A few facts about NED LAMONT:

1. Ned is so cool, american flags follow him wherever he goes. And he acts like it's all normal and stuff. That's cool.


2. Ned knows its important to talk to Nerds, even though he's cooler than them. Ned understands that Nerds are people too.


3. Ned is so cool that all he has to do is Look at a dude and he'll throw his head back and surrender. Joe Leiberman won't even LOOK at Ned.


4. Chicks love Ned, and he's cool with that. He's even cool to old chicks, even though he's not into them.


5. Everyone in Connecticut wants to know how to be cool like Ned, but Ned won't say. THAT'S what makes him so cool.


6. Bubba goes to see Ned when he needs advice about chicks.


7. Hot chicks constantly surround Ned. Even his son is a hot chick.


If you don't vote for Ned, chicks really won't dig you, and you'll probably die alone.

A fury of collective nouns.

Ah what etymological bliss i've been basking in the last few days. The english language with all its nuance and complexity is not completely devoid of its absurdities, and collective nouns seem to be at the forefront of idiocy. It seems that collective nouns are the final frontier for wordsmiths. No real rules per se. Any two-bit slinger of prhrases can decide on a collective noun for any of the zillions of nouns out there, and it will be certified as completely valid by the men in robes that declare and certify such things. I recently read someone declaring that a group of Cathedrals or many cathedrals should be reffered to as a "Floon".

Example: In the mid 1200s europe saw a Floon of Cathedrals explode onto the scene.

What scene, and how a cathedral or even a "Floon" of them may explode onto it, is neither here nor there. The point here is that we have free reign over the lingua anglica, and by guff we should use it.

So in my excitement to engage in the race to name all collectives in the known universe, I started doing a bit of research. Oh mercy, can it get any more silly than some of these?

Baboons can come in a Tribe or a Flange, but a group of Apes is referred to as a Shrewdness.

Birds have a a veritable sub category of collectives:
congregation of birds
dissimulation of birds
flight of birds
flock of birds
volery of birds

Whereas Lizards have ony the word "Lounge" to describe an assembly.

A lounge of lizards...
Can we safely add a "Hump" of poodles to the list?

Animals are, of course the easy way to introduce the world of CN. A "Gaggle", a "Pod", a "School" a "Pride", and the famed "Murder" (Of crows)are all little nouns we revel in when we can use them, but oh to describe humanity and careers!

Shall we? (These are all legit)
A Wunch of Bankers
A Shuffle of Bureaucrats
A Thicket of Idiots

I find that one particularly apt, since often you have to cut through a thicket to get to your destination.

A Hangout of Nudists (HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!)
A Ponder of Philosophers
An Ambush of Widows

Its very strange to me what a weird place in society the widow played in days gone by. Now of course the widow is sort of like an extreme divorcee, but not a group deserving the title "Ambush". I think an Ambush of Exes, is more a propos.

To that extent, I should wish to offer a few of my own invention for your learned consideration:

A Slick of Agents
A Bung of Producers
A Cathouse of Debutantes
A Sigh of Hipsters
A Mosh of Punks
A Tolkien of Nerds
An Ire of Girlfriends

The possibilities are endless, and so it seems is this post.
I've a Clode of Submissions to send to a Modwinkle of Casting Directors.

FRIDAY!

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Virginity Lost

I've always thought of Astrology as something I need to put up with. Regardless of how intelligent and interesting a woman is, she will undoubtedly turn the conversation at some point to the queer obsession that so many have of looking to the stars for control and answers. Being someone who is continually confronted by chaos of his own creation and of the universe, I am loathe to put the occurrences of mankind, and the personalities of folk in the stars. Nonehteless, I should be knowledgable or at least have SOMETHING to say about the whole mess, and usually i tell the eerie tale of how capricorns tend to enter my life, and stay for a good while. My brother Christian, my friends Barbra, Amanda, and Cara all have the same eerie birthday (Insert eerie music). But that's the extent of it. Then of course there's MY sign. Virgo.

