Yes, as a matter of fact...

I did fall off the face of the earth. It's been a WEEK, what can I say?

First, what of the show last Sunday in Cambridge? Bad as they get. Worse, maybe, because it was at The Studio, the hallowed comedy hall of them all (or whatever). I felt each member of the small audience was his or her own black hole--all air, all energy, all humor was being sucked out of the room by these people, and I don't know what the hell they were doing in a comedy club.

The idea behind going to a comedy club is to laugh, no? To have some fun? Apparently not.

I have had warmer receptions from members of an Elks Club, people. Brutal way to spend seven minutes. B-R-U-T-A-L. A colonoscopy is worse, but not by much.

Did fax the near-ream proof when I got home--had to have a productive end to a clearly nonproductive night, if you know what I mean. I was so tired, however, that it took me three tries before I realized my fax machine wasn't hooked up to a phone line.

Burning the candle at both ends? Not a good idea, it seems. (And some days I think burning the candle at one end may be too much for me.)

And as for the job I did the faux interview for? I didn't get it. What I wrote was fine, "workwomanlike" even, but the CEO wanted passion and even suggested it might be time for me to consider a different career, since I clearly don't have the juice.

Happily, I don't take my career advice from relative strangers, but I must admit, if my career as a writer depends on my getting all passionate about marketing or insurance or something else of that nature, I will, indeed, need to change direction.

For that stuff just bores me to tears, people.

But, strangely enough, writing about these and other less-than-compelling topics doesn't bore me--I enjoy the process of researching and writing and coming up with something that is clear and compelling and maybe even a bit entertaining.

Here's hoping somebody, somewhere needs writing like that. And could we make it soon?

But, all is not lost, I had a fabulous show last night, the "Girls! Girls! Girls!" show at PACE that Jennifer Myszkowski put together, bless her heart. The wonderful Deb Farrar-Parkman was the host, and all of the comics--Kim "Boney" Deshields,Andrea Henry, Holly Givens, Jennifer and yours truly--did great. It was a thrill to be part of a show that worked (especially after last Sunday's debacle), and an honor to work with women who all have something unique and hilarious to say.

Was feeling a little low this week, but I feel much better now, thanks to The Comedy. Thanks, Comedy! The only wrinkle in last night's show was that I forgot about three minutes of material--but it was about aging, so my memory lapse has a certain delicious irony to it. Oh, and I forgot to turn on my chronograph, so I could keep tabs on my time. But these were minor quibbles.

Well, now I feel we've caught up with one another. Have another week and two days at the temp job, so should try get so more resumes out today, in the hope that perhaps there's a job waiting for me after all.

You never know (which increasingly seems like a good thing).

Whirlwind weekend continues

Well, let's see. I took my Pet First Aid class this morning (in case I pursue the dog tending career), then tackled the test article for the latest prospective employer. Was going to do that yesterday, but got caught up in the near-ream-of-paper proof job also due Monday I got from what's left of my current employer.

I rather enjoyed putting the test article together, but worry that I'm missing key facets of their oh-so-particular style guidelines somehow. Will check again tomorrow, just in case.

Am at the point where I don't really care what they think. I've written a good, solid, informative article, and if it's not their idea of good/solid/informative, well, we won't work out. That's okay.

Part of me thinks this "real" job pursuit is not what I should be doing, but I don't think I'll throw in the "real" job towel until I've been looking for six months.

Next month, in other words. That's a bit scary, truth be told.

The near-ream-of-paper proof continues, and I'm in the home stretch--just four chapters to go. Of course, then I get to fax it.

That might take most of the morning, come to think of it. Or should I do it when I get back from Cambridge, still a little wired from The Studio?

Yes, I have a comedy show tomorrow night. Hard to imagine what exactly I'll have in the way of inner resources by then, but one never knows. Adrenaline can work wonders on a sluggish soul. Hope I have the nerve to try my "Lezzies and Trannies and Fags, Oh My!" line. If I can figure out how to work it in.....

