WWJK

Okay, before I even get to Katrina, you're probably wondering why I have intentionally avoided talking about one of the most inflammatory media quotes of recent days. It's not because I've been reeling in disbelief. Trust me. When Christian leaders make stupid statements in public, it just doesn't faze me anymore. I consider the source, which -just so there is no confusion- is not God.

Consider the Reverend Fred Phelps, out of Topeka, Kansas, who pickets the funerals of dead homosexuals, and whose website is godhatesfags.com. Or the Reverend Jerry Falwell, from Lynchburg, Virginia, who claimed that 9-11 was God's punishment for the evils of homosexuality and abortion. Then, a man close to my heart, the Reverend Pat Robertson, also from Virginia, who made some pretty dumb-ass statements just a week ago.

For the record, I may be a Christian, but THESE GUYS DON'T SPEAK FOR ME!! I know I may say a lot of stupid stuff myself, but thank God nobody is listening. This is not the case with Robertson and his 700 Club.

On Thursday, August 23rd, Robertson called for the death of Venezuelan president, Hugo Chavez. Begging for U.S. special operatives to "take him out", rather than face another billion dollar war. Later, of course, he suggested that "take him out" could have meant mere kidnapping. Even later, he issued a half-ass apology, on his website, that basically defended his assassination plea.

The media has already had a field day with this faux pas, as they should. So, I wont beat a dead horse. But I do have one question for Pat:
Had you been truly blessed with the gift of prophesy, how would you feel about Hugo Chavez's mother opting for an abortion?

Now, the cat that lives with me, Jason Hill, actually saw the inciting broadcast, and he begged me to post his open letter to Pat. Far be it from me to censor a cat.

Dear Pat,
You don't know me, but I was taking a trip to the litter box last Tuesday and I caught your show, the $700 Question. Let me tell you - the hair on the back of my neck stood straight up, and I stopped dead in my tracks. Peaking my curiosity enough to keep me from the box is really saying something, 'cause I've got a bitch of a bladder infection. In fact, if you think about it, you might want to send up a little prayer on my behalf. I would do it myself, but I don't have a soul.

Frankly, I don't normally watch your 700,000 show. I prefer Regis and Kelly, or, at least, Leno. It's always good to work some animals into your format. Might want to think about that one. Have you seen your ratings?
Aaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh! Yaaaaaahhhhhhh! KAAAACHHAAAAAA! GOTCHA! Ya hairy little bitch!!

Sorry Pat. That was not directed at you. It's just that I can't let that little bastard go by without pouncing his sorry ass. Ah, there's the rub.

You see, besides the three humans that live here, there is another entity. They call him Harrison, and he is a pain in my ass. Honestly, and if you met him you would probably concur, I think he's possessed. The sounds that come out of that cat are pure evil. Like a tiny, obnoxious demon. But don't get any ideas about having the first ever cat on your 70 Center Club, just so you can perform some sort of kitty exorcism. Trust me, that's not any kind of publicity you want after those comments the other day. Besides, I have no proof, but I think he's gay on top of everything else. I see the way he looks at me sometimes. You probably don't want that on your conscience. And neither do your constituents.

The fact of the matter is, I have been trying to get out of here for a long time. Things didn't work out with Kevin and Britney and BitBit. The conditions around here aren't all that bad. It's just really, really hard living with such a whiny bitch. You probably know what I mean? And then I heard what you said on the tv. And I thought, maybe you could call for the special ops to "take out" Harrison. It would be so much easier than some Venezuelan president. I could even give you his hours. 24/7 he's here. Laying around on his lazy ass. Easy prey for the sharpshooters. I am, frankly, tired of swallowing his potent white fur.

So, thank you. Thank you Mr Robertson, for speaking your mind. Now could you do me a favor and "take him out"? Oh, here he comes again. Gotta go. I'm gonna WHOOP THAT TRICK!!! AAAAAAHHHHHHH! YAAAAAAAHHHHH!

Oh yeah.
Sincerely,
Jason Hill

Loving Love

Maybe I'm a bit touched having enjoyed the supreme experience of dating a superstar such as Nicole Kidman. But I have always had a soft spot in my heart for troubled celebrities. Especially musicians.