Look, I'm not a Virgo. I wish i were, but seriously I'm not. Check this out:

Traditional
Virgo Traits

Modest and shy Ummmm...
Meticulous and reliable uh....
Practical and diligent ok, I'll give them that.
Intelligent and analytical And that.

But seriously, 50% is an "F"

There's more.

On the dark side....

Fussy and a worrier Yes. Ok, they have me there
Overcritical and harsh Guilty.

Perfectionist and conservative HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Yeah, Astrology sucks.

OR DOES IT?

Poetry

pic_poetry
Originally uploaded by alflamont.

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
No. For sonnets I hear, are quite gay.

As in fact, is most poetry. I don’t mean “Gay” homosex, I mean “Gay”…well gay. My major issue with poetry is that too often it’s inflicted on the unsuspecting. If you were a teenager and experienced any sort of angst, then no doubt you dabbled in poetry. What of it? Have you reread your deep introspective words? Have you gone back to that mental state and cringed in horror at your pubescent self? Good god! Why must people continue the sophomoric practice of shoving their quatrains down other’s throats? I will admit to some exceptional poetry, masters who manage to paint pictures vividly enough as to inspire, but isn’t most poetry in its essence, absolute ass? Doesn’t adult poetry (Yeah, let’s just dismiss the ranting of children altogether and get to the meat of this) always reek of smugness and literate snobbery? I suppose more than poetry itself, I am opposed to the poet. In a moment of exuberance, we may all commit some rhyme to paper. However, it is the self- centered smug brute, under the guise of depth that erupts his babblings for the rest of us. In the end, reading other people’s poetry is like smelling their farts. You are glad they feel comfortable enough around you to release it, but wish they hadn’t anyway. Please keep it private.

Oh god, please let it be true!

A St. Pat's chat with my Irish pen-pal

Debs says:
what'll i get in for dinner tonite?

Alf says:
Corned beef and Cabbage

Alf says:
Shepherds Pie

Alf says:
A block of lard Covered in beans and "Sauce"

Alf says:
Irish Cuisine...mmmmm

Debs says:
ewwww

Debs says:
im thinking scrambled eggs

Debs says:
not in the mood for cooking

Debs says:
ok im going home

Debs says:
have a fun night

Debs says:
expecting lots of gossip tomorrow

Alf says:
Ok..

Alf says:
Hey!

Alf says:
Happy St. Pat's

Debs says:
haha yeah sure

Debs says:
celebrate it for me

Erin go Bragh!

Well, here we are again. Once more the Feast of Saint Patrick lands on us, and once more I do my bit to balyhoo the patron Saint of Ireland.

Now, many of you have guessed that there is not a scrap of Irish in me, yet I've feted this tiny Holiday to such an extent, that very often I'll receive calls from friends and family, who consider it MY holiday as much as anything else. Add to that, my longstanding support of Irish Republicanism, (Mick Collins Style, not Eamon Devalerra), and i'm sure the puzzlement grows.


Why would I adopt all this nonsense? Why is St. patrick's day and Ireland so important?

Many of you know, I am a bit of an Anglophile. TV, Film, Literature, Government, History, i love it all. Stiff upper lip, tally-ho, pip-pip, old-bean, etc. etc. I am as familiar with many aspects of British culture as I am American, and yet I will forever fault England in its treatment of the Irish.

In the Irish struggle, I have been forced to second guess Blighty, and all that I love about her. For all the civility England has displayed throughout its history, the treatment of the Irish, and in particular the belittlement of Catholics by the English for the last 800 years, serves as a constant reminder to me that even those things that I hold dear must be constantly reexamined. It brings me comfort to stand in solidarity, with my Catholic Brothers and Sisters, and go arm in arm with a people who were for a long time, very brutally oppressed.

I will forever love England, but I cherish the reminder, that even a great, progressive "civil" power, can be corrupt and unfair. In times like these, I think it's a lesson well remembered.


