July 2005 Archives

Last night, Ryan and I set about to lead a few hours of interesting café life. I was in a grumpy mood, despite a 2 hour bike ride and Ryan seemed, at moments, equally discontent.

Man problems.

We managed to carve out a few hours of fun, eating fresh salads, laughing, smoking, talking, drinking coffee as we delved into the ambiguity and frustration of man-dating. By the end of the night, we had the wait staff sitting at our table whenever they could take a break, telling us stories about their lives in Spain, Austin, Chicago and the like.

Brandt’s chef is also, quite possibly, the prettiest man ever to flip my skillet. He’s also a model, pictured above.

While Ryan and I sat there, ogling the chef as he broke down the outside serving station (Yes! He doesn’t just fuss in the kitchen. He does manual labor. In tank tops. For free, with purchase.), I noticed, as the evening progressed, a steady stream of fucked up messes parading by our table.

I can spot a fucked-up mess from 200 yards. As a card-carrying member of the fucked up mess club, I know me and mines.

Ryan and I started playing a game, “What is that mess on?” as we tried deciphering what substance (or combination thereof) would render folks in such a state. Here’s just a few examples:

1. What is Miss Mess on if she would stagger down the street, wearing that outfit, bumming cigarettes and pulling out chunks of hair?
2. What is Mister Mess on if he would stagger down the street wearing an embroidered Chinese top coat, bumming a light, while randomly screaming or giving a peace-out sign?
3. What is Miss Mess on if she would stagger down the street wearing the most ill-fitting pair of white stretch pants imaginable while mumbling incoherently into a cell phone, feet slipping and falling out of her mules every couple of yards?

Well, seeing the cavalcade of messes and legions of hot university fellas put us in a mood. We paid our bill and were off to visit a few gay bars, which are well known epicenters of hot fellas who are also messes.

We should have just gone home.

While I will defend this city for it’s extraordinary number of independently owned restaurants, interesting events and legions of hot straight boys -- as a gay man, I am often uninspired by the gay bars here. The music is usually lousy and folks aren’t always the friendliest. I include myself in that category since I have a tendency to not play well with others. But I don’t glare or give the St. Louis stink-eye. I just smoke my cigarettes, sip my soda, smile and engage those folks that I now.

Ryan made the mistake of actually talking to someone, which resulted in us fleeing as quickly as possible, when Mister “Really Drunk & Stoned” returned to our table two-fisting it. He ruined the game by telling us up-front what his damage was.

We were headed home and Ryan suggested that we go somewhere else. I didn’t eagerly reply which resulted in him saying,

“Oh, my God! I’m so sorry...You’re off the hooch…I’m so sorry...”

It was sweet, his concern that my big thirty days of sobriety would be compromised by one trip to a bear bar.

Let me take a moment to explain something to folks, who like me, know most of what they know about the world from television, but who, unlike me, aren’t alcoholics. My relapses, in truth, waiver quite a bit from what is fictionally depicted, which I am sad to admit as a pop culture junkie.

For instance, soap operas and Lifetime, Television for Women, have a tendency to set the scene for alcoholic relapse in a variety of ways.

Take Young and the Restless. You always know that Miss Katherine is about to hit the scotch again when she and Jill would have some knock-out drag out fight and the scene was framed behind some bottles of booze. When decanters are the first thing you see when a scene begins, you know there’s drama coming.

Jill and Katherine would verbally lash out at each other over several segments before Jill would leave in a huff. The music would swell as Katherine’s eyes would dart to the crystal decanters. There could even be a flashback scene of Katherine all hopped up, slurring words, breaking glasses if you were really lucky. That afforded the viewer with a few extra minutes of saying, “Don’t do it, Miss Katherine! Remember what happened last time???”

The flashback would end and she would approach the devil’s juice and, very dramatically (of course), pour herself a drink. She would knock it back, thus advancing the storyline. This usually happened on a Friday. During sweeps.

In reality, or at least in mine, deciding to drink again was never quite that dramatic. Now, I will admit that there certainly times when I was just one highball away from having a Hollywood moment, but the music swelling part – not so much. In one moment I would decide that I was getting fucked up and then off I’d go. Simple as can be. The decision itself wasn’t so dramatic, although the outcome usually always resulted in melodrama. Regular readers can cite numerous examples of that, so I’ll just get back to last night’s tale.

I assured Ryan that he didn’t need to worry about me going all Neely O’Hara on him.

Something told me that I’d be up for another hour of “What is that mess on?” ahead of me, especially given the number of coffees I consumed at Brandt’s and considering we were going to another gay bar.

As we approached the bear bar, a foursome of baby gays were lingering outside.

“I am so Tina’ed out,” one exclaimed lurching forward and grabbing one of his cohorts by the crotch. I was neither surprised or appalled by his statement. I was, frankly, put at ease. Meth-heads are a crazy group of fuckers and I, for one, appreciated the advanced notification. It’s always easier to know whom to avoid.

We walked into the bar and headed straight to my favorite bartender who started pouring our Diet Cokes.

At the same moment Ryan said, “The crowd is different here tonight” while I said, “There’s a lot of drugs here tonight…”

Ryan looked shocked for a moment. While his heart can be as dark as midnight, his experience with the dark side itself is pretty narrow. I like that quality in him. It’s refreshing to meet someone equally bitter who got there through different means.

I made a few cursory motions. There. There. There.

It’s strange to explain how one knows where trouble lurks in a dimly lit bar with a moderate to decent size crowd. It’s somewhere between having the sense to skip the scallop special at Shoney’s and a telepathic tingle.

One’s need to tinkle, though, is much more easy to explain, especially after forty-two thousand cups of coffee. I may be off the hooch, but I still drink compulsively.

I approached the bathroom and the door opened and a man in a blazer walked out.

Here we go, I thought.

Trouble.

You see, back in the late 80’s and early 90’s there was a bumper crop of coke-dealing, Miami-Vice styled dealers out at the clubs, and while I go out far less frequently than I used to, I’ve noticed a return of the blazer. The 80’s are back, they say.

I walked into the stall and began my business of peeing and I heard, coming from the stall next to me the oh-so-familiar sounds of plastic crinkling and feet shuffling, which is a different kind of business all together. Business transacted, no doubt, with Mister Blazer.

“Fuck! It’s all rocked up…”

I should mention that Queen’s “Somebody to Love” was playing in the jukebox, accompanied to the sound of nose’s snorting, as if on cue. I’ll say something for my next-door neighbors, they had rhythm.

Got no feel, I got no rhythm
I just keep losing my beat (You just keep losing and losing)

*****snort********

I'm OK, I'm alright (he's alright - he's alright)
I ain't gonna face no defeat (yeah yeah

*****snort********

just gotta get out of this prison cell
One day (someday) I'm gonna be free, Lord!

*****snort********

Find me somebody to love
Find me somebody to love

*****snort********

Find me somebody to love
Find me somebody to love

*****snort********

Find me somebody to love

*****snort********

Find me somebody to love somebody somebody somebody somebody
Somebody find me
Somebody find me somebody to love
Can anybody find me somebody to love?

*****snort********

Okay.

So by this point, I was starting to feel that I needed to get the hell out of that bathroom. The two fellas in the next stall were clearly gonna come flying outta there sky high.

