Wednesday, October 31, 2007

A NEW YORK HALLOWEEN!



Okay everybody, I know this is a little self-indulgent, but here's a picture of me in my Halloween costume:



I know it looks pretty graceful and effortless in the photo, but believe me--a lot of work went into my costume this year. Granted, I already had the shift dress, tights, and gold platform shoes from last Halloween. They were given to me by my father who got them from his father (who wore them when he stormed the beaches at Normandy).

But anybody can put on women's clothes. This year, I decided to go all out!

So let me tell you about my crazy day in the Big Apple!

6:30 a.m. Showered, shaved and plucked.
7:30 a.m. Another failed experiment with a curling iron--pressed for time, I decided to go natural
8:30 a.m. Scheduled an appointment with a therapist
8:45 a.m. Found time for a muffin and a latte:)
9:00a.m.-9:50a.m. Met with the therapist and got diagnosed with gender-identity disorder
10:00a.m. Skimmed through a copy of My Husband Wears My Clothes by Dr. Peggy Rudd while waiting to get my nails done on Columbus Circle
11:30a.m.-12:30p.m.Went through six months of hormone therapy in a record-breaking 60 minutes:)
12:45p.m. Found time for a salad and sparkling water:)
1:00p.m.-4:00p.m. Spent THREE HOURS waiting in line at the DMV to have my name legally changed to Sarah on my driver's license! :(
4:15p.m.-5:15p.m. Phoned my family and friends and informed them of the big decision I was about to make.
5:30p.m.-6.30p.m. Underwent sexual reassignment surgery to have my penis and testes removed in order to create a fully functional vagina:)
6:45p.m.-9:45p.m. Spent THREE HOURS at Curves For Women on 53rd Street doing Jazzercize so I could drop twenty pounds in time for the big costume competition!

And then I arrived in the East Village just in time to sign up.

And when it was all said and done, guess who won first place? That's right. This guy (again!)



I mean, please! This cocksucker has won two times in a row now! Anybody can be a president!

Oh, well, at least I got second place. That really made me feel like a woman.

Now I have to get all this shit off so I can get some sleep. Let's see--what did I do with my penis? Maybe it's in my purse. . .

Tuesday, October 16, 2007

To An Audience Upon Leaving



My darling,

I will have to say goodbye to San Francisco very soon.

And to you. . .

For I am leaving on the morning of October 28th to seek my fame and fortune in New York City.

I cannot say for sure how long I will be gone. I cannot even say if I will meet with any success. Only a few shows await me in the immediate future, alongside an all-too-familiar promise of "industry people" coming to see me perform.

However, I can say for sure that this move saddens me greatly. I have said this many times before, but it always bears repeating: San Francisco has been extremely good to me. What success I have had in the comedic world I can attribute almost solely to the fact that five years ago, Providence deemed I should find my way out here to this City By The Bay.

And I should like very much to eventually come back and once more call this place home after I have completed this vocational rite of passage. That is, if you will still have me.

My dear, I am much like a child at times. Not a sweet and adorable child, but a childish adult. And not a lovable man-child like Lenny from Of Mice And Men or the helpful Boo Radley of To Kill A Mockingbird, but a neurotic, temperamental and overly-demanding narcissist who attempts at times to shield his unseemly behaviors from criticism by hiding under the banner of "artist".

There were instances in the early months of my career in the Bay Area, when people wouldn't buy one of my CDs or I wouldn't fill up a venue or I didn't get the laughs I felt I deserved, when I would decree in a huff over the microphone: "Fuck this. I'm moving to New York."

These were all bluffs, of course. My artistic ego had been wounded and so I lashed out in return. Sweetheart, if you were unfortunate enough to have witnessed any of those early tantrums, I apologize. I never meant to hurt you. I only meant to hurt myself.

For that is what an artist does best. He denies himself pleasure in this life so that he may attain immortality in the next. To paraphrase William Blake: those with the biggest egos have the greatest fear of death.

Do you remember me telling you how earlier this year my wife was accepted into NYU? At that point, it seemed definite we were finally heading to New York; no longer propelled by my reactive and inflated pride, but by her academic good fortune. Following the debut of my last one-man show, I delivered a heartfelt goodbye to you at curtain call and surprised even myself with the sincerity of my words.

And then, two days later (on Friday the 13th, no less), a mere half-hour after she had conveniently procured my signature for our joint tax return, she told me she wanted a divorce.

This is why you may have noticed a slight streak of misogyny in my most recent writings. It's not you, my love. And it's not me, either. It's her.

Just joking.
It's nobody, actually. It's just something that happens. I know that now.

Nothing soothes a broken heart more than spontaneously uprooting and disappearing from one's immediate locale. Admittedly, there is some truth to the cliche, "no matter where you go, there you are." However, if you can move quickly enough, there's a chance you may beat yourself to wherever you're going . It could take up to six months to find yourself again. And when that happens, it's simply a matter of running away once more. Such is the story of my life; a picaresque series of short-lived geographical reprieves.

This is perhaps one of the reasons why I am simultaneously the worst AND the best client for psychotherapists.

The worst--because I can intellectualize and romanticize my way out of any personal growth or major breakthrough (although I still insist I have never been molested!)

The best--because the continued absence of psychological resolution keeps me and the co-payments returning indefinitely for another crack at change; something I've never even truly desired. I merely want to eradicate the symptoms and not the disease, for I do not wish to gamble on the chance that any projected healing of the psyche will be met with a concurrent dissipation of artistic stamina.


The first three months following the split-up, I told anyone who would listen to my embittered ramblings that I was determined more than ever to get the hell out of San Francisco. I found an outward personification for an inner turmoil by scapegoating the very city that has been nothing but good to me.

Forgive me, my love, forgive me.

Yet instead of immediately disappearing to the East--as I had indicated week after week I would do--I became addicted to marijuana and convinced myself I would sleep with any attractive woman who told me I was funny. In three months, I managed to scrape together five or six kisses devoid of tongue. So I am obviously not where I need to be in my career at this moment.

No matter. As you well know, my precious, I have always believed the kiss is of greater significance than the fuck. It is romance that begets sex and not vice/versa. The absence of that rudimentary hierarchy is one of the things that you and I have often quarreled about in this town.

And now it seems as if the dust has finally settled and the emotional funnel cloud has shed its forbidding form, fanning itself neatly across the vast gray sky above. I am no longer angry. I am no longer impatient. We have often come to loggerheads over politics and religion, you and I--but as of this day, no more. Bitterness has given way to a calm that is at once pleasant and yet troubling. There is no reason to burn any bridges. Golden Gate or Brooklyn, you and I will always be inseparably linked. For everything I have achieved in terms of career, I owe to the City of San Francisco. And to you, my love.

Besides, I am emotionally spent. Soon I will depart from here for that Great Unknown that awaits me in the East. I am torn between a faint hope for something more and a blinding fear of losing everything I've accrued. Yes, this business is a bittersweet affair. I feel a great loss looming in the foreground, taking the place of an excitement I had so long anticipated I would feel.

For I have lived in New York before. Way, way before.

Before I was anybody.

Anybody, that is, other than a naive kid from the cornfields of Missouri, convinced that if he stood on the street with a cardboard box in the middle of Washington Square Park and talked in funny voices some benevolent studio executive would come by and hand him a television show on a silver platter.

It was San Francisco--and you, my darling--that made me somebody. Somebody important. Somebody worthwhile.

It was you who showed me that the voices, the faces, the characters, the sketches--that all of that was worth something. It was you who gave me the validation that trumped any a stable parent and healthy upbringing could have ever provided. It was you, my muse. Never forget that.

I've lived and loved in New York. I've broken some hearts and mine was broken in turn. And in the end, I left the city in anger. But that is not the case here. I leave San Francisco with love. And I hope to return to New York with the same. Yet with the responsibility of love comes the dual burdens of sorrow and fear.