God Save Ireland, and Happy Saint Patrick's day to all!

Ides rather be fishing...

I know it's been almost a month since I posted. My apologies. We can say that Pilot Season has come and gone, and I am still alive and managing to keep afloat.

On this beautiful and sunny day, we all take a moment to cry out our literacy and recall Julius Ceasar, as he was stabbed to death in the Roman Senate, exactly 2050 years ago this very day. And what of it? Who gives a flying fart about some la-de-da Eye-Tai who lived so long ago, and wore a skirt? Well, take a deep breath... do it. I'm serious, just take a big breath, you'll thank me for it.

Look, this post is a lot more meaningful if you play along so humor me and breathe deep.

Didja?

Ok, I'll assume you did. Even if you didn't, as long as you haven't shuffled your mortal coil in the last few minutes, you have shared in Ceasar's final breath.

"Whaaa?" I can hear you all saying with googly eyes, and a slight annoyance, wondering where the deuce i'm going with this.

Here comes the Math:

The average breath contains around 10 to the 22nd molecules of air.

The approximate number of molecules in the atmosphere is about 10 to the 44th

Therefore: The molecules from Caesar's last breath have dispersed evenly through the atmosphere and their number has remained relatively constant.

I can hear the scoffing. Just consider this:

Caesar's breath molecules / Total air molecules

10 to the 22nd / 10 to the 44th

1 in 10 to the 22nd

You are saying,"That's a HUGE NUMBER, and Alf is an ass for drawing us through this for such a small chance that we just shared a breath with Julie C"

Ye of Little faith.

10 to the 22nd * 1/10 to the 22nd = 10 to the 22nd / 10 to the 22nd = 1

In fact, it is highly probable that you get one of Ceasar's final breath molecules in every breath you take.

Aha! What a roundabout and nearly meaningless way to find a connection to Ceasar, right? Well, just consider that with every breath you take, you are in fact, inhalin molecules disperesed by every living person, through history in its entirety, that you are forever joined to all humanity simply by existing and breathing. It suddenly becomes more beautiful huh?

I take great comfort in the thought that I breathe and live my friends, family, heroes, country and planet as i sit here in front of my computer ready for another day at work, and ponder how much it sucked to be Ceasar, on a sunny March 15th, 2050 years ago.

The Circles of Hangover Hell

1st Circle: The Ducked Bullet

No pain. No real feeling of illness. Your sleep was deep and all those carbo-loaded beers have gifted you with a week’s worth of misplaced energy. During lunch you torture your less fortunate coworkers, bragging about how you can pound booze all night, drink warm gin out of a dirty ashtray for breakfast, and still show up fifteen minutes early for work. You crave a steak sub and a side of gravy fries.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

2nd Circle: The Thirsty Mongoloid

No real pain, but something is definitely amiss. You look okay but you have the mental capacity of a staple gun. You are definitely dehydrated and after drinking two Gatorades you still feel that way. You feel kinda dumb and you notice the temporary lowering of your IQ has made you more sociable and less concerned with workaday worries. You crave a fruity pancake from IHOP.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

3rd Circle: The Headwound That Won’t Heal

Slight headache. Stomach is upset. You are definitely not the paradigm of a productive worker. Anytime a girl walks by you gag because her perfume reminds you of the warm gin shots you did at your friend’s apartment after the bouncer ejected you at 1:45 a.m. Memories of bad behavior seep in and you cringe with shame. Life would be much, much better if you were in your bed with a dozen donuts and a meatball sub watching Hogan’s Heroes reruns. You've had four cups of coffee, a gallon of water, three iced teas and a diet coke and you haven't peed once.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

