sure she’s heard before, but she was having none of it.  After that, things changed.  Once again, I went against the hive mind.  While my fellow congregants were busy reposting Joel Osteen motivational quotes on Facebook, here I was being disgusted by what I saw as his twisting of scriptures.  Didn’t they want to question and investigate before they followed him? It seemed not, because whenever I questioned, I was immediately shut down.  I once mentioned how his wife had been thrown off a flight when she threw a fit in first class. They even had an answer for that, though I confess I don’t remember what it was.

Nowadays we attend a mega church ourselves, though the pastor here actually preaches Jesus. I like it because I don’t have to know who is part of the hive mind. There are few skeptic questioners in Protestant churches now, and I just don’t fit in.  I enjoy going to Saturday evening services and hearing good, old fashioned, soul stirring preaching.  And I enjoy no one belittling me if I disagree with something.  They don’t disagree because this is a mega church, and the people I sit next to tonight are just faces in the crowd.  We don’t talk.

And that’s sad.

The sweetness of this special day

Maria and I were hanging around the kitchen table one Saturday morning a few weeks ago, BSing.  I was drinking coffee. Somehow the conversation turned to Valentine's Day.

"Valentine's Day was devised by entrepreneurial artists and illustrators - and I guess you could add florists who wanted to shake the moneymaker," I told Maria.

"No, it was invented for St. Valentine," Maria said.

The Catholic legend is St. Valentine was a priest who secretly officiated weddings for soldiers forbidden to marry. So Roman Emperor Claudius threw him in prison. On the day he was to be executed St. Valentine restored the sight of the emperor's blind daughter and wrote her a farewell note: "From your Valentine." Shortly afterwards, the executioner chopped off his head.

Now the man has immortality through sweet, loving Valentine's Day cards because nothing says love like a beheading.

"Yeah but the businesses capitalized on it and made it grow big out of the Catholic Church," I said.

"It's funny," she said. "Valentine's Day and St. Patrick's Day are the only mainstream holidays named for saints. Wonder why that is."

"Think about it," I said. "One's about sex. The other's about booze. Everyone falls in love. Everyone likes to party. Of course they're gonna break through. People can make a lot of money off that shit."

Zig-zagging zebra stripes

This morning I was messing around, starting to write this damn thing and drinking coffee so I could wake up, slip out of the house and slip back in without Maria knowing. Instead she woke up, went to the bathroom, peed, came out and said, "Why don't you spend some time with me?"

"I have to leave for a few minutes," I said. "I'll be back."

"What'd'ya gotta do?" I knew she'd ask that.

"I'm gonna meet my uncle Ted for coffee," I said, making shit up.

"Where are you meeting?" She always has to go probing. Always suspicious.

I thought for a moment. "At the Bake Shop."

Somehow in the conversation we wound up lying on the bed, just talking crap.

Later in the morning, she handed me a card with zig-zagging zebra stripes and a red heart in the middle. She wrote something in it about how I'm her "partner in crime" and "best friend." Naturally, I returned her affections, showing gratitude in my own emotive way.

We threw Max's paper route for him since he and Gabby had spent the night at Grandma's house. Then we went to Dairy Queen, and shortly after we sat at the booth, she gave me some look as if she's my mother or something and silently mouthed "stop it" after I said the word, "scrotum." But, hell it was barely audible.

During the course of our meal, I said the cheese was good, but the burger was average. My friend Noah and I were texting back and forth.

"Who are you texting?" Maria asked.

"Just a woman I know real well from work. You don't know her. We're close friends."

"Cut the shit. You're probably texting Noah and bragging about how you boned me this morning."

I briefly cut to Facebook. Christina, an old friend from high school, posted this lovely card her husband had given her. "It's your inner beauty I love. All the rest is icing," he wrote. (The guy isn't on Facebook so he won't be embarrassed.)

Suddenly I felt ashamed.

"This morning I was trying to sneak out and buy you a card before you woke up," I said.

That would've been enough for Maria. Mostly, she's not into flowers. Although it happens on the rare occasion.

"There's a Dollar Tree near where you work. You could've got one there," she said. "I got yours in the dollar bin at Target."

"Really? Max and I were sifting through there just last weekend. I was looking for a notebook. Didn't see any cards."

"They were probably sold out. I got yours about three weeks ago."

She talked about Dollar Tree again, said it was just as well I didn't make it to Wal-Mart, Cooper's Drug or Kober Brothers Grocery this morning.

