http://blogcritics.org/ A sinister cabal of superior bloggers on music, books, film, popular culture, politics, and technology - updated continuously. en Copyright 2005-2007 by the authors Thu, 20 May 2004 04:39:31 EDT http://backend.userland.com/rss Blogcritics.org custom software http://blogcritics.org/ Phillip WinnSunday, August 26, 2007, marks the switch of all Blogcritics.org article feeds from full-content to short-content. This is the result of several converging factors, and is unfortunately a permanent decision (as permanent as any decision can be on the web, that is). We are aware of all of the reasons that this is a Bad Idea, and we are aware that some of you will be quite upset about having to click on something to read the free content, and we're sorry. Unfortunately, despite great effort, full-content feeds are not currently economically viable. Two other factors are involved: full-content feeds have resulted in an unprecedented level of content theft, with BC content appearing on many websites, usually spam sites, without attribution or permission. This duplicate content causes a cascading set of problems, not the least of which is that search engines generally aren't favorable to duplicate content, and don't always guess correctly. Finally, our RSS advertising partner is strongly in favor of short-content feeds. We hope that you'll continue to subscribe to BC via RSS, and when an article grabs your eye, it's only a click away, still free on the BC website. Thank you for your understanding. Administration0@blogcritics.org Sun, 26 Aug 2007 12:00:00 EDT http://blogcritics.org/archives/2004/05/20/043931.php Tom NorrisLast Sunday, my wife, Liz, and I, along with our little girl, Mary Ellen, attended an Eagle Scout investiture ceremony. It was a warm day with large puffy clouds slowly moving across the sky, riding the flow of a mild breeze; an idyllic Spring day.Twenty years ago, I attended a similar ceremony; only I wasn't a guest, but the center of attention, there to be awarded the coveted title of Eagle Scout. This was the first time my wife had attended such a ceremony and, having no brothers, was also her first real contact with the Boy Scouts of America - aside from me, that is. Over the course of our eleven years of marriage, I'd related one story after the next of my scouting adventures and she seemed to listen with a wary eye, not quite sure if I was merely being enthusiastic, if not outright stretching the truth. I'll confess both are very real possibilities.It was about twelve years ago and Liz and I had been dating for a few short weeks, probably not more than two. As in any new relationship, there's a period of time when you're still getting to know your partner; their likes and dislikes; what interests they have, maybe even hobbies, and so on. As Liz and I prepared to go out to dinner one evening, she decided to stir the pot to see what floated to the surface."What's the strangest thing you've ever done?" she asked.As I slipped my arms into my coat, I looked at her and replied, "Let's make a game outa this. I'll give you two answers and you have to pick the right one. How's that grab ya?"Liz smiled saying, "Ok. So, what's the strangest thing you've ever done?"We stepped out the door of my apartment and, as I locked the door behind me, I replied, "Hmm. Well, alright, how about this: I once went on vacation to the Grand Canyon with my parents and, when no one was looking, took a leak off the side of a cliff and into the raging Colorado River a mile below OR I was inducted into an ancient branch of the Delaware Indian tribe known as the Mic-o-say tribe and had to endure a grueling ordeal ceremony where I was dressed only in a loin cloth and had to dance around a bonfire to the satisfaction of howling warriors of the tribe who were constantly barking and yelling at me, belittling everything I did and urging me to quit and go home, all the while Indian drummers banging on their instruments and adding their own singing to the deafening cacophony. Which one ya pick?"I opened the car door for Liz and, as she slipped inside, glanced up at me and rolled her eyes. "You're not making this real tough, are you?" I only smiled and shrugged as I closed the door behind her. When I entered the driver's side of the car and started the engine, I asked, "Well? Do you think you know which one it is?" Liz chuckled and replied sarcastically, "Gosh, I wonder?! You peed into the Grand Canyon. Duh."As I brought the car to the exit of the parking lot, I applied the brakes momentarily and said to her with a broad grin, "No, actually, it's the other one."Liz gasped and cried, "What?! No way! Ok, now I know you're lying!"I shook my head saying, "Nope, it's the absolute truth. And when we get back to my place, I'll prove it to you.""How?" she asked incredulously."I'll show you the documents. I have a couple of framed certificates. You ever notice that strange looking orange necklace hanging over the desk in my room? The one with the two big black bear claws on it?"By now, Liz had assumed a more serious demeanor. I think it was slowly beginning to sink in that I was telling the truth. "You mean... the... yeah, I've seen it. I dunno, I guess I figured it was just some odd thing you picked up over the years. Like a souvenir or something."I laughed and replied, "Well, now, I can assure you, that ain't no souvenir! It's called a log chain and denotes my rank within the tribal lodge. In fact, I guess you could say I hold two different ranks within the tribe, seeing as how in my particular lodge, they have two different systems of rank."We drove along in silence for a minute or so when Liz finally piped up and asked, "Is this some sort of Boy Scout thing? Were you a Boy Scout or something?"I nodded, adding not only had I been a Boy Scout, but an Eagle Scout, as well. "But," I said, gesturing with a pointed finger for added emphasis, "Don't confuse this with being the silly sacrament of a youth organization. This was, and is, very real. They weren't playing cowboys and Indians. This wasn't a make-believe ceremony. The members of the tribe might not have the traditional red skin of a Native American, and they might not have a drop of native blood in their bodies, but they live by the exact same code of life and are organized along very similar lines."It's always a difficult thing to explain just what this organization is like to the uninitiated. Images of teenage boys bedecked in brightly colored Indian costumes, dancing about a campfire, whooping and hollering, would seem to imply a sense of imaginary play; that the persons in question are deluded by simple naivety. It's a cynical age we live in; a time when notions such as duty and honor and loyalty are little more than impractical ideas: nice to have, but often kept in the back pocket and pulled out only when convenient. And should anyone confess to living their own life by such standards, we gaze on them in wonderment and smirk, unconvinced that someone could be genuinely selfless and not driven by our own sense of personal profiteering. And who can blame them for thinking that way? Look all around and you see plenty of examples of people who profess to be motivated by admirable principles, only to have it revealed by the sleuthing of reporters that the person has a scandalous past or, behind closed doors, says and does things which are blatantly contrary to their public persona. Of course we have our doubts! But those doubts often translate into disregard; that if the standards are too high, too difficult to attain, perhaps they should be lowered or done away with entirely. In 1938, a man by the name of Grey Owl died in Canada. Born in England under the name of Archibald Belaney, he grew up in the home of his two spinster aunts, spending his youth wandering the countryside and dreaming of traveling to the United States to live the life of an Indian. He spent hours on end playing out his dreams and reading everything he could about the simple natives and their rustic lifestyle. He wanted nothing more than to be one of them.And so, upon turning 16 years of age, the young Archie Belaney took a ship to Canada and disappeared into the wilderness where he was adopted into an Ojibwa tribe in northern Ontario. Because of his tendency