4th Circle: The Hunchback of Cheap Champagne

You have lost the will to live. Your head is throbbing. You can't speak too quickly or you’ll punctuate your sentences with vomit. Your boss has already lambasted you for being late and reeking of booze. The clothes you put on won’t win you any fashion awards and your face looks like a golf green mowed by a blind junkie (ladies, it looks like you applied your make-up with a shotgun). Your eyes are red enough to give your features a lizardish cast and your hair makes your coworkers ask if you’re starting up a new wave band. You vaguely remember doing some really dumb and embarrassing things last night and you don’t care. You would murder your favorite bartender for a foot-long Bratwurst smothered with dijon and fried onions.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

5th Circle: Dr. Kevorkian’s Dream Date

You don’t feel human, you don’t even feel like a mammal. Your long morning shower didn’t take, no amount of soap could penetrate the coat of sleaze. You have a second heartbeat in your head which is actually annoying the employees sitting near you. You’re getting drunk from the vodka vapors seeping from every pore. You still have toothpaste crust in the corners of your mouth from the futile attempt to remove the taste of decaying rat. Your body has lost the ability to generate saliva, your tongue flops in your mouth like a nightmare-plagued wino thrashing around in his cardboard hooch. You'd cry like a baby but that would steal the last few drops of moisture left in your body. Death seems pretty awesome right now. You definitely don't remember who you were with, where you were, what you drank, and why there is a stranger still passed out in your bed.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

6th Circle: The Infinite Nutsmacker

You wake up on your bathroom floor, your arms death-locked around your porcelain lover. You would vomit but you quite apparently took care of that last night, with none too good of an aim. You turn your head too quickly and smell the funk of 13 packs of cigarettes in your hair. Suddenly you realize you were smoking, but not ultra lights—some sadist handed you a pack of Pall Mall nonfilters and you chain-smoked them like it was your full-time job, telling anyone who would listen that smoking filtered cigarettes is like drinking whiskey through a bar rag. You look in the mirror and find the Ready to Rock stamp has migrated from your right hand to your forehead with the help of Jager magic. You try to rehydrate but all you can stand is one cupped handful of brackish tap water. You crawl into the shower and the coldest water fails to revive your nerve endings as you mumble solemn oaths of never, ever letting a single drop of evil alcohol inside your body again. Ever .

If you could remember your behavior last night you would never step outside your apartment again, but the last thing you recall is accepting your ninth shot offer with the exhortation, “Fuck yes! Let’s get this party started!” Everything after that is a black vacuum populated with shifting, vaguely-menacing shapes.

Instead of yelling at you for being late, your boss solemnly invites you into his office to ask you if a parent or sibling passed away. Your super-sensitive ears pick up low talk among your coworkers about “interventions” and “rehab.” The cute girl from accounting you’ve been flirting with for three months looks at you like you’re a leprous hunchback who has come for her organs. You cannot bear to eat, the granola bar from the snack machine sticks in your craw like petrified log jammed in a woodchipper. You curse yourself for not calling in sick because all you can manage to do is sit in your chair and breathe . . . very gently.

Glücklicher 250 Geburtstag Mozart!

mozart
Originally uploaded by alflamont.

Obwohl ich nicht Ihr größter Ventilator bin, (ich bin mehr einer Beethoven Person), muß ich altem "Wolfie" einige Stützen geben. Ich habe zu einem Mozart Oper Festival täglich auf meiner Weise nach Hause gehört und ich muß sagen, daß das freche Giovanni, das goofy Cosi anzieht und die magische Flöte noch mir glückliche Gedächtnisse holen und mein Herz füllen. Glücklicher 250 Geburtstag Wolfie!


"O Mozart!Immortal Mozart! How many and what countless images of a brighter, better world hast thou stamped on our souls." -Schubert

The Biz

Aw Man! This is going to suck to say. It's going to come across as elitist and self important. All i can say, is that I DO this. This is my life. 60 hours a week. Everyone in LA wants to talk show business, and everyone has "Advice" to give. Well, let me just throw THIS out there. If you're not a manager, and agent, a casting director or someone who deals with living, breathing, casting choices, then DO NOT GIVE ANY FUCKING ADVICE TO ACTORS! The following is a cut and paste job of some advice an actress friend of mine received from someone who lives in LA:

I have a lot of friends who are actors. It's a tough gig. Find a steady yet flexable job yo pay the bills and then take as many classes and do as many auditions as you can. As with any art, the only way to get better at something is to do it. Getting as much good experience as you can while building a reel is key. That reel can help you get agents and parts, so you want to try and get involved with pieces that reflect you as an actor and that you cna be proud of. For every striving actor there is a striving director, so keep a look out for work in indipendent short films by people trying to break into directing.