"I wouldn't want you to spend a lot of money on a card anyway."

only connect

Hello, I wanna connect with you all over the land. I was reminded a few days ago what it might be like if nobody ever touched you, and it was bleak - perhaps not solitary confinement bleak, but it was nothing good. That's what I heard from the men in the creative writing class at the prison. "Writing helps me communicate better with my wife and kids on the phone," a man told me.

Right now I want to go back, see Maria again (we've been lovers for many years now). I want to get hugged by my daughter, Gabby. That's always a good thing especially considering the girl does not dispense easily with affection. She'll hold you at arm's length if that's where you need to be.

My son, Max - it's great being in a car, just him and me. While the girls were off to Kober Brothers grocery to buy a birthday cake for the party, Max and I did some manly no bullshit stuff. I sifted through the $1 crap at Target, looking for a cool notebook to write in. There were notebooks with princess crowns on them and words in pink and purple like, "The colors of my life."

"Nothing but a bunch of girly shit here," I said to Max. He's a good boy. He never uses such foul words, but he suffers me as if he's aware of me and it all rolls off his back.

"I was hoping for something with Batman or Star Wars on the cover," I said.

After reconnecting with my family for an hour at the birthday party, I went off on my own.

"I'll miss you," Maria said. "Don't be gone long."

I was in Dovedale, Kan. (pop. 13,000). It's an upscale town, a bedroom community of Wichita. I texted a friend.

"Where's the best bar to write a blog at in this town?"

"The Buckhouse," he texted, authoritatively.

Writing, I was in a brown study. Upon completion, I closed my laptop, unplugged the cord behind the bar and slipped it into the black case.

"You get your homework done?" the woman at the end of the bar asked me. She was with her fiance, I want you to know that.

"Sure did," I said.

"Who do you work for?" she asked.

"I work for an underworld society. That's all I can disclose at this time."

My new friends bought me a beer, which is a good thing because one doesn't want to be lonely in an establishment such as this. Also, it was my goal to make people there love me before the night was over, and I succeeded in that endeavor. It's fair to say the love was reciprocal.

I know I bitch about people, but I try to convince my wife, Maria, not to take it so literally, telling her I'm not a hater. "I love all humanity," I say, mockery in my voice.

Thoughts went to Maria and the kids as I stood there, ruing over how I had to go to various spots to write, how sometimes doing it righ there in the house separated me from my wife & kids, as if work doesn't do it already. Always pray in my car in the parking lot before stepping into the old building across the street in which I work. (Place is said to be haunted.)

"God please help me be good to my wife & kids, my employer, my mom, the audience, to you." Then I feel guilty about putting God last & add that I want help being moral and respectable for the day. "I don't wanna let anyone down, " I pray.

I left the Buckhouse and rejoined the family at the Clubhouse in the retirement village where my in-laws live. This is in the town of Jett, Kan. (pop. 4,000 in the '70s). They're in keen spirits as they talk about the door slamming noises and the sounds of pots and pans rattling in the kitchen and books being shuffled in the library - sounds that have come from no explainable source. Max dealt with such things at our old house, built in 1918. He made peace with the knowledge of an apparition known as "Plaid Pants Man" dwelling in the house. They all breathed a sigh of relief when they saw me enter the Clubhouse Main Room.

"We thought you were a ghost," my little girl said.

High horse

"Did you hear what Obama said at the prayer breakfast?" the old man asked. I knew he'd go there and I felt a tinge of pride at being correct in my prediction, but it wasn't a big leap. They've all been on a bitchfest about it on Fox "News" & that's all the old man watches.

Jesus, all the president said was people should get off their "high horse." It's not like he said evangelicals think their shit don't stink. No, I think he made his point in a nice, diplomatic fashion. They're all pissin' about Obama mentioning the Crusades, Inquisition and the strange bedfellow relationship between White Southern Christianity & the KKK.

A man tells the truth and they have a cow - an animal considered sacred in Hinduism, a religion I'm sure the good Christian people hate even though the dumb sons of bitches wouldn't know a Hindu from a Muslim from a Sikh. Henry David Thoreau was a 19th century American who gelled Hinduism with his philosophy and theology as fluidly as a veteran bartender mixing drinks - the Harvard Cocktail, Dirty Girl Scout, Rocky Mountain Bullfucker and the like. But what a flipping snob I am to bring up this latte liberal college stuff. Talk like a real American, dammit.

