April 2007 Archives

Some days just seem to have a theme, and today's theme is prison. My friend Nash's entry (see yesterday for the link) was all about it, then he got me thinking about trying to publish the prison part of the blog, and then this morning I met Craig, another ex-con who does exactly that! Check out his website: http://over-the-wall.net/

Okay, the fact that this guy is incredibly good-looking is neither HERE NOR THERE people, so stop getting all distracted. That is NOT why I spoke to him--and he doesn't even bat for my team anyway but has a gay brother so is completely at ease with it. I spoke to him because I sensed it would help him to hear my story--the part about how terrifying I found it to get out of prison. It so surreal, there's nothing more that you want to happen than to be free again, and when it happens you feel completely and utterly naked. At least that's how I felt--for weeks all I really wanted to do was crawl under the covers and stay there--which is exactly what I did many a day. And you feel so guilty and weird about it--how could you be so afraid of something you wanted so much? And yet, it's the scariest thing I ever had to go through--I completely understand why the first thing most people do is immediately get high.

My solution was to turn fear into faith, which I was able to do when I realized the 12 steps were not something you kicked someone down. And it seems that as long as I keep living to the best of my ability along spirtitual lines, the Gods might well see fit how to mollify my completely outsized ambition to be a bestselling author interviewed on talk shows as well as one of People Magazine's 100 sexiest people. Maybe instead I'll have a gig on a local cable show and get profiled on SexyGayBlogger.com. I must be willing for the future to look a little differently than the fantasies I have in mind. Okay, a lot differently.

If I can make a few people feel more loved and less fearful, AND I can reduce my carbon footprint at least one shoe size by picking up some trash, then my time on this earth will be well justified. Everything else is gravy.

MC0 2007

My good friend Molly, the Tennesse-based filmmaker and activist, has made this short film about a Philip Workman, a prisoner condemned to die on May 9th, who was convicted on the basis of one eyewitness who has recanted his story.

This kind of stuff upsets me so much I have trouble sitting through it, and I don't blame you if you can't either. But I feel like posting it is the very least I can do, if only to spread awareness that the American criminal justice system suffers from from an epidemic of zealous prosecutors who often find the truth incidental to their need to get a high conviction rate. And to remind that not all unjustly convicted prisoners can be freed by DNA evidence.

Finally, if there's any among you who believe in the death penalty, can you honestly tell me the death of 100 guilty men justified the death of even one innocent man? The only way to guarantee no innocents are executed is to outlaw the execution of all convicted.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xoWvZXOBgmA

Perhaps one of my readers works for the Governor of Tennessee and can slap some sense into him.

MCO 2007

I actually was thinking of proposing a caption contest for the above, but then again, does it need one?

I have settled on a new metaphor for the Iraq debacle. Iraq is like a drug addict who was in prison for 30 years until the United States got him out (i.e. overthrew Saddam), and then magically expected him to become a law-abiding, upstanding pillar of the community. Instead the addict went right back to using, and even though says he wants to get sober, is in the complete grip of his addiction. The United States--like terrified parents--sends him to rehab after rehab, orders him to meetings, pleads, threatens and cajoles. All to no avail.

All addicts have to hit bottom, and even if the journey there is very ugly, they'll get there sooner if you get out of the way. Iraq is like a drunk who wants to get sober as long as he doesn't have to stop drinking. Its addictions are just violence, religious extremism, and ethnic hatred.

It's not going to be pretty if we stay or if we go. But at least what's on the other side of the violence that will occur if we do go is a home-grown, Iraqi solution. History is rife with nations that have recovered from bloody civil wars--including ours. Iraq will eventually get sober--but has to do so on its own.

MCO 2008

Who knew that picking up trash I'd actually discover entirely new species? I mean, come on, this is too small to be a snake, but it's suspiciously large to be a lizard, wouldn't you say? I'm naming it a "snizzard." It's a very calm creature. Held totally still for the pic.

I am sort of reeling--in a good way--from the intensity of the correspondences I am having online. My "virtual" relationships--all with people I haven't met, mostly other bloggers--have begun to carry an equal emotional weight in my life to the "real" relationships I am having. Even last night, when my date was here, I had a wicked time staying off the computer, and today, fuggeddaboutit.

However, truth be told, I am a bit of know-it-all. (Ah gee, Marc, really? We had no idea.) And sometimes I overstep bounds. I do not suffer from much doubt about most issues, and am not reluctant to voice my opinion. So I apologize to anyone to whom I may have been overcritical when what they needed was unconditional support. I don't always give what's needed, as my aim is to be authentic, not liked. (Though of course I like to be liked--I just have no trouble with not being liked if it means I've been genuine.)

I remember last year, when I gave a free class to Senior Citizens in "Imagining Your Story." They all started out very enthusiastically, as they all had these first chapters or short stories they had been working on for years and were very hopeful about. I started out giving them the praise they craved, and then as the class progressed, I started to get a little more critical, asking them to embrace the re-writing process, to make the work better. I certainly gave them all the guidance they needed, but by the last session, no one showed up!

One lady, however--by far the best in the group--did call me to tell me she had been a published writer who fell into a deep writers block after the death of her husband. And the first exercise I gave her--which she spun into a lovely, creative piece--was the first writing she had managed to do in several years. She wanted me to understand that this simple assigment had unblocked her. This indeed made the entire class worth it, even though I felt I had perhaps hurt the feelings of the other students by not being as gentle as I could have.

One of the emails I did get this week that just tickled me to death was from Nash, the author of: http://nashdrift.blogspot.com/. This man has actually started reading my blog back starting from my very first entry in prison, and he wrote some of the nicest and most flattering things to me about it a writer can hope to hear. He actually has me rethinking my decision not to try and publish the prison part of the blog.

So thank you Nash, and thanks to all of you who have opened up to me, confessed to me, listened to my advice--whether or not you asked for it--argued with me, even snapped at me! The important thing is that we engage in REAL communication (as opposed to dueling monologues). Like I said to Sean, it's all about us being human beings with each other, while trying to stay grounded in love, tolerance and understanding.

MCO 2007

So yesterday I get to the park and Sean is not behind her tree, but at a bench, eating something. I approach her.

"How are you, Sean?"

"I'm fine."

"Good. Listen, I wanted to ask you something. Do you have some family, or anyone you might want me to contact?"

"Family?"

"Yeah, I thought maybe they didn't know where you are."

"Oh, my family knows exactly where I am."

She says it with noticeable sarcasm, even contempt. I believe her.

