Winning the War Against Christmas!

It looks like the kooks, queers and mutants are gaining some traction. 2005 was an excellent year for the War on Christmas. Soon we shall cleanse Christ right out and return it to the pagan solstace festival it was back in the good ol' days before the Christians decided that their savior (born in April by astronomical data) must have been born in late December.

My dad is all ticked off because his neighborhood in the Republikkkan stronghold of suburban Chicago is relatively devoid of Christmas lights. Could it be that people don't want to pay the energy monopolies anymore? You can't have it both ways!

Plus, this year was fun because each member of my family needled me about not going to church. The last time I was in a church it was because their god dropped the ball and killed some people I cared about waaaaaay before their time. He's an asshole, I'm not going to set foot in His house.

Everybody commented about my desire to NOT go, yet one by one, they each developed a problem, ailment, or circumstance that kept them from mass. Religious condemnation and hypocrisy strike again!

Although my dad's neighbors didn't put up Christmas lights, they do proudly display their "Bush-Cheney '04" stickers and lawn signs. They are now having a Kwaanza party for the kids, complete with a Rodney King pinata that they beat with flashlights.

Of course, I can't say anything about the beloved president, after all, "We are at war". Nobody cares that it is a war we decided to fight, and did so under false pretenses. Of course they all are sacrificing for the war effort. The malls are packed with clueless zombies, consuming and smiling. I was a zombie because the only way Mrs. Schmootzie can get me in a mall is to let me drink a dozen zombies.

Okay, more to come. My parents will be home soon and I need to free my dad's phone line and fancy "dial-up service for the on-line". I feel like a kid again, the only difference is, when they come home I need them to find me stinking drunk so I can deal with this abortion.

Who REALLY is Taking Christ Out of Christmas?

My dad is a great guy, but as far as politics are concerned the apple has fallen miles to the left of the tree. He’s heavily involved in local Republican politics, loves GWBush and supports the compulsory kkkonservative causes no matter how askew they may be. There reigns the prototypical defense of God, family and country, except of course when such things get in the way.

This was typified by our conversation last night. We were watching Monday Night Football when a Coors Beer commercial wished all Coors drinkers a joyous “Happy Holidays”. He said, “See, there they are, taking Christmas out of their ads, why can’t they say ‘Merry Christmas’, it’s the attack on Christians again!”

I then explained to him that Coors is run by the 4th Reich, that they have immense Republican political clout and that they are dupes of the Bush Administration. They also have a horrible labor record and in the 1980’s would not retain homosexuals to work in their company. Like I said, good Republicans.

My dad said, “Our local group is going to deluge those bastards at the ACLU with Christmas cards—that’ll show them”.

This is where I got to make my lonely point. The Limbaughs, Hannitys and my dad are the culprits—THEY are taking Christ out of Christmas. THEY are the ones that neutered the concept. They are the ones that see Ol’ Beelzebub, some hippy Jew lawyer and/or wreath-burning homos around every corner during their Capitalist Month of Consumption. I explained it to him like this…

Instead of wasting their time, energy and money sending Christmas cards to the ACLU, well, What Would Jesus Do? Certainly the time they spend bitching and screaming as victims could be better used, proactively living and conceptually spreading the ideas Christ himself embraced. They could do what he allegedly did, lead by example.

Send those cards to lonely elderly shut ins. Spend the time helping the poor, giving time and money to those in dire need. Bring comfort to those in hospice, perhaps volunteer at a warming shelter. Nah.

Instead, they’ll complain about being victims of the liberal media, then they’ll go consume mass quantities of Chinese crap electronics, check that the yellow ribbon on their Hummer is still there as they pull out of the handicapped parking space. They’ll talk about the excellent progress on the invasion of a once sovereign nation, and how free they are now that we decided they should be.

After all, that is what Christ would have wanted us to celebrate his birthday.

Maybe a piñata too.

Bullshit

Yes, I have not posted since Sunday and it's Friday, but it is the end of the semester under the academic Big Top and I've been busy kicking ass and taking names. Today we recorded our grades for a graduate course. Clearly, four students conspired to share answers for a take-home exam. What to do? Answers varied from fail them to dismiss them from our competitive program.