Now it's time to prep the next chapter of my proof, then toddle off to bed. Though I don't often find myself thinking such thoughts and it worries me a little, I'll be so damn grateful when this weekend is over, you have no idea.

Wishing my life away? No, mother, not really. More like, Wishing my deadlines were met. That's different.

There's hope, after all

My friend Tom, whom I have known since high school (!), has a son who just started college in Cleveland, OH. He told me a story about said son that just--well, it was the perfect antidote to the Christian Crackpot poison circulating in my system earlier today. The story:

"[The son's name] told me that he found one person at school who was willing to go out for sushi. [He] said that one of his suite mates said: “[Son's name], I think the guy is gay.” [He] replied you have an amazing grasp of the obvious but what difference does his orientation make to you or me. The suite mate persisted by saying “”Do you want people to think you're gay?” [He] replied (maybe not the most articulate reply) 'I don’t give a rat’s ass if anybody thinks less of me because I have a friend who is gay. But I’ll tell you this, I certainly would think twice about having that narrow minded person for a friend.' I told [my wife] that we must have instilled some good values in our child. Not only is he pretty liberal, he is not afraid to stand up for his views. By the way, I understand that the sushi was just so-so. Imagine that, I thought people went to Cleveland specifically for the sushi."

What's not to love about that? A story that gives one hope for our nation's future and a crack about Cleveland--a win-win!

Thanks, Tom!

"Lezzies, and Trannies, and Fags, Oh My!"

Karl Rove's favorite chant? Maybe. Is it me, or is there a pattern here: When the going gets tough, the Bush Administration plays the homo card.

They've played it to avoid responsibility for everything from election fraud to levee failures, and the sad thing is the majority of the American people buy it.

Which leads me to wonder, what would the GOP do without homophobia?

They'd probably go back into the GOP archives and dig up some of their old standbys: Anti-semitism, racism, nativism, sexism.

And there's always guns and dead babies, if all else fails.

The list is (almost) endless. The situation is (almost) hopeless.

But I have work to do, so I'll quit brightening your day for now.

Such a busy (not-so-little) bee

Good grief, when did I become a quasi-workaholic?

Did seven hours at the Superintendent's today, now am buckling down to a night of preparation (for tomorrow afternoon's faux interview) and proofing (of a document that is almost a ream of paper, but who's counting?).

Then there's the little matter of a comedy show on Sunday, but that's just eons away in 1559 Pierce Avenue time. Sheesh!

Busy beats nothing to do, that's for certain, but I am out of "fun" time for the foreseeable. That's not good.

And did you hear the supposed latest from Pat Robertson? Wherein he blames Ellen Degeneres' moral degeneracy for everything from 9-11 to Hurricane Katrina?

God must have a terrible aim, for he took out a lot more than New Orleans from last account. Is Robertson suggesting God can't smote straight? (Uh-oh, that could be trouble.)

Must be a hoax..... right? No one is that off their rocker, are they?

Perhaps I need to revamp my Crackpot Christian Hall of Fame to reflect achievement above and beyond the usual, some sort of Christian Crackpot on Crack Award or something.

That needs work, this I know. But for now, I have paying work to do, and that trumps comedy for now.

All-nighter, middle-aged version

So it's not quite 1:00 a.m., and I'm still up. How is this possible?

I am doing temp work, and I am trying to meet deadlines.

And I am doing housework, and I am trying to keep up my end of the finances.

I am getting punchy, and I should be in bed, instead of writing in my blog.

But I felt the need to note this occasion. Haven't done this in a long time, and I'm glad.

Also found out for certain today that my family home is no more. It's a sand lot right now, according to the owner of the bike shop next door, John. Nice guy, John. He's my future source for hometown news, I've decided.

Not that there's much of that going around.

And September 11 passed by quietly yesterday. I still don't quite accept that it happened, even though I've been to the former site of the Twin Towers three times since. Seeing isn't necessarily believing.

Ditto what's happening in New Orleans and elsewhere. Can't fathom it.

And my brother is working day and night, for he decided to go work for FEMA a while ago. No, he's not a political appointee.

He actually knows what he's doing. (Please don't tell him I said that.)