This part of the conversation I can't quite manage to reconstruct verbatim, but basically she claims that she has two houses, one "down there" and one "on Ferndell."

Now here's the thing, Ferndell is the road leading into the park--it is not a residential street. I wonder if she means by one of her homes the space behind the tree. As for the other, I could have sworn I've seen her once sleeping in the doorway of a laundromat on Franklin. Or maybe she sleeps at home and they let her "commute" to the park every day. She does say she's "drawn here."

I can't quite remember what I said that got this response.

"Well, I think the problem is fairly obvious."

I tell her it's not, unless she means being homeless. Maybe that's when she tells me she has two "homes."

Anyway, we're not getting too far, so I just say:

"Well okay, if you don't need anything...Unless, you do. Something to read? Or...I don't know if you get enough to eat."

She hesitates. I wonder if she needs the money for booze--that's what her family won't give her. She just doesn't seem like a drinker. She doesn't have that jovial thing going, and I can't smell anything. I wonder what she thought was so "obvious" --but I don't ask. I do take out some money.

"I just don't like there to be any strings attached." she warns.

Does she think I'm gonna demand she come to a meeting? Pray with my church? I peel off $10.

"I have no agenda, Sean. This is just one human being to another human being. I've seen you around and want to make sure you're okay."

She takes the $10.

"Thank you."

At that point, there's nothing more to say. I walk away, feeling a little weird because she seemed almost irritated. At the same time, she made it clear she had a family and they knew where she was, and that's what I wanted to know the most.

Once in a while I may give her some money. But, like many of you have noted as being the case for you and the homeless, it'll be as much for me as for her.

MCO 2007

Well, my server was down all morning so I couldn't blog and now I have to go to work.

So you'll just have to wait until tomorrow to hear about my first conversation with Sean of the Tree--who may or may not be really homeless--in the park.

MCO 2008

The is Sean's Tree. Sean is the homeless woman I wrote about a few weeks back, the Bambi-like lady who I see looking through garbage occasionally, who spends the vast majority of her days in Griffith Park behind this tree. (You can see her standup-cart there on the left...she is usually laying on a sleeping bag next to it, except when she's sitting on a bench, or walking back from the bathroom with a washcloth.) What I find so sad about her is less the homelessness than the loneliness. I've never even see her reading. What does she think about all day, looking up at the sky? If she is mentally ill, can I do anything to help her? If she isn't, does that make her "lifestyle" a choice I should respect? For "help" to work, does it need to be asked for? Or are these just questions I ask myself so I have a rationalization for not reaching out?

What am I afraid of? Let me count the scenarios. That she WILL want help, but that the help I'm able to give her is much less than the help she requires. That she will give me her name and let me take her picture, but that a search will result in no family, or worse, that the one she has doesn't want her. I'm afraid of finding out that she is not there by choice, but because of a series of personal disasters that would drive anyone into homelessness, that would require far more than I can possibly do to reverse. I'm afraid I'll find myself being taken advantage of, giving her money for booze or drugs. Or maybe I'm afraid she'll say "no, I'm fine" and I will be secretly relieved, and then I'll know I'm really just a dilettante do-gooder--sure, I'll do it, as long as it doesn't involve any real sacrifice or effort or disappointment.

I bet Bill Gates has had a few sleepless nights over whether he should give away 50 instead of 40 billion, or perhaps over wondering whether a system where any one person is allowed to accumulate such wealth isn't precisely what's created the poverty he's trying to alleviate. So I guess I get to torment myself a little over giving just $20 instead of the $40 I could probably afford to American Idol Cares last night, to wonder why it's so hard to peek behind that tree and ask Sean if I can help her, AND to still have a good day.

My disease does not want me to have a good day. It wants me to go to that place of futility and despair, to conclude that if I was really a good person, I'd be Mother Teresa, and since I'm not, I must be a selfish fuck who therefore might as well get high, because what does anything matter anyway? (Nice try, disease, but it ain't gonna work. I'm onto you.)

The truth is I can choose to suffer because you suffer, but that won't alleviate your suffering one iota. But it is possible to feel compassion and a desire to change the world without making yourself miserable over the inevitable inadequacy of the actual results of your attempts to do so. Good days are allowed for anyone--even when they don't happen for some.

MCO 2007

P.S. Read in the Huffington Post: "Godless atheism is the worst kind" - Ellis Weiner.

I was writing to a friend that the almost daily revelation of yet another Bush Administration perfidy (today's: turning OSHA over to the industries it was supposed to regulate) has led to a perverse situation. There are so many scandals, lies and jaw-dropping examples of arrogance and incompetence, that each one ends up submerging the one that follows. Just as you absorb Walter Reade, you are disgusted by Gonzalez, then you can't even take a breath before you witness the culture of propaganda that led to the Tillman and Lynch fictions. And those are but three examples of so, so many more.

The United States has had corrupt and/or incompetent Presidents before. But never with such horrific consequences. There will be a million Iraqis dead before this is over. As for global warming, this 8 years of complete inaction may well mean the death of many millions more, not to mention, perhaps the planet itself.

MCO 2007

That's me and Gaza this morning, in the mirror of a discarded headboard around the corner. I'm actually impressed with myself, because even a temperature of 102 last night did stop me from my appointed rounds this morning. (I'll pause for applause, thank you.) Of course this is less testament to my devotion than to the curative power of fever. It's very uncomfortable, but I do believe you get better faster the longer you allow a fever to go, and last night I let it go. This morning I am feeling much better--at about 70%. Achy and tired still, but the fever is gone. (Yes, I did go to the doc. Just a run-of-the-mill virus).

I heard a report on the conditions in Russian orphanages--mostly appalling--this morning on NPR. I wonder if it resonated with me so much because one of my fevered nightmares was that I had abandoned a little 3-year old girl in a cemetery and told her to wait for me and then couldn't find my way back to her. Or maybe dreams can be a way of communicating across time and distance, and there's an orphan somewhere who was having the same dream about me, but in reverse.

In any case, it's the sort of thinking that can lead one into utter despair, when you multiply one orphan or abused child by a billion, or the other way, if you adopt instead a posture of humility. There a Jewish proverb: "If you save one life, you save the world." This is very AA as well. You can help save a lot of lives just by staying sober and sharing your experience and strength and hope with others And then those people who you've helped get and keep sober go out and have a positive impact on the world they would never have had if they kept using. Some of them may even go on to adopt some Russian orphans.