Find me somebody to love somebody somebody somebody somebody
Somebody find me
Somebody find me somebody to love
Can anybody find me somebody to love?

I made my way back to Ryan and said,” Watch who comes outta the bathroom. They were up to something.”

And I got the biggest disappointment of my life.

I have never in my life seen two more unattractive, overweight, poorly dressed gay men in my life.

It was bad enough that I had to overhear them snort up a pound of whatever, it was bad enough that they’re out at a bear bar on a Thursday night getting that fucked up, it’s bad enough that they’re doing that many drugs in one stretch while Queen played in the background, but couldn’t they at least have the decency to be cute about it?

What a waste of good drugs.

And then I realized that I was being very judgmental and very hypocritical.

I guess I am, in my own way, decidedly old school. When I think about doing a bump or getting fucked up, I am prone to glamorize substance abuse. Think Andy. Bianca. Liz. Think Mrs. Katherine Chancellor. Think kick-ass house music. Think platform shoes. Glitter. Sparkle, Neely, Sparkle.

Today’s pop culture icons of substance abuse and excess (think Lindsay Lohan) don’t trip my trigger and neither do some unattractive sky-high bears in tacky outfits. Neither does a crazy, fucked up mess, pulling out hair, yelling at strangers and sliding out of mules. Mister Mess’ Chinese Embroidered top coat was cute, but come to think of it – it was kind of blazer-like.

I started thinking on the drive home last night, all 30+ days sober, that either I’m starting to grown up or grown out of what I used to think is acceptable substance abuse. I guess that’s healthier thinking, in a way.

So with the weekend looming, I’m looking forward to a night of soul food with an Angry Black Bitch, a night with some folks at the Sugar Water Festival, a couple of bike rides and plenty of coffee and cigarettes.

I may be living my life a smidge healthier, but I’ve certainly never claimed to be well.

Have a good weekend and stay out of trouble, y’all.

And if you do get yourself into some trouble, do us all a favor and do it with some style!

Brother Ryan, and his fear of Fembots blog entry, reminded me of this toy that I owned as a small child.

You see, even when Ms. Sommers faced a challenge: she still looked good.

The robots are coming, for sure. But I won't depair. Not just yet.

I'm just gonna take a moment, get plugged-in and get my hair did.

Meet Repliee.

Added to the Blog Roll today: Shut Up! I Know! who commented on my previous Pontifical post, prior to today's, as did these fine folks: It's Jim!, Sparkly Jules! and Barefoot Cajun!

Shut Up! I Know! offered a link to this persuasive personality profile and I was mulling over my results, un peu perplexed, perhaps, by their pin-point precision: Passionate...Dark sided...Quick tempered....

You are sexy, powerful, and bold.   You're full of passion and energy...   Sometimes this passion has a dark side.   You feel most alive when you're seducing someone.   You never fail to get someone's attention.   Quick minded, you're also quick to lose your temper.

So I did, what I always do, whenever I don't like an outcome, I looked to my astrolger for advice, only to find this cryptic message:

A loved one you've been thinking about fondly for some time has finally come around -- at least, it seems that way. There are several roadblocks in their way, however, many of which won't move aside easily. The hard part will be your urge to clear their way without enlisting any help at all from them. The harder part will be the absolute necessity of your letting go so that they can make this happen alone -- which is what will really count.

I'm no good at subtle.

Or letting go, for that matter...

A few weeks ago, I wrote about this Canadian, crackpot Catholic Cardinal.

Well, he's now sending the little children to fry in the depths of hell, according to his Church's teachings.

The reason?

The wee-ones have gay parents.

It's just like Jesus said, "Suffer the little children to come unto me..."

Organized gay and lesbian Catholics in the United States and Canada deplore Cardinal Marc Ouellet’s statement to the Canadian Senate that the church will refuse to baptize the children of gay and lesbian parents. “We cannot accept the signatures of two fathers or two mothers as parents of an infant,” said the Cardinal. Ouellet went on to explain that for an infant to be baptized according to Canon Law, it is required that there be a well-founded hope that the child will be brought up in the Catholic religion, but a married homosexual couple is demonstrating a public, persistent contempt for fundamental Catholic teaching by their relationship.

Catholics believe that baptism cleanses babies of "original sin" and endows them with sanctifying grace, necessary for salvation. Until the 1960's Catholics were taught that stillborns and infants who died without baptism would never see God, and some old Catholic cemeteries have separate fenced off sections of unconsecrated ground for such unfortunate babies.

“The same church leaders who claim same-sex parents ‘do violence to their children’ now wish to prevent our children coming to Christ through the gift of holy baptism,” said Norman Prince, president of Dignity Canada Dignité. “Cardinal Ouellet couldn’t be clearer in his message that gay and lesbian families are not welcome in the Canadian Catholic Church.”

It's clear that Cardinal Ouellet hates homos. My question is do these gay folks feel the need to raise their children in this particular church in the first place?

I understand the value of tradition and all, but is the Catholic Church really worth fighting for, folks? Especially if that tradition involves pedophile-protecting, Nazi-collaborating, genocide-absolving, women-hating assholes.

There's some Unitarians or some Quakers that will take your gay ass and your children any day.

You are, of course, also welcome at The United Church of Bitchitude and Latter Day Drunks. As long as you leave your children at home, where they belong -- with a babysitter or alone (pick your Dateline horror story) watching television, reading books or whatever mess the kids get up to these days.

Attention all ladies and gentleman who've recently (in the past 3 years) broken an engagement or had your heart broken by someone who called off an engagement.

Writer researching the effects of pre-nuptials that fizzled needs your help to complete a guide to surviving a broken engagement for Random House.

If you are interested, please contact slynetta@hotmail.com.

When President of the United States, George W. Bush called the internet "the internets" many of us giggled.

No.

We did more than that.

Much like when many of us cloyingly mocked a little one in curls who lost her Kitty Karry-all, we adopted the President’s language and adapted "the internets" in the smug little way that bloggers tend to do from time to time.

"Aren't we smart?" we thought.

Well, dears, I hate to tell you, but the internets, they are a comin’.

This story reveals the future of the internets to come.

Just like the break of AT&T into five Baby Bells, which are now running wild on a open-ended telephony, it is equally possible that the Internet could experience a major break-up and a similar fast-track ride to global independence. Just like the telephony privatization process and the introduction of various splits, there would be dozens of different types of internets, each addressing its own marketing and communication goals.

Perhaps when the President spoke of “the internets” the President just misspoke -- in the future tense?

History suggests that he does have a tendency to do that. After all, when the President claimed that he would seek retaliation against the Saudi Arabian terrorists responsible for three separate acts of terrorism and destroy arsenals of Weapons of Mass Destruction in the process, the United States instead bombed innocent civilians in Iraq and discovered Weapons of Mass Destruction didn’t exist at all.

That’s a classic example of mis-speaking the future, if I’ve ever heard one.

Thindy Brady couldn’t have said it better herself: Sometimes the past is just as mys(th)erious as the future.

But Cindy, after all, found what she was looking for.

I find myself today, looking at the blogosphere and feeling sick and angry.