to spend hours walking the deep forests at night, he earned the name Grey Owl in that tribe and quickly adapted to their way of life, letting his hair grow out long and donning their traditional clothing. To make a living, Grey Owl became a beaver trapper and hunting guide for wealthy white tourists. None of them suspected he was anything other than yet one more of many natives roaming the backwoods of that region. He looked like an Indian; talked like one, even being fluent in the language; everything about his person spoke of his being born and raised amongst the people with whom he lived. Even many of the natives mistook him for being one of their own, so convincing was his masquerade. But it wasn't exactly as if he were openly lying, though it would come down to this later in order for him to maintain his status in the public eye. When asked about his past, he often deflected the questions or simply told what he believed would be convincing. As far as he was concerned, as was the same for the people who adopted him into their tribe, he was an Indian and always had been, if only in his heart and mind. Grey Owl was a stunning success as a travel guide. He could tell stories of the wilderness like no one else and always left his white audience marveling at how articulate this red man was. As a result of this, he soon found he could make a small income from writing articles for nature magazines and he quickly developed a large following of loyal readers. The tales of his many adventures living in the forests of Canada captivated thousands of people in Britain and Canada, and his message on the importance of conserving the vast treasure of the Canadian wilderness did not go unheeded. It wasn't until a publisher made the long, arduous trek to his cabin that Grey Owl learned of his popularity. Would he be interested in writing a book? At first, the answer was no. Grey Owl wanted no part of the world he left behind. But, insisted the publisher, this might be a way for him to reach a larger audience with his message of preserving the forests and natural habitat of his beloved woodland creatures. And there was no doubt in Grey Owl's mind; the demand for lumber by the construction industry was quickly working its way into his realm of solace and solitude. Left unchecked, it could all be little more than a barren wasteland within a few generations. Although initially apprehensive, not wanting to return to the world he left and now fearing his true identity might be revealed, Grey Owl chose to use his new public image to promote his message. His rationale was simple: if he didn't, who would? And, so, he embarked upon writing a book, several in fact. He also made a number of short films. But his mainstay was public lecturing. His circuit covered Canada, Britain, and even into the United States, and wherever he went, lecture halls were filled to capacity, often leaving attendees standing or sitting in crowded aisles. Then came the day he most feared. After several years of public speaking, a lone reporter from the North Bay Nugget, discovered his true identity. The editor of this newspaper held the story back, unwilling to publish it in light of the sincerity of Grey Owl's message and the real positive effect it was having on preserving the Canadian wilderness. Grey Owl was also what we today would call a superstar and the world was his stage. He lived a simple life and made it clear he had no desire to capitalize on his fame. And because he didn't, for his genuine goodness of character, the editor did not run the story of his true identity until his death in 1938. When the story was published, the world stood back in awe. As one of his former boyhood neighbors asked, "How did the soul of an Indian find its way into a British boy?" For there was no doubt in anyone's mind, Grey Owl was a true Indian, no longer a proper Englishman.After the initial shock came controversy. If he had lied about his past, how sincere could his message possibly be? Throughout it all, his once important message of conservation was lost and quickly forgotten. His world acclaim had warped into notoriety and he was relegated to being an embarrassing footnote of the early 20th century. Because he was perceived as having duped the world, his message was all but disregarded. A cynical world is not fast to forgive and will throw out the baby with the bathwater. Yesterday, I was talking online with a group of people and asked if anyone else was an Eagle Scout? I was the only one, but a number of them piped in saying they had been Scouts. Had any of them been tapped out into the Order of the Arrow, as well? A few had and related fond memories of those long ago days. And in the course of discussing how the Boy Scouts has changed over the years, one person spoke up saying, "Scouting is gay." As he pointed out, he, too, had been a Boy Scout, but found it too silly and naive for his liking. I was tempted to rebuke his ridiculous claim, but decided against doing so. There could have been any number of factors, which came into play, thus marring his experience. Still, it's one of those organizations in which you get out of it as much as you put in, and often the dividends can be greater than the initial investment. There are shamefully few youth organizations that teach strong leadership skills. And I know something about leadership, having spent many years in the service of my country as a Light Infantry officer in the United States Army. The leadership principles taught by the Boy Scouts is nearly an exact duplicate of those taught by all branches of service. That's no coincidence. The military is in the business of training leaders of high character and what they teach actually works. Sadly, however, when we see images of Iraqi prisoners being abused, we call into question the virtue of a system that trains such perpetrators and write off the great positives as of little consequence. We smirk and huff, "That's gay." Nobility of character is received with a doubtful chuckle and we relinquish any pretense of being something more because, in the end, you're only fooling yourself and will be greeted with snickers should you make the attempt. High ideals and strong character are replaced with apathy and ridicule. Only four out of one hundred scouts will become Eagle Scouts. It's a shame there aren't more of them. It's a greater disgrace that we scoff the efforts of people like them and Grey Owl. What a better world we might make for ourselves, were we to follow their example?Unfortunately, it's a cynical world in which we live. Books15811@blogcritics.org Thu, 20 May 2004 04:39:31 EDT http://blogcritics.org/archives/2004/04/30/162115.php Tom NorrisA few weeks ago, my wife bought our daughter Mary Ellen a book entitled Baby Signs for Mealtime. Mary Ellen's vocabulary is limited to a few words: meow (we have several cats), "Uh oh", and mama. When she wants something, she typically points to it and whines - which my wife says she learned from me. But my wife had the brilliant idea of teaching our daughter a basic form of sign language geared towards toddlers who are usually unable to articulate their thoughts. Much like your average Hollywood knucklehead or WWF attendee. So I'm going through this book, Baby Signs for Mealtime, and I'm thinking there's no way in Hell a child can learn these. At best, they'll mimic you, but I have my doubts they'll place much meaning to the motions. I once saw my daughter give the finger, which I assume she learned from me. She had no idea what she was doing, but apparently she enjoyed it. Naturally, my wife jumps all over me whenever Mary Ellen produces the single digit salute. "She learned this from you, ya know!""But she doesn't know what it means!" I reply in a desperately defensive tone. My wife stands in front of me, hands on her hips and nostrils flaring, and replies, "And when she does learn what it means, then what?"I shrug and say, "Then she'll enjoy it even more." Then I hurriedly leave the room before my wife can think of anything else to blame on me. Although I'm sure she could speak volumes on the subject.Even though I was certain Mary Ellen would never master even one or two of these baby signs, my wife made me promise to make a concerted effort to teach them to her.So