So, I think it's time I confessed something to you, my faithful readers . . . something I don't admit to everyone.

I belong to a book club.

I don't know why I find this so shameful to admit. Maybe it's because I think people will assume I'm involved in some kind of Oprah / Kelly Ripa inspired suburban housewife orgy of shallowness. But this is not Kelly's Book Club. And it sure as hell isn't Oprah's.

At my first Book Club meeting a few months ago, a hot babe with a serious look on her face stood up and laid down the law: "The first rule of Book Club . . . you do not talk about Book Club. The second rule of Book Club . . . you DO NOT talk about Book Club." This is the tone of our humor.

Invariably, most of us seem to hate the books we read. But the unspoken agreement is that it's much more fun to rip on a book and deconstruct its author than to sit around blabbering about the pseudo-inspirational quality of some vapid pop bestseller. A group of ironic, intelligent, semi-jaded Gen-Xers, it's like our Book Club is based on an Alanis Morrisette song.

Book Club books can occasionally be tedious to read. It's pretty foreign to my nature, as a lifelong avid reader, to have someone else tell me what to read, and when I need to have it finished by. But so far it's been worth it, because I've discovered some beautiful gems that I otherwise might not have ever picked up, or might have put down after the first few pages.

Right now, we're reading "Skinny Legs and All" by Tom Robbins. I read a couple Tom Robbins books a few years ago, but I had forgotten how much fun he is. As a matter of fact, I'm having problems getting the book finished on time, because I keep stopping to really savor the expert eccentricity of the prose. Here's a great example of the kind of artistry that makes me laugh on public transit:

And there was the Reverend Buddy Winkler, in all his seedy glory, smiling at her through a bonfire of new gold fillings.

"Uncle Buddy. What a surprise. Wow! They could pave the streets of heaven with your teeth."

"And they could paint the gates of hell with your lipstick."

(For the record, I think my favorite book of all time is "The World According to Garp," by John Irving . . . although "A Prayer for Owen Meany" and "Cider House Rules" by the same author are close seconds.)

I'm BAAAAA-AAACK!!!

So Blogwhore: the Webgame is going out with a bang. There will be a wild chat session on Wednesday night this week, during which the winner will be announced. Come join us for catty banter, smack talk, unsubtle innuendo, and all manner of Whore-alicious fun. All you need to do is join the official Blogwhore Yahoo Group and show up Wednesday nite. Winner will be announced shortly after 7pm game time (which is 6pm here on the West Coast).

Well, gentle readers . . . the time has come. Last night, I was voted out of Blogwhore: The Webgame.

It's funny . . . the game was originally scheduled to last for six weeks, and to be finished by yesterday (at the latest). When I started playing, I had a very clear intention: To be the one Blogwhore left standing on July 14th, the last possible day of the game. Then on the 15th, I would drive off into the sunset for a fabulous victory vacation.

The universe has an ironic sense of humor. I was, in fact, still standing on July 14th. But since various odd and interesting circumstances had extended the game beyond its original time frame, I was not the only one still standing. And apparently, my mojo ran out at midnight (or close enough . . . my eviction notice was posted at 11:53pm game time).

Note to self: Next time you rub that lamp, be more specific when you tell the genie what you want . . .

Anyway, I'm still driving off into the sunset today for a six day vacation . . . houseboating on Lake Shasta. In another cosmic irony, the last time I was at Shasta was almost exactly two years ago, and one of the things I did while I was there was fill out my application for Survivor: Australia. So in a funny way, I feel like some huge cycle is now coming to an end. Two years ago at Shasta, one of the things I wanted most in the world was to play the "Survivor" game. I even said in my audition video (and I meant it): "I'm not sending this tape because I want to be on TV or because I want a chance to win a million dollars. I'm sending it because I really, really want to play your game. I think it would be a completely wild experience. And I think I'd be damn good at it."

Well, I didn't get on Survivor: Australia. But thanks to Shel - the sweetest game host ever - I now return to Shasta having played the game (without the prize money or the TV exposure, which I didn't care much about anyway).

It was a completely wild experience. And I was damn good at it.

I mean, when the game started, my blog was about 60 days old. I was (and still am) a total infant in the blogging world. And I was up against some truly heavyweight Blogwhores . . . people who have essentially defined the concept of Blogwhoredom.