For I remember all-too-well putting my name in a hat at Sunday night open-mikes in the Lower East Side, week after week, praying they'd call my name so I could get up there and prove my abilities to the audience, to the city, and, ultimately, to the world. And yet, as diligent as I was, it seemed as if I were never called. How I was convinced the fates were conspiring against me! I tried big slips of paper, small slips of paper, waiting till the hat was near full or slipping it in first before anyone else had arrived. And yet nothing seemed to work.

O! My love! God forbid I should be greeted with, "We don't give a fuck who you were in San Francisco. Put your name in the fucking hat." What, then, would it all have been for?

All my life, I have felt like Jimmy Stewart when he loses the $8,000 and wants to jump off the bridge. So often, in my darkest hours, I have waited for people to show up with bowls of cash, singing "Auld Lang Syne". Perhaps I will find my $8,000 in New York. Or at least a telegram from Sam Wainwright. Hee-haw!

Sweetheart, you know the options for comedians after they have attained a certain amount of name recognition in San Francisco is to head either to Los Angeles or New York. True, Los Angeles would keep us nearer to each other, but you know that would be a difficult sacrifice to make given my peculiar brand of humour.

For I rarely get laughs in Los Angeles, except at the hipper venues like the Upright Citizens Brigade Theatre (I'll be playing at its sister theatre in New York on November 2nd! Click for more info!)

In the more mainstream LA venues, however, I am often forced to say the words "fuck" or "pussy" or "cock" to elicit even a mild snicker, even if they have nothing at all to do with the piece. For example:

"Tonight is the sixth-year anniversary of 9-11 and fuck (laugh) is a good time to pussy (laugh) on how far we've come as a cock" (prolonged laugh followed by applause break).

I cannot compromise. Don't misunderstand me. I often have wished for that advantageous ability. But I have always been gracelessly untethered. Without agent, without manager, sitting on a minefield of talent with no compass to guide me to safety. It is my hope that this impending journey will do something to rectify this creative, yet chaotic, aimlessness.

You know well I have always desired the paradoxical comfort of those industrial chains. Many a night, I have prayed for my Brian Epstein to make him or herself known. Were I to be fettered in my material and delivery at this point, I can conceive of no potential regrets. For I am no different than any other in this field. I, too, yearn for both fortune and recognition. I always have. And I hope I have not misled you in this regard. I am only human, after all. If you prick me, will I not bleed?

But I have found none in California who would so lovingly bind me. Perhaps that security lies in the East. Regardless, I shall not know until that venture is undertaken with maximum faith and courage. And if my search proves fruitless, let your arms open themselves once more to receive me, for then I shall accept this artistic freedom and its concurrent poverty as the unalterable will of the Divine.

And anyway, my dear, I cannot handle the excessive amount of sunshine one finds in Los Angeles. It depresses me. For I am by nature a reclusive individual who contends that smarter people are to be found in colder climates--as they are forced by the weather to stay indoors and read books or watch old movies. In warmer climates, people play topless volleyball and commit suicide bombings.

I am also cautiously anxious to return where I can witness the seasons once more. For I also believe in the aesthetic value of linear thought. This is no more clearly delineated in nature than in the seasons: the beginning of spring, the ending of autumn, et alia. We may disagree on this point as well, you and I, but I will always assert that linear thought is essential to the creation of lasting works of art. Provided, of course, one equates art with individuality and not with community. For community is eternal. The individual--reaching his pinnacle somewhere between the signposts of birth and death--is merely temporal. Yet what is eternal, though it carry the seeds of truth within its infinite nature, is not always interesting. Who is born alone and who dies alone, theirs is a singular tale to be told.

This is why one may yawn at God the Father, but never Christ the Man.

I told you about the girlfriend I had in North Carolina. She was convinced she and I would elope to Los Angeles one day. It was only natural, given my spiteful tendencies, that when we broke up, I would seek my revenge by beating her to California. Yet instead of Los Angeles, I came instead to San Francisco. And to you, the angel that awaited me at its gates.

For I had always heard it was colder up here.

But when a climate consistently remains unchanged (in accordance with the teachings of Gore the Christ) the armchair philosophy of the Far East invariably springs to mind: All we have is The Now. For yesterday was mild and foggy, today was mild and foggy, and tomorrow will be mild and foggy. Consequently, there is no yesterday, today, or tomorrow.

Yes, that is logically indisputable--the notion that all time eventually collapses into a single, mystical point. But I nevertheless believe in the preservation of the illusion: that time is sequential. As books contain prologues and epilogues, as movies contain opening and closing credits, so too do the seasons have their own particular beginnings and endings. And the termination of one is the genesis of the other. Such is the cycle of life.

For now our long and troubled autumn together is nearing its end. And I therefore brace myself for the first cold winter without you by my side.

I shall keep myself warm by keeping you always in my thoughts.

I love you all,

Will


Tuesday, October 02, 2007

COMPLETELY CONFIDENTIAL: The Final Chapter In The Gender-Discrepancies Blog Trilogy



INTAKE INTERVIEW WITH CLINICALLY DEPRESSED CAUCASIAN MALE SUBJECT, Wed, 03 October, 12:04.

Doctor:
(tape begins in mid-speech)--taping this session. I hope you don't mind.

Subject: I didn't catch the first part of that.

Doctor: I was just saying that I'll be taping this session. I hope you don't mind.

Subject: I thought this was completely confidential.

Doctor: It is completely confidential. I'm just taping this for research purposes. So let's start with what you were saying a few moments ago about being unlucky with the ladies.

Subject: This is completely confidential, right?

Doctor: See--I knew I shouldn't have told you I was taping this. Now you're all hung up about it.

Subject: No, I'm glad you told me. I just need your assurance that all this is completely confidential.

Doctor: It's strictly for research purposes. And I'll probably put a portion of it up on my blog. Maybe send a link to my parents. They never thought I was going to make it as a clinical psychologist, so it'd be kind of nice to show them that I actually have a real live patient.

Subject: So your parents never believed in you, huh?

Doctor: No, my dad used to say that clinical psychology was for faggots.

Subject: What did he do for a living?

Doctor: He was a licensed social worker.

Subject: What about your mother?

Doctor: Let's keep this about you. So what were you saying about being unlucky with women?

Subject: This is completely confidential?

Doctor: Trust me. It's just for research. And a blog entry with a link for my parents to read. And something to include in the "about me" section on myspace. And I may use parts of it for a craigslist singles ad for women who love sexy and outdoorsy clinical psychologists.

Subject: I suppose I'd feel better if you didn't tape this.

Doctor: Well, I've already started the tape, so--

Subject: Can't you rewind and erase it?

Doctor: It's not that kind of tape recorder.

Subject: Are you sure about that?

Doctor: Same reason I never use pencils. They encourage mistakes.

Subject: Well, I suppose I don't mind as long as I can make my own recording of this session.

Doctor: What--on your laptop there?

Subject: Yeah, I've got Garage Band on this thing. Hold on. Let me get this set up--

(tape continues in stereo. please click here to open the necessary audio supplement in a different window as you follow along with the transcript below)

Subject: --yeah, that sounds much better. I usually use Sound Studio on this thing, but Garage Band has a nicer reverb.

Doctor: So tell me about being unlucky with women.

Subject: Well, I was thinking the other day, you know, that part of the reason I'm unlucky with women is that, you know, for a long time I've been looking for a man that can make me feel like a woman.

Doctor: And you don't think you can get that with a woman?

Subject: I just think that men are better at treating men like women than women.

Doctor: Are you sure about that?

Subject: If the men that want to be treated like women are women, yeah.

Doctor: What does being treated like a woman entail?

Subject: You know, I just want somebody to recognize that, you know, yes, I'm wearing a polka-dot party dress, knee-socks and mary janes, and licking one of those huge rainbow suckers while going back and forth on a swing set in the merry, merry month of May.