Obviously, you don't need to be in a 12-step program to do good. I suppose I needed to think about it because there are days where the trash-picking and the occasional charitable contribution doesn't seem near enough, seems pitiful in fact in the face of so much need. So I comfort myself with the knowledge that I do contribute to the sobriety of many. All those little contributions, taken together, may just equal one life.

MCO 2007

Well, it's Armenian Genocide Remembrance Day, so the streets around here will be clogged with Armenians in black t-shirts. While I fully support what they are doing, I do wish they hadn't papered the streets with their fliers, because guess who'd picking them up? (I scanned the Armenian side because I think their alphabet is really cool.) I also thought the way the Turks were so certain they were superior to the Armenians that they could slaughter a million of them was a pretty good illustration of the toxicity of the thinking I lambasted yesterday.

Yesterday's headache has been joined by a fever. I imagine it's the flu, but that's seem odd, because to my knowledge there is nothing going around. So in preparation for the doctor, I have to get into the shower, as I was too exhausted to do so yesterday. (I had another scary experience in the park, although the snake was asleep. It's just that the ground was wet from the rains this weekend, and it kept collapsing under me as I tried to get out of the ravine. Once I finally made it, it took me a good 20 minutes to catch my breath--I honestly was afraid I was having a heart attack. I just have to leave some trash alone.)

The last time I had a fever, the poem, "Redemption" came to me. It's seems appropriate enough, what with yesterday's entry, and the way a fever gives you of having bizarre nightmares. Its actually one of my favorites (he said, with a nod to Borges.)

MCO 2007

MCO 2007

To read the whole thing: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/deepak-chopra/the-upper-hand-in-iraq_b_46372.html

But these are the best paragraphs:

The power of secularism in general seems too weak to recover. Under Saddam Iraq was forced to be a secularized military state. His brutal repression tainted secularism, to the extent that religion seemed like a saving grace on both sides of the Sunni-Shia divide. Presently, as in Iran, whoever seizes power on the secular front will only be a puppet for the sectarian rulers in the background. Maliki already is such a puppet. His is totally unable to curb Sadr's army because Sadr holds the upper hand. On his orders six members of the government resigned recently, indicating that the presence of U.S. occupation is merely a screen and a stop gap. Add to this volatile mix the chaotic intentions of Al-Qaeda, and the ability of any occupier to bring order is rendered nil.

In the end, the real Iraq has emerged from oppression into chaos. Eventually some sort of order will be imposed, no doubt by the power of harsh authority, and a new form of oppression will be imposed on a religious state. This was the pattern established in the Iranian revolution of thirty years ago, and despite a few changes, the same model is moving forward inexorably in Iraq. In this country the pro-war and anti-war politicians should face the harsh realities of Iraq together and stop arguing over an irrelevant cause that continues to cost us dearly in lost lives and a quagmire of illusions.

www.intentblog.com">Click: www.intentblog.com

MCO 2007

What a Monday. I'm lost in the world of the Internet. I'm flirting here, arguing there, bonding here, absorbing and being absorbed all over the place.

I should not have had three Red Bulls Saturday night. For some reason, it depressed me yesterday and gave me a headache I still have. When Mr. Saturday Night texted me to flirt and maybe get together last night, I found myself withdrawing. I wanted night to fall, and for the ex-roommate to come over and make a steak as we watched TV and I read blogs and wrote (which is exactly what we did). This is safe and familiar and comfortable, as are the relationships and friendships I have on line. And as much as I really dug Mr. Saturday night, I wonder if I might need to be with someone who's also in recovery. There is a language we have in common, a frame of reference. Mostly, I need to live in a neighborhood with better parking! Dating anyone is a pain-in-the-butt cause they have to park blocks away!

I've had quite an e-mail exchange with an evangelical Christian on whose blog I left a wry remark referring to God as "she." As I imagined it would, the pronoun confused her. I did it to remind her of the absurdity of ascribing a gender to God at all. If I have a beef over all others with Bible-thumpers, it is their humanizing of God. The God of the Old Testament condemns, judges, slaughters and drowns, and seems completely preoccupied by one thing--how much "he" is worshipped. "He's" completely egotistical, and frankly, making him, as the authors of the Bible do, so much like a petulant and all-powerful Superman is what I consider a pretty good definition of blasphemy. If I believed in blasphemy. The God of my understanding is only interested in loving, It has no need to be worshipped or feared, because It has no "needs." That is a projection of human qualities. Saying "God judges" is like saying God has a big nose. If there is a God, I submit we can understand that God about as well as my dog understands why I have to stop at the ATM. What arrogance for us to think we could conceivably understand God fully with a human brain to work with.

What I object to across the board is certainty when it comes to belief systems of any kind. Catholic or Protestant, Sunni or Shia, Hindu or Muslim, Communist or Nazi, Arab or Jew, Hasidic or Reform, Hutu or Tutsi--How long does the list have to be of human beings hurt by other human beings because they were so SURE that their belief was the one true belief, and therefore those who believed differently were somehow "less than," meriting of judgement, or correction, or conversion, or death? I find it extraordinary that a fundamentalist Amercan Christian and a Fundamentalist Sunni Muslim can stare at each other in the eye and say "I am CERTAIN my way is the right way and you are an infidel and will go to Hell if you do not accept Jesus/Mohammed as your personal savior." Doesn't it bother them that the other guy is as equally certain as they are? Does the Christian, for example, honestly believe that if she'd grown up Muslim she would have "seen the light" and converted to Christianity, instead of have become an equally committed, equally certain Muslim?

Let face it, true believers almost never arrive at their belief system after a long journey of exploration, questioning and exploration. It is almost always simply the perpetuation of beliefs handed to them in their childhood. The certainty that the Bible/Koran/Torah is the literal word of God is almost always entirely based on the fact that they were raised to believe it. Mama and Papa and the Preacher/Imam/Rabbi/Priest told me it was so, so it must be so. It turns the whole idea of Faith on its head. For me, there is no faith without doubt. That is the point of faith. You believe, you don't KNOW.

I believe a lot of things. I don't KNOW anything. And I only care what others believe when it affects their actions and those actions affect others as well as me. Get your beliefs off my body and off our laws, and get your certain hands off the guns you are pointing at others and me, whether you're the Afghani Taliban or the American One. You go ahead and believe anything you want, I won't love you any less as a child of God and another human being, and and I certainly don't care what you do in bed, although I will object to you beating your kids or pets. Bless the beasts and the children, after all.