If I could make it this far, this early in my blogging "career" . . . well, I better start wearing shades. 'Cause that's how bright the future looks.

I will miss posting these little "love notes" to all of you for the next six days. Unfortunately, there won't be an internet connection within miles of where I'm going.

So if you just started reading me during the Blogwhore game, go ahead and spend the next few days wandering through my archives. I wrote some pretty fun stuff back when I was just a nobody with only two and a half readers.

When I get back, expect a little bit of a Renaissance around here. I'll clean up and re-launch my "What Gay Sex Position Are You?" Quiz. I'll finally get the random content selection working on the poetry crawl, so that you don't have to stare at that same damn poem every time you come here. (Funny how even an extremely beautiful poem seems to become insipid when repeated enough times.)

No, no, I'm not dead. It's funny . . . I had such a great action-packed three day vacation (and even got to enjoy Blogging about it) . . . that when I got back I felt like I needed a vacation from my vacation!!

But aside from my personal issues, from a psychic perspective it seems like it's been a very hard week for bloggers. People seem to be going on hiatus left and right, either for a few days . . . or forever.

I blame the government. I think they have mind-control gurus who sit in dimly lighted rooms and try to squelch free individual expression at every opportunity by using secret voodoo punishment techniques.

But then, I'm a crackpot.

(No, dude . . . not a crackpipe!! That's something totally different. Pot! I said Pot!!)

OK, St. Helena ended up being pretty cute, but the real highlight of the day was going to the Napa County Fair. We had no clue that it was this weekend. We just stumbled upon it. BD had never been to a County Fair before, and he was stunned. He looked around at the cheap food trailers, the dangerous-looking midway rides, and the Flower Arranging exhibition and said, "I thought they made these things up for the movies!" He even got talked in to spending two dollars on eight chances to win a live goldfish by trying to throw a ping-pong ball into one of a multitude of small-necked glass jars. What we were going to do with the goldfish if he won, I have no clue. But, of course, he didn't win. No one ever does. At least not until they've spent ten times what the fish is actually worth.

I found the "Art and Photography" exhibit pretty interesting. I'm funny that way . . . I actually get off on amateur art in a kind of ironic yet sincere way. The highlight of the 6-12 year old art competition for me was an abstract landscape drawn in crayola marker. A broad green hillside stretched across the paper, with a huge rainbow perched above it. Left of center, on the hillside, were the shapes of two dogs. They were drawn only in outline, but they were very clearly collies (or some similar breed). They were facing each other, and starting where their doggie noses barely touched, two streams of red outlined hearts rose like smoke on the wind up into the rainbow. Doggie love! It was very sweet.

My other favorite piece was a collage by a teen artist. The central image was a hand-drawn self-portrait (I assume) of the female artist as a centaur - you know, her human torso stuck on a horse's body. But in sharp contrast to the "classical" tone of the traditional centaur image, this artist/centaur was wearing a black Spinal Tap t-shirt and leather-and-chain bracelets.

Surrounding the central image was a circle of randomly-shaped achromatic cuttings from the local newspaper, fitted together like pieces of a stained-glass window. Beyond the bland newsprint circle, the rest of the rectangular "canvas" was filled with overlapping, jaggedly cut, brightly colored iconic card-type images, including chopped up Monopoly cards (both Chance and Community Chest), old-style cigar box collector cards, and what seemed to be vivid miniature images from some kind of non-standard Latin American Tarot deck.

But I have to say that the high point of our very David-Lynchian experience at the Napa County Fair was witnessing the Freddie Prez show. This guy has a 32' motor home which houses speakers, an awning-shaded performance area, and three animatronic puppets who are supposedly his two "sons" and his dog. The sons look like ugly hillbilly vetriliquist dummies, and the whole assemblage has a very eighties pastel-neon Miami Vice feel to it. Freddie himself finally came out with Don Johnson hair to match his set and props, and proceeded to do comedy routines and sing songs with his pre-recorded "sons" as backup singers and scene partners.

I'm not quite sure how exactly to describe the completely unnerving quality of this whole enterprise. Fortunately, I don't have to. This guy has a website which is as "unique" as his show. Check it out and see what I mean. You can buy a feather from his parrot for $3.50 plus shipping and handling.