Doctor: But you're wearing ripped blue jeans, a Lynyrd Skynyrd T-shirt, you have a five-o-clock shadow and you're drinking a can of Old Milwaukee.

Subject: Yeah, but in my mind, I'm jumping rope and playing hopscotch.

Doctor: That sounds more like a girl than a woman.

Subject: If you want to get to heaven, you got to raise a little hell. If you want to be a woman, you got to raise a little girl.

Doctor: But you don't actually want to become a woman?

Subject: Hell, no. I like p___y too much. I'm just saying that I got a little bit of both in my soul, you know. Kind of makes it difficult sometimes.

Doctor: This is completely confidential, right?

Subject: Oh, yeah. Absolutely, man. No, I'm probably just going to use this for like a comedy bit or something. You know, I'm not sure yet. But I definitely won't be using it for any like psycho-therapeutic purposes.

Doctor: You're not going to have any major breakthroughs with it or anything?

Subject: No. I did all my breaking through when I was born, man!

[KNOCK ON DOOR]

Doctor: Yes?

[DOOR OPENS]

Nurse: Doctor?

Doctor: [UNINTELLIGIBLE]

Nurse: Doctor?

Doctor: Yes?

Nurse: The doctor will see you now, doctor.

Doctor: Oh, great, thank you. I'll be back in about an hour. Do you mind if I keep the tape recorder running?

Subject: Yeah, if it's completely confidential.

Doctor: It is.

Subject: Hey, can I play your piano while you're gone?

Doctor: Sure. Just don't get any beer stains on it.

Subject: Cool.

[DOOR CLOSES]
[PIANO BEGINS]

Subject: Yeah, you know, I guess in the end. . .I guess I just want to belong, you know? I want to be like the rest of you all, disenfranchised...

[MUSIC AND LYRICS BY JOHN LENNON]
[PIANO & VOCALS: WILL FRANKEN, ALL OTHER INSTRUMENTS: JOHNNY SWERDAN]





Monday, October 01, 2007

FW: RE: RE: please dont talk to me ever again--

Date: Mon, 1 October, 2007 21:36:00 -08:00 [10:36:00 PM PDT]
From: Will Franken [will@willfranken.com]
To: winstonchurchill.will@gmail.com
Subject: FW: RE: RE: please dont talk to me ever again--
Headers: Show all headers


thought you guys might enjoy this--
W.

Forwarded message---
Date: Sun, 7 October, 2007 15:30:56 -0500 [01:30:56 PM PDT]
From: "C. Quill"[whatcamebefore@sequel.com]
To: will@willfranken.com
Subject: RE: RE: please dont talk to me ever again--
Headers: Show all headers

Will--

First off, I don't appreciate you telling everybody that I don't know anything about the civil rights movement. As somebody who's marched in Jena with the guy who played the dad on "Family Ties", I believe I'm a bit more qualified than you to make any kind of statement on civil rights progress in this country.

Secondly, stop trying to impress me by quoting from these "expert scientific opinions" on man's impact on the environment. If M.I.T. professors and nobel prize winning meteorologists are all that you're reading, you're only getting a small part of the story.

For example, why are BOTH the girl who played the governor's daughter on "Benson" AND the lesbian from "Facts Of Life" saying that global warming is a) real and b) happening right now? There seems to be some confusion on your end about what constitutes an "expert".

And as far as 9-11 goes--yes, I know--NOT an inside job, right? Personally, Will, I don't care what the military, NYPD, fire & safety officials, architects and demolitions personnel have to say. What about expert testimony from Charlie Sheen and the woman who played the original public defender on "Night Court"?

(No, not the neo-con Markie Post--there was another blonde woman on that show in the first season. I'd send you her imdb link if I thought you'd bother to read it)

You say radical Islam is on the rise against the west and we should "defend ourselves ideologically against cultural relativism"--I think Susan Sarandon and Alyssa Milano would disagree with you there. And they're not alone. Just check out some of the myspace blogs from the black guy who wore glasses in "What's Happening?", the father from "Full House" (not Bob Saget or the one with rocker-type hair, but the one who's supposed to be a comedian) and most recently from those muslim guys who played the terrorists on "24". The information is out there for anybody who takes the time to read it and isn't afraid to speak power to truth!

The difference between us, dear Will, is one of open-mindedness. You're so fixated on this hierarchical notion that experts need to have credentials and fields of expertise. And this is why I don't want to see you again. You have to understand--I just can't open myself up to a closed mind.

Do you remember a few weeks ago when I forwarded you the e-mail with the woman who played Thelma on "Good Times"'s essay on Katrina? Or last equinox when I sent you the link to the woman who played the woman who wasn't Loni Anderson on "WKRP in Cincinnatti"'s foreign policy speech on Iraq? You didn't even bother to read them, because my opinions just don't matter to you.

Yes, you may know the "facts" about certain things. But what about the opinions? I know that you have your opinions. But do you have MY opinions? Of course not. You only have room for yours.

And even if you do know the facts, do you know the feelings? Are you even capable of feeling? I don't think you are. Remember when I showed you that photo of the Palestinian girl standing next to Rosie O'Donnell, the guy that played the oldest daughter's husband on "The Cosby Show", and the guy who played that one doctor from "M.A.S.H." (not Alan Alda, but his friend with the mustache that he drank martinis with)? Remember you asked me what I was crying for?

I was crying, Will, because unlike you I have FEELINGS! You should try having one sometime. Seriously, Will--why are you so afraid to be like the rest of us?

So for the last time--in the words of the guy who played the effeminate next-door neighbor on "Too Close For Comfort" (Jim or James or J.J. Bullock? He also used to be on a game show, I think.)--"please dont talk to me ever again!!!"

--C.

on Mon, 1 October 2007 at 4:01pm will@willfranken.com wrote;

[hide quoted text]


Hey C.--


I just saw that the new Wes Anderson movie is out--Darjeeling Limited.


What are you doing this weekend? Give me call. Let's go see it--


Rock on,


W.

Saturday, September 29, 2007

FREE POSTFEMINIST EROTICA!



"I'm really having a very nice time hanging out with you," he said as his cock slid softly and slowly in and out of her warm, inviting cunt.

She licked her lips and clamped her legs tightly across his back, thrusting him ever-deeper inside her glistening pussy. "I'm glad we didn't call this a 'date'. It's more relaxing just to hang out sometimes," she cooed gently as his balls grazed lightly against her, "and not get anchored in the weighted terminology of the past."

He picked up speed and agreed wholeheartedly, "So casual, so non-threatening." She raised her ass slightly, her pussy lips burning as he worked it. "Honestly. I don't get to talk to that many people on this sort of intellectual level," he said as his bulbous cock pushed deeper and harder into her sopping and steaming cunt, "Why complicate things emotionally?"

His teasing tongue unfurled to lick her firm tits. She quivered and her long nails dug violently and mercilessly into his broad shoulder blades. "This is so different than what I'm used to. Most of the guys I meet are dumb alpha-male jocks who are only interested in sex," she moaned as he rammed his cock all the way home, nearly collapsing from the force of the thrust.

"Oh! We should definitely hang out again! Let me. . .give you. . .my e-mail address!" he groaned right before pulling out and shooting his hot and salty load all over her alabaster cheeks.

Her face was now a cum-colored canvas. She was completely spent, her damp thighs numb and lightly spasming. She had never been ridden by a cowboy like this before.

He reached across the nightstand to grab a cigarette. "You want me to get you a towel?"

A bead of jizz trickled slowly from the tip of her nose to rest on her upper lip. Suddenly, things became awkward. Oh no, she thought, he wants to get me a towel. Why do things always have to get so serious? "I'm perfectly capable of getting a towel for myself."

"I don't mind," he said as he arose from the bed, still dripping, "I just like to be chivalrous."

Chivalry? Red Flag, she thought as she licked the cum from her lips, why is he reading things into this? I know I haven't been leading him on.

She turned her soggy face away from his oppressively sincere gaze.

