The Funniest, Gayest Thing I Heard Last Night

Person A: (Singing) I've written a letter to Daddy. His address is Heaven above...

Person B: Stop that! I'm trying to get horny!

Here's Your Jean Schmidt Obamacare False Alarm Schadenfreude Freak Out

How strange and wonderful to have two Jean Schmidt items so close together after such a long fallow period! What you are seeing above is Goddess Jean shrieking incoherently with rapturous joy when she fell hard for CNN's mortifying "Dewey Defeats Truman" moment from earlier today.

Oh, Jean, I will miss you. *sniff*

Help Yourself To My Milk If You Must, But Keep Your Grubby Mitts Off My Dinosaurs

It's funny how a minor incident, such as this one I wrote about recently, can expand within your mind when you're young, becoming, in the long run, a not-so-minor incident after all. Here's another one, a moment so fleeting that I doubt it filled an entire minute, but its repercussions lasted a lifetime.

There are two important pieces of background information crucial to understanding this story. The first is my religious background. My mother came from a more traditional, stricter Irish Catholic family than my father's. He was more passive in our early exposure to religion as a result. (UPDATE: I have edited this paragraph to remove some spurious information.)

The first big blow to my eldest siblings' attitudes towards religion was that they ended up having a traumatic experience in the Chicago parochial schools to which they were sent. Like totally evil nuns, horror stories which are not mine to tell, etc. When we moved to Arizona, we all attended public schools. We still went to Catholic church every Sunday, but the church in Tucson was... different, less stern, more liberal. This was the early 70s, after all: my earliest church memories contain neither fire nor brimstone, but felt banners with doves and daisies and, oh no, folk mass, which made me hate Bob Dylan forever. To me it was boring and, worse, corny. It never held even the slightest appeal to me. One by one, each of my siblings dropped out of church activities, and since I was a bit of a caboose baby, by the time my mother made a last-ditch attempt to get me to go through confirmation, my brother and sisters openly derided her "indoctrination" efforts as I rolled my eyes. Poor Mom! I'll give her credit: she was never, ever overbearing or mean with her religious guidance. Perhaps this prevented her guidance from being effective, but at least it left no scars. She ceded without much drama.

The other piece of background information is this: I am so into Dinosaurs! Endlessly fascinated! My first exposure came in first grade, when I found a book about Dinosaurs in my school's library and became instantly hooked, utterly beguiled and awestruck by these crazy monster animals. Soon enough, I found more books featuring prehistoric beasts in my father's library (I grew up thinking all houses featured a room called "the Library."). I'd stare for hours at reproductions of the famous Yale Peabody Museum dinosaur mural (see above), or at the Life Nature Library "The Reptiles" and "Evolution" volumes. I think I was in fourth or fifth grade when I started seriously cross-referencing what I was learning from science and what I was learning from religion, and the former was winning out in every way. Religion was boring and corny; astronomy and paleontology were thrilling! I had come to a fork in the road.

I never would have guessed it would be Rolf (not his real name, but that's his picture up top), of all people, who would inadvertently show me which path to choose. I believe this was in sixth grade. Rolf lived in my neighborhood, a new kid I think. He was kind of marginally accepted by my circle of friends, but seemed a little off, a little hot-headed and violent. I liked him OK, but remained wary. One day after school, Rolf sort of tagged along to my house; I guess he was bored and didn't have anyone else to hang out with. I remember thinking that I didn't know him that well, and wasn't all that comfortable having him in the house, and didn't know what to talk about, so I brought up dinosaurs in some context or another. And then Rolf did two simultaneous things which blew my mind.

First, he marched over, uninvited, to the refrigerator, opened the door, and grabbed a milk carton and drank right from it! Let me tell you, manners were very important in my family, and this was shocking, incredible behavior to me. Second, as he was doing this, he stated, "There's no such thing as dinosaurs."

"W-what?" I stammered.

"There never were any dinosaurs," he replied.

"What about fossils," I asked, probably with my hands on my hips.

"Fossils were put on the earth by the devil to fool man," he said matter-of-factly.