Which means right now, he's not home much, poor guy. Poor sister-in-law. Poor dog.

And I must say, I hope that Andre Agassi doesn't let his recent loss force his retirement. I know I'm gay and all, but I find that man endearing. I love his walk, and the fact that he can be both boyish and bald.

What's not to like?

A haus frau's lament

Well, the house is clean once again, and no animals were hurt, maimed, or otherwise abused in the process. So far so good.

Our best and biggest house plant, however? Well, that's another story.

I was trying to go around the corner where said house plant rests atop a stand, when suddenly Butler, the ancient/addled cat who will outlive us all, managed to put himself right in front of my moving foot.

I'm at a loss as to how to explain how that happened. One minute, the aged furball was sunning himself on the floor in the living room, the next minute, he was in the hall, trying to see if he could trip the cleaning lady.

That would be me.

Well, I barely missed stepping on the old codger; unfortunately, I could not manage to do that without jerkily taking the vacuum with me.

The vacuum cord got twisted up with the plant stand somehow, and gravity, that constant bastard, did the rest.

What a mess!

Of course, it was a section I had already cleaned quite thoroughly. And if there's anything I hate more than cleaning, it's cleaning something over right after I've already cleaned it. I mean, except my hands and other necessary exceptions (you know what I mean). What a waste of time!

Worse, I even had to get the hideously noisy wet/dry vac out, for potting soil is a moist business, and had worked its way thoroughly into the rug. Not only that, the pot the plant was in broke into pieces, and it managed to put a few more scratches/dents in the wood floor--a nice complement to the dents/scratches the dogs already put in, I must say, but we weren't really looking for a more "distressed" look. We've got it now!

I have cleaned the house many times since April, and this is the first time I've had to deal with cat interference. Of course, Linda was around to hear the commotion (if not see the actual event), and is convinced that if I had just been a little more careful, all could have been averted.

Thanks, Sweetie!

Was already feeling a little down on myself today, and this did not help. (Not only can she not get a job in her field, she can't manage a little mindless housekeeping without breaking something. Vot an idiot!)

But I will rally, once I take a shower and make the bed. There's little like the prospect of fresh, clean sheets to perk this gal up--no, I've said it before, and I'll say it again, it doesn't take much.

And the house is clean, even if it is shy one house plant.

Glad that's over! (And so, likely, are you)

Well, I didn't burst into flames while emceeing Thursday night at the open mic, so my number-one criterion for a successful show was met. (We keep our expectations low, don't you know, so as to improve our chances of success.)

But I didn't feel exactly on top of things, which is to be expected. And I do have a heightened admiration for my comedy buddy Jennifer's ability to keep the show going and keep the energy up--while I may have managed the former, I don't think I did very well at the latter.

Energy, thy name is not Annie P.

My mother wasn't exactly a sizzler, herself. As she was fond of recalling, the only thing she remembered from her gym classes as a girl was the teacher yelling, "EVERT! Pick up your feet!"

But for a few demographic details, I am my mother's daughter. This is true.

So, while I didn't exactly set energetic performance heights, I didn't ruin the show for life, so that no one would darken its door again. In other words, I'm content.

No, it doesn't take much.

Now, I must try to figure my finances (light a candle, if you can) and try to put the finishing touches on my latest deadline for the folks in NYC. Not exactly a weekend for the ages, but at least I'm not sitting around sulking.

I'm saving that for later.

Time to put the humor on...

I got in late last night, and as I am not one of those people who can get by on less than a full night's sleep, I'm a bit knackered. Unfortunately, I'm going to try to emcee a comedy open mic tonight for a friend of mine. From what I've seen, this job requires a sharp wit, keen sense of timing, and the ability to keep things moving along.

All of which make me want to start humming, "The impossible dream."

I don't have it, people. But perhaps I'll get it.

Tried the Frappucino and cookie cure midafternoon, but it's starting to wear off. Perhaps some dinner will do the trick.

There's always ice cream, if things get truly desperate. It might not help me perk up, but I won't care so much if I suck.