I decided that I'd intervene. Heck, I'm the professor everyone seems to like okay and I have good interaction with the students. Long story short, when confronted, they lied to me. They then went on to further decieve me and jerk me around.

Done. Here's four guys that had an outstanding chance that now are fucked for life. My heart is seriously broken. I like them all personally, but when you can't trust them at all, how can we develop a solid professional relationship?

Fuck.

This is the worst day of my professional career.

"Go away, I want to be alone"
Pops Hercules, Forbidden Zone

Visit Later for the Soundtrack

In 1985 I recorded 8 songs in the studio with Insane War Tomatoes. In 1995 I recorded a series of songs with Ku Klux Klowns. Since I'm operating in decades it seemed only appropriate that I record something in 2005. That gives me a few weeks to produce.

The good news is that my income has gone up over the past decade as recording equipment price has come down. I just set up a bitchin' studio at home for cheap.

It sounds fantastic. The learning curve is a bit steep, but in one night I could record a song.

I'll make a few available here soon. I'm going to get back to it now...

A Victim of Clean Teeth

Tonight I sit in front of the computer, my dentition polished and shined by a skilled professional. Earlier today I visited my dentist for a teeth cleaning and checkup, something I really like to do. I have a good dentist that has employed Kate and Jo, two very seasoned hygienists. Both are older, probably late 50's, early 60's. They know their craft and I think must have honed their abilities in prisons. Just a guess.

I don't know for sure, but I don't think they like each other. Three cleanings ago I was leaving and commented to the dentist that Kate was a really good hygienist and did the most complete job I've ever had. No big deal.

But Jo was lurking. I saw her walk past the room and didn't think anything of it.

The next time, Jo was my hygienist. The first thing she said was, "So you thought Kate did a pretty good job did you... ? Well you ain't seen nothing yet!"

She scraped and flossed, dug and poked, and afterward my mouth felt like pulled apart with a shoe stretcher. But it was clean, so clean that you could eat off of it.

The next time I drew Kate as my cleaner and she had to one-up Joe. Long story short, I was sore for two days and bleeding. Still it was an excellent cleaning, painful, yet thorough. I commented on the excellent job and again Jo made a mental note.

Today Jo was my hygienist. She put on a full face shield and two pairs of gloves to engage in the oral onslaught of my choppers. I swear, I wish I had novocaine. The worst part is, my gums and teeth are in great shape, and a cleaning is (was) always routine!

She took 45 minutes in a 30 minute time slot, cleaning carefully over and over again. She unearthed pieces of pork somehow and I've been a vegetarian for 13 years. She found hair, gum, and something that looked like a piece of velcro. There was a feather. How this menagerie of debris escaped the ambitious hook of two competing dental hygienists for so many sessions I don't know. The bib looked like post-Katrina New Orleans once the water went down!

All is well tonight, I couldn't eat all day, and now I'm on the second giant tumbler of Wiser's Scottish Whiskey mixed with a splash of black cherry Fresca. The second glass did not taste as bloody as the first and I'm confident that all is clotting and the tenderness will subside. I'm digging in for a long night in front of the TV and a movie just came from Netflix- Marathon Man. Go figure.

My next appointment is June 8, 2006 and I'm just going to get them all extracted. Once I move to dentures I can do my own cleanings and it will be much less painful.

The War on Silent Letters

I am not sure where the silent letter came from or why it stuck around. Every day the millions of cumulative man hours spent reaching for the silent letter on a keyboard are wasted. Over 10,000 gallons of ink are spent daily to fashion vowels and consonants of no verbal gravity. Laid end to end, they would encircle the planet four times in a silent and meaningless loop.

I proclaim a jihad on the terror that is the silent letter. The deplorable alphabetical mimes are the scourage of the written language.

A Tribute to Jeff

I'd be in my office typing at 1AM when the unmistakable wheezing would come from down the hall. The mucous-laden, chest-heaving, deliberate breaths were only less forced than the footsteps that accompanied them. I knew that their owner was coming to visit me and that I'd lose the next 30-90 minutes listening to an inane story or boring scientific anecdote.