Vacation, Day 1 - After spending a leisurely afternoon stocking up on reading material from the best bookstores in Berkeley, we gave the car a good washing and then hit the open road. We ended up . . . at the Travelodge in Downtown Santa Rosa.

What kind of vacation destination is that, you ask? Well, we've never stayed in Santa Rosa before, and it never would have occurred to me to vacation here. But looking at a map, it just made so much sense. To the east, within easy driving distance, we have spa town Calistoga and wine-country jewel St. Helena. To the west, gay mecca Guerneville and the little town of Occidental (which is the home of one our favorite all-time restaurants, the Bohemian Cafe). So although Santa Rosa is not very glamorous, it allows us to have four wonderful vacation destinations for less than half the price we would have paid to stay in any one of them.

Plus, we have a movie theater, a mall, and Starbucks nearby, which is something we always miss when we stay in more out-of-the-way places. (Well, the Starbucks is really just for BD, since I don't drink coffee. But I benefit at second hand, because vacationing with someone in the throes of caffeine withdrawal is not my idea of a good time.)

Last night, after checking in to the hotel, we went and saw The Powerpuff Girls Movie, as well as The Minority Report. Both of them were amazing, and I highly recommend them to everyone. And I'm not the biggest Tom Cruise fan in the world, so that's saying a lot!

Today after a relaxed morning and brunch at a local diner, we've been wandering around downtown Santa Rosa, which I'm finding pretty cute. (And it has a Kinko's, courtesy of which I am able to make this post.) We're doing little errands . . . BD is getting a haircut, I'm buying socks. Funny how buying socks is more fun when you're in an unusual place!!

This afternoon . . . St. Helena, here we come!

Happy Independence Day!!! I encourage everyone to celebrate today by being as independent as you possibly can. Don't take shit from anyone today!!!

The concert on Monday was a huge success. I'll tell you all about it, but I'm waiting for a review to come out first so that I can compare and contrast my perspective with the reviewer's. : )

So the husband and I are going away for a few days of vacation today. The funny thing is, we haven't had any time to plan a vacation, and we don't really have any money. Hahahah!! So we're just going to get in the car and see what happens. I'll keep you all posted!

In other news . . . I'm back in school!! I graduated from psychic school in January, and since then I've been working on staff there as a kind of psychic coach for students in the program I graduated from. Now, I'm starting a new adventure . . . I'll be spending a year intensively studying techniques of hands-on energy work and healing. "Hands On" healing is kind of like massage, but without all the rubbing. You just get to touch people and re-arrange all their energy currents and stuff. It's pretty wild.

So everyone have a great long weekend!!! Talk to you soon!

Some Miscellaneous Notes:

I was just lazing around in bed, having a late morning, and my radio alarm went off and reminded me to stop lazing. The song on the radio?

You spin me right 'round, baby, right round, like a record baby, right round, round, round . . .

I started cracking up, because I haven't heard that song in years, but I just quoted it the other day as a way of working Adam Curry into my link-a-thon blogwhore challenge story.

I just noticed in Entertainment Weekly that Sculpture Gardens are "In," Planetariums are "Five Minutes Ago," and Petting Zoos are "Out." While I agree that "Petting Zoo" is only cool as a theme night for a sex club, EW is clearly not talking to us netizens about what is fashionable and what isn't. Because I'm willing to bet a lot of you folks will agree with me on this . . . Planetariums will ALWAYS be cool.

Todd left a great "messed up Pledge of Allegiance" in this comment. It reminded me of Matt Groening's Pledge from his old, pre-Simpsons "Life Is Hell" comic strip:

I PLEAD ALIGNMENT TO THE FLAKES OF THE UNTITLED SNAKES OF A MERRY COW, AND TO THE REPUBLICANS FOR WHICH THEY SCAM, ONE NACHO, UNDERPANTS, WITH LICORICE AND JUGS OF WINE FOR OWLS.

I first read that more than ten years ago, and every time I have heard the Pledge since then, I have thought "One Nacho, Underpants," and smiled.