As for the fruits of my NYC trip, the less said the better is still the best course. Let's just say I'm kicking the job hunt up a notch.

Gotta go--full, demoralizing details to come tomorrow. Or Saturday, if I just don't have the gumption to blog.....

Riding the rails....

Wednesday/tomorrow, I head back to Gotham, my former Home Sweet Home, for business. Nothing but business.

The less said the better (right, Dooce?).

Anyway, I am glad for the break in the administrative assistant action, as well as for the time to just sit and think and write on the train. It's my favorite way to travel, bar none--unless there are several cell phone addicts aboard, then I spend my time wondering when public shame was removed from the collective consciousness.

One time, I was riding down to NYC, and we stopped for the usual engine switch in New Haven. Well, there was a young woman on board who had obviously never taken the trip before, for as soon as the power went out, she called someone on the phone and said so we all could hear (it's soooo quiet when the engines shut off, it's almost hold-your-breath quiet...well, for me), "You won't believe where I am--completely in the dark!"

I, for one, doubt her friend was surprised at this news, but that's on the order of mean. Sorry. Must get to bed and rest, for I may be (1) fighting for what's left of my job tomorrow, (2) learn that resistance is futile, or (3) find a way to get more work.

Won't tell you which I'm betting on.....I've been wrong too many times to count.

And lest I forget, I just want to tell the Universe that I am very grateful that I can still become a wreck nervosa when qualifying before a room full of my people. Someone once told me that nerves are proof I'm being honest, but I take it as a sign I'm still not bored with my recovery and the miracle it represents--that means the world.....

The bar stayed open?!

Heard on NPR this morning about a bar on New Orleans' infamous Bourbon Street that has remained open through the entire hurricane and what followed, even though there's no water, electricity, or, well, plumbing to speak of.

Apparently, the place has been filled with locals trying to "cope" with the aftermath of Katrina.

Gotta love drunks, man--they don't let a little human catastrophe get in the way of a good excuse to get shitfaced. And really, who can blame them? Not me--there was a time when I found a barstool the best refuge from every storm, though most of mine were self-inflicted.

There used to be a "joke" going around that after the end of the world, all that will be left are roaches and Cher. I'd like to humbly suggest that we add alcoholics to the list.

Active ones, any way.

Me, I'd hope to be swept up in the whirlwind, thank you very much. No survivor skills here, no siree, no ma'am.

Let the good times roll, my a##!

Another entry to the Crackpot Christian Hall of Shame was on the TV last night (or was it this morning? The horror that is the Katrina aftermath has all run together in my brain). It wasn't a Fallwell or a Robertson, but it was a preacher in a church in Biloxi, Mississippi who felt compelled to note that perhaps the people of the affected region, especially in New Orleans, need to rethink their motto of "Let the good times roll." Perhaps, he suggested, it's time to embrace an ethos that involves God and church, not just "good times."

Oh, like the poverty that plagued the folks who weren't included in the official evacuation plans was due to their enjoyment of "good times," not the institutionalized racism that has plagued this country since it was begun hundreds of years ago.

Like the decision to divert funds earmarked for the Gulf coast restoration project to the Iraq war was made because the people of New Orleans were too devoted to "good times."

And the decision by FEMA to rebuff efforts to send supplies to the devastated peoples of New Orleans and elsewhere--to the point where they cut phone lines of centers devoted to helping these people, according to this morning's "Meet the Press"--this was due to the "good times" rolling down the streets of New Orleans.

Any suggestion that the people of the region got what they deserved isn't any sort of Christianity I recognize. Because it's the exact opposite of Christian to point fingers and try to make people ashamed of being poor, homeless, and without any resources at all. It's Christian instead to reach out to these people, to take action to lift them out of their poverty and despair, isn't it?

Besides, if one needs to point fingers, why aren't they pointing them at the government who failed its citizens on a scale unimaginable in modern times?

Also, there's the possibility that this was an act of nature that was not brought on by anybody's "good times", but perhaps instead our entire society's inability to wean itself from fossil fuels and the havoc they wreak on our environment and weather systems.