Oh wow. wow, wow, wow. Really? It cascaded through my brain, and I'm convinced to this day that several crucial synapses were connected and completed at that moment. I think I quizzed Rolf a little about the source of this belief, and he said that his family was 7th Day Adventist, and that they believed the universe was young, just like Genesis said, and that Noah's ark was real and there weren't no dinosaurs on Noah's ark, etc.

And that's the day I decided the Bible was totally, irretrievably stupid, a wrong old corny fairy tale with a dud ending.

Not good enough.

I asked my parents about Rolf's views, and they basically laughed it off as ridiculous, nutty fundamentalism. My father explained that "most people" didn't really believe that Genesis was literally true, but that it was allegorical. It really bugged me, though. How could people believe such things? And how could you tell which parts of the Bible were "allegorical" and which were true? If one big chunk of it was a fairy tale, what did that say about the rest of it? Frankly, I decided the answer was too boring to pursue.

Meanwhile, my dinosaur passion continued unabated. New dinosaurs were discovered all the time, and they weren't allegorical. They were real. I could go to the Tucson Gem and Mineral Show and see their remains right there in front of me!

A little later, in junior high, after a few years "off" from religious indoctrination, my mother made a last-ditch effort to get me confirmed as a Catholic and back I went to Sunday school, which was actually on Wednesday evening, and I was pissed. I thought this had been settled. In class, I was bored and obviously reluctant to be there. Unlike the ones my brother and sisters endured, the nuns who taught my classes were really nice, which didn't make it easier. The classes were mostly about Jesus' love, etc., but I kept trying to bring it back to the Old Testament, about things I thought were ridiculous, like Noah's Ark and the Garden of Eden. The nuns didn't really like talking about the Old Testament, and they, too, tried trotting out the "allegory" excuse, albeit in a more timid "Let's talk about Jesus again, instead" way than my father. Finally, though, something clicked, and I challenged the nun:

"So, you're saying that we can think of the Old Testament as allegorical, but not the New Testament."

"Yes, I suppose so."

"Well, I don't think the story of Adam and Eve can possibly be true. There's too much evidence against it."

"If it makes you more comfortable to think of it as a story, Peter, then that is your choice."

"But if Adam and Eve is just a story, then "original sin" is just a story, too."

"Uh... well...."

"Do YOU believe all the Bible is true?"

"Yes!" she replied, indignant.

"So if everybody gets to pick and choose which parts of the Bible they think are literally true...."

That was usually the point when the nun would tire of my obstruction, and she'd change the subject and we'd move along to some other sappy Jesus platitude illustrated with felt doves 'n' daisies. For this I was missing Charlie's Angels!

I had figured it out: if Adam and Eve was a fairy tale, then so was "original sin." And if that was a fairy tale, then so was Jesus' supposed sacrifice: he died on the cross for an allegory. It was only logical. Or, rather, illogical. The whole thing fell like a house of cards. And even though my parents implied, in response to my question about Rolf's creationist beliefs, that Catholicism was a "normal" religion, while 7th Day Adventism was a "weird" one, the nun at my class made it clear that Catholicism was only as normal as you made it, and that it was, as its core, just as weird and stupid as any other ancient belief.

I can still picture Rolf standing there in my kitchen, as clear as if it had happened yesterday, drinking milk straight from the carton and decrying dinosaurs as tools of Satan (see above), and from that day on I conflated religious belief of any kind, sincere or not, with rudeness and stupidity.

It's almost as if Jesus and a Tyrannosaurus Rex had a duel in my brain, and the T-Rex won. It sounds like just about the best episode of The Flintstones ever.

CNN Discovers Existence Of Anti-Gay Christians

(Bryan Fischer bashing hairdressers live on CNN)

Feel like being frustrated? Just read this bizarrely timid CNN article about how OMG maybe some Christian preachers are a little over-the-top with the anti-gay stuff? The article offers, like, three examples of isolated weirdos saying crazy things about the fags, and a whole lot of apologists saying, oh gosh, not all Christians are like that. Tsk. The existence of intensively homophobic Christianity is portrayed in the article as something isolated, unusual, lamented by the majority.

Not even mentioned: the whole Christian cottage industry of full-time gay-bashers, the Bryan Fischers, the Pete LaBarberas, the Matt Stavers, the Brian Browns, the One Million Moms, Focus on the Family, American Family Association, etc., etc. All those people and groups who basically make their livings by making so many trips to the anti-gay well that they've worn a trough to it a mile deep are completely ignored in the article. Isn't that something? I mean... they don't even mention Fred Phelps!