I'm sorry the big tough conservatives have such thin skins they can't take a little honest talk about the historical sins of Christendom. It's okay to talk about how bad Muslims are because ISIL chops people's heads off - but don't put Christian history to scrutiny. Honestly, I'm sure some Crusader, Indian fighter or slave owner must've at some point, chopped someone's head off. I know they did a lot of cutting. Burning people alive - that was another of their methods of social control.

The president wasn't diminishing the horror of ISIL's terrorism. He wasn't saying Muslim good, Christianity bad. He was just pointing out that all religions have taken evil turns in their history. No religion can point fingers and cast the first stone. Right-wingers apply exceptionalism to their religion as they do their nationalism and Obama was just calling them on their bullshit.

Islamic terrorists are torturing and murdering humanitarians, journalists, Christians and women accused of adultery and trying to get education. In America today, we know right-wing Christians as merely being arrogant, hateful and racist - not murderers, just the philosophical and religious heirs of segregationists and people who committed murder. No, Christian radicals in America are not presently stoning women accused of giving fellatio or burning alive people of darker skin tones.

We just know from history that given the power, they would.

Superb owl

Hi, what's your opinion of Bill Belichick? Deflategate? Hell, spygate and the whole Philadelphia Eagles & New York Jets controversies? Do you think Matt Damon and Ben Afleck are responsible? How 'bout that scene in Good Will Hunting where Damon aka Will Hunting made reference to Howard Zinn's A People's History of the United States?

"Superb Owl." That's what the shit looks like when I text it. Not Superbowl. Superb Owl.

Maybe you're like some people I've heard. "I only watch for the commercials."

Oh boy! The commercialization. Clydesdales and puppies and robots bringing you Budweiser while you're in your recliner. Some hot Hollywood star - a Jennifer Lawrence or Scarlett Johanson going all cock tease and all you're supposed to care about is how the digital animation transforms her into a bottle of -- oh it's Bud Light now. Anheiser Busch. Doritos in claymation and some swimsuit model simulating felatio on a a Sprite bottle.

What about all the togetherness. We are all one. All cultures in the world. We love and respect each other and all our colors, national tribes and religions in a spirit of harmony. That's what this extravaganza is about. Makes you wanna drink a Coke.

So the extended families on the couch. People start singing "America the Beautiful" in Spanish, while drinking All-American Coca-Cola, and my wife immediately hits the mute button on the remote. Luckily, her bigoted step-dad didn't hear. He was distracted, running his big, alpha-male mouth. It's enough he's in my house. Don't give me a jingoistic, race bashing rant tonight. Women in burkas appear on the screen. Oh shit. Wife, Maria, clicks, changes the channel. Old man never saw.

Several years ago we were at his house. The old man's friend, Wally, was at the place. Didn't hardly hear the game. Old man bitched the whole time about Democrats, terrorists, how Bruce Springsteen doesn't love his country and should be called "the loss" instead of the boss" and --- "Why are they so blind?" he asked Wally pleadingly. Wife was in the kitchen, not listening to the shit tonight. "Why Wally? Why can't they see? What's the matter with them. My dad fought in World War II to end this shit?"

And that was Super Bowl XXXVII for me.

The next year, some singing duo rave on about taking each other's clothes off, but all America has a collective cow when the chick's tit falls out. Good God people, babies see that shit every day. It's not like she revealed a waxed pussy or something.

For years, the Family Superbowl Party has been at our humble home. Father and mother-in-law. Brothers-in-law. Nieces and nephew. A clusterfuck of people in my little old living room and I can't see the damn TV. I just give up and go to my room and sleep anyway.

So fuck the Superbowl and the commercials.

Only this year, a friend invited me to a Superbowl party. It'll be in the old Methodist Church building, which is said to be haunted. Hell, maybe we'll play beer pong, I don't know. Maria's a little sad about my breaking with the family tradition, but she begrudgingly conceded to be okay with it.

I wonder if the friend who was stalking me on Facebook before I blocked him will be at the party?

Did the Patriots cheat the Eagles in 2004?

Speaking of which, I gotta say I loved the 2006 film, Invincible in which Mark Wahlberg starred as Vince Papale, the sandlot football player who tried out for the Philadelphia Eagles with some unexpected results. Best line: "He's got heart."
Remember the scene where Vince is talking to his love interest outside the bar they've been tending. Elvin Bishop's "Fooled Around and Fell in Love" playing in the background. That's what I told Maria. Yup, slept with a lot of women before you. Didn't care if they cried no sir, but you baby - looooove's gotta hold on me.