And last but not least, if we embrace the premise of what this pastor suggests, then the fact that I and my lesbian partner have been living in relative peace, safety and tranquility lo these 12+ years we've been together must mean we're on the right side of the Lord, no?

Well, doesn't it?

I'm sorry, but this whole mess has me so angry, my humor hasn't much chance to show itself. Though I know it has many faults, I adore New Orleans, and each day I think of something else that likely is no more thanks to this debacle. Today, I remembered the new space that the GLBT 12-step meetings were held in when I visited in April, and how nice it was compared to the old space they had. It's likely all gone.

And what of the people I met there? Right now, I'm remembering a man who attended a meeting with me; he had just moved into a new place that had a good yard for his dog. (Love those sorts of priorities, don't you know.) Pray that he and his pooch got out of town before the flooding....but who knows?

Deja vu and then some.....

Yes, I've been away for a while. It appears that working during the day and keeping up with my writing deadlines during the night leave little--make that no--time for such fun and frolic as blogs.

Bet you're broken up as all heck, eh?

That my online access is severely restricted at work doesn't help, either (not that I have oodles of free time on my hands--no one working in a superintendent of school's office just before the first day of classes has any of that). It is annoying, though, that one is given a break in the morning and afternoon, which would be the ideal time to check one's e-mail and so forth--if only one could check one's e-mail and so forth. It's the city's Internet connection, this I understand, and likely they fear that porn downloads would preoccupy their staff (not to mention use up their bandwidth) if unfettered access were allowed. (Although I must say, having met a lot of the staff, I would think a more likely download would involve quilting.)

It was an exhausting week, for not only did I have to show up showered and dressed at the stunning hour of 8:30 a.m. (in my NYC-affiliated days, I didn't have to sit in front of my PC until 9:30, and as I worked at home, a shower, not to mention dressing, was optional), but I had a lot to learn. A dizzying array of procedures and protocols and personalities and what-all were presented to me, and I fielded some well and some, well, I just fumbled. Yes, I made doozies of mistakes, but also managed to retain some information as well. Perhaps not as much information as my boss would have liked--she was of the opinion that because I typed a memo about a meeting I would remember it. Poor, dear woman--I haven't the heart to tell her I drank away most of my memory banks in the '80s.

Although it might make her less avid about my coming on full-time, which she appears to be. And, sorry to report, my gal Linda appears to be jumping on that bandwagon as well.

I know this is the closest to a job offer as I've come in my nearly five months of searching, but I pray that my lot is not in the administrative/secretarial realm.

No, I have nothing against the work--it is honest, it is helpful, and it keeps the wheels of commerce (or in this case, education) rolling along. And the Super is aptly titled--she's a fabulous boss and a wonderful person, and the other people in the office seem hard-working and affable and genuinely devoted to what they do. So it's a lovely work environment in many ways.

But while the job has a lot going for it, I still balk. It is just not what I'm trained to do, it is not something that I am particularly good at, it is not the highest expression of my talents (not that I've had any job that really allowed that), and worst of all, it's exactly the sort of work my mother did the last two (or was it three?) decades of her working life.

And she was disappointed with her lot, I believe. Very disappointed.

After years of teaching English (she was an English major), she ended up typing memos for people who had but a passing acquaintance with the language, but who sat in the corner office and therefore called the shots. And while she tried to make her work interesting by editing the memos and letters that came her way, it wasn't enough.

So I am resisting the pressure to apply for this job, for I really fear I'll be following in my mother's footsteps in a way she would not have wanted me to, really and truly. She had many talents and gifts, but the way she earned her living did not use them much at all. And while she found many ways to express her talents and gifts in the countless acts of charity and political organizations she was engaged in throughout her life, I think she ended her career rather sadly, rather wondering, "What if?"

I already have enough of those "What ifs?" bouncing around in my cranium, thank you. Despite my many months of looking, it's still not time to jump at a job just because it seems as though I could get it.

Besides, I still have a writing prospect out there that I haven't been able to act upon because of this temp job, so I'm not giving up. Not yet.