Regarding the recent court decision about the Pledge of Allegiance, Christine recently asked, "Has Anyone Read the Constitution Lately?" That got me thinking . . . one of the scariest things about the Pledge debacle is that people clearly take the Pledge so damn seriously . . . equating it (inappropriately, I think) with the founding fathers and the founding documents of our nation. But historical criticism aside, the Pledge itself is a very, very shallow mantra - almost totally devoid of content when compared to say, the Bill of Rights or the Declaration of Independence. The Pledge basically encourages you to devote your allegiance to a symbol (the flag) instead of any specific idea or ideal. So whoever's got enough chutzpah to grab the flag and start waving it in front of you earns your allegiance, regardless of what they stand for. Perhaps even more insidious, the pledge presupposes that if we have "one nation indivisible" there will be "liberty and justice for all." In fact, this country was created as a democratic republic with separation of powers and independent state's rights specifically because our founding fathers had learned that without government-endorsed avenues for "divided opinions," there can only be "liberty and justice" for SOME . . . usually the wealthy.

Now that the Pledge is (at least for the moment) unconstitutional, why don't we force all public school children to recite something really significant each day . . . like portions of the Declaration of Independence? Imagine what the country would be like if people grew up reciting these words over and over again:

We hold these truths to be self-evident:

That all [People] are created equal;

That they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights;

That among these [Rights] are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness;

That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among [People], deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed;

That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness.

But maybe this Pledge to "One Nation, Under Whichever Creative Force You Choose To Acknowledge, Highly Divisible, with Happiness and Entitlement for all" would be a little too radical for the Federalist behemoth that this country has become.

And if that's true, then the founding fathers really are spinning in their graves. But not because of some San Francisco court ruling.

So I've been wanting to blog about this for a while, because it's a pretty big deal, but it's been pushed aside by, you know, the politics of patriotism and the Quest for Ultimate Blogwhoredom and stuff.

But Monday night, I will be appearing at the historic Herbst Theater in San Francisco as part of a concert called "It's a Grand Night for Rodgers." Public Radio listeners in other parts of the country may know the Herbst Theater as the venue for the "City Arts & Lectures" series hosted by Linda Hunt. Here's a nice sketch of the Herbst from their website:



Yesterday would have been the 100th birthday of Richard Rodgers (if he were still alive). He was the composer of "Oklahoma," "Sound of Music," "South Pacific," "The King and I," and a bunch of other less well known musicals. Countrywide, performers and performing arts organizations are making an effort to particularly celebrate his music this year.

The concert on Monday is one of the biggest San Francisco Rodgers events that will occur this year. Aside from me and a couple of other local performers, Silver Screen legend Celeste Holm will be appearing to sing a song or two and tell some stories. She was in the original 1943 cast of "Oklahoma" (as Ado Annie).

Some other out-of-town cabaret and stage celebrities will also be joining us, including Patricia Morison (the original Kate in Cole Porter's "Kiss Me Kate" in 1948) and Andrea Marcovicci (cabaret diva and - for my fellow sci-fi geeks out there - the actress who played the sexy android Chalmers who gets melted in the early scenes of the fabulously bad 1983 3-D movie, "Spacehunter: Adventures in the Forbidden Zone").

I was going to recommend that local folks try to come see me perform . . . except that I found out yesterday that we are 100% sold out.

I guess it was a good idea to schedule an event targeted to musical theater disciples in San Francisco the day after Pride Weekend. (Or maybe it was just fate that the Stonewall Riots happened one day before Mr. Rodgers' birthday.)

Preparing for this one-night show has been a lot of work. We local folks have about three times as much material to perform as each of the out of town guests. And just this afternoon, I got a whole new song assigned to me, and there are three new harmony arrangements that I need to learn. For a concert on MONDAY!! Gotta love show business.

So I will be spending this weekend submerged completely in Richard Rodgers music: "Younger Than Springtime;" "How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria;" "With a Song in My Heart;" "Do I Hear A Waltz."

It's not the archetypical Parade-and-Orgy Pride celebration that many San Franciscans will be indulging in this weekend.

But you have to admit . . . it's still pretty gay.