Anyway, it's kind of a hilarious article.

Love Is A Many Splendored Thing

(Photo by Jeff Malet, 06-16-12)

I'm working on a couple of longer posts right now, so in the meantime, gaze at the wonderfulness of Nancy Pelosi and soon-to-be ex-congresswoman Jean Schmidt grimacing at each other through clenched jaws during the Congressional Women's Softball thing. You're welcome.

Random Nancy Panel

Saturday Quiz Answers

1. Only when he gets tired.
2. Ursula Plassnik and Richard Roundtree.
3. The deep-fried Mars bar.
4. They are all named after characters from the works of Shakespeare and Jacqueline Susann.
5. September 12, 1962.
6. Alice "Licey" McAdams of Decatur, Georgia.
7. Fiend Without a Face.
8. $12,000, a Pucci miniskirt, and a tame squirrel.
9. Set includes one ambulance, three figures, one stretcher.
10. Henry "Hank" Wolfe Gummer (born November 13, 1979), Mary Willa "Mamie" Gummer (born August 3, 1983), Grace Jane Gummer (born May 9, 1986), and Louisa Jacobson Gummer (born June 12, 1991).

Utah Lady VERY ANGRY About Fred Karger's Gay Frisbee

As you know from this blog, Fred Karger, the "presidential candidate" who characterizes himself as a Gay Republican Crusader but is really just a masochistic attention whore, loves to give out his embarrassing and puzzling campaign merchandise. Recently, Karger decided his victim mentality meter was running low, so naturally he headed to Utah to speak to the local Mormon and GOP officials (99.9% overlap in that Venn diagram) for a lip-smacking helping of abuse. Sadly, those he spoke to were perfectly cordial, gracefully accepting his gay frisbees and ugly t-shirts, but then finally, finally one of their gentle wives discovered this upsetting merchandise and rose magnificently to the bait with this superb email:

you are an idiot. You met with my husband Willie Billings today about you being on the Utah ballot. He brought your frisby, and tshirt home and it is now out in the trash. I never want to hear from such a radical idiot again. you think you are conseritave? conseritave means you beleive in the values of founding fathers and God. Do you know you cant procreate right? Well thank goodness for that. Nanette Billings.

Conseritave? How did she manage to spell "procreate" correctly?

Art Collection: "Family Circus" Drawing By Bil Keane, 1977

 

(Click for HUGE file. It is impressive.)

Today's selection from my collection of comic strip art is the original drawing for a 1977 Family Circus panel by Bil Keane, executed in graphite, pen, brush, and ink with blue pencil and paste-up on a 8.75" x 11.5" illustration board.

I have a complicated relationship with Family Circus (DON'T WE ALL?). It was one of my favorites when I was very young, right up there with Nancy and Peanuts. As I grew older, I hated it more and more. It was so corny! So obvious! Later, as I moved into my "ironic" phase, I loved it all over again for its idiosyncrasies and... well, because it was so corny and obvious.

Today, in my post-ironic phase, I can't say I love Family Circus, but it never fails to impress and even fascinate me. Yes, it is idiosyncratic (why are the kids always drawn with only one nostril?), corny, obvious, and sometimes downright bizarre, but it's also a fantastically well-crafted feature cunningly targeted at two groups which don't generally share tastes in anything: the very young and the very old.

I don't have much to say about the quality of this drawing. It's perfect. That is a solid figure, weighty and logically constructed, and the setting is carefully laid out and rendered with an architect's exactitude. The pattern of the shirt is skilfully and convincingly wrapped around the figure.

What really impresses me is Keane's masterful ability to compose in a circle, a deceptively easy task. The figure is a perfect little "x" shape, and it has been given bold, solid blacks to make it stand out. Rather than placing the figure in the exact middle of the circle, Keane shifts it a little to the left and then balances it on the right with the vertical of the doorway. Then everything is locked in place with further simple horizontals and diagonals. This minimalist but intricate interplay of shapes and forms creates a stable composition which does not "roll," as unsuccessful circular works tend to do. Despite all the carefulness and precision, the whole thing comes across as uncluttered and effortless.