"It's a bad time to fall for me," she said as she retained her long sought-after independence.

Thursday, September 27, 2007

You Are Nothing

You are not the gays of the Stonewall Rebellion. You are not the fighting suffragettes of the 20s. You are not the Jews that hold sacred the memory of the Holocaust. You no longer decry the use of nuclear weapons, you care not a jot about religious bigotry, you are perfectly fine with theocratic rule.

You prove all of this with letters to the editor:


"Ahmadinejad at Columbia

"Editor--The U.S. does not exist in an impenetrable bubble, nor are our government's opinions shared by the entire world."


So far so good. 9-11 proved this already. As 7-7 did for England and 3-11 did for Spain. Some cultures have a problem with different opinions.

"With this in mind, I applaud Columbia University for granting President Ahmadinejad a platform on which to share with us a world view that is very different than the majority of the U.S., but is not unusual in other parts of the world."

Parts of the world where corrupt regimes lord over billions of oil dollars, yet for some reason are unable to provide economic and educational opportunities for their own people? Parts of the world where globalized victimhood is a national identity? You mention "us"; are you saying that you've never experienced this world view before? Or have you always distrusted Western motives and were just waiting for a Holocaust-denying and homosexual-murdering regime to validate your postmodern liberalism?

"Although I do not agree with most of the views he shared, it is important to hear and acknowledge them nonetheless."

Which views are important to hear and acknowledge? Be specific in trying to distance yourself from real tyranny. Are you referring to the view that there are no homosexuals in Iran? That the validity of the Holocaust needs to be re-examined? That he should be allowed to have a nuclear weapon just because we have nuclear weapons? Or is it just because he also thinks that 9-11 might have been an inside job?

"Neither the U.S. nor Israel--"

First mention of Israel. I was waiting for it. You had me worried you were sleeping on the job.

"--is loved internationally, as Ahmadinejad made clear many times, and understanding this is the first step toward peaceful diplomacy in the Middle East and beyond."

Well, there's a lot of people in America and Israel that don't care for the Islamic Republic of Iran. Maybe if Ahmadinejad understood this, we could work towards peaceful diplomacy. However, the ball is in our court because Ahmadinejad has darker skin and speaks Arabic.

"I thought that I was going to hear some shocking remarks from the Iranian President's speech at Columbia University."

Without a spine, you can't feel shock. Had you one, you would have heard denials of homosexual rights, the Holocaust, 9-11, and tolerance of Western liberalism. This isn't religious morality I'm espousing. You don't need to believe in God. You just need to believe in your own eyes and ears.

"Instead, my shock and anger came from listening to Columbia's President Lee Bollinger. His rude and inappropriate speech made America look crude and base. That is not how guests are treated, no matter their personal views."

Well, I would have volunteered to suck his cock, but you can get killed that way:



Now that's what I call rude and inappropriate.Tsk! Tsk!

"The Columbia 'ambush' of Mr. Ahmadinejad will create sympathy for the Iranian president throughout the world. . ."


Especially sympathetic will be cowards like yourself who wish to avoid "rudeness" and "inappropriateness" at any price.

"Despite the abhorrent behavior of Bollinger, there was some good that came out of the event. Ahmadinejad's speech was well received by most of the young audience."

Yes, this gives me great hope for our future as a civilization. Did it ever occur to you that today's young audiences might very well be stupid?

"And in spite of all the propaganda spewed by Bollinger--"

Here's some of Bollinger's "propaganda"(which he cleverly disguised as legitimate questions in an open-debate forum): "We at this university have not been shy to challenge the failures of our own government to live by our values, and we won't be shy about criticizing yours. Let's then be clear at the beginning. Mr. President, you exhibit all the signs of a petty and cruel dictator. And so I ask you, why have women, members of the Baha'i faith, homosexuals and so many of our academic colleagues become targets of persecution in your country?"

"--the audience and the Iranian president actually connected on an intellectual level."


Is it ever possible for a speaker and an audience to connect on the level of shared stupidity? If an entire German nation threw their lot in with Hitler, would those numbers reflect intellectualism or baseness?

"The applause by the students given to Ahmadinejad shows some people were actually willing to listen and learn from the exchange."


Are you saying that every time somebody gets applause, they must have had something valid to say? Well, well. . .


Tuesday, September 25, 2007

Good on you, Bollinger, good on you!

When I heard the news that Ahmadinejad was invited to speak at Columbia University, I just assumed it was another exercise in the multicultural interfaith-dialogue horseshit that pawns itself off as higher education in the postmodern world of relativism.

Imagine my surprise when I discovered that the very guy that invited him to speak, university president Lee Bollinger, took the opportunity that he helped orchestrate to pin the slimy fucker to the mat.

Good on you, Bollinger, good on you!

I feel terribly optimistic today, for I find myself re-examining the motives for the invitation in the first place. I now imagine Bollinger being surrounded daily by spoiled college students and overpaid faculty members convinced that a) 9-11 had nothing to do with Islam, b) Americans live in a police state, and c) George Bush is the single greatest threat to worldwide freedom.

Perhaps Bollinger knew the truth behind this seemingly impenetrable layer of academic bullshit. Perhaps he knew the most efficient way to expose it to a brainwashed student body was to invite a real dictator to speak and then fire relentless hardballs on the topics of human rights and Holocaust denial. Regardless of his motive, Bollinger did the job that "60 Minutes" couldn't do--ask meaningful questions of a dark-age baboon who will quite likely obtain access to a nuclear weapon within the next few years unless we can take off our diapers and act like adults once more.

Even today's Chronicle had very few kind words left for Ahmadinejad after the bout with Bollinger in which the president of Iran claimed, among other nonsense, that there were no homosexuals in Iran (failing to mention this statistic may be true only because he had them all killed). I predict more and more people will flip in the coming months; the absurdist illusion of not being able to "tell the difference" between Bush and Ahmadinejad will be exposed as sheer cowardice masquerading as free speech.

Yes. I am optimistic today. I predict a slow awakening, a necessary migration out of relativism and into truth. Soon we will rediscover the cultural building blocks of "better" and "worse". Western self-flagellation might very well cease in the near future as continued criticism of America will come to be regarded as passe. Suddenly there will be another legitimate enemy in our sights.

We couldn't see him before because we weren't getting the news. We were getting speculation. We weren't sure who the "real enemy" was.

Here he is again:



Good on you, Bollinger, good on you!

Friday, September 21, 2007

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Monday, September 17, 2007

I Was Born With a Woman's Tongue


I didn't mean to make you cry
and slash your wrists so you could die,
but the things I say aren't always fun
cause I was born with a woman's tongue.

No brute strength or force of will
would knock you down from High-Horse Hill,
but with piercing spite, my words have stung
for I was born with a woman's tongue.

O! The games well-known to the fairer sex
play'd to frustrate, confuse, and perplex
are the arts and crafts held dear by one
like I who was born with a woman's tongue.

O! Sweet Sister! We know well that itch
to hide the girl and reveal the bitch
and while I'm no one's daughter, but some one's son,
still I was born with a woman's tongue.

O! The scars you'll bear, the wounds you'll know,
the pains you'll suffer, the hurt that grows
from the tips of arrows so finely flung
from the lips of a man with a woman's tongue!

I know your race. I've studied you well.
"Guard your secrets": the moral of this tale.
You've given me rope, but it's you I've hung
for I was born with a woman's tongue.

How fluent in this language can I be?
So well-versed and knowledgeable, me?
'Tis no great feat, as in this song I've sung--
I was just born with a woman's tongue.

Friday, September 14, 2007

18 Months Later: Remembering The Lessons Of Duke-Lacrosse



This is what happens when you give him your phone number, ladies:



This is what he means by a "romantic evening indoors":



This is what he really wants to do when he says, "You sure got perty hair. Can I touch it?"



But now there's hope:



At the Berkeley Women's Center, you can learn more about being a woman, how women are different from men, what men do to hurt women, and masturbation. Yes, the Duke-Lacrosse players might have been "legally" innocent. But let's not forget, ladies, that the laws were made by men.