So that's my decision as of right now, even if I do realize in five month's time that this was the best thing that I would ever have a shot at and I blew it.

Whatever, it won't be the end of the world. If watching the news this past week has told me anything, it is that my challenges are nothing at all. I have a home, I have food, I have my nearest and dearest right under my own safe roof with me, and job or no job, I am okay.

But a lot of the people of New Orleans aren't, and it's hard not to see racism and foolish priorities at the root of it all.

Funds and personnel diverted to Iraq, poor people left to die in squalor, levees failing--just like the experts said they would, and a president and government standing by with empty rhetoric and falsehood heaped upon falsehood, hoping most of us won't notice we're being sold a bill of rotten goods for the 2,356th time.

Will "we" get fooled again? I hope not, but after the 2004 election, I have just about given up on my fellow Americans. Perhaps this hideous, unnecessary mess will help turn the tide against the prevailing winds of Government as Corporate Lackey instead of Guardian of the People. Perhaps not.

But there's got to be some good to come of this tragedy, this turmoil--doesn't there?

This was a Monday, yes it was

Perhaps it was the specter of my boss rolling in a weekend's worth of work this morning.

Or maybe it was the roar of the ancient air conditioner looming above my head.

Perhaps it was the stack of "to dos" on my desk.

The testy town official?

The discomfort that is nylon socks and slacks with a belt?

I dunno.

But today, today I became aware that the work-a-day world is not all fun and frolic.

Pave purgatory, put up a parking lot?

That's the latest gossip on the state of the family homestead in Wisconsin. The house is beyond repair, and the owner of the bikeshop next door is going to buy the lot for customer parking.

Though my memories of my childhood in that house are not altogether warm and fuzzy (hence purgatory in lieu of paradise above), that qualifies as an "Ouch!"

Who wants their family home to be a parking lot, I ask you?

On other fronts, we're home from the cottage. It's raining like mad out there, and since I still have HTML classwork to do and would rather do it via a DSL line than dial-up (wouldn't you?), we're back.

Saw a surprisingly good play last night at the Miniature Theatre of Chester, "See Rock City." Why surprising? Being in the Berkshires, one is inundated with cultural possibilities; unfortunately, they often disappoint. Either the play's written by someone with ADD, the acting is fraught, the work on display is appealing only to masochists or depressives, the audience is wearing enough perfume/cologne to cause asthma in a corpse, or the entire premise is corrupt (am still subject to the shudders when I think of a "comedy revue" we saw last year). Happily, "See Rock City" was well written, acted, and produced. And the audience was fragranced, but not unbearably so.

Plus, we found a little restaurant around the corner that looked promising.

A successful weekend, that it was--except that I had a nightmare last night that I was late for work at the superintendent's office.

The only good part about the nightmare was that I was working with Queen Latifah, who was very cool about it all.

When isn't she?

Okay, must go face the HTML music now.

She works hard for the money

Not me--the superintendent of schools in the town where I worked today.

It's not a job, it's a 24/7 commitment.

Or so it seems.

As for my day, I spent it in a nice office with very nice people--life is good.

And today is Friday. What could be lovelier?

We're heading out to the cottage, that's what.

Where I will try to study HTML and finish my first draft of my second comedy column.

No, it's not all dog walking, kayaking and holding down deck furniture, people.

But a happy Friday anyway.

I'm working, and so's Shwea's diet!

Perhaps only a dog person will appreciate this, but my lab mix Shwea has lost seven pounds on her diet. SEVEN POUNDS.

For a lab who has had a bum paw for most of the seven weeks she's been on her diet, that's a minor miracle.

It's like losing weight when you can't exercise--I don't know about you, but I can't do that.

Shwea can!

This week is getting better and better.

Things are looking up, aren't they?

Well, I finally landed a temp job, just as I was about to go to the dogs.

It's for only three weeks, but it will be in an office in Northampton and will pay enough to keep the wolves at bay a little while longer. Oh, happy day!

Also heard back from a bidness writing job in CT today, but it sounds as though I'd be driving a lot, so may need to think hard about whether I want to make a play for that.

