Francis Crick has died at age 88. This leaves only James Watson left, to spout out cracked nonsensical ramblings such as his belief that obese people over-produce a hormone that makes you happy, as evidence by fat people being jolly. It is, however, a shame that Crick didn't live to see "The Double Helix The Musical" come to fruition...
... for my dear beloved Fido.
He departed today from this earth at approximately 4pm EST, after a week-long struggle with ick. This morning it was touch and go but I had a sinking feeling in my stomach that today was his day. I fed him his breakfast but he would be having none of that. He spent most of the morning under a plant, lying on his side, breathing laboriously. Occassionally he would right himself but only for a moment or two. He'd lost most of his luscious shine and his eyes were puffy and swollen. By mid-afternoon the ick had taken over and my poor Fido was no more.
Sonya and Shobana provided the funeral dirge whilst I spake a brief but poignant eulogy, holding back my tears, as we slowly marched our way down the hallway to the men's room. I went in alone (considering Sonya and Shobana are both of the female persuassion and balked at the idea of entering that most holy of male places) and as I said my final goodbyes gave my dearest Fido a proper burial at sea, a burial he truly, deeply deserved.
Requiescat In Pacem, Fideus
In the wake of the failure of the FMA to even get a real debate in the Senate, House Republicans have slipped passed one of the most asinine bills I've ever read, and it hasn't been getting a terrible lot of press. Afraid that a court will strike down the DOMA, they've decided to try to strip those courts of deciding the constitutionality of the DOMA with H.R. 3313, which states:
No court created by Act of Congress shall have any jurisdiction, and the Supreme Court shall have no appellate jurisdiction, to hear or decide any question pertaining to the interpretation of, or the validity under the Constitution of, section 1738C [the Defense of Marriage Act] or this section.
So let me get this straight, venerable Representatives: because your attempt to exclude homosexuals from marriage by enshrining it in the Constitution via an amendment failed miserably, you've decided to make it constitutional by not allowing anyone to question whether or not it is. Oh, and because of that little phrase "or this section", no one can question the constitutionality of not letting anyone question the constitutionality of the DOMA. Which is funny, of course, because according to that Constitution, specifically Article 3, Section 2, H.R. 3313 is, um, blatantly unconstitutional.
Way to go guys! This attempt to subvert the constitution and the will of the people, especially future generations, strikes me as, um, what should I call it? Oh, right, legislative activism. Now granted, it all doesn't really matter because this won't make it passed the Senate; I'm just amused at how desparate Congress is acting. Don't they have a war on terror to conduct and a middle eastern nation to rebuild?
I just felt like blogging today but I've been working hard and haven't had much time to be interesting. Well, I did go to Beers of the World yesterday, an annual grad school picnic where I used to stay at for hours, get plastered and wake up drunk the next morning. Didn't this time. I must be getting old. I did get to drink Tecate in cans, however.
Oh, and I've been watching Joss Whedon's "Firefly," even though I swore I would boycott all things Whedon after that Angel finale debacle. It's actually surprisingly good. But I've figured out why it tanked (aside from the insto-death time slot of 8pm Fridays): the title sequence sucks, especially the crappy song. You can't have a successful TV show with a shitty opening. Well, maybe it was ok for "Friends," but still....
... it's a big "fuck you" to everyone, especially Michael Moore (who apparently misrepresented and doctored a newspaper editorial for his film (thanks Andrew)). Of course, if it pans out it might mean that Bush will actually gain some more credibility and win the election, and I'm still not sure if I want that to happen.
The Straphangers just rated the subways and what line do you think got the highest rating? Huh? Huh? Da 6. I love my subway line, even though it sometimes only runs in the downtown direction or not at all. But, to quote Madonna and every angsty emo/punk/pop band on the planet, nobody's perfect.
Since it was a rainy, nasty day yesterday, we decided to catch an early showing of Spiderman, which was of course entertaining but didn't show enough shots of Tobey Maguire's cute little, nevermind. Anyway, like most movie experiences on
Now, I'm not about to make any assumptions about the intelligence level of your average theater attendant, but you really don't need to be all that aggressive a thinker to know that letting a five-year-old into a movie theater with a helium balloon is not the greatest idea in the world. You see, as we (and others) were waiting patiently for our $10.25 movie to begin, said child (who managed to get passed the razor-sharp security) lost his grip on said balloon. Now this resulting in two distinct, yet related situations, namely a) a balloon bobbing up and down in front of the movie screen and b) an upset child who had lost said balloon and was making it known to the rest of the theater, loudly, and without much in the way of actual vocabulary.