The need for certainty is understandable enough. It is uncomfortable to say "I don't know" for most people--though I find it personally very liberating. I think the hard part for all the true believers of whichever ilk is to take responsibility for their own lives and happiness and choices, because if you end up unhappy, you have no one to blame but yourself. It's much more comfortable to blame the system, or the sinners, or to slavishly follow a manual that leaves no gray areas. But it seems to me an extremely depressing way to live. Religiosity and Dogmatism are the very antithesis of Spirituality.

Of course, that's just my opinion. And I don't say it anywhere as well as this guy, who I highly recommend you google. Bishop Spong. He is marvelous.

MCO 2007

I had decided on the topic of this entry before I quite accidentally fell upon this visual (for some reason "Chanel" is the #1 Google search string that leads to my blog, and I was trying to duplicate the result.) Doesn't she just exude "willingness?" The word came to me as I was casting about for a unifying theme for the past 24 hours.

First, there was the meeting with the potential producer of the documentary. It went great, and not so much because we spoke about my picking up trash and how to film it, but because we got a chance to get to know each other creatively. Specifically, I was able to pitch myself as a script doctor, and she is going to pass me one of the scripts she currently has a deal on for me to take a look at. The willingness here is hers, to be open to the possibilility that we may be working together in unforeseen ways as well as foreseen ones.

The second notable event of the day was the big party I went to. And big it was! At a gorgeous house in the Hollywood Hills, owned by such a nice guy that I couldn't even resent him for being so rich and handsome (and single. Note to self: be willing to attract prosperity.) So I get to the party, get a name tag and a Red Bull, and immediately run into some guys I know so I have some people to anchor to. Like only an alcoholic can, I then hope for the Red Bull to magically relax me--but funny how something needs alcohol in it to do that. Of course, that's out. Damn.

As the place fills up with a pretty nice-looking crowd, I have a little talk with myself in the bathroom mirror. Don't "try" to have a good time, Marc. Just be "willing" to have a good time. (Rather healthier than past strategies employed to transform my mood using mirrors in Hollywood Hills' bathrooms).

And it worked, marvelously well. And though I'd love to kiss and tell, I'm not going to. Let leave it at he was my kind of cutie, and our meeting was delightfully organic. We were just bopping to the music and started talking. No sturm, no drang, no "let's have a shot" to create instant chemistry. The chemistry was there all by itself.

I have no idea if there will be a second time, or more. I'm willing for that to be the case, I willing for that not to be the case. I no longer think that I know someone on the basis of one encounter enough to be sure of anything, I no longer artificially inflate expectations or the object of my attraction. I'm not aiming for any result except acceptance of whatever happens.

Which was the message I conveyed to both a caller from out-of-state and an email from in-state--just be willing for all outcomes in some personal crises you presently confront. None of us can make anything happen, but we can block certain outcomes with a unwillingness to allow them to happen. Outcomes, that later, we might be very happy we did not block.

Right now, I'm pretty much willing to fall back asleep. Happy Sunday, everyone.

MCO 2007

Obviously, I'm getting into this Really Bad/Good Casting business.

But, really, didn't anyone think to turn the tables on Imus? I mean, that everpresent stupid cowboy hat. Does he really think it looks good? He looks, well, ironically enough, like a pimp. A rather nappy-headed one at that.

MC0 2007

Okay, I got it wrong. A week ago it was Climate Day, today is Earth Day. I consider it a sublime irony that there are trails I have picked clean in Griffith Park, every day or every other day for the past year, that volunteers might scour today and find wanting for trash. I might be screwing up some 13-year old for life! They could come down from their hike with a practically empty Hefty, and conclude that people don't litter like they thought, and that global warming is a hoax!

Anyway, nothing will stop me from my appointed rounds before the meeting with the producers, but I did want to post this photo of three of the thousands of Walgreen's circulars that coat the neighborhood every Saturday. This week they were accompanied by similar peltings from Sears and Mervyn's. Do you know how much I would bet that not one executive who works in the upper echelons of the marketing agencies who peddle this tree-slaughtering consumerism has ever raised his hand to suggest that perhaps a 2% increase in forest cover might be worth a 2% reduction in profits? Let's face it. The real cause of global warming is rampant capitalism.

I tried to make an appointment with Tom Labonge, my council member, to discuss the trash situation. Sent emails and left a message--never heard back from him. I'm gonna try Gil Garcetti next (another Councilman--with ambitions for higher office.)

Of course, I can't get too indignant, because I still haven't got powerstrips or installed flourescent bulbs, and I often drive my car when I could take public transportation. Not that I honestly believe all that we might do will actually succed in bring back the frogs and the bees any time soon. Even the best case scenarios predict cataclysm before recovery. There's just too much damage done.

I would bet what saves us, ultimately, is evolution. Watch for the rise of a gene that makes woman sterile after more than a child or two. Beacuse the earth will do just fine with about 5 less billion people on it. I just hope that reduction in population occurs because of a drastic decrease in the birthrate rather than a drastic increase in the death rate, from starvation, drowning, and resource wars.

Of course, there's always suicide as an ecological act. These folks have some great--if radical--ideas. churchofeuthanasia.org. You gotta love an organization with a slogan like: "Save the Planet. Kill Yourself."

MCO 2007

I'm voting for Edwards, but I do think that the man who has tried to keep a discussion of poverty in America front and center for the past ten years should really consider, er, lowering his profile in the "personal expenses" department. Let a homeless family housesit in that big house while he's on the road! Shave that hair off in solidarity when his wife is in chemo! Nominate Dennis Kucinich for an Extreme Makeover!

It's not a question of should or shouldn't. It's a question of being a little more in alignment with his message. I personally believe in the Ben & Jerry's model, that the highest salary in the nation should be no be more than 5 times the lowest salary. Since the United States is the Cauldron of Capitalism, lets make it 10. Now, lets say we made the minimum wage a living wage, say $12/hour. 12 x 10 x 40 x 52 makes for a salary around $230,000/yr, (30,000 more than the President's salary.)

Wouldn't it be a fine example if Edwards gave most of his money over $230,000/yr away, and "survived" on that salary? If entire families (not to mention yours truly) can live on less than 1/10th of that, he can live on 10/10th of it.

MCO 2007

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/norman-lear/bullshit-trouble-in-river_b_46522.html

I'm actually thinking of starting a new website called "Really Bad Casting." If you have any more ideas along the lines of the above, please send them along, and I will create the poster.