To find out more about the Berkeley Women's Center, remove your clothes and stand in front of a mirror all day and earn a college degree.

Wednesday, September 12, 2007

Catechism

Why would you like to see a citywide smoking ban in public parks, small businesses, and individual homes?

Because I do not believe in freedom of choice.


Why do you think it's unfair for English to be a required language in American schools and businesses?

Because I do not believe in majority rule.

Why do you chant at passers-by?

Because I do not believe in intellectual debate.

Why do you arbitrarily designate certain speech as "hateful"?

Because I do not believe in the free exchange of ideas.

Why do you say that hip-hop is today's Shakespeare?

Because I do not believe in art.


Why do you say that there is a unilateral and fixed consensus amongst the scientific community on the topic of global warming?

Because I do not believe in science.


Why do you say that George Bush equals Hitler?

Because I do not believe in history.

Why do you say that America is the one creating the terrorists?

Because I do not believe in individuality.


Why do you say that 9-11 was an inside job?

Because I do not believe in the obvious.


Why are you a relativist?

Because I do not believe in anything.

Tuesday, September 11, 2007

May I Have My Balls Back, Please?

If you're in the mood to be culturally castrated on this, the six-year anniversary of 9-11, pick up a copy of today's San Francisco Chronicle and you'll see a nifty front-page story by Julian Guthrie: "For some on anniversary, it's time to move on."

Oh, yes.

Let's move on.

It's oh-so-wearying out here in San Francisco where everybody is vehemently anti-radical Islam and won't shut up about the horrors of 9-11.

Give me a fucking break. What exactly should we "move on" from? Seems like San Francisco "moved on" quite some time ago. Hell, everybody I meet here thinks that George Bush orchestrated 9-11 anyway. If that isn't "moving on", I don't know what the fuck is. They've "moved on" from sanity to insanity, practicality to utopianism, a hint of dignity and self-worth to communal groveling and self-abasement.

Here's how you start a non-story like this: "There will be the long recitation of the names of the dead, the moments of silence, the images of planes hitting the World Trade Center. . ."

My lord. Sounds almost as tragic as 9-11 itself. Whatever shall we do? Let's take some expensive anti-depressants, do some yoga, and read on:

"The global goodwill that America engendered after Sept. 11 has been tarnished by wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. The American flags that were ubiquitous after the terrorist attacks have been put away. America is at war. Osama bin Laden, who released a video message Friday for the first time in three years, remains at large."

First, I'm not sure that you could call it a "global goodwill" that America engendered after 9-11--unless you're willing to subtract celebrating Palestinians and Lebanese from the global community.



And no, I don't need to "understand" the people in this photo. They are baboons. I don't care how they got that way. You see the man with the child on his back holding an AK-47? We didn't make that happen. And if you think we did. . .well, you're a baboon also.

Sure, countries whose citizens have largely progressed beyond barbarism reached out to America. But I'll let you in on a little secret about radical Islam: It's always fucking hated us, you dizzy cunt. But then again, if your history is only 6 years old, you can pretty much make it up on the spot.

And if Osama bin Laden is still at large--well, I guess the practical thing to do would be to find the fucker and kill him. And then, after we publicly hang him and gut him like the pig that he won't eat, that would be a convenient time to "move on".

But then again, most folks around here have already "moved on". Or they never "move" at all. They just kind of sit around and when the time comes--like the six-year anniversary of 9-11--they roll over and take it up the ass at knife point in articles that observe:

"There are also many who have Sept. 11 fatigue and see it as a good time to 'turn the page'."


September 11th fatigue? Is that the same thing that the soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan are suffering from? Or is this yet another fucking instance where worthless cowards are working overtime to put themselves on the same spectrum of courage as real heroes?

Gee, I can't really sit around and badmouth the soldiers or trivialize the impact of 9-11 if I'm writing all this in an air-conditioned office here in the sanctuary of the West. I think I'll make up a disease and give it to myself.

Oh, mommy, I can't go to the memorial today! I think I'm coming down with September 11th fatigue!

Fuck this. I'm taking the word "liberal" back. I'm reclaiming it. These guys aren't liberal anymore. I'm a liberal. In order to be a liberal, you have to believe in something. And the continued negation of the truth doesn't count. And the truth is there is no such thing as September 11th fatigue. And if there is, it's just latent guilt for recognizing one's own moral inferiority.

And who exactly is saying "turn the page"? Well, how about Charles Figley, a psychologist and director of the Traumatology Institute at Florida State University?




Interesting that a San Francisco Chronicle staff writer felt the need to go all the way to the other coast for the following drivel:

"People tend to need memorials and anniversaries if they have not fully 'worked through' the experience. . .I think when people attend these memorials or tune in or read about it, there is a hope that by doing so it will make things better."

That's not why I need memorials and anniversaries. I didn't know anybody who died on 9-11. It wasn't personally traumatic to me. No, I need memorials and anniversaries because I need something to believe in besides dickheads like Charles fucking Figley. Give me a flag and the concept of nation (for better or worse) over the likes of Charles fucking Figley anyday.

What are you saying, Charles Figley? That I'm not "healthy" if I go attend a memorial? That if I want to be a "balanced person", I should subscribe to your bullshit academic cynicism? Fuck you, Charles Figley and the cunt that gave you space in the paper.

Whatever happened to the days when the hippie radicals were going to rise up against the bourgeois pigs? Because that's exactly what Charles fucking Figley is. A highly-paid bullshit artist who makes his living telling you that everything you believed in was wrong.

He goes on: "People should not be ashamed of not having a need to remember or participate in a memorial. . .It's natural that other things come up, that people have something new that is of greater immediate concern. That's the way life is."

That's why they won't rise up against the likes of Charles Figley. He's telling them exactly what they want to hear. It's ideal. You don't have to do anything, you don't have to believe in anything, you don't have to sacrifice anything. Charles fucking Figley will absolve you of all guilt. Go ahead and spend, shop, and vegetate. . .it's not your fault if you don't care. Charles fucking Figley doesn't care. And look at him--he's the director of the Traumatology Institute at Florida State University! You remember trauma, don't you? War veterans used to get that. Now it's for everybody. Everybody has trauma. And it's allllll equally important.

Even those who suffer from "September 11th fatigue".

Let's give more money to Charles fucking Figley. He'll make you feel unashamed for being a worthless, spineless, culturally-flatlined slab of nothingness. Give your brains to him as well. He'll do the thinking for you. He'll skull-fuck you so hard you'll be convinced that every belief system you were raised with is a symptom of a deeper pathology. Finally, give him your beliefs, passions and courage--he'll show you that your morality is immorality and then supply the new morals to fill the void: inaction, complacency, and smugness.

Oh, and Charles Figley? Why don't you go global with your message and get on a fucking plane to Iran, Iraq or Afghanistan and tell some of these radical Islamist groups that people shouldn't have to "feel ashamed" for not bowing down in prayer five times a day, not converting to Islam, or not strapping explosives to their children?

Because you're a decadent overpaid cunt, that's why. You're nothing but a fucking businessman in the end, Charles Figley. A corporate pig who's going to say the safest things involving the least risk for the most profit. Let's wise up, everybody, and connect the fucking dots.

You're being had.

In a big way.

Friday, August 31, 2007

The Continuation

(CONTINUED FROM "ABOUT ME" SECTION TO THE RIGHT) --scientists and chemical experts do. I just pick up the dead birds. It's a really nice chemical factory, though. They're putting in a children's wing next year. And the year after that, they're going to have a playground outside. And eventually they're going to turn this whole chemical factory into a school.

And all of these fathers and mothers who work at the chemical factory are going to show up at work one day and say, "Hey, have you noticed all of these children working in the chemical factory?"

And the children will say to themselves, "Hey, have you noticed all these parents learning their alphabet?"