For instance, surf over to this pop culture blog, Defamer, and you'll find yesterday’s Ricky Martin news blip (that I covered here) resulted in this entry:

Here’s the headline: “Ricky Martin Seeks End to Arab Stereotypes.” Our only explanation is that many Arabs find themselves in the position of being stereotyped as gay-seeming Latin singers; in that case, they couldn’t have a better advocate. Also: Congratulations to Martin for continuing to be alive. We were sure he’d died quietly a year and a half ago.

If you doubt me, go ask Oprah (she herself, being so irrelevant these days).

I’m quite surprised to find myself getting fired up over Ricky Martin, but I’m prone to get a little fired up by folks who discount racism and prejudice with flippant one-liners. I have three pet peeves: inaction, inaccuracy and ignorance.

But I’m not here to attack Defamer, or it’s editor Mark Lisanti, for doing what he does, and quite well sometimes: which is provide gossip and commentary on popular culture. But I am a little put off by flippancy in reporting, which is something I am guilty of doing myself, from time to time.

The way I see it, blogs and bloggers are facing uncertain times. Political bloggers are facing regulation from the FEC. Folks are losing their jobs for blogging. Rupert Murdoch has purchased MySpace. When News Corp. grabs hold of something, it’s time to get nervous. Especially when you’re working and participating in a community of ideas and free expression.

If we do, indeed, fashion ourselves as independent journalists and/or satirists, then playa-hating, off-the-cuff, mean-spirited and inaccurate statements don’t reflect well on our ability to accurately disseminate news or provide cultural commentary.

Did I just say that? Yes. I did.

If blogging is ever to be viewed as a worthwhile effort and worthy of asking people to spend their time with us, we need to be more than nasty, ill-informed, smart-asses.

It diminishes us and our medium.

As a pop culture junkie who is prone to actually thinking about what he writes and is prone to do some research before he puts those thoughts to screen, I thought it would be nice to pull together a small reading list for folks who seem obsessed with judging a book only by its cover, especially if you seem to be a mean-spirited white man living in Los Angeles. It also will come in handy for those whose only measure of success is back to back mentions on Access Hollywood.

In the spirit of writers who preferred quality to quantity, in the spirit of telling a story that needed to be told, in the spirit of thinking about the state of our current culture, I submit a trio of my favorite books for your pop culture consideration:
-- To Kill a Mockingbird
-- Gone With the Wind
-- The Catcher in the Rye

Sometimes, creative folks can change the world with just one contribution – one act of courage – one true and honest thing.

And sometimes, that’s enough.

I for one, will endeavor to swim less with the snarks from here on out.

There’s other (and better) company that I would like to keep.

In addition to searching your bags for guns and weapons when you board the subway, the day is coming soon when authorities are likely to snatch that Big Mac outta your hands, too!

Better health -- as decided by the government of New York.

Diabetes costs an estimated $5 billion a year to treat in New York and was the fourth leading cause of death in the city in 2003, killing 1,891.

At least half a million New Yorkers have diabetes, many of them at risk for blindness, kidney failure, amputations and heart problems because they are doing a poor job of controlling their illness. The question is, how much privacy are they willing to give up for a chance at better health?

A century after New York became the first American city to track people with infectious diseases as a way to halt epidemics, officials here propose a similar system to monitor people with diabetes, a non-contagious foe.

Conceived after a sharp rise in diabetes deaths over the past 20 years, the plan would require medical labs to report to the city the results of a certain type of test that indicates how well individual patients are controlling their diabetes.

By pinpointing problem patients, then intervening ever so slightly in their care...the city can improve thousands of lives.

Has there ever been a history of "slight intervention" in New York?

I wonder -- does that mean folks will lose their access to healthcare if they don't comply with the health directives of the state? If they don't submit to testing, will they be locked up? Maybe they'll get sent to mandatory fat farms, until they shape up, so they can ship out!

Is it, indeed, the decision of the state to decide how folks should lead their lives?

Just wondering....

The whole, sugar free mess is here.

The other day, I was blabbering on (which I usually do) about how grateful I am that I'm not in New York (which I usually don't).

Feeling all content and self-righteous with my St. Louis is the New York for the New Millennium commentary, I went about my weekend making mischief, something also not uncommon.

Before you think this is going somewhere lurid (which it doesn't - but it could - because it has), I should explain that now that I have found the Church, my mischief making ways now invole bicycling compulsively, smoking like a fiend and finding cute, new tee shirts to wear.

All for the glory of a cheap buzz, vanity and a new gay.com profile photo.

Think of it as a mix of: Can I get an Amen? and Can I get a man? But those are questions I'm not answering up in here. I don't kiss and tell. Not anymore.

So I was all full of sassafrass this morning, ready to spill the beans on a Top Secret project I've been working on and then I read this entry from my Pretend Internet Boyfriend, who is one of those "unfortuante New Yorkers."

He saw Suzanne Sommer's one woman show in NYC and my smugness evaporated. It was like salt in a wound, reading about the final performance of her "One Woman Musical Joyride," The Blonde in the Thunderbird.

But I can't begrudge him for having access to theater, which is all he may have access to, these days. But if Suzanne takes her show on the road, I'm thinking it's time for a road trip.

And as for my Top Secret project, well, that's still in the works...

Sunday’s Sermon from the United Church of Bitchitude + Latter Day Drunks

I’m saying a prayer today for all the brown eyed, dark haired people in this world (especially in London) who are living their lives in fear. Police are shooting men in the head because they look Middle Eastern, when, in actuality, they’re South American.

When I first heard about how the police were profiling suspects in London, I thought of my own family. My brother is tan, has a beard and looks very Middle Eastern – pitch black hair, dark brown eyes and coppery skin. Kinda like Omar Sharif, if Omar Sharif were into rebuilding motorcycles and electric guitar. He’s a hardworking man, with a wife and kids and I count on him to help my mom take care of our family farm.

The police execution of Jean Charles de Menezes (pictured, above) made me think of other people’s families today. None of us will ever get to know what Jean Charles did for fun, what his passions were, if he enjoyed being an electrician, if he liked Omar Shaif's movies, if he played electric guitar, if he liked Crystal Gayle. He’s dead because of the way he looks and his grieving family will find no solace that he was killed for being born with brown eyes and black hair. Would you?

I take my leave of you with one more question:

What has this world come to when tall, dark and handsome will get your ass shot and killed, instead of getting your ass laid?

If history teaches us a lesson, which it is supposed to, arbitrarily killing folks with dark hair and brown eyes isn’t about protecting the motherland. It isn’t about homeland security.

It’s simply cold blooded murder incited by racism, intolerance and fear. That, my dears, is what I call terrorism.

This entry over at Pop Culture Junkies was so much fun to write: Missouri: A New York State of Mind

St. Louis has always wanted to be more like New York – when all the time, New York has been becoming more like St. Louis. Step up from the subway on Times Square and where are the naughty bookstores? They’re gone! Where are the mom-n-pop restaurants? They’re gone! Instead you have Target and Red Lobster and that quintessential New York Italian dining experience, The Olive Garden, greeting you as you ascend from that heavily-policed and guarded platform.

I'm a snot factory today.

Go wash your hands.

And take your vitamins.

Hey, kids!

It’s Monday, a day riddled with contemplation, a day often dreaded and a day with a really bad rap. Rainy days and Mondays – sing it Karen!