Let's look at some other famous, successful circular compositions. First up is the Adoration of the Magi tondo by Fra Angelico and Fra Filippo Lippi from the mid-15th century:

(Image courtesy the National Gallery of Art, Washington. Click for bigger.)

The good brothers Lippi and Angelico fill their circle by... filling their circle, packing it full of figures and structures which get denser and larger towards the bottom, an almost Weeble-like effect. Within this general scheme, though, there's a lot of push and pull: the figures, interestingly, are placed on a diagonal ground-line, and this is wonderfully balanced by the opposing diagonal of the procession of figures in the upper right. And then all throughout the rest of the picture there are countless little opposing diagonals, horizontals, and verticals, almost like cane seating.

Next is Michelangelo's mirthless Doni Tondo from the Uffizi, ca. 1507:

(Image via. Click for bigger.)

Talk about effortful!  Michelangelo locks down his circle with a wide horizontal strip of figures and a ledge broken by an even wider vertical tower of figures, anchored by the equilateral pyramid of the Madonna. There's simply not much happening in the upper and lower left and right.  What's really interesting is how the artist uses the illusionistic depth axis (the passage of the child from Joseph to Mary) to further stabilize the composition.

But the ultimate circular painting of the Renaissance has got to be Raphael's sublime Alba Madonna, ca. 1510:

(Image courtesy the National Gallery of Art, Washington. Click for bigger.)

What a contrast! Here, everything is breezy and, compared to Michelangelo, nothing seems belabored. Nothing is symmetrical but everything is balanced. Whole volumes could be written on the perfection of this composition, and frankly, I'm not worthy.

And finally, one of the 20th century's greatest compositional masters, Roy Lichtenstein, takes on the circle in one of his great Mirror prints:

(Image via National Gallery of Australia)

Before this gets too ridiculous (this was supposed to be about Family Circus!), suffice it to say that making art in a circle is tricky, and it takes a great artist to master it, and for that alone Bil Keane, who did it perfectly day after day after day for decades, deserves our respect.

Otherwise, LOL, what's up with that shirt? Are you kidding me?

More Toy-Based Movies For Hollywood To Consider

 

 You'd think, with the expensive, embarrassing failure of Battleship, that Hollywood studios would think twice about basing extremely expensive movies on really cheap, relatively undramatic toys. But no, now there's going to be a Tonka Trucks film. Is nostalgia alone enough to sell a movie? Probably not, but I've got a few suggestions:

• Fisher Price Little People: The Little People Family (William H. Macy, Charlize Theron, Daniel Radcliffe) acquire a farm and try to unravel the mystery of why the barn door moos every time they open it.
• Play-Doh: Panic ensues when horrifying monsters escape from the Fun Factory. Luckily for everyone involved, the monsters turn rock-hard within hours and then crumble into dust. They cause little damage but make everything they come in contact with taste salty.
• Sit 'n' Spin: Shia LeBeouf feels like whenever he tries to get any work done, his life spirals out of control.
• Sophie the Giraffe: Sophie just likes to squeak when the neighborhood toddlers gnaw on her limbs. This goes on for 90 minutes.
• Busy Board: Can Ice T, in his "crib," save the world by turning colorful knobs, pushing soft buttons, and sliding plastic levers which make engaging "clackity-clack" noises? Pay $18 to find out... in 3D!
• EZ-Bake: Jennifer Aniston and Michael Cera's catering business is off to a shaky start when they realize that the only piece of equipment they can afford is a single 100 Watt light bulb.
• Silly Putty: Everybody laughs when Sylvester Putty ( Freddie Highmore) falls asleep during class and then wakes up with the words from his biology textbook imprinted on his face, but later his peculiar physical properties save the day!

How To Make An Ass Out Of Yourself In Front Of Ray Bradbury In Three EZ Steps

 

 (Image via The Guardian) 

I worked briefly for Barnes and Noble in the 90s in their B. Dalton store in San Diego's garish Horton Plaza. For some reason, celebrities were drawn to this dinky store, and I met a lot of well-known authors in my short time working there. One day, Ray Bradbury (R.I.P.) came in the shop, and... it didn't really go very well.