Okay, the past few days have been all politics, let's get back to ME and My Personal Life.

Two exciting things have me nervous about the weekend. Tomorrow I'm meeting with two super-cool women who are in the "industry" and we're going to have a preliminary discussion about the possibility of doing a little documentary about my picking up trash. Here's the cool part. It was their suggestion! I can't say they were the first to have the idea, in the sense that I've been thinking about making such a movie myself for a long time. In fact, my friend Michael and I even spent an afternoon doing some filming, when I was so distracted I slipped and fell right into a creek that runs through the park!

My only trepidation is that the neighborhood denizens will not be willing to sign releases, as what would such a film be without Citizen Cane? (even if I haven't found one of his cups of late.) I'm also such a talker that I will be the woe of an editor trying to pare down the material, because, of course, everything I say is so fascinating. They'll probably decide to do a mini-series on HBO, something to replace "The Sopranos." The could call it "La Bocca Grande" ("The Big Mouth.")

The other nervous-making event is that I'm invited to a huge private party for Poz men in the Hollywood Hills tomorrow night. I just wasn't going to say no, one more time, to a social event because it makes me nervous or there's alcohol there. So anxiety be damned--I'm sure I'll meet a bunch of nice new people and say some terribly amusing things. Plus, how nice will it be to wake up on Sunday without the slightest fear that I said or did something over the top or inappropriate (unless there's a Karoake machine, and then all bets are off.) Anyway, I signed up to get there via car pooling--wouldn't it be great if the guy who picks me up turns out to be the other HIS on the HIS & HIS towels hanging in the bathroom of the big house he'll buy me?

Speaking of real life fantasies, I had a blast from the past the other morning. A former beau, James, with whom I had a passionate affair in 1998, tracked me down through google and the blog. He has a common last name, so I had been unable to locate him over the years, though I'd tried many times. He sent me a bunch of pictures and I have to say he looks VERY GOOD. I was amazed at how much emotion it dredged up, I suppose because our affair ended on somewhat of an unresolved note due to the complicated circumstances of the time (he lived in Florida, among other things.) Halfway though our long conversation and IM, in which I fed his ego shamelessly, I noticed that although he was lapping up the compliments, he wasn't really flirting back with me. (And yes, I'd sent him photos). On the one hand, I was a little hurt, on the other hand, I felt silly. I'm sober now, I've been in love many times since him, I can't really see myself with someone who's not in recovery, and I certainly don't want to have another Long Distance Relationship. At the same time, we all have our little egos, don't we? And all the traits that attracted me to him so much way back were still in play, not just the looks and the bod, but that southern charm and sharp wit. I couldn't help but want to evoke the same feelings from him. But finally, after I "sobered up"" from the conversation (and the photos) I realized the bottom line is that I'm very grateful he's alive and well,. He had some health problems back then and I was rather afraid he hadn't made it through. The rest is all gravy.

In any event, in the role of one of my very favorite ex's with whom I would gladly have a rematch, James would definitely be Very Well Cast (not to mention very well other things, if you catch my drift).

MCO 2007

Wouldn't it be nice if Gonazales just told the truth? Just admit that the political ideology of this White House is that loyalty to Bush determines competence at one's job? Need proof? 150 graduates of Regent University--a Christian fundmentalist Law School founded by televangelist Pat Roberton--have found employment in the Justice Department. That would be a shocking number if the school was Yale, the President's own alma mater. http://www.boston.com/news/education/higher/articles/2007/04/08/scandal_puts_spotlight_on_christian_law_school/

Poor Alberto, First he's born without a neck, and then he has the misfortune of being Bush's real-estate lawyer back in Houston. Both of the rubes are perfect examples of the Peter Principle, when mediocre men get promoted above their level of competence. Bush should have stayed the owner of a baseball team and Gonzales should be doing due diligence on office buildings. They, and the nation, would have been so much better off.

As for my entry yesterday, I want to elaborate a bit. The thrust of my argument is that I'm not sure there any such a thing as "senseless" violence. It may not make sense to me, but it makes sense to the person who is perpetuating it. It made sense to Mr. Cho, it makes sense to suicide bombers, and it makes sense to the men who torture suspected terrorists and known dissidents.

But what about, for example, men who beat their children? How does that violence make any "sense," even to them? Well, I believe most of them would justify it by saying it is a form of discipline that "worked" on them. I certainly would contend that it did precisely the opposite, but still, I would have to acknowledge that that argument makes "sense" -- if even in a perverse way.

Taking a look at the big picture led me to conclude that the capacity for violence is literally in our blood--mine included. But until I become a vegan, or state that I would not readily take a machine gun to Janjaweed about to torch a village in Darfur, I cannot say that I reject all forms of violence. But neither do I think we can judge any violence as "senseless." We can call it wrong, terrible, sad, horrible, tragic etc., and I do, but "senseless" -- no. It always makes sense to someone, just because violence itself makes sense to us as humans.

Just look at children playing in a sandbox. I defy 30 minutes to pass without hearing "NO HITTING!" from one or more of the mothers. Then switch over to the football practice occurring nearby, and listen to the coaches screaming "HIT 'EM HARD!" We teach it's wrong, and then give in to its inevitabilty, particularly among males, and even celebrate it. I think, ulitmately, we are following the dictates of evolution, not culture.

These contradictions exist everywhere. Clint Eastwood makes one of the most poignant anti-war movies ever, "Letters from Iwo Jima," right after "Million Dollar Baby" which glorifies boxing, the most violent sport ever invented. Academy Awards, all around. Talk about celebrating violence.

In conclusion, I would like to be transferred to another planet, please. One with replicators, so I can eat my meat and wear my leather guilt-free.

Wouldn't it be nice?

MCO 2007

P.S. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Replicator_(Star_Trek)

Between Virginia Tech and Iraq, I keep reading and hearing “senseless killings,” “senseless carnage,” “senseless violence,” etc. Suddenly, it begged the question: is there a “senseful” violence?”

Well, we spend $400 billion a year on a defense budget to fund legalized, state-sanctioned violence. The video-game industry is about virtual violence—the indulgence in which seems to make perfect sense to millions of parents who allow their sons to spend uncounted hours kablooming their way to nirvana. And millions of men think nothing of hitting their wives and children as a perfectly acceptable form of violence. Am I starting to make sense yet?