Oh mother of the baby Jesus and all the Saints in heaven...did you read that?
Let's forgive the spelling. Let's forgive the notion that acting is an art, the question this guy needs to ask is "Do you want to make a living at acting, or just twat about?". The recipe he has given this girl is a recipe for a lot of mistakes, and a lot of wasted time. THIS is how actors end up in a lame fuckaround, rather than building towards a real and lasting career.

I know the intentions were good, but I also know how saturated this town is with actors and how if you want to REALLY give a friend a hand, you'll avoid giving shit advice. Do everyone in LA a favor, and let's steer actors to the brutal guillotine that is the real Hollywood. Let's introduce them to SAG, AFTRA, Pay or Play, Favored Nations, Modified Low Budgets, Breakdowns, Sides, Pilots, Non-Union Episodics and all the true hazzards of a budding career. Keep them away from lowlifes with no budget, a self obsessed script, and a digital cam. Deliver your friends from "Features" that are written, directed, produced, and starring John Q. Fuckup. If your actor friends are to die, then let them do it, and decrease the surplus population. At least you gave them a fighting chance.

Tristan and Isolde (The surrender of self to Love)

I recently murdered the story of Tristan and Isolde while making a point of the necessity of pain and anguish, the acceptance of these parts of life as inevtabilities of a passionate and well led journey. I used Tristan and Isolde as metaphors for resigned passion and love. unfortunately I paraphrased the most touching part of the story, so I've decided to retell it and expose casual readers to my thoughts. The Story goes as follows:

Tristan was a knight who was sent by his king to retrieve Isolde, a beautiful princess whos marriage to the king was to provide peace to two long battling kingdoms.

Isolde was beautiful and young, and her nurse worried that she would not accept the old farty king as a husband. As insurance against a pretty young girl's better instincts, the nurse made a love potion that Isolde would drink when she met the king.

As fate would have it, during the trip the dashing Tristan and beautiful Isolde accidentally drink the potion, and a deep love ensues.

The nurse wakes the next day and finds the new lovers in each other's arms, weeping. They know what this means. They know that suffering and more likely death for Tristan would soon follow.

The Nurse exclaims, "You have drunk your death."

"If by ‘my death’ you mean this agony of love, that is my life!" responded the loving knight, "If by my death you mean the punishment that we are to suffer if discovered, I accept that. And if by my death, you mean eternal punishment in the fires of hell, I accept that too."

So essential to the journey is a complete surrender into the moment and passions of love, that this Boy-Knight and his teenage princess are willing to accept both physical death AND eternal damnation for their love, is a testament to romantic love, attraction, and the depth to which it moves us.

The same story as ETERNAL SUNSHINE OF THE SPOTLESS MIND. No matter what the end result, or the misery you may feel, it is always worth it. The anger of betrayal, the crushing loneliness, and the resurrected self, a better and more conscious self, are all in thanks to the surrender we once made. Though we sometimes miss that glorious bliss, we are greatful for the ability to surrender to it, and the supreme happiness it once brought to our lives.

Marriage Schmarriage?

A friend of over 3 years has recently revealed to me that he in fact, has a blog. To my friend's credit, the blog contains some very complete thoughts on a variety of subjects. None bear the sophmoric self-indulgent mark of say... MY BLOG , but rather his entries are precisely why blogging was made available. The sharing of ideas. My friend and I are simpatico on many fronts. Both of us are notoriously liberal, both of us are savagely independent. However, he has recently railed against the institution of marriage. Now I know what marriage means here in LA, its obvious that this country in particular seems to have made a mockery of the institution, and that in the media, marriage is only an accoutrement or an accessory for Paris and Paris or Britney, K-fed and their wretched bumpkin offspring. Republicans and their mini brains can't wrap their heads around the notion that marriage needs more defense from an overzealous Nicole Ritchie than from a committed gay couple. So why marriage at all then?