But our tale of helium woes has just begun. About every ten minutes the balloon, which thankfully prefered to remain close to the ceiling, would make a cameo appearance on-screen. But lo! during a stirring speech by Dr. Octopus the balloon floated closer and closer to the ground, eliciting cries of "grab it! grab it!" from the crowd. A virtuous young lady, heeding those calls, leapt up from her front row seat and snatched the offending balloon and destroying it. She was greeted by much applause. Applause which, unfortunately, had it's own nasty side effects, namely setting off an applause chain reaction, not unlike Doc Ock's self-sustaining fusion reaction which used the unrealistically solid substance of tritium. This audience started clapping at everything! Aw, they kissed. Clap clap clap. Wow, Spiderman did something cool! Clap clap clap. Hey, great use of a classic
Needless to say, it was an enjoyably campy romp through summer blockbuster spendor as seen in the
It's a beautiful day in
I'm not entirely sure how fitting it is that the FMA was killed before it even got off the ground on Bastille Day. However, I do consider it interesting that Bill O'Reilly didn't mention it once (although I'm not sure when his show is taped), but did mention that residents of Palm Beach successfully sued to get a nativity placed next to the menorah under the heading "Traditionalist Victory" while also reaffirming his boycott of all things French and my dangling participles. I'd like someone to prove that his shampoo was made in
And speaking of
Oh, yes, that does say doll's head bezoar, a tangled mass of indigestable material made up of a doll's head. You'd think that it would be obvious that a Barbie doll's head would be indigestable. And it was obvious to a 35-year-old man who last year ingested multiple doll's heads. On purpose. Most people won't be able to follow the link, so I've reprinted most of the article from the American Journal of Roentgenology. Pay special attention to the bold (my emphases).
A 35-year-old man presented with severe abdominal pain and distention but normal vital signs. An abdominal radiograph showed multiple rounded objects, some of which projected in the shape of a head with a pointed nose. Suspecting a case of "body packing", we questioned the patient as to whether he had ingested packets filled with illicit drugs for the purpose of smuggling. However, the patient stated that he had ingested multiple heads of a popular children's toy doll over the course of several days. He declared that swallowing dolls' heads was his habit for anal autoerotic gratification. The patient's hospital course was uneventful after surgery for mechanical small-bowel obstruction....
In this case of small-bowel obstruction resulting from craniocervical dissociation of a doll, common search patterns used to detect atlantooccipital distraction injury do not apply. Radiographically, dolls' heads do not show a clear basion–dens interval or posterior axial line. A denslike structure that has a cylindric convexity connects the doll's cranium to the doll's body in a hinge joint. The entire head of the doll, including nose and hair, are radiodense. Familiarity with the radiographic appearance of this famous American doll may help to differentiate the foreign bodies in the bowel of our patient from packages of illicit drugs ingested by body packers.
Motives for ingestion of foreign bodies vary greatly. To our knowledge, ingestion of dolls' heads for anal autoerotic gratification has not been described previously. Most ingested foreign bodies pass the small and large bowels without serious consequence, and patients seek medical help only if the passage is impeded at anatomic narrowings. Body packers smuggle illicit drugs (such as cocaine or heroin) in multiple ingested packages and may present as a toxicologic emergency with life-threatening symptoms caused by a leaking substance from a broken package. Rectal foreign bodies rarely come from ingestion but more commonly are the result of conscious insertion.
Radiographic detection of the characteristic nose and the unique features of the craniocervical junction of famous dolls may serve as a clue to identify the doll radiographically, even if located in the bowel of an individual. This case illustrates how icons of popular culture affect all aspects of life and can present emergently to the radiologist, who should keep in mind that human imagination may not follow clinical algorithms.
It's the simplest recipe for success. You're a pop megastar with a twenty year career, something like 60 million albums sold, at least 50 hit singles and an athletic body that looks at least fifteen years younger than your age. You have millions of fans ready to shell out upwards of $300 a ticket for a concert. You've got billions of dollars of personal assets, access to the best choreographers, producers, promotors and videographers in the world and a stadium in every major city willing to let you play. All you have to do is play some old favorites, remix a few songs to spice things up and grind your breasts against half-naked male dancers and your fans will be screaming for more all night and into the wee hours of the morning.
Or you could do what Madonna did with her "Re-Invention Tour"...
I don't think there's any good place to begin, other than the beginning. Madonna (Esther) rises on stage in a toned-down version of her bustier days and does some yoga to "Vogue". We stayed seated because we were wating for her to warn us up. After a song that nobody seemed to recognize (which Madonna must have figured because she kept flashing the lyrics up on the screen) she stood in front of a mike stand and sang "Frozen" while a Chris Cunningham video played in the background. I hate that song but would have forced myself to get into it if I had known that it was just going to go down hill from there.
I'm not entirely sure when she lost me. It may have been her electric guitar rendition of "Material Girl". Or maybe it was when the wimple- and burkha-clad women came dancing with her on the catwalk during "American Life." Or possibly when she broke into a jazz version (a jazz version!) of "Deeper and Deeper." It's entirely possible that it was during her horribly choreographed rendition of "Die Another Day" which ended with her being strapped into an electric chair (an electric chair!) and having to endure a song from Evita, and not one of the popular songs you'd recognize immediately either (and believe me, if anyone should have recognized it, it should have been me).