last Friday I'm sitting in the living room on the couch flipping through this book. Mary Ellen was occupied with trying to work a pen up the cat's ass - at least, that's what it looked like from my angle. "C'mere, kiddo!" I called to her. Mary Ellen had her body draped across the cat, one hand holding back his tail and a pen in the other, and looked over at me. I smiled and waved her over. As she struggled to her feet, I heard her mumble something to the cat as he darted away from her, happy that the impromptu physical never reached its pinnacle."Get over here, Dr. Mengele. You can torture the cat later."I don't know that she was actually harming the cat. She loves him an awful lot and he's the only cat we have that snuggles up to her. Maybe he was the last one on her "To-Do" list.Mary Ellen waddled across the floor and slapped her hands to my knees. At two feet tall, that works out to be chest-high on her.I opened the book to the first page and showed her a picture of a baby holding his fingers to his mouth. "EAT!" I said and held my fingers to my mouth. "EAT!" I cried again. Mary Ellen just stood there staring at me with a blank expression on her face. Then it dawned on me, she didn't know what I was talking about, and so I ran to the kitchen to fetch one of her Granola bars. When I returned to the couch, she was playing with the television remote. "NO! Leave it on MSNBC!"I sat down next to her and showed her the picture of the baby holding his fingers to his mouth. "EAT!" I said holding my fingers to my mouth and then took a bite of the Granola bar. Mary Ellen slowly raised her little hand and for a moment I thought she was actually going to do it. Instead, she reached out for the Granola bar. "NO! MINE!" I said, quickly thrusting the delicious combination of oatmeal, chocolate chips, and honey high above my head and out of reach of her greedy little claws. "NO! Make the sign and I'll go get one of your own!" That's when the flood gates started to open. Her little blue eyes started to water over and a little frown crept across her face, all the while her tiny arm held up in the hopes of daddy giving her a bite of her special Granola bars. After all, they are hers and I have strict orders from my wife not to indulge in them. (I didn't think my wife actually kept count of the number of bars in the box.)Well, nothing is sadder than a crying toddler and few things as annoying as one who doesn't stop whining, so I relented and broke off a piece for her. That calmed her down momentarily, but I ended up giving her most of the tasty treat to stave off the tears and accompanying whining. If you give a child one bite of something sweet, by God, they'll want another and will throw a tantrum until they get it. I usually ignore such unnecessary displays of harassment and emotional blackmail, but if I did, she'd eventually get up and leave and I was supposed to be teaching her the intricacies of American Sign Language (or a juvenile variant thereof).It became obvious she wasn't very interested in learning how to sign "Eat". Plus, I didn't want her to think that every time she makes the sign, daddy will run and fetch her a Granola bar to shut her up. I searched the book for other signs she could learn, maybe something a bit easier for her to master. Once again, I perused the pages in search of a new sign. The first one I ran across was "drink", in which the tot puts their thumb in their mouth. Nope, this wouldn't do. Mary Ellen already sucks her thumb. Then there was the sign for "more". I thought this one a bit redundant. If your child knows the sign for "eat", why do they need to know the sign for "more"? Just make the "eat" sign when you want "more". Besides, when they're out of food or beverage, and they make the sign for "eat", I think it'll be rather obvious they want "more". Mary Ellen wastes enough food, as it is. Another pointless sign is for "all gone", used by the child to inform the parent that there is no more food or drink in front of them. Again, this seems redundant. If I have to look at my child to see the sign they're making, I'll probably also see that they're out of foodstuff. I don't see any reason to teach my child to be a nag at an early age. There's also a sign for "hot". This is interesting because, I can tell you from firsthand experience, that a child will scream their lungs out, if the drink you give them or bath water is too hot. On this page in the book is a picture of a diapered toddler puckering her lips and blowing, which is how you make the sign for "hot". On the opposing page is a picture of a burning candle and cup of coffee. Well, I don't know of any child this age who likes drinking coffee and I find it difficult to believe that a parent of a child this age would offer a cup of joe to them, let alone anything with caffeine in it. The only thing worse than a crying baby is one who does so in the middle of the night.As for the burning candle, I'm going to go out on a limb here and suggest that fire and young children should never be brought together. There's no sign in the book that denotes the message, "Holy shit! I set the curtains on fire! Call 911!"I wonder if there's a sign for "bedtime"? There should be a picture of a bottle of Nyquil on that page. Or a bottle of whiskey. Come to think of it, it does seem rather odd that there isn't a sign for "bedtime". Mary Ellen would never make that sign. She'd probably stay up all night, if we let her. If she's still awake by 10pm, we lay her down gently in her crib, drape her Winnie the Pooh blanket over her, place her pink teddy bear next to her, and run away as fast as possible. Well, I couldn't find anything in the book that seemed simple enough for a child this age to learn. The problem, as I see it, is that by the time they learn to make the sign and know what it means, they'll be taking their SATs. A child might be able to pick up one, maybe two, of them. In any case, my wife and I are very attentive parents and, after a while, you start to pick up on the subtle nuances of how your illiterate, inarticulate child communicates. It might be fun to attempt to teach your child these signs, but it probably won't be very practical.I tried to teach Mary Ellen a few more, but gave up when she finally walked away, picked up the pen she'd been using to give the cat a rectal exam, and went off in search of her patient. Books15261@blogcritics.org Fri, 30 Apr 2004 16:21:15 EDT http://blogcritics.org/archives/2004/04/09/224151.php Tom NorrisIf you're like me, you've always had a nagging feeling that a race of hybrid humans, a cross between reptilian aliens and human beings, govern this planet or, at the very least, dominate every DMV office; cold-blooded and tiny-brained, it seems to make sense. Well, our fears have been confirmed in the groundbreaking book And The Truth Shall Set You Free by "croc hunter" David Icke. Crazy Dave, as he's known by those who have read any of his books, claims that thousands of years ago a race of planet-hopping lizards landed on Earth and, seeing as how the female version of Homo Sapiens Sapiens looked surprising like the scantily-clad Rachel Welch from the 1966 movie One Million Years B.C., decided to interbreed with the human species. And she was a fabulous babe back then, so you can hardly blame them. Still, the idea of the Geico gecko and the comely Ms. Welch clicking heals in the rumble seat of a flying saucer isn't so shocking these days. After all, with just the few clicks of the mouse, your average computer user can see plenty of carnal barnyard antics on the Internet. So far, Icke's book wasn't as shocking in its revelations as it was merely rank-amateur bizarre.To support his thesis, rather than taking the scientific route and comparing the DNA of Alan Greenspan (high on the power-elite totem pole) and David Hasselhoff (biding his time at a more pedestrian level), Mr. Icke offers up ancient legends and various super-annuated texts such as the Old Testament, Sumerian clay tablets, and the award-winning novel The Bridges of Madison County as proof of his claim.Ok, so I made up that part about The Bridges of Madison County. Still, Icke's book is so far-fetched, I wouldn't have been surprised to see it quoted. But to make up for the loss, he does make use of the