I noticed a somewhat elderly gentleman kind of aimlessly wandering through the store, so I asked him if I could be of assistance. He said, "You sell my books here." I asked him which books those might be, and he declared, "My name is Ray Bradbury." (So that's step one: fail to recognize the world-famous author.) I then mortified the beloved scribe further by thoughtlessly offering, "Oh! I used to love your stuff when I was a kid!" (Step two: imply the author's work is juvenile, something you have outgrown.) Then, for some reason, perhaps in an attempt to be sympathetic after my dumb comments, I added, "You know, I really think Star Trek: The Next Generation ripped you off with their holodeck." (Step three: remind the author of people stealing his ideas.)

Ever had one of those days when you just can't seem to say anything right?

Californians: You Owe It To Comedy To Vote For Orly Taitz In Today's Primary

Pony Pal Matt emailed me yesterday and let me know all about California's weird senate primary, where basically everyone gets to vote for anybody and then the top two face off in November. The choices, it seems, are Dianne Feinstein, a bunch of nobodies and Republicans, and... Orly Taitz! "I'm voting for Taitz in the primary," explains Matt, "strictly for comedic purposes." He's right! If you aren't familiar with the multi-hyphenated Ms. Taitz, all you really need to know is this: she has incredible hair, she is profoundly ridiculous, and she is incapable of uttering more than two consecutive words and still making sense. I can't think of anything more entertaining than a Feinstein/Taitz debate. OMG, please let it happen.

Californians: you know what to do.

Real Food: Speaking Of Cannibalism...

(Click for larger, horrible... gahhhhhh.)

I spotted this hideous specter from a cab recently, and went back on foot today to capture the magic. It's from the outdoor signage for a Central American chicken restaurant in Adams Morgan. OMG.

Was I Bullied In School For Being Gay? Sort Of. OK, Yes.

(Here they are, identifiable by the ballpoint pen devil horns I drew on them in my yearbook. Fashion historians note the preponderance of rugby shirts, a huge fad that year.)

Bullying is so hot right now, I guess it's time to tell my bullying story. I was an easily identifiable oddball as a child in the 70s and early 80s, so of course I have a bullying story. How could I not?

I was not, however, bullied in high school at all. I can't think of a single instance. High school was my savior in a similar way that college is often a savior to kids who have bad high school experiences. Junior high, however, was a different matter, specifically seventh grade.

I became aware of "reject" kids early on in my education. I'm not talking about garden-variety misfits or "different" kids, but the really tragic rejects, the untouchables. They fascinated me, both for their intrinsic oddness and air of tragedy, but also for the way they were magnets for all of the worst behavior of my classmates. I never participated in the mocking or abusing of these unfortunates, but I didn't look away, either, or do anything to help them. I was never a reject, thank goodness. I was just an oddball kid, geeky and weird. I was unathletic but funny, and made friends easily. All was well at Sunrise Drive Elementary (1-4 grade) and Murphy Elementary (5-6 grade) in Tucson's Catalina Foothills district.

In 1977, however, I entered 7th grade at Orange Grove Middle School, and that is where my troubles began. I guess by that time I had gotten a little weirder, and my somewhat effeminate mannerisms and lack of interest in "guy things" raised red flags with some of the 8th graders, the typical alpha-jocks who dominated the school (shown above). I didn't like these guys right from the start; the way they swaggered around the school acting like they owned the place while picking on the rejects sickened me. And then, kind of suddenly, they decided, apparently en masse, that I was the new target. Lucky me. It wasn't really all that much, nothing physical, but it got to be relentless for a few months there: name calling, locker damage, etc. Eventually I started to suffer from migraines, and I think the school officials knew that it was because the teasing was reaching unacceptable levels, and I believe they more-or-less put a stop to it (I'm a little hazy on the details).

The one incident that really sticks in my mind happened in art class. I was off to the side by myself trying to glue together some nuts and bolts to make a sculpture, when one of the alpha-dicks, Tom (that's him with the biggest horns up top) wandered over to my table as his gang looked on. "Can I ask you a question?" he said in a seemingly friendly way.

"Sure," I answered.

"We were all wondering... are you gay?"