It could have been at any one of those moments. But I know which moment got her heckled (by people other than us, who were doing our fair share of heckling). It was when she informed us that she was about to perform a "no-sitting down song" (and if you have to tell your audience not to sit, you're doing something wickedly wrong) and she broke into "Like a Prayer." I don't know what the hell she did to it but that song was more exciting when I used to listen to it on cassette in my old Buick Skylark with one broken speaker than being performed live by Madonna in a 20,000 seat stadium. Maybe it was the slower than natural tempo or the entirely un-ironic beating Sacred Heart and crucified Christ looming behind her. But my guess was that it led into a cover of a song that, and I quote the material girl verbatim, "was written 35 years ago but sounds like it could have been written today." Oh yes, my brothers and sisters, Madonna/Esther serenaded us with "Imagine" (yes, that "Imagine") while we were subjected to images of impoverished Palestinian children and starving Africans, ending in a commercial (a commercial!) for SpiritualityForKids.org. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the great Madonna was booed. Unfortunately not off-stage. Although I am curious to know if she appreciated the irony of singing the line "don't tell me to stop"...
I don't mean to be too negative, though. There were some highlights. We got to hear "Burning Up", a great version of "Crazy For You" and "Hanky-Panky", which unfortunately wasn't nearly as dirty as it should have been. But where was "Like a Virgin", "Ray of Light" and "Beautiful Stranger"? Where was the energy?
I'll tell you where the energy got into sucked to: Kabbalah.
Our evening was summed up best as we were forced to trek through the ghetto to get to the subway and were stopped by a homeless man asking for change. The boy replied: "Sorry, I just gave all my money to Madonna, but believe me it would've been better spent giving it all to you."
So I had a dream last night that I had to urinate very badly and in my dream I found a bathroom and pee'd for eight solid minutes. Does this dream mean anything significant? Maybe about my sex life? Or my mother? Or does it have to do with the fact that I woke up having to pee like a racehorse? Anyone? Anyone?
Some of my loyal readers have been wondering about the meaning of the Third of the Month. They ask me, Michael, what exactly is this Third of the Month thing? Why do you want every day to be the Third of the Month? Why not the sixth of the month? Or the twenty-third?
Well, loyal fans, it's quite simple to explain and not at all as interesting as you think it may be. All will not be revealed today because like all good mysteries the mystery of the Third of the Month is an enigma that, once de-enigmatized, is no longer an enigma.
Suffice it to say, The Third of the Month is, at it's heart, a euphamism; a euphamism for something that we all do and those of us who don't are usually lying about. But it is more, so much more, than that. It fills a void in our holiday-lite calendars. It gives us a well needed excuse to do something we shouldn't need an excuse to do, appreciate ourselves. All too often we get caught up in our hectic daily lives, too much so to cherish our own existences. As the old saying goes, I know I'm someone cause God don't make no dirt! (neglecting for the moment, that if God did make everything in the universe, and dirt being a part of the universe, that he did, in fact make dirt so maybe you really aren't somebody afterall you worthless piece of camel offal and I just got off-track, sorry) and we often forget that we are someone. The Third of the Month is a helpful reminder.
But the goal of this blog, it's mission if you will, is to make us appreciate ourselves each and every day; to get us to forget about what is so special about the Third of the Month because out of habit we treat each and every day as if it were.
But Michael, you say, why the Third of the Month? And exactly what does that date have to do with self-gratification? And why, for the love of God, does it have to involve plaid?
Well, kiddies, that's a story for another day....
Those of you who were with me this weekend know that I had very little time to celebrate the Third of the Month in typical TotM fashion. Oh don't get me wrong, I celebrated myself but it was far from typical. I rang in my Third of the Month already trashed, after a kick-ass over-indulgent meal at The River Cafe for the boy's birthday and our "anniversary". Touristy? Yup. Awesome view? You bet. But was the food worth it? Every blessed cent I spent.
Little did I know, however, that I would get to indulge in my wonderfulness so much more, later on, at the Pyramid. Hot eighties music, hot guys and friends buying me drinks. Who could ask for anything more? There was even high drama (stolen purse of a friend) that I remained blissfully unaware of as I danced the night away....
This weekend was also full of celebration goodies in the form of my most perfect Fourth of the Month. First, I got to see Riker's Island for the first time from the water. Then I got to see my darling Mets sweep the Evil Empire, even if the game was played under protest. And then, I celebrated the wonderfulness of myself and my country while watching the fireworks launched from the Statue of Liberty from a 33rd floor apartment in Battery Park City in soupful awe.
But that was then and this is now. Today is a beautiful day, so if you didn't take time out of your busy weekend to honor and love yourself, take time away from the election and the war and Michael Moore and worrying about falling out windows or having cars drive into your roof, if you haven't realized your full beauty, intelligence and sheer potential lately, if you haven't looked at yourself in the mirror and realized that out of all the improbabilities in the Universe that it chose you to be right here, right now and as awesome as you are and not some sea slug or garden weed or Mark Sommers, if you haven't done that yet, then get your ass home and celebrate yourself! A lot! Because gosh darn it, you deserve it!
Me, I'm going to go home early today to do laundry so I've got plenty of plaid tonight. Of course, not before I swing by the cafeteria and swipe some moist towellettes....