Also I loved Greg Kinnear's portrayal of legendary Eagles (later Rams & Chiefs) coach Dick Vermeil.

Gotta go. I'm glad the trophy is named for Vince Lombardi who coached the Packers to the first two Superbowl victories back in the days when college marching bands played half-time shows and coaches watched plays on 16 mm film and dressed like coaches, dammit.

Your inner stools

February the effing first. Shaking hand spilling coffee down my throat. Commitments keeping me away - gone from you. You know the first time I saw you, I fell in love. And Maria - she's my wife (with perks) calls such scribbling the bane of her existence. Did you see the sunrise in Kansas this morning? i'm with you.

Jan. 2. Roughly 11 a.m. There's two of us in research, filing behind the department head into the conference room. He'll summarize corporate's revised vision, the inner circle requirements set by the guardians of the house. We're supposed to tweet cheesy-assed pictures, but we've been released from the company blog requirement.

"Blogging is dead anyway," Matt says. He's a short stout man with a slight Dwight Schrute look, receding hair and damn heinous mutton chops. 

Jace and I go with it, not bothering to gaze up from our manuals, because it really doesn't matter. No, it really doesn't matter at all. Big graphic images of popcorn in boxes, stand in the velvet curtains like Grecian columns, a vanilla screen in the middle. Old fashioned projectors and film reels. You see it when you click there. Jace's deal. 

She's kind of a freak about the whole thing, going to the Rose Heel Theater with her girlfriends, dressed like characters from the movies they'll watch. Vampirish, hobbit-like, the fat bridesmaid who pooped in the sink or whatever the hell it is. Jace's moment of gratification will come when she types the movie review into her phone and on to her blog.

I'm also an avid blogger, much like the character Laura Prepon played on that episode of House. She faithfully blogged the most intimate details of her life with her boyfriend. But Dr. House called her on her hypocrisy. Blogging about everything, my ass. Not her bowel movements. House diagnosed her with Wipple Disease, a gastrointestinal disorder that, left untreated, will bring death. 

In this same episode it was revealed that Wilson starred in a porn flick, "Feral Pleasures" to help pay the bills while in med school. Wilson discovered a book in House's desk. Atheist House was reading a book of sermons written by a Unitarian minister whom House suspected was his real father.

The episode aired a long time ago. (In the 2007-08 season, actually.) What the hell am I doing here? Blogging is so 2010. I started this blog that year on a tip from a speaker for the Underworld Writers of Friends Association. Meetings were held in downtown Wichita in the basement of Old Pheobe's Bookstore. 

A clusterfuck of Phoebes

I kind of hate people who call themselves writers. Phony bastards. Most can't write for shit and I hate bad writing like I hate bad rock n' roll and anyone who uses shitass words like "maneater" and "anyhoo." What do they do, but clusterfuck up the internet?

"If you want to write, the best thing you can do is start a blog," the speaker said, perkiness all over her. "If you don't want to buy a domain name, you can do it for free on a host site like wordpress or blogger."

She also beamed about the business you could do writing these "new things" called "advertorials." I couldn't see myself doing such a thing, but who knows? Advertorials. They're so over now.

I got on a host site. They own my shit now. What the hell is a blog? I don't even like the word. A lot of moms blog, raving about Bed, Bath and Beyond, goofing on how their asses won't fit in their jeans anymore and what blessings their kids are.

What the hell am I doing here? The woman who prescribes me the anti-depressants and anti-anxiety meds says, "I think it's good therapy for you." Her name is Jennifer, also the name of Tony's sexy psychiatrist on The Sopranos.

I can't divulge to you the intimate details of my life. You understand it's not to be done, I know you do.

So I go to the office where we fit squares into circles and shove donuts from the bakery up our fat asses. Matt's cool for being a boss, I guess, but he's so godamn intense. Like Eric Foreman to Red Foreman in That 70s Show, I used to fear him until I figured it was no use and started responding like a perpetual smartass.

You work in order to do what you want in life. I'm sick of packing boxes and the shit of life like so many household bric-a-bracs Mom collected in her pre-dementia state. She thinks her mother is still alive. Writes her letters - a dying art form. But it's okay it's okay it's okay I still talk to her and she's with me like I'm with

__you.