I love the Carpenters. And while I could go on and on about the pleasure I derive from pop-infused slightly-bitter song-stlyings, Pucci-inspired ankle length skirts, Richard’s massive sideburns and big-teethed drummers with anorexia, I’m not feeling that today.

Today, I feel the need to share news of actual value and take a stroll down etymology lane.

The word that’s top of mind this morning, given this weekend’s merriment and last week’s political maneuverings:

BLUNT

Check out the Webster’s and you’ll find blunt defined like this:
-- Slow or deficient in feeling: INSENSITIVE, obtuse in understanding or discernment: DULL
-- Having an edge or point that is not sharp
-- Abrupt in speech or manner, being straight to the point: DIRECT

What you won’t find, though, is this:

-- The surname of Missouri’s enfant terrible governor, Matt Blunt – who is a combination of the first two definitions, yet is sorely lacking in the latter.

Before we begin the Blunt blog-bashing, let me say there’s a new blunt in my life that I’d like to give a special nod: Mayorga Coffee Infused Cigars.

Yes, kids!

You can now smoke your caffeine. In four distinct international flavors, even. They’re yummy good -- if you like coffee, smoking, chocolatey-smoothness and a cheap buzz.

Now, back to matters at hand:

I’d like to point out the consequences for those folks who voted for Governor Matt Blunt last November.

Look at what you did last week:

• Sudafed is on it’s way to becoming a Schedule-A Narcotic. Thank goodness one cheap buzz has been replaced by another. Read about it here.
• Governor Blunt signed laws restricting consumer freedom in matters of real estate even though the Federal Trade Commission and Jutice Department urged his veto. Read about that here and here.
• Governor Blunt signed laws that gave protections to certain utility companies, just trying to make it in a non-competitive, monopolistic kinda way. Read that story here.
• You cannot see a decent strip show or get a decent lap dance in Missouri anymore. Read about that here.
• Political lobbyists, including the Governor’s brother, now have an easier time than ever buying votes and influence peddling. Read about it here.
• Giant telecom got more gigantic. That story is here.
• By the way, Blunt’s brother is a lobbyist for giant telecom, too. See the bottom of this story.
• New laws that would have made Blunt’s brother report his pro-business lobbying activities surprisingly got vetoed. Read about that here.

So, congratulations to all the Blunt supporters out there – including you gay republicans – you really made a difference in the life of ordinary citizens who wanted more accountability from their elected officials.

You really did so very much to further the expectations of responsible behavior from corporations.

You did so…so…very much that all I can think of is how much I’d love to show you my appreciation with a blunt instrument. But that would be too much like clobbering dim-witted seals. And I’m decidedly non-violent.

I’ll just choose to use this keyboard as my sword, when time allows. I’m trying to keep my verbal skills honed and sharp, honey.

Sometimes being blunt can be a virtue instead of a vice.

Praise be, all that are still enduring the sweltertude. Our little township, steeped in the mid-nineties with one-hundred percent humidities, has survived its first gathering of the United Church of Bitchitude and Latter-Day drunks.

It was a hot night -- in more ways than one. I think folks had a fun time at Grandma’s Politician’s Club. I hope they did. As much as I enjoy them, parties always make me nervous. I always run around like a chicken with its head cut off, never quite convinced that folks are having fun. The laughing, drinking, dancing, flashbulbs, and naked lesbians in the hot tub would, to most folks, indicate that a fun time was had by all, but I’m skeptical and hyper-critical.

If you were among the 40 or so folks who attended services, I sincerely say thank you. More importantly -- so does Grandma. Last night was probably the biggest ring he’s had in the history of his place. Your cash contributions will no doubt contribute to further shameless behavior on his part. And that, my dears, is what the UCBLDD and the Summer of No Shame is all about.

I have to report that Brother Ryan took many more pictures than I did last night. And he was taking a poll of the parishioners, as well. Look for his epistle sometime soon. His job has, once again, taken him out of town, leaving me to enjoy his a.c. and his pool in his absence. Such a hard life in service to the Church.

After Grandma’s, the fun continued into the wee hours -- amazing house music awaited us at Rue 13.

Lady D was visiting from Chicago and she had us rolling on the dance floor. Literally. One tune had me falling out, filled with the sacred glory of some soul sisters hollering to the heavens. And if you looked above the Lady D, there were real-as-they-can-be, hot stripper-girls doing cha-cha moves galore! I was down on my knees more than once and high kicks reigned supreme. Theirs and mine.

The only upsetting news to report is that I was the victim of a pickpocket.

Yes, kids – someone gooched my wallet.

In the space of 5 minutes, some clever little thief managed to make his or her way into my pants, without my knowledge or consent. For the sake of drama, I’m sticking with a nefarious criminal story. It’s so much better than it fell out of my pocket and some broke, dumb 22 year old swiped it. "Dude...8 dollars...hello, Taco Bell!"

The real offense, however you look at it, is that I was stone cold sober! Had I been drunk, the whole getting into my pants, without my knowing (or remembering it) might be another story.

But diet soda and losing my wallet?

Oh. That…was…rude!

I dashed back to the club, chanting every possible incantation that I could summon as I zipped about the club hoping and praying it had fallen into a seat cushion. But no such luck.

Pestilence and plague upon the mother-fucker who took my shit.

And speaking of shit, nothing creates a near-disastrous case of explosive diarrhea like some ignorant fool stealing your wallet. I was about to have a Margaret Cho Moment up in my car last night. Can I get a witness? Yes, I can – the drunken disciples who had me in stitches (and nearly in Depends) on the way home from the club after the near-ruination of my great evening.

But today…today, I’m a bit calmer. And so are my bowels. Rejoice!

Oh! And I had to call my mother this morning to ask her to express my birth certificate to me. Those new stupid identity laws require additional documentation to replace my license and those papers are at home in Kentucky.

In her very Southern, yet very shaming way, she said, “Well…I did order a extra one the last time this happened...just in case…”

“MOM! That happened, like, 15 years ago when I was in college!”

“It’s just you and your sister…this just seems to happen to you a lot…”

“Mom…”

“Well…this has never happened to your brother.”

--ouch--

Ugh.

Argh.

Mothers.

But she’s got proof that I am, indeed me – so the situation will be resolved within 48 hours.

The way I look at it, there are some things in this world I can and cannot control. The wisdom, I suppose, is knowing the difference. I just had a psychic flash about how last night might have transpired, had I not been off the sauce:

The party would have happened.
I would have gotten drunk.
I would have gone out dancing.
I’d have gotten drunker.
Somebody would have stolen my wallet.
I would have shit my drawers.

And I was wearing white pants.
That were on sale.
And they were cutie Kenneth Cole white pants that were on sale.
And they are a size smaller than what I’ve been wearing.

Oh…the shame…the disgrace…the blog entry that would have been!

In the great scheme of things, I think I’ll choose some aggravation with a dose of parental shaming while remaining stain-free, rather than stumbling out of the club, equally penniless, shit-faced with poopy pants.

It could have happened that way.

Trust.

So, to the criminal genius who thought it was a clever idea to take my wallet, you should spend that $8 and buy your gypsy-cursed ass a clue. The credit cards are useless (even before I cancelled them).

And while I am vexed that I have to get my birth certificate Fed-Ex’d from Kentucky, I get to take a new photo for my driver’s license. I’ve dropped 20 pounds since that picture was taken, asshole….