(Now I know that Nic is not a musician. And I am, in no way, implying that she is troubled. On the contrary, she's probably the most healthy relationship I've ever had. Apart from my new, hot girlfriend. I just meant that maybe having that kind of exposure to fame has loosened me up and allow me to understand better the possible strains of mass worship and recognition.)

All of this to say...poor Courtney Love.

Now, I know some of you might strongly disagree. You're like, "what the crap"? Courtney Love? I've had conversations with some of you, (you know who you are - crazy Julie!), who think Courtney is nothing more than an irresponsible, coked-up whore with no dignity or talent. Some of you even think she might have had something to do with Kurt's death. You are all entitled to your opinions. But I happen to love Ms. Love. Personally, I think she is one of the most misunderstood icons of the past decade and my heart goes out to her.

This past week, the courts decided that she must enter rehab - again - for a mandatory 28 days. Even though the judge was poised to deliver jail time or demand long term drug treatment - stating that she probably needed to reach 'rock bottom' before a lifestyle change would ever stick.

I'd be the first one to stand up and say Ms Love needs a little Jesus in her life. Isn't it obvious? But I am not going to condemn her. Or call her trash. Or say that she is spoiled and selfish and irresponsible and evil. The woman not only has a soul, but she has a heart as well. And it's breaking right now. Seriously.

(Those of you who are regular readers to this blog probably feel like I am feeding you a load of shit right now, but I am not.)

How would you feel if you had a child that you might lose custody of? I would feel devastated. To those of you who say, "well the little crack head shouldn't have screwed up so many times - she had her chance". I say, "shut up!" Courtney Love is lost and lonely and she has a disease. Drug addiction is a serious illness.

A lapse in judgment or weakness in character doesn't make me love her any less. Wouldn't you want another chance if you kept screwing up? Be honest. If God gives her chance after chance, shouldn't I as well? If God gives YOU chance after chance, doesn't she deserve the same? All of this may make no sense at all in the realm of logic, but sometimes I defy that. That's why they call it logic!

These are the facts:

1. Frances Bean needs her mother - as screwed up as she is.
2. Courtney needs to be protected from jail. It will only makes things worse.
3. My messiah complex makes me very attracted to Ms. Love. So much so that I would consider another high-profile "Love affair". (Sorry - bad pun)
4. I know I couldn't save her, but at least I could help her.
5. I know that Nirvana will never have any new music, but maybe Hole could get back together.
6. Sadly, Kurt was responsible for his own death. God rest his soul. I don't want Courtney to feel like she has to resort to the same tragic end.

And most importantly:

7. If we just write her off as a self-absorbed and self-destructive bloated rock star hanger-on, and fail to care enough for intervention, Francis will suffer the long term consequences. Not just Courtney. Then the world would be robbed of all the musical excellence that the love child of Kurt and Courtney might produce in the future. Do you want that on your conscience?

Courtney, if you are reading this...come home. We love you. Well, I do.

I Pledge Allegiance

I don't know if I'm American anymore and I have a black eye to prove it.

This all started when I saw an Asian man pushing a cart in the grocery store parking lot. You see, me and my new, hot girlfriend had gone grocery shopping together at the hippie gourmet marketplace - one of my favorite things in the world to do - and while putting away our treasures in the station wagon, I saw him.
Clearly an ASIAN man who had decided to make an entire lap around the lot, in order to secure his empty cart in the corral corner, since the corral corner closest to his car was completely filled.

Now...if it were me in that situation. Or my new, hot girlfriend (though she claims differently), we probably wouldn't have gone that extra mile in grocery cart etiquette. Probably, we would have left the cart beside our vacated spot - free to pinball around the parking lot for the next hour, denting unsuspecting cars, until it found a home. Or we would have pile-driven it onto the grassy median strip like most other people. Let's be completely honest. Most people would not normally take the time out of their busy day, especially after grocery shopping, to be as generous as this particular Asian man was being.

And then...I opened my big mouth.

"If that man were American, he wouldn't be doing that."

Then I added a few other choice statements like:

"Americans are fat and lazy."
"Asians have a better work ethic than Americans."

AND

"Damn, I need a nap after all that shopping."