34 PARAGRAPHS ABOUT 182 BLOGGERS

A vignette from the fag files:

I was just living a dull, synthetic life until the night that electrolicious bentkid walked into my world. He was a troubled diva, a total fantabulosa jockohomo, full of bald sarcasm and vicious thinks. He and his jadedju friends - so very posh! - snacked on absinthe and peppermints, corn and death, while the rest of us ultramundane bozos just sipped aqua hydro and listened to the Terrapin Gardens Restaurant jukebox playing That Crazy Casbah Jive.

I'd heard he was a serial deviant, and that he was ultrasparky in the sack . . . but a whole lotta nothing on the inside. Still, I really wanted a piece of his delirious cool. He was on my mind in a big way. I had the f e v e r.

But I was just a troubled little neurotic jew, a space cheese, a total work in progress. I was an introverted navel gazer, ignored by millions. Simply put, I was far too prosaic for him. I was a woodge.

Still, my wandering thoughts strayed to dandelion wishes. Sweet August dreams danced around in my head, and I saw myself near him, making him mine.

His poodle circus of an entourage spouted all kinds of miscellaneous BS: grim amusements; shallow gossip; pseudo-philosophical blahblahblog. They talked all about george, and how familiar jillmatrix was suddenly becoming with Rebecca's pocket. They laughed at some barbaloot who had tried to figure out how to learn swedish from the toddski diaries. People speculated about whether or not the secret kings could possibly achieve victory at sea. And everyone seemed to agree that art is for losers.

Then there were idle musings about the contrasts between the disconnected zeitgeist we were all experiencing and the idea that maybe organized anarchy could result in a worthwhile peace dividend. Some people wanted to revive the old east coast / west coast debate, while others extolled the virtues of the newest anti-depressants: "Little. Yellow. Different." And a gaggle of luscious webgrrlies wondered aloud why all the really good ones (like TrickFred) were either gay, dead, or Canadian.

"Listen missy," said one little bitchquick drag queen named Cayenne (aka frank green), apropos of nothing. "That nastybastard Drewcifer is such a Bad Samaritan . . . Davezilla should just defy him and get it over with. Color me pink, but I think that hokey mokey froot just wants to be Frank Gumola anyway. And just so you know, Jonno totally agrees with me on that."

Talk about therapy theater!

Unfortunately, all the friends I had walked in with turned out to be easily amused paperfish, sudden victims of an apparent brainsluice. They just sat and listened and let their heads bobupndown like the proverbial plastic cat, leaking brain fluid. They had no incriminating words of their own. They had gone all idiote on me. I was definitely with the boring crowd. He would never notice me.

But all of a sudden, a fire inside spoke to me and told me "I must . . ." Terrified, I mumbled a silent prayer to RuPaul, and found myself walking over to HIM - my cyberqueersuperstar. I opened my mouth to speak of . . . what? Stuff and stuff? Thoughts interrupted? Technoerotica?

All I could manage was a soft whisper: "Sometimes I . . ."

But then the little minx of a waitress came out of nowhere and dumped a turkey dinner all over the object of my obsession.

"Whatever!" said a nearby snarky wench, throwing the waitress shade.

"Sorry for the inconvenience," the waitress said meekly, as the resident photojunkie snapped pictures of the whole mess. Some hormonal bitch who seemed to be in a perpetual snit turned to her snazzykat goluboy and started snarling about a possible lawsuit.

The undisturbed object-of-my-desires just stripped off his gravy-covered shirt, right there in front of everyone. And boy, was it an edifying spectacle! I hadn't seen anything that spectacular since I was within licking distance of Andy's chest. He was everything I had imagined Jhames would be, and more. Seeing him half-naked was as thrilling as reading a new post at WilWheaton.net.

But now I was backing away, ready to slink off like the everlasting blogstalker I was. Because he was too beautiful. To him, I was surely nothing more than an anathema boy. He could never want me.

But before I could sneak off, he dropped a sardonic bomb.

"What's new pussycat?" he said, looking deep into my eyes. "You're a strange little boy. Umm . . . will you go to bed with me? Time is the enemy."

I thought, "You must be trippin'!" But I kept my mouth shut and went with the flow.

He took me to room sixteen in a nearby swish cottage - he had obviously been planning to hook up with someone tonight. We did everything, but . . . well, we won't go there.