I think we can all agree that love is present regardless of the ceremony. The financial benefits are a cheap spiritual excuse, and barely worth mentioning. My friend makes many valid points. As someone who finds the likelyhood of marriage ebb away as each passing day makes me a more bizzare version of my previous self, i could see the shenanigans and buffoonery associated with the whole wedding season with as cold an eye as any doomed to a bachelor's life. So why the heaving sentimentality? I obviously disagree with his stance on marriage,but why?

Allow me to refer to a story from the Indus valley:
It is beleived that when a man is created, his opposite is also created in the world. These spirits are then seperated. If a man leads a holy life, one that is true to himself and kind unto others, the the man will be reunited with his other self. The other lost in birth. If he is untrue to himself and others, then he will find another mate who does not quite complete him.

Taken literally of course it's absolute nonsense, as with most religion. But by god what beautiful depth there is to the notion of finding yourself in the other. My progressive friends will all agree that the face of god, and true holiness does not lie in yourself but rather in the other. The ability to feel the pain of your neighbors, and bear the agony and ectasy of someone's life along with yours is a momentuous occasion. As with all great transitions in life a ceremony and celebration must accompany the spiritual transition of a being who switches to being self serving to becoming a servant of the life he or she has chosen. THAT is marriage. Jewish weddings have the breaking of a glass to symbolise the pain that comes with leaving your previous self behind, followed by the joy of dancing and singing to celebrate a new life.

How many times have you seen a couple get married and it changes nothing? The big change came when they became committed long ago. The cermonies are simply a celebration of that step. you gather everyone around you who your love affects and you bring them close.Nuns are married to god. Businessmen say they are married to their job. Ultimately marriage is an admission that you are a being who has been spiritualy changed, the ceremony the act the legal stuff, is just an embellishment for the true, mature , denial of self it represents. As long as people interact, care and grow, marriage will happen.

Ultimate Showdown

Optimus, Indy, Batman, Honest Abe, etc. VS. Godzilla

NO IMAGE NCECESSARY

Thanks, mAc

Things from 2005

Ok, so I'm sorry for not posting in a Cyber-eternity. Here's the deal. I had collected some great links and images last year, and never found time to post it. That being said,a new year's post is just the thing.

#1
Charlie Chaplin and Einstein

Man I love this picture.

#2 Another Fine Mess


This Badass image is actually a print that was being sold at a small gallery in London. i tried to purchase it, but the Artist has dissapeared, and he took his art with him.


#3 The Tortoise and the Hippo
Anyone who knows me, knows that i am not a sentimental sap. That being said, I am extremely proud to say that the true story of THIS orphaned baby hippo and the 130 year old tortoise it adopted, will soon be a feature film produced by my company RELEVANT entertainment.



#4 As Pilots Season Approaches, who doesn't feel like this at least a few times a day?


#5 Always Look on the bright side of life, and death.



#6 The tale of Pac-Man


Sweetness.

The War on Christmas

What the hell is wrong with "Christians"? By "Christians" I don't mean the lovely people who take their religion seriously and to themselves. I mean the idiots who insist of force feeding their version of Christianity on everyone else. As is my custom, I have taken the time to dissect the Holiday that we all celebrate, and see why the evangelists were all up in arms about "Happy Holidays" instead of "Merry Christmas". As you might have guessed, the root of the outrage is ignorant hipocrisy and good old fashioned retardation.