My new, hot girlfriend, (from this point on to be called Crusher), was cramming down some chocolate mousse tart at the time, but that didn't stop her from bringing things to a screeching halt.
"That is a racist remark," she screamed. "An unfounded and ignorant, racist remark. How do you even know that guy's not American?"

"Look at him. He's Asian." I challenged her.
"He may look Asian, but-"
"He's clearly Asian."
"But he might have lived here all his life. You don't know."
"Doesn't make him any less Asian."

I wont bore you with the tirade that followed. Suffice it to say there was enough good material to last the entire trip home, leaving Crusher so exasperated that she resorted to physical violence against me.
Me...I can separate the opinion or statement from the person making the delivery. Guess she has difficulty doing that. (And this is not a sexist comment, but the PMS doesn't help either.) She got so angry at me that when I tried to console her, she was inconsolable. When I tried to reason with her, she was not reasonable. When I tried to touch her, well...she punched me in the face. My eye is now black. Guess I am a martyr for my beliefs. Finally, some recognition.

Anyway, the whole dispute brought up a good question: What exactly is an American?
I mean, I live in the United States of America and I guess I assumed, for a long time, that that made me an American. And, I guess, I also assumed that anyone living here with a large percentage of white Anglo/Saxon heritage in their genetic makeup was, in fact, also an American. But even that's limiting. Shouldn't anyone living in North or South America be deemed an American? Despite their true race? Despite the color of their skin? Crusher seems to think so.

In the middle of this whole debate, however, a light bulb went off in my head. And now, nursing my wound, I've also had time to contemplate just what it does mean to be an American, and I've come up with this:
There are no true Americans. (Except, maybe, Native Americans.)

We (us here in the states) live in a land, (geographically speaking), that was initially populated by other cultures, creeds, races and relocates. (Now 'foreigners' to us). If you strip everybody to the core, it doesn't matter whether you grew up in a Kansas suburb, middle-class, shopping at giganta-malls in your mini-vans and slurping up Starbucks. (Which is the bulk of what we call American today - by the way - consumerism being the cancer it is) AMERICANS JUST DON'T EXIST. Racially speaking.

We are bits and pieces of everywhere and everybody. Even here in the United States of America. That's why we've had to come up with terms like African American and Asian American. (Which is probably what our cart pusher was)

From now on, I think I'll refer to myself not as an American - because that would be inaccurate.
And not as a French Italian Anglo/Saxon - because that would be too difficult and weird.
From now on, I'll merely hold to the only thing I can definitely put my finger on. Geography.

Just call me a Chicagoian.

11 MONTHS

I used to count the time between the calls. Now I count the time until they're done. My so called life as a communications analyst.
I know it sounds important and difficult, but trust me - this is regression.
It's devolution.
It's counter productive to my psyche.

I am a writer. A DAMN FINE ONE!
I am an actor. A DAMN FINE ONE!
I am a creative soul. God bless me.
And I am the former soul mate of Nicole Kidman.

So why must I stoop to catching other people's mistakes when I should be making my own? In God's defense (as if He needs it) - He has provided well for me. And I am grateful. I just have 3 small questions for Him:

1. Why can't I write for my breakfast?
2. Why can't I act for my lunch?
3. Why can't I create a masterpiece for my dinner?

BOTTOM LINE: Why must there be separation of work and art? My work and my art?

Meanwhile, my new, hot girlfriend cavorts on private yachts during private parties with the not so private Jennifer Anniston and Vince Vaughn. Dancing the night away with a mouth full of barbeque shrimp and gratuitous cocktails. Not a care in the world. Well, maybe a few cares.

Evidently Ms. Anniston is very trim. (Okay, insanely skinny) But very nice. And very focused. (My new, hot girlfriend says she treats you like you are the only person in the world.) Definitely not anything like 'Rachel'. She retains a lot of sadness though. Since Tyler Durdin flew the coup with 'fat lipped Cambodian hoochie momma' Angelina Jolie. (Just as a side note - I personally have nothing against Ms. Jolie. I actually prefer the full figured bad girl to the anorexic nice girl most of the time. That's me.) But that didn't stop her from whopping it up dance floor all night long.

Vince, on the other hand, well...�you've all seen Swingers. Not much has changed since then. He is so fucking money.