Thanks for the ego boost, you cock-sucking, shit-head, mother-fucking, son-of-a-bitch, lousy, no-good, heathen, piece of white* trash. Die. Die!! Die!!!

Ah. So much better now!

Glory and halleluiah to the highest.

Amen.

- - - -

*and if the thief wasn't white, well...I dunno his or her life. But it is still rude and wrong to steal. There are just some names I don't like to call the brothers and sisters of the struggle. You'll just have to accept cock-sucking, shit-head, mother-fucking, son-of-a-bitch, lousy, no-good, heathen, piece of trash. And you are still cursed.

Just a reminder of the basic tenets of Grandma's Politician's Club, which is hosting the inaugural gathering of the United Church of Bitchitude and Latter-Day Drunks.

Leave your junk in the trunk and if you're in the mood to pick up some rough trade or a Jessica Hahn look-a-like, please do so after services have concluded, as all good churcified people do. If you doubt me, check out a public park at about 12:30 on a Sunday afternoon.

Another thing: Grandma doesn't take American Express -- or any form of plastic.

"In God We Trust", Grandma told me last night, "Everyone else pays cash." We did a quick walk-through yesterday and my drunk and disorderly friends kept gushing about the selections of bourbon, scotch, whiskey, tequila and rum that Grandma keeps behind the bar.

I simply sipped my Diet Pepsi, occasionally tuning into Dorothy Parker and the Vicious Circle that was on TV (totally by circumstance) while music straight outta Motormouth Mabel's hummed in the jukebox. I watched the stories begin to unfold at our new hangout. It was a glimpse of Heaven on Earth.

So...see you at the meeting house tomorrow night. I suspect you'll either leave sober (yet slightly deranged) or shitfaced (yet strangely at peace).

Whatever floats your boat, honey...

Saturday, July 16
Grandma's Politician's Club
4170 Manchester
St. Louis, MO 63110
Services begin sometime around 10-11 P.M.

BARTLESVILLE, Okla. (AP) - A woman who police say had been drinking heavily before she gave birth was charged with child neglect after the baby was born intoxicated and diagnosed with fetal alcohol syndrome.

Melissa Irene Tanner, 37, had a blood alcohol content of 0.29 percent when she gave birth June 30, and her daughter's was 0.21 percent, according to an affidavit by police. The legal limit for drivers in Oklahoma is 0.08 percent.

Zut alors, mes enfants!

The double entendres are rife today as I celebrate Bastille Day in faux-felonious Frenchified fashion. Vive La Revolution!

Speaking of le fashion, I must extend a merci de blah-bitty-blah to my Pretend Internet Boyfriend for sending me a lovely scarf that he picked up during his recent European vacation.

It's from Les Galeries Lafayette, which is apparently a pretty classy joint. Ooooh...la....la! I feel so Jo Stockton. Don't blame me if you don't know the reference - it's French day up in here. That means a little work, mon ami!

Anyway.....It's so lovely to have something that's, like, really from Paris, France. My Chanel accessories all came from the Korean wig shop up at Washington and Compton. While each was affordably priced at no-more than two dollars, ninety-nine cent, I kinda doubt they came with Karl's blessings.

So...in homage to all things French and my own life as a latter-day drunk, I offer you, kind reader, a little musical treat. Juste un petit baiser, so to speak.

It comes courtesy of Ryan, who picked this up, among other things, on his recent trip to Montreal. I'm assuming that since this CD single was being handed out en masse at a Canadian tranny bar...they're not being too fussy about how the song gets distributed.

I'm not engaging in international crimes. *gulp* I hope.....

Download the mp3 of Rhum and Coca-Cola here by French actrice et chanteuse Arielle Dombasle.

By the way, she's fifty!!!!

Mon Dieux!

Marc Ouellet, Archbishop of Quebec and Primate of Canada, is all bent out of shape, considering how fabulous he looks in this red dress.

His Canonical Canuckedness is claiming that letting the gays marry will destroy lives and is trying to prevent Canada from legalizing gay marriage.

"Once the State imposes a new standard affirming that homosexual sexual behaviour is a social good, those who oppose it for religious motives or motives of conscience will be considered as bigots, anti-gay and homophobes, and then risk prosecution."

So yes, if a Church that has amassed it's fortune by exterminating indigenous peoples; that has refused women the right to practice birth control; and that (then) protects priests that fuck those children -- I'm all for prosecution.

No wonder the Romans fed their hypocritical asses to the lions.

Rowwwrrr and Amen.

A 2-CD set of mixes.
One disc is selected by Neil Tennant and the other by Chris Lowe.

CD1 Neil Tennant
1. Fairmont – Traum
2. Harold Budd – Pulse Pause Repeat
3. Biosphere – Microgravity
4. Vladimir Martyynov – Come In 2
5. Vladimir Costa – Promenade Sentimentale
6. Etienne Daho – La Baie
7. Vessel – Tiny
8. Craig Armstrong – Lauras Theme
9. Dettinger – One Two Three No Gravity
10. Dusty Springfield – Goin Back
11. Hans Joachim Roedelius – Lunz
12. Barbirolli New Phill Orch – Elgars Sopiri
13. Video Kid – Video Kid
14. Lobe – Movement
15. John Surman – At Dusk
16. Emile Gilels – Grieg’s Lyric Pieces

CD2 Chris Lowe
1. Savage – Don’t Cry Tonight
2. Mr Flagio – Take A Chance
3. Klein & MBO – Dirty Talk
4. The Flirts – Passion
5. Matia Bazaar – Ti Sento
6. Justice vs. Simian – Never Be Alone
7. Queen – The Show Must Go On
8. Celestial Choir – Stand On The Word
9. Carl Bean – I Was Born This Way
10. Dusty Springfield – I’d Rather Leave While I’m in Love

Well, it looks like John Kerry is trying to sink Karl Rove's battleship.

I guess there may be some payback for all that Swift Boat shit, after all.

Here's today's action alert from the Senator, himself. I assume it's from him -- it's so fucking drawn out:

Less than two weeks ago, members of the johnkerry.com community demanded that Karl Rove be fired for his deliberate attempt to, once again, use the aftermath of the 9/11 attacks to divide America. Now Karl Rove is embroiled in another controversy concerning the leaked identity of a covert CIA agent, which was done to punish her husband, a man who had the courage to tell the truth about manipulated intelligence in Iraq.

Karl Rove is the President's top advisor in the White House and what he has admitted doing has deep and troubling consequences for our national security.

It's hard to understand how the President can tolerate his top advisor being involved in exposing a CIA agent in the name of politics by telling reporters about her work - making her already dangerous job that much more dangerous.

In order to do what the President called on us to do earlier this week - "continue to take the fight to the enemy" - the White House and Karl Rove must stop taking it to their so-called political enemies here at home.

It's perfectly clear that Rove - the person at the center of the slash and burn, smear and divide tactics that have come to characterize the Bush Administration - has to go.

The problem is that, instead of protecting the American people from real threats to our security, this Administration spends its time protecting Karl Rove. That's not leadership.