For starters, let's do a little thinking. I know, Leviticus 21:34 says "And yea, he that thought was smitten by a plague of boils in the naughty bits. For thinking displeases the lord, and giveth unto him a headache" . However, I think it's also Leviticus 33:10 that reads "Go not into the ocean's waters, lest you be wearing a feathered hat and be carrying a newt, for that is unclean.". So I'm pretty sure we can all agree to let Leviticus and his wacky antics be.

So why is "Happy Holidays" so wrong? Anyone? Yes, the retard in the back.

Ok, so the premise is. Hey! No giggling. The answer given to us by Fox News is that "Happy Holidays" ignorest the religious significance of the season.

Who said that? What? Kwanzaa? Hannukah? New Years? Those don't exist. The holiday season is ONLY Christmas, and retailers should not pay any attention to those Jews, Niggers, and Chinamen that try to say otherwise. Only people who love Jesus shop during the Christmas season.

Since we are being such fucking purists about making the Holiday Holy, let's address some other things you assholes should note about Christmas.

For starters, let's just say that Christmas is no big deal. At least religiously it isn't. The biggest, mightiest day of the year for Chrstianity is Easter. Christmas was barely celebrated untill the 1860's when Macy's started having Christmas sales and decorating their window displays with Christmas themes. Since then, christmas has become more and more important every year. Now we see that retailers make up to 70% of their yearly profits and miraculously (By the hand of Jesus, no doubt), the Christmas season has become THE holiday for American evangelicals.

Next, let's make sure your wretched offspring pray to ALL the Saints. As a Catholic I take great pride in the religious A-Team, known as "The Saints". I can claim a connection from Saint Francis, to Saint Bernadette. From Saint Vitus and Genesius to all the holy martyrs. But you freaky zealots deny the divinity of saints. Unless it's tied to shopping, and finance. Saint Patrick, saint Valentine, and Saint Nicholas, have proven to be consumer friendly and therefore thay are widely accepted by the heaten evangelical prods. Saint Nicholas Bishop of Myra was a minor saint who lived around 325 AD. The current gift-giving, jolly old elf is an interpretation of this Saint taken from the Netherlands, and given a commercial career by Coca-Cola during....the 1860's.

Finally, make sure you buy enough gifts for all twelve days of the "Cristes maesse". The religious observance and gift giving of Christmas extends THROUGH JANUARY 6. I know most of you think of it as once a year thing, but if you guys want to own it, then OWN it.

The list of hypocritical and adopted traditions that benefit the consumerist orgy of an American Christmas, is too long to list. It's amazing to me that the right would concentrate on opposing an inclusionist statement like "Happy Holidays" , a statement that says "Good will to all, and Peace on Earth regardless of who you are or what you celebrate". Christmas time is not the time when Jesus was born. Who knows when the exact date for that was? The early church chose this time of the year because of the universal feeling of renewal that comes at the end of a year. The birth of Christ SHOULD be connected with the birth of a New Year, the birth of hope and what is to come. That is universal and it makes the tale and life of Jesus all the more potent. The fathers of the church knew that. They knew that their message of hope had universal appeal, and so joined with all the peoples of the world in welcoming hope and love into the world as we all begin the next cycle of life. THAT is Christmas. That's what the season is all about, and i'll take my Happy Holidays over your version of Christmas any day.

Happy Holidays Everyone!

And god bless us EVERY-ONE.

Hump-Worthy

Today's Hump-Worthy person is my friend and hero Joe "Check out the size of my myth" Campbell.
Though I'm not a fan of "The Dead", Joey really grasps the instincts that take over during any really good concert.



From Ritual to Rapture, from Dionysus to the Grateful Dead
By Joseph Campbell

The Deadheads are doing the dance of life and this I would say , is the answer to the atom bomb.

I had a marvelous experience two nights ago. I was invited to a rock concert. ( laughter in the audience) I'd never seen one. This was a big hall in Berkeley and the rock group were the Grateful Dead, whose name, by the way, is from the Egyptian Book of the Dead. And these are very sophisticated boys. This was news to me.