Hollywood keeps spinning and I keep counting the minutes until the next call ends and the dreariness of my new occupation with it. I am praying for Friday once more. For the first time in a long time. And waiting for God to make me the discovery of the year.

Check the new Vanity Fair if you really want the scoop on Jennifer. I don't know. Maybe you'll feel sorry for her. But if you have an ounce of dignity in your body, you'll redirect some of that energy in my direction - and feel sorry for me.

A Sudden Chaos

Well, I finally started a new job today. But that's not really what you really want to hear about, is it?
Regular readers to my blog have anxiously awaited new information about the cult of Bud, across the street from my house. (If you have no idea what I am talking about, you will have to go back a few posts to get caught up)
Anyway, last time I left you, I believe there was a shit storm that had been stirred up by my new, hot girlfriend. Here's the breakdown. Check it!

1. Last Sunday, all five members of the cult of Bud had a two hour verbal brawl with several neighbors and their landlord. Bud is on the lawn this entire time and doesn't seem to care for all the ruckus. He expresses his concern.

2. We believe that their landlord has thrown them out of their building, or at least attempted to throw them out, because of some unresolved conflicts. Probably involving the neighbors. And probably involving Bud's ties to the occult. But primarily because the five are just plain freaky.

3. We pray for the landlord to reconsider his threats against the freaky five and Bud. Honestly, because it could get pretty boring around here.

4. Two nights later, me and my new, hot girlfriend are woken up to the sound of sirens. On the street in front of the cult of Bud house are 2 fire trucks, 3 police cars and an ambulance. One of the watchers is sitting on their front porch in a daze. There are 2 EMTs shining a pen light in her face. The rest of the cult are all about. It's madness. But no Bud. Cops are combing the neighborhood. Looking in everyone's backyard with flashlights. General chaos. Backed-up traffic. Spectators. They take the pen lighted watcher away in a stretcher and a neck brace. The other watcher flanks her and the emt as they head to the ambulance. She yells in Korean (It might be Korean or it might be some strange mojo cult language) at some neighbors that have gathered to watch the spectacle. Me and my new, hot girlfriend are just watching this for hours. Safely from the window. Fully woken and wondering what the hell is going on. We are mesmerized.

5. Two more days later, we talk to our landlord - a detective on the Chicago police force. He gives us the scoop. Seems the watcher was shot with a bb gun in the back of the neck. They seem to think that the shots came from a near by window. Maybe the grassy knoll. A lone gunman. Pretty freaky. Evidently the freaky five pissed off the wrong person. Now one of the watchers is in intensive care. More to come.

So that's the update for now. I know that I have a lot more to talk about (pop culture wise), and that will come in future days. I have just been overwhelmed returning to work again for the first time in almost a year. I will be back. I promise. In the meantime, thanks to my new, hot girlfriend and Automatic, I have new Bud footage. You know that big brawl I told you about. Well it's now online. Check it!

http://homepage.mac.com/themidgettes/Cultivated/iMovieTheater43.html

Tonight's Special Guest Star

So Automatic thinks he knows me so well. In honor of our deep friendship, I have asked him to be a guess blogger on my site today. So, without futher ado, here is his entry. Unedited and unadulterated. Enjoy.



My clothes reek of oil and blackening spice from yesterday's cooking. I love it. Blackened tuna with a black bean and corn slasa, sweet potato fries and ginger garlic wilted baby spinach. My girlfriend loves my cooking and I love her. Nicole is probably fixing a sandwich right about now and if it tastes good it's because I originally made it for her. And I can't believe I haven't blogged about this before. I always write with some beverage beside me and a dish or snack of my creation between my lips. Right now there's a Mojito and some of yesterday's homemade salsa. My fingertips smell like Jamaican/Southern American spices. Give me spicy and give me sweet tea. I've decided to grow a few herbs. I have mint, rosemary and basil outside right now. They seem to be the proper Bud repellent. I have fresh mint in my Mojito now. I like tending to things before I cook them. There's no joy in opening a can, heating it and having your meal. I want to feel the tenderness of the steak, the paper peeling off the garlic or the blade slide right past my fingertips through the tomato. I want to know where things come from and how they are grown. I need to know what goes into my body. I need to cook on gas. I need to cook barefoot. I need my girlfriend to smell my hands to know where the meal will be good or not and then I need to smell her hair where her hands went through. Every emotion goes right through my hand into my cooking. It's been a pretty breezy and cool day. I'm thinking of shrimp and pepperjack cheese quesadillas with a corona.
Time to take my shoes off.