They're doing their best to brush off this new Rove controversy as just another political story, but this time they are having a harder time getting away with it. That's why, if we raise our voices now, we can really make a difference. Please ask all your friends to sign our "Fire Rove" petition today:

http://www.johnkerry.com/firerove

Despite carefully worded denials, it is now apparent that Karl Rove discussed the identity of an undercover CIA agent with a reporter. His clear aim was to discredit that agent's husband who had dared to challenge the Administration in the buildup to the war.

There appears to be no limit to the lengths to which Rove - and this Administration - will go. But, there is a limit to the patience of the American people - and we have reached it. President Bush has a choice to make: Spend the months ahead focused on protecting Karl Rove's job security or spend them focused on protecting America's national security.

We are asking the President and the White House to do what they promised. When the scandal first broke, here's what the President's spokesman, Scott McClellan, said:

"If anyone in this Administration was involved in it, they would no longer be in this Administration." (9/29/03, White House press briefing). Now we will find out if the Administration honors its word. Call on President Bush to keep his word and fire Rove now:

http://www.johnkerry.com/firerove

It's as simple as this: We need President Bush and his White House staff to focus on finally taking action necessary to avoid a quagmire in Iraq. The American people can't afford to wait while the White House spends its time and energy defending a top presidential aide's dangerous political maneuvers.

In the days ahead, the President will either make good on his promise to hold accountable those who shared the identity of a secret soldier in the war on terror - or he'll prove that promise hollow.

We now know that Karl Rove "was involved" in a breach of national security. Decency - and the interests of the American people - demand an end to Karl Rove's days in the White House. It's time for you to demand it as well.

http://www.johnkerry.com/firerove

I urge you to take action right now.

Sincerely,

John Kerry

This makes me sad -- on so many levels.

FRANKLIN, Mass. (AP) - An editor for the publishing company that puts out the venerable Weekly Reader newspaper for schoolchildren was arrested on charges he solicited sex from a minor on the Internet.

Noel Neff, an editor at Stamford, Conn.-based Weekly Reader Corp., was arrested Saturday in a mall parking lot, where authorities said he had arranged to meet and have sex with someone he thought was a 14-year-old boy named Chris.

The "boy" was actually undercover FBI agent David George, authorities said. The two had arranged the meeting following a series of instant message conversations spanning more than two months, according to an affidavit filed by George.

Neff, 46, is charged with crossing state lines to solicit sex from a minor, a federal crime. He appeared in federal court in Boston on Tuesday and was released on $25,000 bail.

You're invited to the first meeting of the United Church of Bitchitude and Latter Day Drunks.

You see, a certain Angry Black Bitch and I have turned to the founding principles of this country: capitalism and churchification to create a movement based on one simple premise:

It's not about getting well, it's about getting even.

And revenge, my dear, is a drink best served cold. What you put in it is your own damn choice. Much like L. Ron, we believe in the principles of self-determination.

We are of course, looking for disciples. If you're a fan of history, you know that most major religions have begun with impoverished visionaries that suffer from delusions of grandeur. We fit that bill to a tee.

So, you're invited to head on down to the meeting house this Saturday night. We're looking for acolytes to spread the word.

Saturday, July 16
Grandma's Politician's Club
4170 Manchester
St. Louis, MO 63110
Services begin sometime around 10-11 P.M.

It's easy to find us.

Look for the PBR sign - displayed without irony.

Upon entering, you will be dazzled by the beauty of more un-ironic treasures.

Notice the fine statues of the world and tin-foil wall coverings.

The altar, offering numerous choices of supplication.

Practice our mantra in front of the wall of mirrors. "It's all about me....me....me!"

.

Our sanctified symbol - a pink glitter flamingo.

Enjoy a moment in our outdoor garden of bitchitude.

Before joining a fellow acolyte in the baptismal pool.

See you there!

We're still working on our version of the Ten Commandments...look for updates throughout the week.

I just love how today is shaking down.

And while my Goth days are far, far behind me - my love for black lipstick is eternal.

American Goth
Frederick's Music Lounge
4454 Chippewa
St. Louis, MO 63116
9:30 p.m.
Monday, July 11

American Goth, a feature documentary that has been three years in the making, is now complete and ready for release. The movie provides an in-depth examination of Gothic culture, which is often typified by black clothes and an interest in darker music, literature, and culture.

In a post-Columbine era, Goths have been perceived and stereotyped in many ways. American Goth is a D.I.Y.-style, conversational documentary that asks if Goth culture poses a threat to society or if it is simply an alternative lifestyle.

This guerilla film features Goths in their own words, and first-time filmmaker Ryan Rhea explores their unique place in today's society.

I just wet my pants a little.

This article made me cringe.

"We have a lot of bike riders come through here, and I'm sure it's because the countryside is very pretty. But it's infuriating to see what they're doing because they are so inconsiderate."

And as of right now, a poll the Post is conduction has these results:

Are you irritated when bicyclists use local roads?

36% - ABSOLUTELY:
They take up too much room, ignore traffic laws and refuse to use less-traveled roads.

31% - SOMEWHAT:
They have the right to share the road, but they need to use common sense and follow laws.

32% - NOT AT ALL: The road belongs to bicyclists too; motorists are responsible for avoiding them.

Hey, Kids!

I'm gonna promote the hell out of this damn poll.

Please vote.

My job depends on it.

Seriously.

Kind of.

Not really.

Well...maybe...a little.

VOTE HERE NOW!

Charles Shaw is spending the next year in prison for pot and ecstasy possession.

You probably do not know Charles Shaw or care about Charles Shaw.

But I do.

And I'm pissed.

I'm pissed because he's a clever man - but not too clever to not be running around with a quarter ounce of pot and a dozen pills in his possession, apparently.

I'm pissed that a peace activist and a Green Party organizer is in jail. He has a low opinion of our current political culture and is...was... Editor-In-Chief of Newtopia, a counterculture progressive journal. This is their statement:

All of us here at Newtopia are very saddened to see our leader and friend carted off to prison for a completely victimless crime. Charles has been a strong activist for peace and truth and has fought hard against the injustice of the drug war through his writing, speaking, and education of those around him. With Newtopia, he has created a level platform for people of varying voices to express their ideas to an open, listening audience. It is therefore sadly ironic that a voice for justice must suffer an injustice at the hands of the State. But, as Charles himself has said, he is no exception to the alarming number of peaceful individuals who are incarcerated for nonviolent drug related offenses every year. Our hearts go out to all who have their freedoms unjustly taken away.

I wish him safety during his incarceration.

It’s Sunday morning.

For those of you who skipped Sunday services, but are still looking for ways to get down on your knees and...um...worship, I have a few suggestions.

The Father

Professional Writer, Randall Roberts has a blog!

That may not be enough for some of you to click through, so consider this – he’s cute (pictured to the right here with this one, who is also cute, but long-term readers already know that), he’s a DJ and his blog features convicts.

I thought that might work.

The Son

Jesus Christ Superstar is at the Muny this week.

What's the buzz --
Tell me what's a-happening?

I don’t know how to blog him.

The Holy Ghostess

If you’re ever in the middle of rural Indiana, I suggest checking out the Sisters of St. Benedict in Ferdinand. The tour is amazing.

And just in case you're wondering how to solve a problem like Maria?

You can ask Sister Jill.

Amen

See you at the AirStream show for brunch. I, myself, plan to get my worship on at an abandoned parking lot in the middle of the city.