trustworthy word of famed African Zulu shaman, Credo Mutwa - whoever the Hell he is. Wait, wasn't he the character Rerun on the 1970's sitcom What's Happening? Hold on, I'll ask my wife. She said I'm thinking of Fred Berry. He played Rerun.If the tribal backwoods quack, Mutwa, doesn't quite provide the credibility you're looking for, then perhaps Zecharia Sitchin, a New Age whack job in his own right, will fit the bill. Sitchin has authored a number of books based on a similar Sumerian/E.T./Welch connection. Additionally, he is probably more well known for his examination of photographs sent back from Mars by several NASA probes wherein he identifies ancient Martian buildings, castles, fortifications, strip malls, parking ramps, septic tanks, etc. However, when Icke informed his compatriot in the fantastically far-out of his intentions to research this nefarious reptile-dominated worldwide shogunate, Sitchin warned him in a deep foreboding tone, "Don't go there."When I read this in Icke's book, I pictured both men sitting in Sitchin's car along a lonely stretch of gravel road far out in the country; both of them holding lollipops and wearing beanie propeller hats. Just as Sitchin utters his dire warning not to tread where lizards reign, a black helicopter emerges from behind a nearby farmhouse and hovers ominously overhead. Then, without hesitation, Sitchin floors it and both nut cases zoom over the side of a deep canyon Thelma and Louise style, holding hands and crying. A tattered copy of The Celestine Prophesies flies out an open window and flutters gently to the ground."But ok," you say. "So what? The President eats flies. Big deal. As long as he keeps the potholes filled, I don't care." And I'd agree whole-heartedly, but Icke has an ace up his sleeve. Not only are the political and economic elite of the world half-reptile/half-mammal, but they're also shape-shifters!Oo! Scary!For the uninitiated, a shape-shifter is someone, or something, which can transform its physical shape from human to reptilian and back again at will. Icke is a little vague about how this occurs, however. Does the reptile/politician utter some enchanted phrase? Wave a magic wand? Wiggle their nose like Samantha Stephens on Bewitched? And why is it no one on that show seemed to notice when Dick Sargent took over for Dick York in the role of Darrin Stephens? Endora, Mr. Tate, Uncle Arthur, Dr. Bombay - they all acted like nothing had changed. Oh, but you can bet Gladys Kravitz noticed. Everyone thought she was the neighborhood head case, but she knew The Truth.And now you can, too, compliments of David Icke's amateur sleuthing! To quote the author, "Indeed, if you do your job well enough, the people will laugh at the truth, call it insane, and ridicule anyone who promotes it." In my book, a statement like that is called trying to steal the moral high ground without credible merit to back it up. If only you would simply open your mind to the possibility of the impossible, it would all become crystal clear; throw away your common sense and accept the idea that reptiles rule the world and not a class of power-hungry, self-aggrandizing political pinheads. It's no different than the Kennedy assassination. Surely it can't be as simple as a maniacal gunman behind the trigger. Just like in the movie They Live!, if you would only put on the sunglasses -or in this case, buy the book- you'd see the truth that has been hidden from you.I can't say I'd recommend that you rush out and buy this book. Maybe just check to see if your local library has it in stock. It's a fun read, as long as you don't take it seriously; much of it is Grade-A nonsense and caters directly to the UFO/Bigfoot/Art Bell audience. People like David Icke, Zecharia Sitchin, Erich Von Daniken, and a host of other flimflam artists are the modern day version of the snake oil salesman. They make a convincing sales pitch, but under close scrutiny, it turns out the magic elixir they're peddling is nothing more than a bottle full of mule piss and mustard seed.I'm more willing to accept David Guest, Liza Minelli's gay ex-husband, is straight, than I am that Madeline Albright is an iguana. Well, looks aside... Books14597@blogcritics.org Fri, 9 Apr 2004 22:41:51 EDT http://blogcritics.org/archives/2004/03/29/134115.php Tom NorrisThere's a commercial on television for a company called Kyocera Mita that epitomizes exactly why I traded in my comfortable office job for a stinky hog house. The commercial shows whom I assume to be a CEO standing at a podium addressing his employees. Anyone who has ever held a low-level flunky job with a large business can tell you just how mind-numbingly bromidic and wearisome these usually unnecessary corporate carnivals can be. This CEO, let's call him Mr. Skinflint, says to his snoozing audience, "And lastly, I've got an announcement that's going to make a lot of you happy." If I'd been sitting there, my immediate reply would have been, "We can go now? We're getting raises? An extra day of vacation?!" The smile on Mr. Skinflint's face implies it's something wonderful, something magical, something sure to make dragging yourself to work a much less irksome chore."We're getting all new printers and copiers from a company called Kyocera Mita!" he exclaimed giddily, as if he did his employees a big favor. It's not something that will alleviate the mundane nature of their work, but will only force them to come up with new excuses for why they didn't finish that report on how best to implement the company's recycling program.Gee, thanks. Here we thought dad was going to let us sit at the grownup table and instead he throws us a new spoon. Mr. Skinflint then points to a member of the audience and says, "Tell them why, Andy."Andy, excited that Pharaoh has deigned to acknowledge his existence, jumps up from his seat and holds up a placard for all to see and cries, "They're simple! They're easy to use! They're people friendly!" Written on the poster in his hands are the words "People Friendly", reinforcing the message because, God knows, no one takes Andy from Accounts Receivable serious. Andy is the fervent corporate toady. He worships the ground Mr. Skinflint walks on and would jump out a window, if his master told him to. If Mr. Skinflint were to fart in Andy's direction, he'd consider it being touched by a divine wind. Andy is the kind of employee who has a picture of Mr. Skinflint hanging over his bed and is the consummate corporate kiss-ass. And this is what Mr. Skinflint likes about Andy: he's simple and easy to use.Next, Mr. Skinflint points to another employee, this time Jen. Although Jen respects and admires her boss, unlike Andy, she has no desire to cram her tongue in his ear. Instead, she seeks acceptance into his inner circle by emulating his ruthless, cutthroat actions and will squash anyone who gets in her way. Jen habitually inflates her own contributions, no matter how unimportant and meager, and downplays those of her fellow employees. Whereas Jen considers herself determined and strong-willed, everyone else views her as a self-important bitch. And before every Monday morning staff meeting in her department, Jen goes into the restroom to practice urinating while standing up. I don't remember what the sign she held up said, but it doesn't matter, anyway.Finally, Mr. Skinflint points to a guy I'll refer to as Ted. Unlike Jen and Andy who have front row seats at this company cattle call, Ted is hiding in the back of the auditorium, strategically poised at the door ready to make a speedy getaway. Ted drew the short straw in his department and his weak smile betrays his phony enthusiasm for being there. In many ways, he's like you and me. He comes to work, does his job, and leaves. All he asks for in return is a paycheck and a decent dental plan. And, especially like me, every day is a bitter struggle against his instincts to not strangle Andy and Jen. I got tired of being Ted and quit my job. That's why I like this particular commercial so much. It reminds my why I left behind a hefty paycheck; namely my freedom and dignity - neither of which can be had as someone else's corporate concubine. Far better it is to strike out on my own to eke out a living than grovel and beg for someone else's table