Jeff was a freaking pest. We were two of a handful of postdocs and grad students that worked late into the night. It was a fun club-- a brethren of misfits, weirdos and geeks bound by a common love of scientific pursuits. We belonged to well-known research programs and all studied and published aggressively. We all worked hard, certainly Jeff did too.

The scientific theatre was not just Jeff's job, not just Jeff's interest, not just Jeff's career, it was Jeff's entire social network. We were his best friends and confidants. We were his advisors and safety net. This is why he was a pest. He had a heart of gold and a brain for science, but he lacked any hint of self-esteem. His massive awkward size, bad hygeine, and poor grooming, coupled to his horrible state of health left him more than unsavory, he was downright scary to those that didn't know him. In addition, his desire to be friendly and helpful was so potent that he'd drown you in clumsy assistance, frequently with a deleterious outcome.

The guy sweated buckets and always was soaking wet, glistening over endless welts and hives. He drove a rusted out 1973 Ford Maverick with no shocks, and the rumbling muffler was the only thing louder than his wheezing. Sometimes I'd hear the wheezing, close my door and turn out the lights to hide from him because I didn't want to talk. Another time I yelled at him because I ruined a valuable limited product it took me all day to isolate because he was talking my ear off and I lost concentration. He'd bug me to go out to dinner every day and I'd only do it about once a month.

Even though I gave him minimal time, I was one of a few people that showed him some mercy. I moved all of his evil stinky belongings from a basement to a horrible apartment in the most dangerous, cheapest part of town. When he was leaving for his next job I was the only person that showed up at a farewell dinner. We had taco salads.

As usual, he rambled on and on about all the great things he was doing, all of his previous successes. He reveled in his past and it was boring, really boring. I think this is why people were so anti-Jeff. He was physically creepy, tried too hard to be close to you and then bragged endlessly about his few bright spots when he had you cornered.

Why? He did it because it was all he had. His few successes were the sole positive punctuation on an otherwise empty existence filled with endless rejection. He had no friends, ancient parents, no siblings. He never had a girlfriend, but one waitress at a pizza place was always good to him and took the time to talk to him. She gave him small bits of her time and advice and he thought the world of her. She saw past his physically imposing stature to his heart of gold.

Recently, Jeff's heart of gold stopped working. He died of congestive heart failure at 33. It's strange because I recently looked to see if he had any new papers out and I wondered if I'd see him at any scientific conferences. The next day I heard about his death through a rather convoluted grapevine.

The World-Wide-Web reflects his existence. His scientific works are strong and well cited, but you can't find a picture of him or a personal anecdote. I spent three years with the guy, you think I'd have a photograph somewhere, but I don't. There is no information about where he came from, what he liked to do. He always was lurking in the background of a scientific vacuum that will forever tell only that side of his story.

So here's one to you Jeff. You were kind to many, unappreciated by more. In your life you taught us about science and in your death you taught us something about ourselves, our shallowness, our impatience. Thanks pal.

Moving at the Speed of Hilarious

How fast does a good evil joke travel? On September 11, 1982 the wife of former Chicago Cubs pitching sensation Milt Papas disappeared. He was a local celeb due to the fact that his no-hitter in 1973 was one of a few bright spots in what otherwise was a mundane century of Chicago baseball. Five years later authorities discovered that she accidentally drove her car into a suburban-Chicago retention pond and drowned.

I lived in the Chicago area and phoned a local radio station with a joke. I was on hold forever...

Finally local shock-jock Steve Dahl picked up and I asked, "How are Milt Papas and his wife alike?"

There was a pause of uncomfortable anticipation. The DJ asked hesitantly, "How?"

"They both had a nasty sinker!"

The airwaves were dead for about three laborious seconds before he erupted into laughter.

Less than three minutes later the phone rang at home and my mom started laughing. It turns out that my uncle almost drove his car off the road from the joke, he called my dad (no cell phones either- he had to find a pay phone, it was that funny) and my dad called my mom. My mother told me the joke, getting from my mouth through airwaves and phone lines and back to my ear in under 5 minutes.

The best part is, the joke was archived and played repeatedly on the show. It was so awesomely offensive because it centered off of a Chicago baseball legend/local treasure.

To this day, it remains one of my most potently inappropriate punchlines.