I can't wait till that day comes. That day when our parents have to learn the pledge of allegiance all over again. And learn how to write in cursive once more. And sit in the corner and wear the dunce cap whenever they say the N-word.

And I really can't wait for the day when children are testing out new chemicals to save the earth for their children.

They should call it The William Wordsworth Learning Factory And Chemical Academy.

You remember Wordsworth, don't you? "The child Is the father of man"? It'd be cool if this chemical factory/school offered some really great courses in classical literature.

But that's the one thing it's missing at the moment. It doesn't have any teachers. I should become a teacher. I hate the job I'm doing right now. It's a really miserable job. I don't know if I told you, but--(CONTINUED ON "ABOUT ME" SECTION TO THE RIGHT)

Wednesday, August 29, 2007

Father Knew Best


My Daddy took me out for a walk in the field behind our house one day and he said to me--

"Son, I'm going to tell you about the birds and the bees. But this is gonna be different from the way other fathers talk to their sons about the birds and the bees. I could stand here and tell you how babies are made and what contraception is, but that's not going to do you a lick of good in the long run.

"Because girls are never going to like you, son. I wish I could tell you different. I wish I could tell you that all that talk of love and procreation is going to apply to you as much as it will to the normal kid down the road. But it won't.

"Because girls are never going to like you. And that's going to be the hardest fact of life to swallow. But once you can swallow that fact, you can swallow any other facts that come along in this life. Sure, there'll be times where you're going to forget that girls don't like you and you might put your head on the chopping block and ask one out--hell, you may even marry one--but they're never going to like you.

"Son, this ain't to say that girls won't admire you, respect you, or even want to be your friend. It just means they're never going to LIKE you.

"And I don't even think you're going to remain a virgin. I think you'll get lucky here and there. And that's all you'll get--lucky. Not liked. Sexual fortune may swing your way just as it does for even the most socially maladjusted among us. And in that arena, I'll leave it to you to prod around in the dark, clumsily groping your way around a young woman's body, improvising as needs be, taking instructions from off-color remarks heard on the playground and in 80s teen flicks. You'll do all right, I'm sure. But that's not going to change the underlying fact that girls just aren't going to like you.

"You're going to talk too much, for one. You're going to feel bad about this and talk more to try to rectify the problem. This'll snowball, of course. You'll drive them batty. They'll come to regard your absence as something positive. Generally, girls don't like a talkin' man. Their magazines might say different. But son, you don't need to be reading their magazines anyway.

"Because girls don't like a man who reads their magazines.



"You'll be too passionate about things that you believe in. You'll speak forcibly, alternately pissing them off and frightening them away. It also won't help matters that the things you believe in are most likely going to be diametrically opposite of the things that they believe in.

"As a result of their ongoing dislike, you'll continue to revert inward. You'll try as you can to find comfort in the wasteland of solititude that is your birthright. From this, you'll start to develop an artistic talent of some sort.

"I'm sure by now, you've probably started to develop a love affair with the past. At this stage, I would say go ahead and nurture that all you'd like, son. Because in the day and age in which you're actually going to be living--girls are never going to like you. And because of your infatuation with history, you'll appear older than you actually are--but this won't pass for virility or wisdom. It'll be construed as an albatross of joylessness which no self-respecting young woman would ever wear as an accessory.

"You'll have flings with women who are destined to marry men with more conventional lifestyles. You will be their 'token artist'; a memory of their younger, misguided selves, before they became practical and married men with money or looks or both.

"You'll continue to take refuge in your art. This will ease the pain up to a point until applied to girls. Once you realize its fallibility in attracting members of the opposite sex, there will come a time where you will regard your art with scorn and disdain. Soon, you will come to blame the art itself for the fact that girls don't like you. Quite likely, you will reflect upon the possibility of abandoning the art altogether. In a search for a specific and defineable cause for your isolation, you will excise the very thing that has allowed you to survive in this wilderness.

"You'll feel two insatiable and cognitively dissonant desires bubbling simultaneously within you--to be like everybody else, and to be like nobody else. You'll fail on both counts.

"Like I say, you'll forget at times that girls don't like you and this will lead you in spates of foolishness to approach them. Invariably, you will be rejected. Character will be built from this rejection. Up to a point. And then that same character will be whittled away until you are nothing more than a negation of your former self (which wasn't much to begin with). In other words, son, what doesn't kill you will make you stronger until it decides to finally kill you.



"You'll scare them away, or simply revolt them, with your bumbling shyness which will only get incrementally worse over time. For the more introverted you become, the harder it's going to be to open your mouth and your ears to a hypothetical 'other person'. Over time, girls will cease to be real in your mind. They will become abstractions of love and comfort always just out of your reach. Your heart will be so heavy, only hate will keep you moving.

"You should also know that you're going to die alone. Your fantasies of becoming rich and famous and, by default, no longer alone in this world will be revealed as the security-blanket phantasms they are. And by dying alone, you'll die in the truest sense. Without family, without friends, without love. Nothing into nothing.

"And that is the future that awaits you, my son," said my Daddy before handing me his gun, "are you sure you want to go through with it?"

I thought for a second. And then I handed back the gun. "I think I'll wait and see," I said.

I'm older now. Maybe father really did know best.

Monday, August 27, 2007

The Man In The Blue Coat


The man in the blue coat sighed, "I am so sad."

"Why are you sad?" asked the man in the blue coat.

"I am sad because I am not sad about anything," said the man in the blue coat. "Everywhere I go, people are sad about what we're doing to the earth and what sort of planet we're going to leave for our children's children's children's children's children's children's children. I try to be sad about this, really I do. But I can't. You see, it doesn't matter to me if my great-great-great-great-great grandchildren may face rising sea levels of two inches."

The man in the blue coat put on his blue coat, "Why doesn't it matter to you?"

"Because I'll never know my great-great-great-great-great grandchildren," said the man in the blue coat. "They could be total assholes for all I know. I mean, look at the youth of today. They're bad enough as it is--I shudder to think what their progeny will be like."

The man in the blue coat put his arm around the man in the blue coat, "These feelings you are feeling are natural. There is no reason to feel ashamed for feeling ashamed for not feeling ashamed. Why I myself am not ashamed for not feeling ashamed. I won't know my great-great-great-great-great grandchildren either. Nor will I live long enough to see the hypothetical successes of these communal efforts to make the entire world--including its oceans--green."

Just then, the woman in the green coat entered the room. "Aha! So YOU'RE the problem!"

The men in the blue coat stood up, "Well, at least we're going to heaven!"

The woman in the green coat did not believe in heaven or any other artifacts of the hegemonic paradigms of chauvenistic patriarchal theologies, so she left the room to write her term paper.

The man in the blue coats realized he was wearing two coats. "No wonder it's so hot in here. And just when I thought the globe was warming."

Kiley Rembrandt, Age 12
Regional Sales Manager,
Blue Earth Foundation

THE BLUE EARTH FOUNDATION IS A NOT-FOR-PROFIT IDEOLOGY BASED IN OBJECTIVE TRUTH

Thursday, August 16, 2007

Children Of Color Being Left Behind



By Timmy Truth
special to the Revolutionicle

A frustrating achievement gap between black and Latino students and their white and Asian American peers shows no sign of abating in the latest state test results for nearly 5 million students across California.

Overall, students of all colors made progress during the past year, but what disturbs many civil rights experts, college students, diversity seminar leaders, and newspaper reporters is what happens when you take a little scalpel and cut the whole state up into different races and economic groups. The difference in achievement among ethnic groups is the most disturbing about the results. State schools chief Jack O'Connell says, "We cannot afford to accept this morally, economically or socially."

Though the scores will be changed in a few months after enough bitching and moaning about disenfranchisement, that doesn't alter the situation today. Many students may have to wait up to two or three weeks until the rules are bent in their favor.