scraps. Culture14179@blogcritics.org Mon, 29 Mar 2004 13:41:15 EST http://blogcritics.org/archives/2004/03/22/023752.php Tom NorrisI was up awfully early this morning. In fact, I was up all night because of my 14-month-old daughter Mary Ellen. Five times she woke up bellyaching about one thing or another. But being a toddler, that's about all she can do: cry, whine, and fuss when she wants something. I do that myself from time to time, but unlike her, no pretty lady comes along and jams a boob in my mouth to shut me up. As the saying goes, youth is wasted on the young. So are boobs.About the fourth time Mary Ellen woke up, I hauled her out of the playpen and let her sit on the floor in front of the couch while I went to get her something to nibble on. When I came back, she was watching the news, a thumb stuck in her mouth and the other arm firmly clutching a pink teddy bear to her chest. She looked comfortable enough, so I set a small box of raisins next to her then parked myself on the couch and watched the news with her. An interesting story came on about a 14-year-old girl named Alia Sabur who is getting her Ph.D. in engineering; specifically nano-photonics. And she's only fourteen! Long before Mary Ellen was born, I was determined that my first child would be an academic superstar. A world-class child prodigy. During the first year of her life, I made flash cards for her featuring letters of the alphabet, bought her an undetermined number of books, and made every effort to speak clearly and concisely and articulate my every syllable that she might learn to speak early on. I was doing my part to go that extra mile to ensure she had a head start on her education.Unfortunately, she wasn't as hip to learning as I had hoped. She peed all over her flash cards. She isn't interested in you reading her books to her; only that you flip the pages quickly and make the appropriate animal noises for the creatures depicted. And, to date, the only words she knows are "uh oh" and "meow" - because we have three cats. I've tried reading her excerpts from Principles of Contract Law by Steven J. Burton, but she wasn't having any of it. "In Scott v. United States, 79 U.S. (12 Wall.) 443, 445, 20 L.Ed. 438 (1870), the Supreme Court stated: '...If a contract be unreasonable and unconscionable, but not void for fraud, a court of law will give to the party who sues for its breach damages, not according to its letter, but only such as he is equitably entitled to...'"Admittedly, it's a dry read at best, but you'd think it would at least put her to sleep. God knows, it worked for me. As I listened to the news story about this 14-year-old showoff, they reported that young Alia was talking and reading by the time she was eight-months-old and graduated from high school when she was ten. On the television, they showed the teenage Alia working in a high-tech laboratory surrounded by electronic gizmos that would have been equally at home in the space shuttle. It was then that I was suddenly pelted in the face by a raisin. I glanced down at Mary Ellen sitting on the floor in front of me. She was flailing the box of raisins wildly in one hand, its contents being flung about the living room, and was using the other hand to stuff a raisin in her ear. The expression of grim determination on her little face seemed to imply she knew exactly what she was doing. The likelihood of her entering medical school at an early age was slowly being replaced with the very real possibility she'd end up dropping out of college to become a fulltime street performance artist. Or worse, a Senator.I sighed."C'mere, you," I called to her. Mary Ellen looked in my direction, a tiny finger still trying to cram one more raisin in her ear. I smiled and wiggled my hands at her and she grinned in reply, then stood up, and with her pink teddy bear under her arm, waddled over to me. She crawled into my lap and squirmed her way into a comfortable position (thumb in mouth, teddy bear to chest) and I draped a Winnie the Pooh blanket over her. Looking down, I softly said, "Please, for God's sake, whatever you do, don't come home from college and tell me you're majoring in Art History or Women's Studies."Call it coincidental, but as she closed her eyes, Mary Ellen took the hand wrapped around the teddy bear and placed it on her forehead, presenting me with an unmistakable hand gesture. She was giving me the finger. I smiled warmly and hugged her close, knowing my precious little girl would grow up to be a fine young woman. Culture13947@blogcritics.org Mon, 22 Mar 2004 02:37:52 EST http://blogcritics.org/archives/2004/03/20/225357.php Tom NorrisOn September 16, 2003, Yoko Ono, unrepentant about her previous crimes against humanity in the form of her warped rendition of art, perpetrated her latest abomination in a small Paris theater to a crowd of 200.Yoko, famed for her ability to dodge bullets, ride coattails, and having a singing voice hauntingly similar to that of a garden rake being dragged across a chalkboard, was apparently frightened by the September 11, 2001 tragedy, prompting her to dust off one of her old stage routines from 1964 and molest an unsuspecting public.Jesus wept.As she sat in a chair wearing a long black silk skirt and matching long-sleeved top, audience members filed on stage and, one by one, snipped away at her clothing with scissors. In the end, Yoko was left sitting in her skivvies. The idea behind all this, as Yoko put it, was to show that this is "a time where we need to trust each other." When you're in a Yoko Ono audience and people are cutting away at her clothing, you pretty much have to trust (or hope and pray) that everyone keeps a respectable distance between the scissors in their hand and the straps on her bra, thus preventing her from becoming a weapon of mass destruction. It's too bad some brave soul in attendance didn't stab her in the heart with those scissors, thus putting an end to her special brand of artistic pomposity. Sadly, however, I don't think anyone would have done it. Aside from the legal ramifications, it seems as though most, if not all, present admired her statement.As one 18-year-old American stated, "Scissors usually have a violent connotation, but she turns it around to make it peaceful."It's people like this idiot who breathe life into the image of the Ugly American abroad.Guns carry a violent connotation, but not scissors. The only "violence" inherent in scissors comes from the off chance that you fall on them while running across the room. And how often does that happen? You don't hear much talk of banks being held up at scissor-point. You don't see crack dealers with scissors tucked away in the waist of their trousers. Police officers don't carry them in holsters between the mace and nightstick on their Batman utility belt. And not once in history has an army ever charged across the field of battle wielding their mighty scissors above their heads.This is what makes her statement about trust so idiotic and pretentious. If she really wanted to prove to her audience that she trusted them, she would have issued them the same type of revolver used by Mark David Chapman to put daylight through her late husband, John Lennon. That is how you show trust in strangers, my friend. Of course, you also have to keep in mind that this all took place in France, a country known for being nonviolent. Let me be more precise: they lack the will to be violent when necessary, even to save their own hides. They rolled over twice within the span of twenty years, letting the Hun's marauding armies molest and pillage their country at will, thus dragging everyone else into two world wars as a result.So it should come as no surprise that the French wouldn't use scissors in a violent manner. Hell, they couldn't even use their own army in a violent manner, when they needed to the most! Doing a performance piece on "trust" in Paris makes about as much sense as going to Jerusalem's Dome of the Rock and trusting that there won't be any rabbi's inside preaching from the Torah. Or trusting that there won't be any hard liquor at a Baptist picnic. Or trusting that your blind dog won't read your diary while you're at work. It was a shallow gesture on her part designed to bolster her own precious ego and reassure what few fans she