But I will say that we were mad orange fools, patricking in the fractured light like there was no tomorrow. I was his dirty little nerdslut and he was my freakho. Like Adam Curry used to do in his DJ days, this guy "spun me 'round like a record." Chromewaves of passion wracked my body. Flutter . . . glub . . . meow! I must have sounded like a total barking moose!

If we were a magazine just then, we would have been Martha Stewart's Feral Living.

Overcome by hell and bliss, I was all out of focus. I was a pink pixie floating in orange clouds. I felt all discombloggulated. I thought I was dreaming in reality . . . it was like he had 8 legs, all of them wrapped around me at the same time. All of my elementary particles seemed to become just tiny little pixels in time.

I feared I would pass out from all the hoopty-loops, and lose the memory of this glittering enchantment forever. But I managed somehow to keep hanging on to one lone brain cell, and I avoided the trap of beautiful amnesia.

In the end, I discovered living proof of what a total mermaniac I truly am.

I opened my eyes hours later, still not fully awake, and found that it was no ordinary morning.

Of course, he was gone like Blogadoon, like a somnolent illusion, a wockerjabby of the mind. The only things he left behind were tears and shadows, and a piece of paper with some queer scribbles on it . . . 8 letters, to be exact, spelling out the word:

NOALOGUE.

Some hopeless romantics would say that it was only a small victory to have bagged such a schismatic spitfire. But thanks to him, my cluttered life underwent a complete catharsis. I entered some otherstream, some day without rain, some Reese's World, where I was an object of pure desire. No longer lost in the desolate Bradlands, I now lived a life uncommon.

Yes, I - the mighty geek - had finally escaped my neurotic fishbowl. I was the King of Championville. The world was my oyster. I had become a man.

It was a Sunshine Day, and I felt great.

AUUUUUUGGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!

I swear to God people are such FUCKING IDIOTS!!!

Nothing has outraged me more in recent history than the shallow, idiotic press coverage and “public outcry” around the court decision yesterday that the “Pledge of Allegiance” is unconstitutional.

I understand strong reactions. I really do. And I sympathize with both sides of the debate.

But PEOPLE PLEASE!!!! History! History! History! Before you get your butt-floss in a wad and start making hot-headed public statements, take five minutes to learn a few things on the internet. Especially if you are a reporter, editor, or elected official.

Sen. Kit Bond, R-Missouri, was one of many lawmakers who immediately reacted in anger and shock to the ruling. "Our Founding Fathers must be spinning in their graves. This is the worst kind of political correctness run amok," Bond said. "What's next? Will the courts now strip 'so help me God' from the pledge taken by new presidents?" – CNN.com

OK, Senator Bond, I respect your opinion, but regarding your choice of rhetorical hyperbole, I’m forced to say, in all humility:

SIT DOWN, BITCH!

The founding fathers had nothing to do with the Pledge of Allegiance. It didn’t exist when this country was founded. It was written in 1892, more than 100 years into our country’s history. It was written by private business men who were magazine publishers and flag retailers. It was a marketing jingle.

The National Education Association was lining up all of America’s public schools to have a big ol’ celebration for the 400th anniversary of “Columbus discovering America.” (Because that guy was like, such a great humanitarian. NOT!) The aforementioned magazine-publishing flag-pimps positioned themselves as the “Official Corporate Sponsors” of that nation-wide event.

The “official program” for the celebration was published in their magazine. This included the “Pledge” (written by one of their PR guys), and instructions to recite it before one of their high-quality flags. Get the scam? Buy our magazine . . . buy our flag . . . be a good American.

Now I’m not saying these were bad men. Their motives were complex, and sincere. But it should be clear that the Pledge is not the Declaration of Independence, the Gettysburg Address, or the Bill of Rights. It is not something born out of blood, brave actions, wise counsel, or public debate. It is more like that cotton commercial that tries to convince us that cotton is “The fabric of our (American) lives.” Even if the product being pimped is a good one, pimpage is pimpage, and is ultimately motivated by commercial concerns, not civic ones.

Oh, and by the way, the business owners who set the whole campaign up? And the guy who wrote the Pledge itself? They were socialists. And totally against state’s rights. They believed the federal government should ultimately take over all businesses, and that Jesus was a Socialist. They even believed in the use of birth control. I shit you not. The Pledge was written with the intent of furthering these beliefs.