Many people like Timmy Truth, a reporter for the Revolutionicle, believe that education may make a difference in educating children. "Many of these inner-city schools don't have access to educational facilities. So let's blow up a bank." Others, like Timmy Truth, a Revolutionicle reporter, believe economics may play a factor in the achievement gap.

For example, schools which could afford new computers had students who scored higher on Youtube and Myspace proficiency, while inner-city students had to make do with books that had a lot of pages and no pictures. Meghan Hangem, a counselor for causeless social activists says that "schools need more money. They need money. And they also need money. The idea of the old one-room country schoolhouse which turned out well-behaved and well-read young boys and girls is a patriarchal lie concocted in the cauldron of America's sinful past! We need money! You hear me? We need money! Money, goddamnit!"

Other findings show that 30 percent of black students scored at, above, or below grade level in math, an improvement from last year. However, out of that 30 percent, 17 percent of black students with names like Jamal or LaShawn made no improvement from last year and out of that 17 percent, 16 percent of students with names like Jamal or LaShawn who listened to their iPod and talked on their cell phone during classtime despite repeated suggestions from the white teacher to turn them off or get the fuck out of class scored below the national average. From that 16 percent, 15 percent of students named LaShawn or Jamal who listened to their iPod and talked on their cell phone during class and either got knocked up if they were a LaShawn or shot some kid in the face if they were a Jamal did not even take the standardized test.

"The message is clear," says O'Connell, "If you're black, named Jamal or LaShawn, and you listen to your iPod or talk on your cell phone and either get knocked up or shoot somebody and don't show up to take the standardized test--you've already got five strikes against you. And the rules of baseball say three and you're out."

The results also show that children who grow up in households or communities where everything is blamed on white Americans fare poorly in 10th grade history and social science, while schools promoting a feelings and opinions curriculum did not produce as many passing students as schools with a fact-based curriculum. Other findings show that schools that emphasized ethnic and gender-based humanities courses produced little to no students who knew what and when a William Beethoven or Ludwig Van Shakespeare was or is. However, some experts like Timmy Truth, a reporter for the Revolutionicle, believe that racism is the reason for the ethnic and gender-based humanities courses in the first place. Many scholars blame "systemic" racism--a new form of racism discovered in the subatomic structure of the known universe sometime after the passage of the Civil Rights Act of 1964.

For example, when it came to questions such as "are you black?" and "do you come from an African-American community?" and "what color is your skin?" many black students excelled. However, there are many instances in the standardized test of race bias, particularly in such questions as "Which list gives the correct order of food traveling through the digestive system after it is swallowed?" or "If a 7-pound weight stretches a spring a distance of 24.5 inches, how far will the spring stretch if a 12-pound weight is applied?"

If you're white, says O'Connell, the answer is 42. "But if you come from a disenfranchised background where slavery and race and Katrina and black and African-American and blah-blah-blah, it's not as easy."

Admittedly, not all children of color (nee "colored children") fared poorly on the standardized test. Almost 97 percent of all Uncle Toms were at or above grade level in all subjects, but many skeptics believe this to be the result of individuality, integration and Martin Luther King's dream of a color-blind society. Students who were encouraged to "keep it real", however, could barely spell the letter "B".

Also, Hispanic students who could not speak, read, or write English and who came from families where the parents could not speak, read, or write English and attended schools where they were not encouraged to speak, read, or write English did most poorly in English. Luiza Garbanzo of Farmacia Remedias, a Mexican think-tank and quality pharmacy chain based in Canada, says the fact that the state standardized test is written in English is further evidence of a growing Mexicophobia in the wake of Yesterday.

"I think the message is clear," Garbanzo said in Spanish, "when you issue a standardized test for schoolchildren in California and the language it's written in is English, you're basically telling these children--'we hate you because you're Mexican and we're going to kill you at midnight and leave your body in the ditch.' The California educational system has declared open-season on Mexicans!"

"And on blacks," said O'Connell.

Timmy Truth contributed to this article.

Schools need money. Send checks to the following photo:

Sunday, August 05, 2007

Marketing! Marketing! Marketing!


I was walking with my friend Gabe the other day near Dolores Park in San Francisco and we saw at the entrance two or three meager banners proclaiming "Jesus Christ Is Lord." A little further in, we saw a group of no more than seven people of varying ages, colors, and sexes. There were three boom mikes set up on a stand and behind one of them, a woman in her twenties was singing a song about God or Jesus or salvation or some other such thing. There was no crowd. Only that group of friends gathered ten feet away, standing on the grass and smiling.

Intrigued, I said to Gabe that we should move a little closer. I'm always interested when somebody sings passionately behind a microphone in a public setting and there isn't anybody there to hear them. Sometimes I do shows for smaller audiences and I know it's often easier to perform in front of a full house. You kind of feel like a narcissistic jack-off giving a full on theatrical presentation to eleven people.

Also, I wanted to find out what these guys had done in regards to marketing. Because, admittedly, if you're sporting a banner saying "George Bush Equals Hitler" or "9-11 Was An Inside Job" or "Zionists Go Home", there isn't usually a problem with getting folks around here to come out and "hear the word". A la:


So I went over and asked a guy wearing a "Jesus Christ Is Lord" T-shirt, "How'd you guys go about marketing this event?"

I soon discovered that the word "marketing" was a little inappropriate, not because it was potentially offensive to them, but because the importance of marketing (or converting, or proselytizing) apparently wasn't really of any interest to them. The guy responded, "We don't tell anybody. We just come out here and share the Word. And God guides us."

"So you don't send out an e-mail to other Christian churches or activist groups in the area, you don't hang up fliers around town, you don't try to get listed in the weeklies?" Writing this now, I see how weird all this must have seemed at the time; suggesting that Christianity is suffering from a marketing problem. Or suggesting that the weeklies would promote a gathering of eleven Christians in Dolores Park.

The guy continued, "Everything we need to know can be found right here in the Bible."

Boy, I tell you, that statement really took me back home to my Missouri adolescence. I've always enjoyed getting into it with fundamentalists. And since all the fundamentalists in Missouri are Christian, (this is not to say that all Christians in Missouri are fundamentalists--a common misconception out in the relativistic Wild West of the Bay Area), I felt like a teenager. I haven't gotten into an argument with a Christian in quite a long time. I was young again.

Normally out here I feel old, very detached from the youth (even though I'm only 34) because lately I've been going after Islamic--and not Christian--fundamentalists. Why? Because out here the anti-Christian rhetoric is so rabidly strong and the global effects of fundamentalist Islam are so conveniently glossed over. That's why when I walk by a situation like I did the other day and I see a geographical underdog (white fundamentalist Christians in SF), I feel compelled to root for them. That's why I'm a Mets fan and not a Yankees fan. I love underdogs.

That, and because I'm also able to draw a distinction between the polemical outcomes of fundamentalist Christianity as opposed to fundamentalist Islam.

Fundamentalist Islam will likely get you killed. Fundamentalist Christianity is--well, just kind of stupid. And here's why:

You see, you may not know this, but a long time ago, Christianity had a Reformation. There was a man named Martin Luther who split from the Catholic church because he wanted the Bible and the religious services translated from Latin into the vernacular so that the uneducated masses would be able to individually interpret the scriptures for themselves. Furthermore, he rebelled against the doctrine of papal infallibility which really burned some bridges between himself and the Vatican. After all, here was a man who dared to challenge what at that time was the immutable unquestionability of Catholic expertise in all matters clerical.

From this emerged an alternate--and comparitively liberal--school of Christianity called Protestantism.

Notice the root word: "Protest".

From this initial split, over the course of centuries, Protestantism continued to subdivide into various denominations. There were the Lutherans, of course. A few years later, when King Henry VIII of England wasn't permitted by the pope to get a divorce, the Anglicans (Episcopalians, if you're American) eventually came into being. There were Calvinists. There were Puritans. There were Methodists.