has that, even though she lacks even a modicum of artistic talent, she's still a swell human being and worthy of their discipleship because she "cares". In years past, critics have often reflected on the "sparse honesty" in Yoko's art. The only thing "sparse" in her work is talent, and I'd bet dollars to doughnuts that's what they meant, too.If Chapman had aimed a little more to the right, we might be lauding him a hero instead of a villain. Culture13929@blogcritics.org Sat, 20 Mar 2004 22:53:57 EST http://blogcritics.org/archives/2004/03/19/152935.php Tom NorrisI never cease to be amazed at the level of stupidity displayed in spam - the unsolicited email, not the tasty food product made from animal intestines and brains.Here's one I recieved recently with the subject heading, "Failing FDA Trials Is Not The End".Shouldn't it be, though? We can bemoan the inefficiency of the federal bureaucracy until we're blue in the face, but when it comes to drug testing, I want them to be thorough and the tests rigorous. I don't care if they have to inject those drugs into the testicles of a hundred lab monkeys or spray it into the eyes of cute little bunny rabbits, I want it thoroughly tested before I swallow it!As far as I'm concerned, yes, failing FDA trials is the end.I got another email last fall asking for my support to ban cockfighting in Oklahoma. Jesus, where to start with that... ?Well, first of all, I don't live in Oklahoma. I couldn't care less, if it's perfectly legal to put two chickens in the ring and let them gouge each others eye out. As far as I'm concerned, they could be jamming icecubes and strawberries down the gullet of a chicken and shake the hell out of it until it shits strawberry snowcones. I don't live there. I don't care.The good news is that the ban was passed on November 5th of last year. The Oklahoma Coalition Agianst Cockfighting has a website which states, "[T]he voters of Oklahoma overwhelming approved State Question 687 to outlaw cockfighting, with 56.2 percent voting 'yes' and 43.8 percent voting 'no.' I dunno that I'd call a 12.4% margin "overwhelming". Apparently there are still quite a few sodbusters out there who think cockfighting is an acceptable family pasttime.And if that was State Question 687, what was Question 686? "Should gunfights in Tulsa be held at high noon on Main Street or in the nearest saloon?"Oklahoma! Leading the way in bringing a world-wide moratorium on cockfighting. Next on the agenda is to put a stop to the reprehensible sports of Lebanese mouse racing and German cockroach sword fighting.Lately, however, most of my email has been in regards to penis enlargement drugs. A couple of days ago, I had one in my mailbox which stated, "MEN! 67% of women want a larger penis!" When I first read it, I thought, "Christ, we gave them the right to vote, they can own property, and now they want a bigger dick. Nag nag nag! It's like they're never satisfied."Which is probably why they want a bigger pecker to play with. Or maybe the problem isn't that men have tiny dicks, but that women have wide vaginas? Why can't they make a drug to fix that? Later I was thinking, hmm, did they mean these women want their men to have a larger dork or they, the women, wouldn't mind having a big dick of their own? You sometimes have to wonder about the lead levels in the bloodstreams of the people who compose these ridiculous emails.Then there's all that email I get from Africa."Greetings & Strict Confidence Required!"That's how they start out. I don't know anyone in Africa. They always have some hard luck story about how they're the wife/son/daughter of some crooked politician in some shithole country over there and they're trying to embezzle a couple hundred million dollars out of the country before a noose is put around their neck. That's why they need your help.Do they even have paper money over there? I thought I saw a show on PBS about how they're still using clam shells and leopard pelts as currency. Well, these folks always want me to set up a bank account here for them so they can electronically transfer the "money" to this country. And, for my effort, they'll give me a 25% cut in the deal. I always write back saying I'd be happy to help them drain their country's bankroll, but it's much safer to do it via Western Union, seeing as how my bank would be a bit suspicious if one day I'm depositing $358 and the next I dump $18,200,000 into savings. How the hell do you explain that?"Oh uh... yeah, my wife's garden had more tomatoes and zucchini than we could eat, so we set up a vegetable stand."How about when you go to remove yourself from some company's spam list and they say, "Thank you and sorry for any inconvenience. You will be recieving a confirmation email stating that you have been removed."Great. In order to eliminate their spam, I have to let them take a parting shot. It's their way of saying, "Screw you, pal!" as you walk out the door of their shop.And you can enter your email address all you like on their removal page, but that "Click Here To Be Permanently Removed" button is no different than the light button at a crosswalk: it's strictly for cosmetic purposes."Thank you" - as if I did them a big favor. And "Sorry for any inconvenience" - as if they thought for sure I was the kind of person who would be interested in refinancing my home with some fly-by-night company via the Internet, or was big into online gambling, or had a real strong need to see naked college girls on their webcams. Well, ok... the college girls. Other idiot-oriented email I get are all those get-rich-quick schemes."Make $25,000 in 90 days from HOME!"You know what? If that shit worked, everyone would be doing it. But, just like Amway, there's always some hitch they don't tell you about. Like how you'll have to embarrass and humilate yourself and your family by suckering your friends to come over for dinner and coffee. Out comes the dry erase board with the circles, squares, and pyramids on it and a half dozen of your closest friends instantly become your bitter enemies. No thanks. I'll do like Ben Franklin said - if you want to double your money, fold it in half. I'll be honest, the only spam I take time to look at these days are the ones saying, "Lonely housewives are HOT and HORNY and waiting for YOU!"Ok, now you have my undivided attention. Sci/Tech13901@blogcritics.org Fri, 19 Mar 2004 15:29:35 EST http://blogcritics.org/archives/2004/03/19/000935.php Tom NorrisYou ever notice that the names they give military operations seem to have been created by a team of Madison Avenue advertising executives? When I was in the service, whenever we had to give a name to some training exercise, it was usually something cool like Operation Sledgehammer. But the name didn't have any special meaning, otherwise. Not so on a larger scale, though. These days, it's all about selling the public on your plan - with special emphasis on selling.During World War Two, the people in charge didn't have to try real hard to sell the public on the idea of going to war. The Nazis and Japs were hell-bent on taking over the world and big chunks of the map were daily being swathed with the Swastika and Rising Sun. When someone is trying to break into your home, there's no need for a handgun salesman to dazzle you with a pretty package featuring a picture of Charlton Heston on it giving his firm endorsement. You might not be much of a gun advocate, but if the circumstances are right, you'll probably be less influenced by the advertising and more so by the imminent threat. Namely the safety of your family and new high-definition plasma television. Politicians know all too well the importance of having public support for any military operation. Look what happened to Lyndon Johnson during Vietnam. The public wasn't entirely convinced it was a good idea to be there and the Johnson administration, not to mention a bevy of lesser elected officials, suffered the consequences: they either quit their jobs or weren't reelected. Serving the public good might be why they say they're in office, but when you get right down to the brass tacks, in the back of every politician's mind is job security. And hookers and booze.That's why it's not good enough to have a good reason to go to war. You have to sell it to