I am not pointing fingers at American society, or even the NRA--as much as I abhor the latter. There were similar massacres in relatively gun-free Scotland and Germany in the past decade. Rwandans slaughtered hundreds of thousands with machetes just a decade ago. And domestic abuse is and has always been a phenomenon in most societies. Basically, violence in all forms has been part of the human condition since the beginning of time, even thinking of it as “senseless” is a recent phenomenon, historically speaking. During the middle ages no one thought it remotely arbitrary for the victor to rape, pillage and slaughter, it was considered part of the natural spoils of war.

The bottom line: Man is violent. This is a function of nature, not nurture. It is an instinct that evolved millions of years ago beyond self-defense, or beating out rivals for the right to mate, because it is an advantageous trait for hunting. The genes of the most violent of our forbears survived because they were the most aggressive at obtaining protein-rich meat. The concept of the “noble savage” was always a myth. Man has never been peaceful or even a vegetarian. And it is the Roman legions, the Mongol hordes, the genocidal conquerors and the war-winners whose genetic legacy we inherited. Nice guys finished last, the violent guys passed on their genes.

I myself would probably have to come close to starving before I could kill any living creature with nothing but a homemade spear or a knife and my bare hands. But I would do it to survive, and in doing so I’d no doubt experience a primal dynamic between killing and ending one’s discomfort. But from its appropriate use as a means of survival, committing a violent act has become transmuted into the “solution” of choice for ending all manner of pain for those who feel otherwise powerless. For me, it is the only way to explain what Mr. Cho did. In the most perverse manner imaginable, he was trying to end his pain by inflicting it on others.

As someone who has chosen a spiritual path, who supports, promotes, and aches for an end to man’s inhumanity to man, I find solace in understanding violence as inherent to the human condition. That understanding does not make it acceptable to me, but it does render it a little less senseless. Like it or not, the capacity for violence is bred within us. I can only hope that evolution will breed it out of us, and perhaps, by choosing it, we can help that process along.

MCO 2007

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/trey-ellis/democrats-are-standing-up_b_46074.html

This is very powerful.

MCO 2007

As I watch the Convocation at Virginia Tech, I honor the right-sizedness of a our grief. The senseless slaughter of 32 innocents should be mourned this way, with profiles of each and every one of them making the news, as they will.

But I can't help but be struck by the contrast with Iraq. Two Blacksburgs occur every day there, and at 1/10 of our population, the impact and loss is commensurately much bigger. Each and every death is just as senseless, just as devastating to the families. They get no TV specials, no profiles, no highlighting of their personalities and accomplishments.

Let the Blacksburg massacre at leat re-sensitize us to the reality that "32 Dead in a Car-Bombing" means 32 distinct human beings every bit as much children of God as the ones we are now acknowledging.

MCO 2007

P.S. And our dear leader can come to Blacksburg but doesn't attend military funerals. Shame on him.

Top left is a photo that doesn't begin to convey the amount of trash that that was actually lying there and could only be seen upon coming closer. This is often the case if I go off the beaten track in Griffith Park, scrambling down a fairly steep ravine (top right). What I find is very often fast food packaging (bottom right). I won't even address the inconsiderate idiocy of people who hike up a mountain to have a picnic with a view, and then trash the very nature they have supposedly come to enjoy. But isn't it time McDonald's et al. come up with bio-degradable packaging? (Even if the customers have to pay more. In fact, maybe if they do some of them will eat less, and live longer as a result.)

The fourth picture, bottom left, I took in my rearview mirror, because two incredibly nerdy guys were behind me on motorscooters, and I thought I might capture their not-so-wild hogginess. Instead I got a sort of arty shot of the dog.

MCO 2007

I take it THIS one doesn't need any explanation or clarification, and my timing is rather better than with Miss Qoulter, no?

MCO 2007

P.S. Speaking of clarification, the panda from a few blogs back was indeed a stuffed bear. I've actually been asked twice for reasssurance, once, ironically, from the only person who got the "Queen" reference right off the bat.

P.P.S. Actually, while I'm on the topic of misunderstanding, yesterday I was asked if my trashpicker was a "snakecatcher." I'm starting to wonder if this misapprehension is more common than I thought,. It might explain while a least some of those who walk by me seem to cast a very wary eye in my direction.

P.P.P.S. I have to write out "Nappy-Headed Hoss" so google can find it--it's now embedded in the photo.

I always know what discarded paperwork I find on the street merits unfolding. It brought back sharp memories of getting out after my first arrest, at which point the very first thing I did was get high. I'll bet you this is exactly what this young man did.

This seems extraordinary to me now. It's hard for me to imagine that the first thing I didn't do was say: "Okay. The jig is up. Clearly I need to get sober. Get me to a meeting ASAP." I did accept that I had to stop selling drugs, but thought I could do that without stopping using them. As if one wasn't a direct result of the other--I started dealing because I couldn't afford to pay retail for my drugs and I wanted them available at all times. (My commitment to "get out of the business" lasted about 2 weeks, and of course, I was eventually re-arrested.)

Ever since I've gotten sober, I've wondered what I would say to myself if I could go back in time and confront myself back then. I've thought of all of these things I would tell me, and only recently have I felt that I might actually be able to get my past self to get help.

You know what I would tell 2003-me? I would tell me that I write every single day, in this blog, for about the same amount of time each day that I used to compose, read and obsess over emails to one particular man who loved the way my drugs made him feel but didn't love me. I would tell me that I pick up trash for about the same amount of time each day I used to sell drugs--if you add up each 5 minute visit over a 24-hour period. I would tell me I live within my means, without credit cards, and that no one uses me for drugs or money. I would tell me when I see a policeman behind me when I drive now, my heart never skips a beat.

Then I think I would hug me and let me cry for about three hours, and maybe even make out with me--because I'm a great kisser--and then, hail a cab to rehab, hopefully.

Well, I can't go back, and I wouldn't even want to, because my time in prison brought me into my prisoner-buddy's Mike's life, and from that alone he has three new penpals including my blogging buddy Mary who actually just sent him his first package. My time in prison allowed me to reconnect with my sisters and some very close friends who I had alienated. It gave me a deep appreciation for a little thing called freedom.

Still, if you're "out there" and reading this, save the taxpayer some money and try rehab instead. Or 90 meetings in 90 days--if you don't like it, we'll be glad to refund your misery. Don't go to jail and age your poor mother 10 years--that's one regret I will always have. But just understand that the way it feels when you're say, 9 months sober, has more in common with how you used to feel when you were 9 years old than how you'll feel when you're 9 days sober. GIVE IT A CHANCE. THINGS GET BETTER--I SWEAR.