That, too, is something long-term readers already know.

Grrrr.

After writing my previous post for today, I went out for a two hour bike ride to continue my quest for consciousness. I came home bursting with self-awareness only to have it dashed by this disturbing e-mail. Talk about a mental health buzz kill....Grrrr.

Hi everyone. My bike was stolen from just outside of my home in Webster Groves today. I'd love it if you could be on the lookout for it. It is an orange and white Giant Cypress DX from 2004. It has disc brakes and wide road tires (700x40c and 700x38c). It also had (earlier today, at least) an air horn, a computer, an LED light, a WashU kryptonite U-lock (in the holder...), a two-bulb 30W halogen light setup with a power cord running to the battery inside a black water bottle, and a rear light. It's a men's, size 21.

I'm not sure what it means, but it seems like the thief left his old bike for me. It was about 20 feet away, happily propped on its kickstand. For what it's worth, the bike that was left is a white Magna MTB Mountain Tamer.

Thanks for your help.

E-mail me with the spy report or leave a comment.

I’ve been thinking a lot about duality.

It seems to me that it’s the nature of the universe, the nature of reality – that things exist in some sort of oppositional continuum. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction….or something like that. I wasn’t very good at physics. Well, I wasn’t good at the math part of the physics, I should say. Conceptually, I could get on board – it was the practice that seemed to baffle me.

But such is life. Or at least mine.

I was conceived on my mother’s birthday. Much to my teenage disgust, she once told me that getting knocked up with me was “The best birthday present I ever got.” Ewwwww. Mom! She also told me that she first became aware of my existence at our county fair, which takes place every July. It was during the Horse show. My first kick was during the dramatic finale. I love pageantry. Even in utero.

During her pregnancy, one of the names being bandied about for me was Pierce Hayes. I can only imagine the kind of man I would be if I’d been zipping around this entire time as a Pierce Hayes.

Preppy gay…maybe…or pierced haze...who knows?

I don’t believe that anyone’s life course is ever set in stone. A myriad of influences impact our destinies. Pierce Hayes Thurman, I am prone to speculate, would have been much like me – but much, much pissier. Unlike me, Pierce might have gone to Dartmouth for law school instead of St. Louis for art school. The life I might have led as someone other than myself...

My siblings changed my life, as siblings are prone to do. When I was born, my parents turned to them to name me. Well – my dad did. My mom was knocked out cold. My entrance into the world began with an epidural and the ensuing drug-induced blackout. Oh...the foreshadowing.

Anyway, my siblings jumped at the chance. Their source of inspiration was a television show. Robin Wayne, they decided. Robin (Boy Wonder) and (Bruce) Wayne – the proverbial Dynamic Duo. It seems so clear now – secret identities and Barbara Gordon’s spin-around vanity/dresser. Holy life changing decisions and numerous outfit options, Batman!

The die was cast, I suspect, on that day – but my dad, either being a little hard of hearing or disliking the name Robin wrote Robert Wayne on the hospital form. And so it all began with the intention being slightly skewed by the outcome.

But such is my life. Or everyone’s, I imagine.

Duality is a part of life. Good-Bad. Boy-Girl. This-That. Right-Left. Top-Bottom. It seems as if there’s always some sort of choice to be made. Decisions that move your little life forward or backward. North-South. East-West. You get the drift.

I was having a conversation with my mother while I was home last weekend that provided me a little bit of insight into the nature of duality. We were outside talking about the trees that grow around the farmhouse where I grew up. There’s a beautiful White Dogwood growing where an old Catalpa tree used to be. It’s gi-normous and gorgeous.

“You should see it in the spring,” she drawled, “when it blooms….”

We stood there admiring the tree together, a slight breeze moving the tree limbs, bumble bees buzzing in the Hollyhocks.

“I asked your brother to cut it down, but he won’t,” she then said.

I turned to look at her, clearly confused…. “Huh?”

“Well, you see…it just gets so big…and I feel so closed in…and confined…but he won’t cut it down…even though I asked him to…”

And I started to get really upset.

Does she hate the tree?

Does she love the tree?

Is my brother being a jerk for not cutting down the tree?

Or is he being obstinate because my mother says she loves the tree?

All of these conflicting statements, resulting in my head spinning and my blood boiling.

If it’s not clear to you by now, I tend to think in these terribly dramatic extremes, and at that moment, when I was about to explode at my mother for driving my crazy with this circular thinking and conflicting dualities -- I stopped.

There’s another option to all this melodrama, I decided.

Isn’t it possible to love the tree and hate the tree at the same time?

Can’t it be beautiful and confining?

Must we make that either/or choice – to live with something we hate but bitch about it, or conversely, get rid of the beautiful thing we hate and mourn its loss?

Is there another way to think about events and activities that is not quite so extreme?

So today, like I was last Saturday, I’m just thinking about trees. How they grow. How they die. How their outcome, so much like ours, is decided by powers beyond their control, and what (if anything) we can do to change our destiny.

I’m thinking that it isn’t so much about choosing one way or the other -- but accepting that both options exist. Certainly, some choices are more sensible for us than others. But there’s a litany of opposing choices that await us – which by their nature, expect us to take sides, draw swords and fight for some supposed right or wrong.

The quandary and the ultimate challenge, I’ve decided, isn’t in making the decision between these two choices, it’s somehow finding acceptance and tolerance for them both. Amidst all this duality – I’m trying to formulate my thoughts and opinions for a third option.

Which will, for once, be my own.

Before the weekend begins, let me share some (potential) wealth...

Just for filling out a simple survey, somebody's gonna win some coins. And it could be you!

VOTE HERE NOW!

People spilling their own tea is causing "experts" to question the long-term impact of blogging.

Experts say such incidents belong to a growing trend in which frank outpourings online are causing personal and public dramas, often taking on a life they wouldn't have if the Web had not come along and turned individuals into publishers.

Some also speculate that more scandalous blog entries - especially those about partying and dating exploits - will have ramifications down the road.

"I would bet that in the 2016 election, somebody's [blog] entry will come back to bite them," Steve Jones, head of the communications department at the University of Illinois at Chicago...

As an advocate of full-disclosure, I'm not quite so sure of the doomsday forecast this article evokes.

I, myself, have no intention of running for public office and am quite content to have my scandalous partying and dating exploits take on a life of their own, since I am, at this moment, no longer dating, partying or being scandalous.

If I'm being good in the present, can't my past, at least, be wicked....

And have these experts never heard of gossip? People, by nature, are notorious blabbermouths and whether you blog it or nor - somebody's got some dirt on ya somewhere, honey....

Trust.

The cautionary tale, wherein one wonders, "Will anyone at West Beverly ever talk to me again?" is here.

The city of Yelm, Washington boasts that it is the Pride of the Prairie. Well, yippee, yay and whoopedy-woo for them.

Where all this pride stems from, I wondered after reading this article which details how elected town council members have now outlawed their constiuents from speaking at city meetings about certain matters.

Lovely.

It seems that Wal-Mart wants to set up shop near Yelm and the city council members are all on the dole on the same page as Wal-Mart.

One little problem. There are some fired-up citizens saying, "Hell, no!"

Well....not anymore.