But the fact that I had three prospects this week, people that were actually interested in having me work for them, that does me a world of good.

Speaking of world of good, I was moved by season finale of "Brat Camp," even though I remain skeptical as to how much long-term impact the wilderness program will have on these kids. And forgive me, but I am not at all surprised that Jada, the compulsive liar in the group who can bend her daddy into any shape she wants, is in trouble with the authorities. She irritates the heck out of me, for she is so divorced from reality you know she's going to have to do something BIG to get her incredibly misshapen ego's attention. I doubt that the mishap with the motorboat would do it--her family swept her out of state so she wouldn't have to deal.

Enablers or parents? She's got a two-fer. Just hope they don't enable her to the point that she kills somebody. Or herself, you know?

Maybe you don't, but let's just say that young woman is an accident waiting to happen. Big time.

But then, I was an accident (not a compulsive liar type, but a pending accident nonetheless) at her age, and I didn't take my BIG fall until my early 30s. Speaking of pending accidents, couldn't help but put my chagrin on for the news that my alma mater, the University of Wisconsin-Madison, was (again) ranked the number-one party school in the nation by the Princeton Review.

Let's hear it for the drunken offspring of America's Dairyland! Wouldn't our hard-working farmer ancestors be proud?

Well, I must run some errands, for I will be joining the workforce tomorrow. Color me aflutter.

Is there a full moon or something?

Many thanks to Pat for the link (see the comment on my first entry today) to this gem of a story. Opening quote: "Anti-gay preacher Fred Phelps has caused an international royal gay flap over accusations that Sweden's King Carl Gustaf is gay."

So, we have Robertson going after Venezuela and Phelps going after Sweden: What a lovely pair of coconuts!

(Now there's a rumor worth circulating.)

Crackpot Christians in the news....

Just when you think the regressive right's mouthpieces have gone about as far down the sanity scale as they can go, they make breathtaking leaps downward. Right now, I'm thinking of Pat Robertson's call for the assassination of Venezuela's Hugo Chavez, but by the time you read this, who knows what else may be on the call-me-crazy-I'm-a-Christian agenda? I think my comedy buddy Jennifer sums things up nicely, better still than a minister whose knickers were in a knot over the same thing.

Must be a day for such things. My dear Peace Corps soulmate Ed sent me a little item, courtesy of Dr. Dobson's "Focus on Family," that speaks of the homosexual agenda regarding children. After giving lip-service to the fact that homosexuals are not all pedophiles, the site proceeds to "expose" the homosexual agenda regarding man-boy sex--by quoting from that sick pup organization NAMBLA, the National Association of Man-Boy Love (I think). NAMBLA is to queers what the KKK is to real Christians, people. (Following Dobson's logic, the KKK's agenda must represent all Christians, for what other organization makes such a fetish of the cross?)

I certainly don't take my cues from NAMBLA, and as far as I can tell, neither do the vast majority of queers. But, of course, the Dobsons of the world can't make such fine distinctions, can they? It would put a damper on their hate-mongering, not to mention their fundraising.

Truly, the only thing on the page that really got my attention is the assertion that the gays were trying to infiltrate the Boy Scouts just as the lesbians had already infiltrated the Girl Scouts. They asserted that something on the order of 30% of troop leaders were lesbian.

Do I ever feel cheated. My scout leaders were straight ladies, through and through. Perhaps I would have stuck with scouting longer if a nice lesbian were in charge. Instead of the totally lame "sewing" and "cooking" badges, maybe I could have gotten a nice "smash the patriarchy" or "boys suck" badge or something.

Just my luck!

And you know, I am not proud of this fact, but I do not think highly of Lance Armstrong. While I know he surmounted tremendous odds to become a racing giant, there's something about ditching the wife and mother of his many kids for a pop star and something about his feral face--can't really put my finger on it--that put me off. Reading this article about his bike ride with W helped put some of my discomfort in perspective. Plus, what's not to love about calling this stunt Lance Armstrong's "Texas Toady Two-Step"?

Yes, I am a sucker for alliteration. Not proud of that fact, either.