MCO 2007

P.S. The Virginia Tech murders are of course, appalling, and my heart goes out to the families and friends of the victims. But when are the gun crazies going to get it? The right to own guns may protect you in a fantasy world where gun owners are constantly defending their families against marauding burglars, but in the real world, that almost never happens. In the real world, little kids die from playing with Daddy's firearm, murders of passion occur, gang members blast other gang member, and the alienated take out their pain on innocent strangers. Guns are almost never used defensively--that's a canard. They are used for their intended purpose--to kill.

These are Australian Rugby players.

Just to remind you that I'm not just about picking up trash. Sometimes I'm about picking up trash. As in men like me, who once trashed their own lives, then remade themselves into some very attractive studs whose pictures I would post if I was not constrained by the traditions of anonymity.

In the spirit of that anonymity, I must share obliquely about a convention this weekend which certain gay bloggers may or may not be dashing in and out of. But if they did happen to attend a banquet last night, let's just say that were incredibly proud of being part of a tribe that produced talent and humor like that in a show put together by Jeff S. and Patrick M. BRAVO you funny, funny, original, Broadway babies.

MCO 2007

I feel such an affinity with Emily Dickinson. She barely left Amherst most of her life, but she never felt deprived or isolated. She chose to closely observe the people in her orbit--her family and friends and townspeople, and the nature bursting in her garden, and therein she found a universe.

Los Angeles in 2007 is rather larger than Amherst in the middle of the 19th century, but like Emily, I've discovered a universe in my neighborhood, the result of close observation that has only occurred because I pick up trash. I feel like Harriet the Spy--who was sort of the first blogger when you think about it.

Yesterday, I saw Citizen Cane on the other side of the street from where we usually pass each other, without a cup but with a bag of grocercies. It wasn't full, it looked like it held some fruit and bread at most. A neigborhood babushka approached him, and they embraced. While they spoke quite animatedly, she caressed his cheek. Was she consoling him, perhaps? I surmised she was a sister or a sister-in-law, she showed that kind of familal affection.

It was the first time I'd ever seen him have any interaction with anybody else in the neighborhood. It would be totally unremarkable except in the way it contradicted the image I had of him as an isolated and bitter curmudgeon. I'm so biased against anyone who litters--but I guess they might be otherwise good people.

And then I crossed paths with a woman I've seen many times, who literally lives behind a tree in Griffith Park. She's a very clean, thin, shy woman who I occasionally wave to even though she tends to avert her eyes. Every morning she comes down from the park and looks through the trash or seems to get a few store items--never much. She doesn't seem like an alcoholic, but she doesn't seem mentally ill either. She seems like a scared deer.

Yesterday was the first time I actually saw her looking through trash. Now, once before, at Christmastime, I asked her in the park if she needed any money, and she nodded no. This time, I just held out a $5 bill (I wish it could be more, but it couldn't). This time, she took it, thanking me. The real breakthrough was that I asked her name. "Sean" she answered. Sweet thing. I think she got traumatized at an early age and never recovered. But at least now, finally, she has a name. The next chance I have, I'm going to ask her if she wants me to call anybody for her. I have the distinct feeling she has family who would like very much to know where she is. Maybe she'll even let me take her picture and I can post it.

And now, a lighter note. Everyday a sweet Korean lady, in her 60s, powerwalks through the neighborhood. She ends up at the motel on the corner she either owns or manages (I think the former), and everyday she gives me the sprightliest "good morning!" you can imagine. She has thanked me several times for picking up trash, and this morning she picked up some herself on Hollywood Blvd., and then waved it at me like Daddy's little helper. It was adorable. I was up the street from her, and cried out: "What are you doing? Trying to take my job?" We both laughed.

The Babushka, the Bambi, the InnKeeper and me, the BinKeeper. The Belles of Little Armenia all.

MCO 2007

P.S. The one-woman show written about the life of Emily Dickinson is entitled "The Belle of Amherst."

So yesterday the mattresses were gone by the afternoon! My poster worked! Ah, les petits triomphes sont les plus douces! (The little triumphs are the sweetest!)

So, feeling all victorious, I returned to the part of the park where I encountered the snake last week. Wouldn't you know that not far from the very spot where I was rattled to my bones did I find this severed head (in the black square) of a baby panda bear, obviously taken from the L.A. Zoo? That damn snake had probably dragged him off in the middle of the night, and then severed its sweet little head from its body, on which he was no doubt gorging at that very moment in his lair. So ignoring the clear and present danger, I scrambled down the ravine of death to retrieve the poor creature's remains and give it a proper burial. It's hard being a superhero.

Today is Earth Day, and I feel strangely reluctant to participate. I guess I dislike the imagined perception that I might only be trashpicking this one day. I'll wanna cry out "EVERY day is EARTH DAY!" to anyone I think is thinking I'm a one-time do-gooder. Perhaps what I really object to is that suddenly I won't get to be all exceptional if everyone's cleaning up. Moi, not unique? Unacceptable!

But I will do what I normally do at one of my regular spots, and maybe some real one-timers will at least ask me where they can buy a trashpicker. Besides, having the dog does make it look like something you can do on a daily basis. And as much as I love being up there on my cross, the "only one" I ever see picking up trash, I would certainly suppress my natural tendency to martyrdom and encourage all heartily if someone else actually got inspired and started doing it as well.

I'm so dissatisfied with the conversation raging the country about the Imus thing. There seems to be no stepping back and looking at the big picture of how racism pervades our culture, and seeps into every nook and cranny in ways so few of us are even aware of. Even smart liberals like Bill Maher and Rosie O'Donnell seem to be missing the bigger picture--as if the epithet used by Imus had anything to do personally with the women he insulted. It is, indeed, ridiculous that they should take it personally or that it could "steal their joy." Let Imus own his ignorance. His attitude was 100% a reflection of society's greater premise that we see others first as black and/or female and/or gay and/or [fill in the blank] before we see them as HUMAN BEINGS. Racism, or homophobia, misogyny or prejudice of any kind is a disease of PERCEPTION. No one is immune to it, we simple suffer from it to greater or lesser degrees. That's what the conversation should be about. We are pointing at the mirror, and seeing Imus instead of ourselves.

MCO 2007

P.S. My insult to Miss C. had nothing to do with her being white or a woman--despite the anatomical overtones of the word I chose. THAT word has specifically come to mean someone malicious--a role Miss C. has not ony chosen for herself, but revels in. She is being judged by me on the content of her character--not the color of her skin or her gender.