Rock Music has never seemed that interesting to me. It's very simple and the beat is the same old thing. But when you see a room with 8000 young people for five hours going through it to the beat of these boys ... The genius of these musicians- these three guitars and two wild drummers in the back... The central guitar, Bob Weir, just controls this crowd and when you see 8000 kids all going up in the air together... Listen, this is powerful stuff ! And what is it ? The first thing I thought of was the Dionysian festivals, of course. This energy and these terrific instruments with electric things that zoom in... This is more than music. It turns something on in here (the heart?). And what it turns on is life energy. This is Dionysus talking through these kids. Now I' ve seen similar manifestations, but nothing as innocent as what I saw with this bunch. This was sheer innocence. And when the great beam of light would go over the crowd you' d see these marvelous young faces in sheer rapture- for five hours ! Packed together like sardines! Eight thousand of them ! Then there was an opening in the back with a series of panel windows and you look out and there's a whole bunch in another hall, dancing crazy. This is a wonderful fervent loss of self in the larger self of a homogeneous community. This is what it is all about !


It reminded me of Russian Easter. Down in New York we have a big Russian Cathedral. You go there on Russian Easter at midnight and you hear Kristos anesti ! Christ is Risen ! Christ is Risen ! It's almost as good as a rock concert. (laughter) It has the same kind of life feel. When I was in Mexico City at the Cathedral of the Virgin of Guadeloupe, there it was again. In India, in Puri, at the temple of the Jagannath- that means the lord of the Moving World- the same damn thing again. It doesn't matter what the name of the God is, or whether its a rock group or a clergy. It's somehow hitting that chord of realization of the unity of God in you all, that's a terrific thing and it just blows the rest away."




 

Science errrr....Tuesday

So I'm a day late.
So Nu?

My three favorite science stories of the week:

#1. Shark vs. Shark in Australia


HOT Shark on Shark action

#2. New lame looking species of carnivorous cat found in borneo.


Lamest previously unknown carnivore EVER


#3. Hobbits were the first Australians



Sauron was the first Texan.

R.I.P Ben's Balls

grnlntrnalf
I'm a fucking mess
I need my buds

benpatrickw
why are you a mess

grnlntrnalf
many reasons
One in particular
But I don't want to discuss it

benpatrickw
what happened?

grnlntrnalf
let's go out, get drunk, and be irresponsible with lADIES, ROLLERSKATES, AND LIQUOR

benpatrickw
that sounds like a ton of fun
but the girl would have to come with me
and she is underage

grnlntrnalf
We all go dressed as goofballs
Dude...par for the fucking course

benpatrickw
what is par?

grnlntrnalf
Par ...golf
average
Normal
That's the score that is
What I'm saying is that  you rarely abandon her, your friend is BEGGING, it sounds like fun, you'd take her if you could, but unfortunately it's 21 and over.

benpatrickw
I'm telling you it won't fly

grnlntrnalf
Then she pouts, you tell her "I'm sorry darling, I love you.but i'm not the kind of friend who would abandon a mate.'Ill be home later tonight."
You give her a good kiss, maybe a pickle-tickle if it goes that far, you put on a costume and we have a good time.

benpatrickw
won't work
I see her on the weekends
she goes to school during the week

Death of The Week

Shuffled off this week:

Pat Morita


He's in a better place now.

1932-2005
Wax off...forever.


George Best


1946-2005

A hard partier, and the symbol of London's swingin' sixities, I think he also played soccer.

Check out the Party Monster's decline:

March 2000: Severe liver damage diagnosed
February 2001: Treated for pneumonia
April 2001: Anti-alcohol pellets implanted into his stomach
July 2002: Undergoes liver transplant
November 2004: Routine operation to check on liver transplant
October 2005: Treated for kidney infection in intensive care
November 2005: Lung infection sees condition worsen

Deadly things of the week:
Eagles and Tortoises

Mandy Barnes' Tidbit of Death:
Two witness cremations (where the family watches the body go into the chamber) back to back, are called a Double Feature in certain circles.