the public and part of the way you do that is by giving such military operations a catchy name.Their first real attempt at this was in December of 1989. It was Operation Just Cause, the invasion of Panama. The name alone explained why we were going down there to kick ass: Because it's a just cause. The problem was, though, that everyone, including those in the military, were scratching their heads wondering why we had to send thousands of troops down there to arrest one guy. So the running joke became, "Why did we invade Panama? Just cuz."Next came the first Gulf War and this time they brought in a crack team of advertising executives to come up with a name they could sell: Operation Desert Shield. The name says it all. Where are we going? The desert. Why are we going there? To protect those poor Saudi camel herders and their oil fields. Now who on earth could have a problem with protecting those in need? We're just protecting them, after all; shielding them from the menacing Iraqi horde.Once we got all our troops over there, the Pentagon figured we might as well put some of this high tech machinery through its paces. But once again, they had to sell the public on the idea. That's why they came up with the name Operation Desert Storm. We were going to liberate Kuwait! From behind the shield would suddenly be brandished a mighty sword and the beleaguered Kuwaitis would be set free at last. Surely no one would disapprove of such a noble cause, especially since it had a really cool name. Now we have Operation Enduring Freedom. The world is besieged by homicidal, more often suicidal, terrorists and Uncle Sam isn't gonna turn the other cheek any longer. First stop, Afghanistan. And then it's off to finish the job in Iraq. And I can't think of a single person who wouldn't want freedom's bell to ring throughout the world. I'm not saying that any of these conflicts were fought for all the wrong reasons. I just don't think it necessary, or proper, to give these operations a glitzy name in order to gloss over the bloody carnage that is sure to follow. It's the same kind of snow job cigarette companies try to pull over on the public. Their advertisements make smoking look cool, but they don't tell you about the horrors of lung cancer and emphysema. Look at the folks in their ads. They're having fun; living life to it's fullest potential! ...while they still can.You'll never hear of something like Operation Playful Kitten or Operation Fluffy Bunny. You can threaten to launch all the B-52s you like, no one on the other side is going to take you seriously. Operation Fancy Pants doesn't sound very menacing. In fact, it seems to imply that the cast of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy is going to penetrate deep into the enemy's rear and -wait, let me reword that... that they're going to parachute in behind enemy lines and give those nasty Huns a much needed fashion makeover.I think it goes without saying Operation Quagmire wouldn't go over well with the public. If you're going to call it that, you might as well be completely honest and refer to it as Operation Hopeless Cause.Operation Neverland Ranch might be enough to scare the hell out of the parents in the country being invaded, but it might also induce them to put up a bitter struggle. If I was told Michael Jackson planned on invading my home, I know I wouldn't simply roll over and play dead.What about something called Operation Kamikaze? Hmm. Nah, probably not. It might work well in Japan, where people don't mind nose-diving their planes into the decks of enemy aircraft carriers, but I doubt the recruitment offices in this country would be flooded with volunteers.I suppose the best thing to do would be to go back to the days of World War Two when the names of military operations didn't have hidden meanings. Or any meaning, really. They weren't used to gloss over the death and destruction. Most folks know all too well that war is hell and if it's for a good cause, you don't need to dazzle them with catchy names and snappy jingles. The thing I fear most with all this modern day promotional propaganda is that they're going to make war seem no different than, say, the Super Bowl. But unlike in football, they don't just tackle you on a battlefield. They paint the streets with your blood and brains. Politics13875@blogcritics.org Fri, 19 Mar 2004 00:09:35 EST http://blogcritics.org/archives/2004/03/18/211329.php Tom NorrisIt's been a tradition among many cultures throughout the ages to hallmark the passage from childhood to becoming a mature member of society; a rite of passage that takes on many forms, but all having the common purpose of easing the transition from the innocence of youth to the sometimes harsh reality of the world in which they will come to live. In some societies, this may take the form of a religious ceremony, a catechism or confirmation, a type of vision quest, or it could be as simple as a small celebration amongst a handful of friends and family members. As The Good Book says in 1 Corinthians 13:11, "When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things."At some point in our lives, be it serendipitous or deliberate, we all come to a chasm over which we must cast ourselves into the next phase of life. Just as the young Lakota boy is sent off into the wilderness to commune with the elements and thereby find his purpose in life, emerging days later as a man and warrior, so too did I follow this lead in my own life while a sophomore in college. Except I didn't wander the vast wilderness and deprive myself of food and water in order to conjure up a mystical guiding spirit who would show me the path to enlightenment. No, my spirit wasn't a buffalo or elk or woodchuck. It was a clown. Ronald McDonald, to be exact.At the start of my sophomore year of college, I began working at a McDonald's in Iowa City. To this day, I don't know why I applied there. There wasn't anything particularly appealing about flipping burgers and I certainly had no intention of eking out a career in the fast-food industry. Nonetheless, I worked there for three months and during that time, I came to understand my purpose in life. Or, more specifically, what I didn't want it to be.Working in fast-food taught me just what petty, obnoxious slobs people can be. I'll never quite understand how it is someone -ANYONE- can walk into a McDonald's and stare at the menu trying to figure out what they want to order. Unless you're from another planet, or some fundamentalist Muslim country, everyone knows what they serve at McDonald's. Still, you'd be surprised at how many people will stand there, usually holding up a line of customers behind them, tapping a finger against their chin as they casually pondered the merits of the gastronomic slop and gruel before them.Hey, stupid! The fucking menu doesn't change from state to state, let alone city to city! If they have Big Macs in Omaha, they sure as shit have them in Tucson and they taste exactly the same!Of course, some nitpick will chime in by stating that sometimes the menu does, indeed, vary from one location to the next, even by the time of year. Take St. Patrick's Day, for example, and the green milkshake. But these are exceptions to the rule. The menu remains largely intact.I don't know how many times I'd be standing there at the register, sighing audibly, waiting on a dingbat secretary on her lunch break as she taxed her noodle trying to decide what to shove down her gullet. And the burgers, by and large, run along the same theme, varying primarily in the paper in which they are wrapped. Aside from the special sauce, there isn't much difference between a Big Mac and a Quarter Pounder, when you look between the buns.Then we'd have the soccer moms trot in with their children and, in order to let little Timmy or Sally feel all grown up, would allow them to decide what they would like to order. Naturally, this meant standing there for a LONG time waiting for the little sonofabitch to make up their fucking mind. And mom was never a big help, always asking me what's in one burger or another."Onions give little Johnny gas. How much onion is on a cheese burger?"Lady, I don't give a crap about your kid's medical maladies. Just order a goddamn Happy Meal and be done with it so we