YELM, Wash. (AP) -- The town council barred residents from mentioning Wal-Mart at meetings, prompting a challenge by civil libertarians who said a "free and accountable" government depends on a citizen's ability to voice concerns openly.

The retailing giant has an application pending to build a superstore, spurring controversy in the small town about 15 miles southeast of Olympia.

In a letter to the council, American Civil Liberties Union lawyer Aaron H. Caplan said his group believes it is unconstitutional to ban any mention of Wal-Mart at council meetings. The term "big-box stores" also is banned, as is "moratorium."

The ban began because council members were fed up with complaints about the proposed superstore and related demands for a moratorium on big-box stores, municipal attorney Brent Dille said. He said officials also didn't want to appear biased if the council ever hears appeals in the matter.

This morning's news that an accused killer and kidnapper kept a BLOG detailing his emotional turmoil ticked me off. As a card-carrying drama queen with a penchant for emotionally overwrought blog entries, I'm all for some Grade-A grandstanding every other day post - but this, this just makes me ill.

Convicted sex offender Joseph Edward Duncan III spent months on the Internet documenting his internal struggle over right vs. wrong. Then, four days before two Idaho children he is accused of kidnapping disappeared, he wrote: "The demons have taken over."

It was one of the last entries in Duncan's Weblog before the 42-year-old North Dakota man was arrested and charged this week with two kidnapping counts. Authorities believe he took 9-year-old Dylan Groene and 8-year-old Shasta Groene from their Idaho home shortly before their 13-year-old brother, mother and her boyfriend were bludgeoned to death May 16. Police say Duncan also is a suspect in the killings.

"God has shown me the right choice, but my demons have me tied to a spit and the fire has already been lit," Duncan wrote April 24, after he had jumped bail in Minnesota on charges of molesting a 6-year-old boy in a playground.

Rather than address the serious issue of mental illness, I suspect they'll run a demonic possession story with a dash of internet friend or foe.

The Devil Made Me Blog It -A Dateline Exclusive.

We'll just have to see.

This was just too good to pass up.

I'm so totally glad, that as a gay, I cannot marry after reading this gasoline soaked article.

I've been known to implode over a paramour. But combust?

GRANTS PASS, Ore. (AP) -- To prove his love, a 38-year-old man set himself on fire before getting down on one knee and asking his girlfriend to marry him.

I woke up to the news this morning that shit was blowing up in London. And I paused for a moment and thought about what's happening in the world.

People are dead in London. My heart goes out to the families who have lost their loved ones. Alerts are orange here in America. I felt, for a moment, some creeping fear and then I made up my mind about what I was going to do about today's upsetting news.

I ironed the new shirt Ryan gave me, put on my new hat and once I got to work, after doing some volunteer work for an AIDS service organization, I asked an Angry Black Bitch to take my photo.

In the face of catastrophe, I reacted the only way I know how: doing some good and looking cute. Oh! I also imagined ways to get Lenny Kravtiz naked. But that's an everyday kinda thing....

If you're reading this - I urge you to turn off CNN and go volunteer somewhere, go ride your bike, go buy some lipstick. You're not doing any fucking thing to improve yourself or this world watching the dead bodies get pulled from the Underground.

And that's it from me today.

Have a penchant for stainless steel modernity and corny Americana?

Then check out Airstream Family Day Sunday at the Sheldon.

The Sheldon’s West Parking Lot
3648 Washington Boulevard
Sunday, July 10 -- 10:00 a.m. – 4:00 p.m.
Admission is Free!

Download more info here.

Hey, kids....

Since there's no money to pay for schools and teachers, our elected officials are turning to our friends in the private sector to pay for new schools by selling the naming rights to educational institutions.

Three cheers for Halliburton High!

A school district in suburban Detroit has decided to sell naming rights to its buildings -- including a new elementary school -- as a way to offset the one-two punch of rising education costs and decreasing public funds. The Plymouth-Canton school board voted unanimously June 28 to consider commercial naming opportunities for everything from the new school to athletic fields to events such as the prom.

The new trend has the potential to create public school facilities named for fast-food chains, cola makers, designer jeans, breakfast cereals, credit-card companies and other marketers.

And their stock holders.

Profits over pre-school. Yay!

The whole sordid mess is here.

Flick your Wiccas at two Tarot inspired shows here in St. Louis this month!

Don't forget you can get your art on this Friday at the Euclid McPherson Gallery Walk from 6-8 P.M. There's always fine cheeses of the world, free wine and interesting folks at these little gatherings in the Central West End.

The degree to which you enjoy any or all of what's offered, we'll that's up to you and the fates...

Michelle X
Savage Desire

July 1st will mark the opening of the recently completed visual reinterpetation of the tarot - which has been transformed into the Savage Tarot. Not your typical tarot deck of butterflies and rainbows, this one is filled with the hauntingly beautiful images of the world in which we live in. The Savage Tarot with its unique images is destined to become a classic. A limited collection set are being produced solely for this show. On the walls will be one-of-a-kind plates of the images in the entire deck.

David Burns Smith
The Arcana Paintings

This exhibit will feature The Arcana, an investigation into the symbolism of Tarot. Over a cast and carved relief surface, each painting is a response to a mysterious archetypal Tarot Card. These paintings range from the remotely illustrative to enigmatic abstractions, exploring the anxiety of precognition, defiance, and eventual action.

It’s not bad enough that McDonald’s has re-branded Ronald McDonald as a hip, sporty clown-on-the go – the corporation has now decided to turn its $5.25/hour workers into fashion plates, courtesy of Russell Simmons, P. Diddy and Tommy Hilfiger.

McDonald’s is recruiting Russell Simmons, P. Diddy and Tommy Hilfiger to perform a miracle makeover: Turn its employees' mundane uniforms into hip street wear.

As it attempts to change its image from a fat purveyor to phat icon, the world’s largest youth employer is turning to these style-setters for what could be an $80 million makeover for its army of workers. The idea is to turn employees into walking brand billboards as they circulate among their peers.

Welcome back, welcome back, welcome back!

Oh, the stories I have to tell ya...but just not today.

Like any good vacation, I need a day or so to recover from it. To put my thoughts together. To think first and consider my words and actions carefully.

That, in and of itself, should be a testament to what's been going on with me lately....Can I get an Amen?

Oh, don't fret.

I didn't run off and join some Holy Rollers, I didn't find Jesus or and I most certainly didn't turn my life around. It was more like a big loopdy-loop. Like a lasso. And this is most certainly not my first time at the rodeo. Pass me that Diet Pepsi, doll....Mommy needs a drink.

Consider this your opportunity now, to run while the gettin's good. I've fetched my own axe and some stuff's getting chopped down. I've got some clear cutting to do, some clothes to put away and a floor to mop. Oh the analogies...and how I've missed them.

Expect a full report in the morning. Or at least the first in a series of entries where I'll share what's been going on as I've plumbed the deep dark recesses of my mind and soul the past couple of weeks.

If you've been around here for a while, that statement may seem like nothing new.

But this time around, I'm gonna be telling you the truth.

Things are gonna get real honest around here, real quick.

You've been warned.

Well...enough of that. I must run. Here's some photos from my trip home this past weekend to bide some time before the Summer of No Shame kicks into full throttle.

My tank is fully loaded.

And for the first time in a long time, I'm not.