Though, I KEEP hearing about her liberal use of drugs and alcohol, and so perhaps I should look at her with the same compassion as I would any active alcoholic or drug addict. God knows, if she decides to get help, I will hug her like I hug everybody in the rooms, with completely sincerity. And I GUARANTEE you, give her 6 months in a 12-step program, and she'll stop spewing venom.

It never even OCCURRED to me that everyone wouldn't immediately recognize that my poster of Ann Coulter was a direct parody of this one, but two emails suddenly lead me to understand otherwise. I guess I was afraid to patronize you by explaining what I thought was obvious, and that was based on an assumption I shouldn't have made.

Well, if you didn't "get it," NOW scroll down and feel awed at the majesty of my satire.

MCO 2007

P.S. My good Lord, if you didn't get it, you must have thought it awfully strange that I changed the spelling of the c-word.

This may seem like a repeat photo, but the mattresses photographed above were in the dumpster of my OWN building. So I took matters (as opposed to mattresses) in hand and made this flier, which went up on both entrances to the building, along with an additional note addressing the litter in the parking lot and the front garden that I constantly pick up. Don't they know who they're dealing with by now? (These aren't Armenians by the way, so I won't get a midnight knock on the door. My building, for some reason, is almost entirely Filipino. Don't get me started on the communal parking, but otherwise they're all very nice people. Just tend to leave soda cans all over the place.)

So yesterday we had a windstorm like I have never seen in LA., and I actually had to retreat from Griffith Park with the dog. (Gaza was so cute, he kept trying to find shelter in the trees, I guess millions of years of instinct is bred in there.) Anyway, I thought better of driving out to Santa Monica for work, as I'm sure stuff was flying all over the freeway, and so am working there this afternoon instead.

What I did do with the unexpected afternoon "off" (like I'm every really "on") was go to "Firehouse Dog." Unfortunately my 2 seconds of fame [backround French dialogue] was lost on the cutting room floor. I imagine the sound editor felt it was completely unimportant whether the dogs were on the French Riviera or Miami Beach. (I sorta thought that when I did the looping, but I sure wasn't gonna argue with $300.)

But it was clear to me the movie could have been so much funnier, and the problems I saw were at the level of the script. So I wrote to the guy who got me the looping job, and told him that he may have thought that speaking French is my big talent, but it isn't. Writing is, and being a script doctor is my dream job of all time. And then I gave him a brief sampling of ways in which I would have fixed that script, and if he and the director wanted to sit down with me, I could elaborate. This as an audition, of sorts, so perhaps he'll let me look at the next script he likes but thinks could be better, and fix it before millions are spent. (And not made. Mediocre scripts mean mediocre word of mouth.)

I'd forgotten to concentrate on making the script doctor dream come true, but now I'm going to "secret" the hell out of it. It is really SO the writing I am very best at--except for blogging, of course.

MCO 2007

I sent "The Q-Word" to a friend of mine. This is part of what she wrote back:

\\I can't bear one more c-word (or f-word or any other ugly word) no matter whom it's used against. Insult culture, hate speech, shock jocks and schlock values, deeper levels and greater acceptance of misogyny, pushing the limits of sex and violence in everyday speech, music and media.

It's not going to end unless we end it, refuse to propagate it. Take our focus off of it entirely. Starve it out of existence. An eye for an eye doesn't fly with me. It's too easy, and entirely ineffective. It plays into "their" hands just perfectly -- or as I see it, just simply adds to the cacophony. I am a big fan of appealing to the best in people, not the worst, and every time we stoop to the level of the lowest of the low, we add to rather than combat this atmosphere of hostility, fear, misunderstanding, self-righteousness and hurt.

Words are weapons. Words have power. Words ARE sticks and stones. The right words, chosen well, can also heal - can bring the very "kingdom of heaven" down around your experience. Or the very definition of hell. They are that powerful.

Words are all we have. Words express ideas and shape reality as we know it. I watch my words carefully these days. They have the power to determine what I experience. Thoughts lead to feelings lead to actions, so I watch my thoughts like a hawk so that I don't allow the negative ones to escape into the ether (via my words) and create chaos. The evidence of this creative mechanism at work is all around us - the worst of human impulse seems to be winning, because on a mass level we seem to be allowing ourselves to become entirely REACTIVE to those baser impulses, instead of creating effective, incisive and creative solutions to them in a bigger-picture way.\\

And you know what, I kinda agree with her--theoretically at least. You best counter negative with positive, hate with love, violence with non-violence. At the same time, I guess I still worship the false idol of wit, and I just can't get myself to remove the posting even if it feels completely spiritually wrong.

So to assuage my guilt I am posting my friend's marvelously articulate and passionate assertion of how not to contribute to chaos. The chaos it has contributed to within me is a continuation of the conversation in my head on the subject of whether we are genuinely spiritual or is the need to be spiritual a product of evolution, the function of a gene, like eating or breathing or reproducing.

MCO 2007

The problem with the insult culture that I am joining today is not the exercise of free speech--bravo for that. It's that the targets are too often poorly chosen. If you wanna call some a "nappy-headed ho," why not the diaper-wearing astronaut? No, she's not black, but did you see her mug shot? Something's going on with that hair! But to use it against some of the best female athletes in the world? It's just stupid, facile.

And calling John Edwards a "faggot" just because he has a nice coiffe? Have you SEEN Tony Snow, Ann? Or maybe what she was really attacking was Edwards' defense of the defenseless, like children living in poverty. How very effeminate. Nothing we could accuse you of Ann. (Have you seen her Adam's Apple?)

So, I would not use a pun for the C-word lightly. But for the woman who called the 9/11 widows "golddiggers?" I think she pretty much invites the full brunt of my graphic talents upon her sorry skinny, possibly sex-changed, haggy ass. (Cause if the rumors are true that she actually was a man, her politics are even more execrable. If the rumors aren't true, then I love imagining her indignation upon hearing them. Boo-hoo, Ann. Call it a "schoolyard taunt.")

Plus, I'm sorry, it's pretty damn funny. I couldn't NOT use it once I thought of it. Maybe this will finally be the viral photo that spreads over the internet (bloggers, if you agree, please link and give me credit! I wanna work for The Onion or The Daily Show!).

MCO 2007

P.S. Please note that I have nothing against transgendered people, in fact, I think they're kind of cool and brave. But if Ann is one, her hypocrisy would make the Log Cabin Republicans look like 2nd graders saying the dog ate their homework.