can all get back to our lives. Scrape the goddamn onions off the burger, if his goddamn gas is that foul. NEXT!I never said that, but God, there were times when I wanted to in the worst way.Old people were pretty bad, too. I don't know what it is about rainy days and fish sandwiches, but old farts go nutty for fish when it rains. And that's no joke, either. Our managers always had the cooks prepare extra fish sandwiches on rainy days. UFO's always land in trailer parks and the geriatric crowd goes berserk for fish when it rains. God (and possibly the CIA) only know why.You'd think these old fossils wouldn't be very savvy, seeing as how they're always being suckered into handing over their life's savings to one bunko artist after the next, but when it comes to food, they're a crafty and conniving bunch. At least once a week, though at times more often, some constipated elderly windbag would bring a half-eaten sandwich up to the counter and complain about how under- or over-cooked it was."Well, the first half was good enough for ya, Teddy Roosevelt. Now eat the other half and shut the fuck up. This ain't the Salvation Army soup kitchen. Take a hike, gramps."But, no, we had to appease them by giving them another sandwich - for free, of course. And they kept the half eaten turd burger that caused them so much goddamn consternation. If you still don't think the Greatest Generation is selfish and greedy when it comes to food, keep in mind that places like Branson, Missouri and Las Vegas, Nevada lure legions of emaciated retirees to their locales by enticing them with offers of all-you-can-eat 24-hour buffets. And, as a personal note, when my wife was in law school and working on her mock trials, the only way they could get old people to volunteer to be on the juries was by tempting them with a free catered meal. I, on the other hand, participated because I got to be put on trial for a pretend murder (and, boy, let me tell you, did I play that role superbly! If Martin Scorsese had been filming it, I would have received an Oscar.). Plus my dear wife informed me that if I didn't help out, she'd kick my ass.Anyway, back to McHellhole's.Cleaning up the dining area was always a revolting treat. I don't know what in God's name people were doing to their food out there, but it often looked like they chewed it up, swallowed, then crammed a finger down their throat and barfed it back up. There would be food all over the fucking place. There were times when it was so bad out there, you'd think a big fucking french-fry bomb had been detonated. I've always eaten my french-fries with my fingers. Many times it looked like the hungry patron merely opened their yapper, grabbed the box of fries, and tossed them in the general direction of their mouth, some lucky fries escaping certain death. It was very disgusting and not a job I liked doing, which, in retrospect, was understandably delegated by my shift supervisor to one of us lowly "McPeons".One of the managers there was named Fro. She was from Iran, was short and stocky, and middle-aged. Every goddamn morning she was constantly bitching at me. Now and then, I'd hear her say in her thick, shrill Persian accent, "Cah-lel[Carl], make dee sah-lahds, Cah-lel!" I was the sorry sonofabitch who had to put together all the fucking salads every morning and no matter how fast I worked, it was never quite fast enough for this demanding Sheik of the drive-thru. Even when I took my time making them, I was always done by 9am and we didn't set them out until about 10:30am.One day she was getting all wrapped around the axle because I wasn't making a special order salad fast enough (some dumbfuck wanted a salad without egg wedges in it. I don't know why someone didn't clue them in and say, "Hey, genius, just pick them out. There's only four."). So Fro is harping about the salad and I stopped what I was doing, took off my apron, and went in back to change into my civilian attire. As I walked out of the kitchen, Fro called to me, "Cah-lel, where is dee - Hey! Where ah you going, Cah-lel?" And I never returned. Well, I came back as a customer many times, of course. And, believe me, I went out of my way to be a royal pain in the ass, if Fro was working. As bad as the experience was, I highly recommend it to any young person unsure as to what they want to do with their life. Work in the fast-food industry for a month or two and you'll figure it out real quick. Hurrah. You're a man now, Toby. Culture13873@blogcritics.org Thu, 18 Mar 2004 21:13:29 EST http://blogcritics.org/archives/2004/03/18/153705.php Tom NorrisDoes it really matter if the homos want to get married? Is this really something to get all that excited about? I couldn't honestly care less. I simply have no interest in whom you sleep with let alone what you're doing in the bedroom - unless you're Paris Hilton, of course. All this talk about how this is sure to be the hot topic of the upcoming presidential election leaves me wondering why? You'll hear a lot of the candidates, even the President, skirt the issue by saying something like, "I'm a firm believer that marriage is a union between a man and a woman." That's like asking them what they think about some sort of clean water legislation being hashed around in Congress and they respond by saying, "I think water is wet." Gee, no kidding?But the question remains, should gays be allowed to marry? I've heard a lot of folks toss out the biblical implications of the institution: it's a union between a man and a woman because the Bible says so. But this still avoids the issue, because not everyone in this country is a Christian, let alone religious, and that nullifies the Bible argument. Besides, there's a little thing called the separation of church and state, and, quite frankly, I'd be more concerned about that line being crossed than whether or not two guys wearing lovely wedding dresses exchange vows. If there is one overwhelming message in the Bible, it's one of Love. And if Jesus didn't mind dining with the prostitutes and tax collectors, people vehemently reviled in those days, how is it that we, as Christians -or whatever you call yourself-, can sit by and take a lesser attitude? I've also heard the argument that allowing gays to marry would somehow devalue the institution and lead to the downfall of western civilization. As if two gay guys playing naked Twister on their living room floor can magically have a negative impact on the marital bliss of the heterosexual couple next door. C'mon, be serious. Them being naked in bed together has less of an impact on your personal life than whether or not they vote, drive a car, pay their taxes, or dump their used motor oil in your garden in the wee hours of the morning. There is no correlation between your neighbor's sexual orientation and the quality of your marriage. Unless, however, your spouse sneaks over in the middle of the night to join them in a game of Twister.I'd like to hear a politician say, "Oh, who cares! Let them get married. Aren't there more important issues to worry about?" Good luck, though, in getting a straight ("Ha Ha!" no pun intended) answer from a politician. You'd have better luck trying to shove a red-hot poker up a wild cat's rear end. Especially during an election year - not to imply that cats are particularly feral during the political campaign season.There was a time in our history, when women weren't allowed to vote; when it was frowned upon when they took up occupations traditionally held by men. Folks then said the same thing we hear today regarding gay marriage: "Oh my goodness! Society will fall apart and we'll revert back to living a prehistoric way of life!" They said the same things when African Americans were freed from slavery and given the right to vote. There was even a time when it was considered unacceptable for a Protestant to marry a Catholic - which is the case between my wife and me. I'm reasonably conservative, but I haven't heard a single convincing argument as to why gays and lesbians shouldn't be allowed to marry. And if nothing I've said has convinced you yet, consider this: Why should heterosexuals be the only ones to suffer? Misery loves company. Not that I'm miserable. I'm just saying... Politics13865@blogcritics.org Thu, 18 Mar 2004 15:37:05 EST