Methodists were especially cool. They were all about radical social reform. In fact, were it not for Methodism, there wouldn't have been the Abolitionist movement of the 1800s which fostered enough Biblical debate on the topic of slavery to ultimately lead Western Civilization to put an end to it.

Then came the Quakers, the Presbyterians, the Baptists, the Pentecostals. . .

Things eventually started to get a little nuttier, but in smaller and smaller doses.

The endless subdivision of Protestantism ultimately led to the "crazier" fundamentalist sects. Crazier in methodology and doctrine, but smaller in terms of numbers and less significant in terms of social and political import. Seventh-Day Adventists, for example. Or Mormons. Or Jews For Jesus. Or the Jesus Freaks of the 60s/70s. Or David Koresh.

Historically, the Reformation led to many good things. A cultural Renaissance, for example, which gave birth to great men of genius like Michelangelo, Da Vinci, Shakespeare, and Dante. Once again, Christian abolitionists--an natural outgrowth of the European Christian Enlightenment--helped end slavery. And, of course, Luther's namesake, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., a southern Baptist minister, ushered in the postmodern Civil Rights Movement.

And, admittedly, the Reformation also led to some bad things. The Catholics went overboard in retaliation with the Spanish Inquisition. Nut jobs on the East Coast burned a few "witches". Koresh and clan burned themselves to the ground.

But worst of all: It made anybody and everybody (and, by definition, nobody) an expert in Christian doctrine. If one just "felt the call of the lord" and started a church "in His name", one could get an audience (congregation). This is why postmodern Christianity is a lot like the internet. There's a lot of good and a lot of bad. And it takes a good set of eyes to be able to distinguish the two.

So getting back to this conversation. I say to the man with the Bible, "Look. You have to understand where you are. You're in a city with an intellectual and literary tradition in its recent history. There are universities here. This is a very politically left-leaning town. Christianity is not heavily favored here. I hope you don't mind me saying this, but if you just point at that book and say that all truth is to be found in there, nobody in this area is going to listen to you. You're justifying all of their preconceived notions about Christianity being excessively literal and dogmatic."

I knew this was an exercise in futility. But I like a good challenge.

I said, "Look, you really want to get the message of Christ out here in San Francisco? Then start talking about William Blake. Read some Blake poems up there. Quote from John Milton. Assault them with knowledge. Assault them with the creative output of the Christian West. Right now, you're doing what the fundamentalist Islamists do--they point at that Koran over and over and say, 'everything was revealed by Allah in the Holy Qu'ran'. But you guys aren't just Christians. You're white American Christians--you've already got three strikes against you--and because of that you're going to have to work a little harder to get your message across. Pointing to the Bible and declaring it the only fount of wisdom is same thing the radical Islamic clerics perpetuate in regards to Koranic scripture. But out here, they're a 'different culture' that we must try and understand according to the abritrary, contradictory, and hypocritical doctrine of multiculturalism. We can 'think globally and act locally' about everything but that, you see. God is all right if his name is Allah. Just consider the hyperbolic postmodern sentiment that flies in the face of statistics, historical progress, and current events: 'there is no difference between radical Islam and radical Christianity'."

Here's the anti-relativistic caveat: the difference between the two is the cry for jihad against the West.

That, and they teach their children that Jews are the descendants of apes and pigs.


In New York, putting a Koran in a toilet is now a felony. Cartoons have to be pulled from circulation whenever demanded, popes have to apologize for speeches given in Germany, and Salman Rushdie shouldn't be knighted. Furthermore, homosexuals are hung on sodomy charges in Iran--


--and women should dress "modestly" according to the precepts of Islamic sharia law--

Elections in Spain swing with exploding trains and buses are set on fire in Paris. And if the fundamentalist Islamists aren't commiting suicide bombings, they're either sanctioning them from the mosques or praising their perpetrators as "glorious martyrs"


Also, in the Bay Area, you're more likely to see a Jew wearing a keffiyah instead of a yarmulke. Yes, Islam is about 700 years behind Christianity historically. But in an age of sophisticated weaponry, it's important to ask, "Would it have been a good thing if Christians from 1200 A.D. had had access to nuclear missiles?"

And the fundamentalist Christians of today? Comical buffoons that nobody takes seriously.


Nobody outside of these isolated circle jerks of "praise" and "worship", that is. Nobody of any serious consquence. Watch Christian TV for a few hours and then ask yourself, is this sort of fundamentalism really a legitimate threat to the movers and shakers in Hollywood, the global news agencies, the academic realm, the bloggers, and among today's youth? No. It's just boring. And old. And phasing itself out of existence by cutting itself off fully from its rich cultural, artistic, and historical traditions.

That's why I kept harping on this guy: "Look, what about the great figures of the Christian Enlightenment? You should be out here quoting from John Locke or Immanuel Kant. Go back to the Catholics and understand the significance of St. Augustine, St. Thomas Aquinas, St. Erasmus. . .talk about the social activism of the Methodists, the civil rights thrust of the black Southern Baptists. . .or better yet, what about existentialism? Everybody loves existentialism out here. But be sure to remind them that existentialism was a Christian concept and that its founding father was Soren Kierkegaard, a man who wrote extensively about the relationship between faith and reason. And if you really want to impress the folks around here, you should be showing Ingmar Bergman films and discussing his positive portrayal of the Christian faith in works like 'The Winter Light' and 'The Virgin Spring'.

Needless to say, I soon tired after a few more rebuttals of "Everything we need to know is right here in the Bible."

At this point, the girl up front had stopped singing and a guy took her place at the microphone. He testified about being in a gang or in prison or on drugs or something. She looked about college age, so I thought I'd try and sell my intellectual public relations approach to her.

"Hey," I said, "you know, the literalism that guy is espousing over there is really going to hurt you guys. You're not going to be able to sell that to anyone around here. As soon as you point to that Bible, you're fucked."

She smiled. Another difference between fundamentalist Christians and fundamentalist Islamists. I don't know how many patronizing and condescending smiles I've been the recipient of when arguing with fundamentalist Christians. It's kind of a smug, "we know something you don't know" look. It doesn't hurt me--as it might if I suggested the same to a radical cleric in the Middle East about pointing to the Qu'ran and being "fucked". It just annoys me. And it makes me sorry I started talking to them. It's the zombie-esque feeling. "One of us! One of us!" But I get that with every kind of "community" situation.

She said, "But God is all-powerful. God is a big God. He finds a way to get His message out there. We're just His instruments." (Yes, she even capitalized "His" when she spoke")

"But that's such a passive way to go about it," I said, "You're not fighting. You might as well go out here and set yourself on fire. The Crusades, for example, were a defensive Christian reaction against confiscation of vast areas of land and subjugation of native peoples that began shortly after the founding of Islam.


But nowadays, the Crusades are incorrectly portrayed as white Christians arbitrarily persecuting Muslims. All I'm saying is, if you're a Christian and you don't know about the historical, scientific, artistic, and cultural advances that Western Christian civilization has brought into the world--people who aren't Christians are going to rewrite your history for you."

There is some truth to the notion that it's the winners of wars who write history. I don't necessarily disagree with this. But I also believe that it's the people who don't take some sort of interest in their own history who have their histories rewritten for them.

So this girl offered to pray for me. She wanted to do it right then and there. I hate it when they do that. Everything's always public with them. I declined and her friend jumped in and offered, "Let me explain. She has to do this because she feels what God is telling her and God is telling her to pray."

I said, "Look. I don't mind you praying for me. I even pray myself from time to time. But I believe in private prayer. So why don't you wait until we get over that hill and we're out of sight and then you can start praying for me."

She agreed.

And then I said, "But I'll only let you pray for me if you go on the internet tonight and look up William Blake. And read a poem called 'The Lamb' from his 'Songs Of Innocence'. You gotta get in touch with the psychedelic side of Christianity. And Blake is the best place to start. What better definition of Christ is there than the divinity of the individual human and his (OR HER)capacity for artistic creation?"

It's all marketing. And if you're not going to convert anymore--then you have to market.