It Happens

Well, in keeping with my little theme from last time, I guess shit does flow upstream.

I was on my way to Trader Joes this morning to get some maple pecan granola, Bay Blend coffee and Dubliner Irish cheese. (You East Coast people who don't know what Trader Joes is - I feel sorry for you.)
Anyway, I got an unexpected phone call. My old job wants me back. Another 18 month contract, slaving away for the FCC, evaluating the telephone company's customer service reps. It's a shit job, really. But it pays well and I like some of the people there. I think I'll take it. It's not like I'm doing anything else right now. (Unless you count my morning jaunt to Trader Joes) And God knows I desperately needs the money. Maybe that's why he saw himself clear to make this happen for me. So...I am thankful. Now maybe I can go to the U2 concert in September.

Besides, who knows. I doesn't start for another 2 weeks. Maybe I will find another - even better - position before then. At least I know I have this in my back pocket until then. But check this out - about a half hour after I was offered the job, they called me back.

"When is the last time you worked for us?"
"Uh...just a little under a year ago."
"Are you sure you are not working for us now?"
"Trust me."
"Well, someone with your name and social are currently employed by us as of this past June."
"Well, that's pretty scary, because it's not me."
"Okay, well let us check it out and we will get back to you. Don't sweat it."

Well I don't think this really changes anything. I mean, as long as they can catch and remove the asshole that stole my identity. Before the 15th. I won't sweat it. I was able to walk back home from Trader Joes with a smile on my face and my bag of cheese and granola, knowing everything was as it should be in the world. Plus I have a 2 week advance vacation to boot. So I can just screw around for the next 14 days at the expense of my new, hot girlfriend. Thanks baby. You're the greatest.

SEE NICOLE! AND YOU SAID I'D NEVER AMOUNT TO MUCH!

The icing on the cake was particularly sweet. On my walk back, I passed the Starb**** closest to my house. (I say the 'closest' because isn't there like one on every frigging corner?!) So, on the corner where this particular disestablishment is, there were two huge city trucks parked. Water waste management. The manholes in the street were pried up and they had giant hoses and such running into the two sewage mains in front of the Starb****. It was a brilliant moment. Wafting through the air, not the sweet scent of mocha or coffee, or even fresh toasted scones. No. What was that in the air? Aaahhh. The potent smell of raw sewage. Permeating the entire block - and I am sure - the lush interior of the Starb**** as well. Don't think I'll be wanting a Mint Shit Frappuccino anytime soon. Hopefully no one else will either.

And just because I feel like I am on a roll this beautiful Monday, I am going to reprint something that I personally find hilarious. It's from the Starbucks Gossip website: http://starbucksgossip.typepad.com/

And it's a plea to have one "bad barista" (A tough guy that doesn't put up with the same shit day in and day out that most Starb**** baristas - soulless as they might be - have to put up with.) per store. For balance. Sort of like the coffee bouncer. Enjoy.

1. Customers who talk on cell phones while ordering their drinks. (Bad Barista: "Turn that damn thing off before I dip it in a venti Frap!")
2. People who take a newspaper off the for-sale rack, read it, then return it and expect that someone's going to pay for that used copy. (Bad Barista: "Hey cheapskate: You have five bucks for a coffee drink and can't fork over fifty-cents for a newspaper? Gimme a break!")
3. "Guests" who order drinks that contain more than eight words. (Bad Barista: "You're not impressing anyone with your fancy-ass drink! It's a short drip coffee for you!")
4. People who order water and don't want to pay for it. No wonder prices are going up; we're subsidizing those freebies. (Bad Barista: "See that dog bowl outside? The water in there is fresh.")
5. Regular meetings of Old Codger's Clubs, where old guys basically talk, cough and blow their noses for hours on end. (Bad Barista: "Ever hear of Denny's? They were made for people like you! Now make a bee-line over there.")