"No!" I answered with conviction. And at the time, that was an honest answer. I didn't know yet. I didn't even suspect it yet! I was, after all, only twelve, and not sexually precocious. I was only barely aware of the existence of homosexuals. The question shocked me; I wasn't expecting it at all. "Is that it?" I wondered. "Is that why they pick on me, because they think I'm gay? Why would they think that?" I pondered the question. I hated sports, was into art and theater, and hung around mostly with girls. Was that it?

I didn't change my behavior or manner to "cover up" these transgressions, and I dismissed the guys as assholes. But still, that question... it kind of became a little hot coal in my brain, always there to some extent, and occasionally flaring up.

I knew I would only have to deal with those boys a little longer. Shortly they'd graduate to high school, and they wouldn't be around for my eighth grade year, and I knew I was headed to a different high school than the one they attended.

So, really, not that big of a deal. Compared to other kids like me, I got off easy, but I don't think it "built character" or anything positive like that. And that question! It burned. It smoldered for years, maybe even decades, maybe even still. That question made something clear: "Gay" was bad. "Gay" was something to be mocked, something which set you apart from others, something which caused migraines, something to be avoided.

And, of course, as the years progressed, I realized that "gay" was something I was (they were right!), and something which, as it became increasingly evident, should be obscured, denied, and hidden (thank goodness for punk rock, the perfect camouflage). This persisted for years and years, and I ended up "coming out" long after I was already actively participating in homosexuality, which caused a lot of internal conflict and a lot more migraines. I know I would have come out sooner if I didn't have that little "gay=bad" coal tangled so effectively in my neurons.

So anyway, that's my bullying story. My story is mild –very mild– compared to what others endured, and fairly brief, only a few months. But those few months really packed a wallop in my developing mind. I got over it, but it took a long time. I can't say for sure that I ever got over it completely, as the profusion of words above demonstrates.

I did achieve a wonderful closure of sorts with one of the guys. One day during my senior year of high school, I was sitting at home when I saw somebody approaching our house. It was Tom, and he rang our doorbell. I hadn't seen him in years. "Who's that?" my mother asked. "That's Tom Hodgson, the ringleader of the guys who used to make fun of me in junior high," I answered. "Do you want me to answer the door?" she asked. "No, I'm curious," I assured her. See, by this time I was a full-on punk rocker. I was "different" in a cool way, and I felt confident. So I answered the door and ushered the hated Tom into our living room. Our meeting went something like this:

"So what do you want?" I asked.
"Well, uh... so word is that you're way into the punk scene," he said (keep in mind Tom and all his pals went to a different high school than me).
"Yeah, so?"
"So do you know people in bands?"
"Yes, almost all of my friends are in bands."
"And you go to places like Tumbleweeds?"
"Yes, almost every weekend."
"How do you get in?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, some friends of mine tried to get into Tumbleweeds, but they wouldn't let us in because we're underage. How do you get in? Do you have a fake ID?"
"No, they let us in because we're punk rockers and we're friends with the bands*. They probably didn't let you in because you don't look the part. You probably just looked like jocks out to cause trouble."

Tom started to look mortified.

"So..." he stammered, his nervousness evident, "can you get us in?"
"What?"
"You know, introduce us to people there, vouch for us?"

I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

"Yeah, I'm sure I could," I answered (somewhat dishonestly). Tom looked hopeful. "But why should I?"
 "Well, you know, uh... I mean, you seem cool and, uh..."
" Oh, so NOW I'm cool," I said, finally raising my voice. "NOW you want to be my friend."
"Uh... uh... uh..."
"You were such a dick to me in junior high! And now you want me to do you a favor?" I was almost shouting at that point.
"Uh... um...."
"Why would I want to help you get into Tumbleweeds? Why would I even want to see you there? Sorry, I won't help you."

Tom seemed dejected but resigned as I led him to the door. "Well, you can't blame me for trying," he said.
"You've really got a lot of nerve," I told him. "And if I ever see you at Tumbleweeds or anywhere else, I'll make sure everyone there knows what a dick you were to me back then. Because you know what? All those scary punk guys with the tattoos and mohawks used to be just like I was, picked on by assholes like you. Have a nice day!"

After shutting the door, I turned around to see my mother with the most shocked look on her face. "That," she said, "must have felt really good."

It did.

*Actually, half the time they wouldn't let us in, so we'd go around to the back and climb over the patio wall.