My Harlequin Curriculum Vitae (Part IV)

Part Four of the Trilogy (see previous dates for earlier editions)

Pictures on Sunday!

The clown suit was a staple through college and graduate school. It was a close companion to a good beer buzz and a must before a parade. I remember being completely intoxicated and hopped up on some crap at the NIU Homecoming Parade. Again, a clown suit is like an all-access pass. You can do whatever you want in a festive atmosphere and nobody will tell you "NO".

I ran through the parade causing trouble. I mounted the floats of frats and clubs, then flipped off the crowds. I'd throw candy into the crowds as hard as I could, causing parade watchers to duck and leaving a bloodied trail in the wake of the float. It was my vehicle for evil.

I stole the university president's hat, ran through the banners of marching bands and scarred the hell out of little kids. The best part is, although I was an evil asshole, everybody laughed and said, "Crazy Clown".

Later I would integrate blood capsules. I remember walking around in my clown suit bleeding profusely from my mouth hysterically screaming, "What sick bastards would hurt a clown? Whhhhyyyyy whyyyyyyy??". It was a sad scene. Soon frat dudes would come to my aid and would ask who did it. I'd point out some other loser or an off duty cop. I always liked to watch the wheels come off.

(To be continued)

My Harlequin Curriculum Vitae (Part III)

Part III of the series (see last two days for Parts I and II)

In college I realized that a clown suit was carte blanche. Just by putting on the suit I could invade any official function, from grand openings to parades. Shock factor was critical. I changed my name to "SMEGMO". I never got more mean looks than when I would put on my clown suit and then buy a bag of apples and a carton of razor blades on halloween.

Anyone that owns a clown suit should keep a black turtleneck, black pants and a derby around-- just in case. It may be necessary to outfit a friend, and a mime suit is easy, complementary and inherently incendiary. After my pal X24 moved from DeKalb IL to Wisconsin I caught myself putting on the clown suit a bit more often. One night in 1988 he drove down from Wisconsin with a cache of guns, a wheel of Mullin's Aged Cheddar, a 13 pack of beer that was a 24-pack and his black and tan coon hound Zeek.

Time would find us bored, drunk and cheeseless. We resorted to garbing ourselves in the clown and mime suits in the interest of trolling the Northern Illinois University campus for trouble. X24 was not the traditional mime. He announced himself as Marcel MarSatan, an evil mime, complete with the Charles Manson swastika bindi in the middle of his forehead. We stumbled, literally, across a dance party in the basement of a dorm, and although we had no invitations, everyone loves a clown and we entered unrivaled. We worked babes, ate food, drank booze, and made general merriment... until some retarded macho frat guy had to intervene, taking issue with the mime.

The scene spilled into the street, a series of frat guys yelling at a clown and a mime, and the mime would not break character, leaving the inebriated clown to negotiate escape. When I asked, "What's wrong, why are you guys so pissed off?" all he said was, "That mime was mouthing off at me".

I looked to Marcel MarSatan, he raised his shoulders, tilted his head and pursed his lips, stupified by the comment.

The guy yelled, "Wipe that look off your face!"

Not skipping a beat, the mime, with great exaggeration, passed his hand over his smiling face with a flourish, revealing a grumpy face on the other side. Of course this didn't really deee-fuse the situation.

Their major beef was with the swastika. Afterall, they were hyper reactionary, wealthy, white, Chicago suburbanites that were functionally useless and had zero capacity to understand satire. After explaining who Charles Manson was and that he wasn't Marlyn Manson's dad, it became apparent that we were going to get nowhere with the meatheads. I pointed my big floppy shoes toward home and quickly headed off. Marcel MarSatan followed closely behind, wratcheting himself along on an invisible rope.

We were half way home when a police car pulled up onto the sidewalk in front of us. Cops emerged and asked, "We understand a clown and a mime were causing trouble by the dorms".

Then I had to ask, "Well how do you know it was us?"

After realizing there is a time and a place for a clown gag I decided to play it straight with the cops. X24 would not break character until the police were ready to arrest him for disorderly conduct. Finally he too started to talk, the cops checked our identification and let us continue on.

It was a memorable night of clowning, but many more would soon be afoot...

(more tomorrow)