And while that’s all cool with me, you hard-core Republicans and Right-Wingers might want to double-check who you are climbing into bed with before you open your mouths and spew more carbon dioxide into the atmosphere than is absolutely necessary.

Oh, and did I mention that for the first fifty years of its use, the Pledge was recited with the right arm extended straight up and slightly forward, palm facing out? Sound familiar? Yeah, it got changed in the 40’s, when we realized that Hitler was also fond of that particular gesture.

Finally, of course, the particular phrase which is causing the controversy - “under God” - was not part of the pledge until 1954. It was installed then by Eisenhower in a effort to aid Senator McCarthy and his thugs in rooting out the godless communists, anarchists, and queers among us. And, damn – I am PROUD that this particular phrase has finally been bitch-slapped, right here in good ol’ San Francisco: the Land of the Freak, and the Home of the Perv.

Not because I don’t believe in God. ‘Cause I do. I just don’t think God is tacky enough to want to be included in the Pledge of Allegiance under such circumstances.

(I know for a fact that God forsook Senator McCarthy the moment Lucille Ball was called before a public committee and accused of Un-American Activities. For shame! WE LOVE LUCY. God does, too.)

So, Republican Senator Bond, don’t dredge up the founding fathers to support a commercial advertising slogan that was intended at various times to further both anti-capitalist agendas and McCarthy’s witch hunts. It just makes you look stupid and uninformed.

And I think it’s immensely disrespectful to the founding fathers.

A small slice of William Ted's life . . .

A couple weekends ago, I was at a toy store to buy cheap plastic kazoos for my church choir. (Don't ask.) At the checkout stand, I grabbed a bag of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans. These are the little treats straight out of the Harry Potter books. They're made by Jelly Belly, with their usual assortment of candy flavors (Banana, Lemon Drop, Toasted Marshmallow). But, per the books, some new flavors have been added, like Horseradish and Booger. (The company has promised to continue adding gross flavors. Soon, you will be able to eat jelly beans specially flavored to taste like Dirt and Vomit.)

So a few moments ago, I finally got around to opening the bag. I challenged myself to just eat whichever flavors I randomly pulled out, no picking and choosing, no backing down.

The first one was Black Forest Cake. Not bad, but never one of my favorites.

The second was Black Pepper. I ate it and my eyes began to water.

The third was Sardine. Fairly tasteless at first, but as I began to swallow, the aftertaste - salty, greasy, fishy, and mixed with lingering hints of Black Pepper - made my gag reflex kick in.

The fourth one I picked was Booger.

I couldn't take it. I backed down. I put it back in the bag.

It has taken me several minutes to write this, and I still feel like I'm going to yack.

Inspired by Christine's recent post, I just had to dredge up a few more great Weekend Update quotes on terrorism for her . . . and anyone else who finds it funny. You have to admire the talent and determination of the SNL cast and crew. Like all other New Yorkers, they must have been severely shocked and depressed after 9/11, and on top of that they had anthrax in their studio building. But they decided to come out swinging, and helped us smile again while still showing deep respect for the terrible consequences of that day.

November 2001 - Tina Fey says:

On Monday, attorney general John Ashcroft issued a terrorism warning, advising all Americans to be on high alert this week. On Friday, he announces that the period of high alert may be extended indefinitely.

I think I speak for all Americans when I say:

Bitch, I can't be more alert than I ALREADY AM! I'm opening my mail with salad tongs, I take my passport in the shower with me, I'm watching so much CNN that I'm having sex dreams about Wolf Blitzer!

How about this? You stay on high alert, and I'll go freeze my head like Walt Disney and you can wake me up when all of this is over, alright?

In December 2001 - Tina again:

They found more anthrax in Washington, in a place they had already "de-thraxed." Guess they're not as good as cleaning out the "thrax" as they thought they were! Good thing we never found any anthrax in this building!

Oh wait, we TOTALLY DID!!!!

Later in that same episode, they had Rudy Guiliani on, and Tina dressed up as the Statue of Liberty and together with Jimmy Fallon they sang "Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow" in honor of his last few days in office. It was so touching and weird, it can't be described. You just have to see it sometime. But here's a small snapshot: