FuckedWorld 2003!


	Glass Slipper Like the career of the charisma bereft Demi Moore, cultural myths die hard. For instance, conservatives of my acquaintance refuse to acknowledge the slow agonizing death of the Neo Con dream of Iraq remade in the image of Texas. These loyal Republicans cut to the chase, pointing out that Iraq is far better off without Saddam, and that we are bound to improve that country come hell or high water, damn the expenses. Leaving aside the notions that the degree of improvement is debatable, or that the overwhelming revulsion with Saddam comes under serious questioning when one considers the murderous psychopaths the US willingly supports, my Conservative friends employ impeccable logic. If – and it’s a big if – you buy into the cultural myth that the American way of life is the greatest thing since Wonder Bread, and that we are unquestionably the forces of good arrayed against the dark lords of chaos. It’s odd that bottom-line minded, hard-nosed, six-figure-earning Conservatives so readily accept a black and white fantasy land view of reality, coupled with a Faith Based foreign policy that got us into the Iraqi debacle to begin with. Another myth apparently still clinging on for dear life is the Cinderella Scenario. Maybe this is post-post-feminism in action, but I’ve encountered a few young women still waiting for the perfect man, perfect marriage, perfect safe and secure home. I haven’t the heart to tell these ladies that all relationships I’ve been in have gotten a bit messy at least part of the time, and that indeed, disorder is the very spice that made these relationships worthwhile. Not to put too fine a point on it, but Cinderella slipping on the glass slipper is telling young girls that the right man is looking for the perfect pussy to fit his penis. “Some Day My Prince Will Come” indeed. Now it would be reckless to say there’s a through line from the Cinderella story to genital mutilation in Africa (i.e. sewing up the vaginal opening to fit a particular penis), so of course I’ll go ahead and make that connection straightaway. Remember, in the original version of the fairy tale, Cinderella’s evil stepsisters hacked off their toes to make it easier for the prince to slip them the slipper. Indeed, a child reading the Brothers Grimm version might think the moral of the tale is that bad girls get their eyes pecked out. Still it shouldn’t surprise that fairy tales are at least partly about sex and its suppression. Witness Walerian Borowczyk’s “The Beast”, a horny conflation of “Little Red Riding Hood” and “Beauty and the Beast”. Back in the 70’s, Borowczyk caught a shit storm of fury for this art porn classic, perhaps for implying that suppression of female sexuality was somehow unhealthy. If so, these unhealthy instincts soldier on in the guise of Islamic “respect” for women, and in Conservative Christians, who slaked their thirst for prurient prudery at the fount of Bill Clinton. I know it’s naļve to ask, but why would any self respecting woman choose to be say, an orthodox Moslem or Right Wing Christian? I mean, what’s in it for them? The simple answer is to put their willing subservience down to persistent brainwashing from the cradle to the grave. But are there wider issues at play? Are conservative women lacking in community values? Has an under-developed sense of sisterhood caused them not to care about their fellow women? If I may cut to the chase like my Conservative brethren, I understand a woman not wishing an abortion for herself; but I cannot understand her desire to deny that option to other women. (And the “sanctity of human life” argument does not fly when coming from the mouths of supporters of Bush’s foreign policy. The president may have forsaken Jack Daniels for Jesus Christ, but his morality remains blurry at best.) Perhaps I’m overcomplicating things. Conservative women could simply be sliding on personal responsibility - a case of “It’s out of my hands. I leave it in the lap of the patriarchs”. Or have they just refused to give up on the fairy tale? Do these upright moral women want to remain passive, waiting for the slipper to come their way? Then there’s the possibility they’re afraid that equal legal and social footing with men (still a chimera in America) will make them every bit as screwed up as the men: WALKING ERECT (TO THE TUNE OF THE BANGLE’S “WALK LIKE AN EGYPTIAN”) We got the exam and pap smear The doc had cold hands, now don'cha know? The needle prick was quick (Oh-Way-Oh) He gave us too much testosterone We grew us some balls and three dicks It’s just the pits, got us way upset Like sleazy ass guys (Oh-Way-Oh) We sling batons like a majorette Now us chicks with the swingin’ dicks sing: Way-oh-way-oh-way-ooo-aaa-ooo... I’ve got an Erection. This frisky dick acts on its own It’s like I’m humpin’ a Harley hog. It pokes its head out (Of-It’s-Shell) I’m pointing out like a hunting dog The blood in our brain’s drained away We can’t keep our hands out of our pants When we shift the stick (Oh-Way-Oh) We're walking with an Erection Now the rubes starin’ at our boobs say: Way-oh-way-oh-way-ooo-aaa-ooo... She’s got an Erection. Sway it side to side, slap it back, grab your crotch, then you pull your sack Like Old Johnny Wadd (Oh-Porn-Oh) we’re sportin’ wood like a baseball bat Baskin’ in the sun, We’re well hung, We watch the boys as they strut their stuff. They think they’re so tough (No-Way-Oh) We got the works to plug up their butts We’re hornier than a skank ‘ho We’re stickin’ up like an old tent pole Think we’re gonna blow (Oh-Way-Oh) Premature Ejaculation Now us girls shootin’ strings of pearls say: Way-oh-way-oh-way-ooo-aaa-ooo... Play with your Erection … Play with your Erection By Patrick Moran :: 3:36 PM Also by Pat Moran: Click here for "Pass the Buck" Click here for "Ground Zero" Know-Nothing Party In conversation, many of my political screeds eventually collapse back upon themselves like a black hole, leaving only the original statement of the Ur Curmudgeon: “Why are people so stupid?” In context, this generally means, “Why don’t people agree with everything I believe?” There are exceptions to this, of course. I’ve found that though I’m far from the sharpest knife in the drawer, I tend to be better informed on current affairs than most of my co-workers and acquaintances. Apparently they don’t put much stock in the truism that one ignores politics at one’s own peril, preferring instead the deathless: “Opinions are like assholes, everybody has one.” While this homespun catchphrase has a certain scatological charm, it ignores the fact that some opinions are well informed while others simply are not. For instance, few of my fellow great unwashed are aware of the Project for a New American Century and its plan for US military domination of the world. You’d think they’d want to google it up, at the very least to try their hand at debunking claims that this Conservative think tank’s ivory-towered-virtual-reality view of global politics is the engine behind the Iraqi War. Accepting the PNAC as impetus to war makes more sense than any other story, including revenge based on Iraq’s non-existent links with Al Qaeda, or a pre-emptive strike to knock out non-existent Weapons of Mass Destruction. It goes a long towards explaining why Intelligence was manipulated by key administration (and ex-PNAC) players. And it puts our willingness to doggedly pursue the manufactured war (Iraq) while spectacularly dropping the ball in the real war (Afghanistan) in an interesting light. After all, the Bush team planned a long time for the Iraqi head trip. An honest to goodness conflict with a tangible enemy must have been one hell of a distraction. But alas, my peers are not only uninformed about the PNAC, they are also not interested. How lazy do you have to be when you can’t be bothered to fire up a search engine while you’re goofing off at work? Has willful ignorance (i.e. stupidity) become the newest all-American virtue? Ah, if life were only so simple. People are awfully complex, and their motives, like US intelligence on Iraq, are awfully murky. I think avoidance of shell shock accounts for some of the national ignorance of the perils upon us. Everybody needs to take an information break now and again to maintain a grasp on sanity (or at least functionality). I was in a self-imposed media blackout recently, so I missed the debut of Poindexter’s Spectacular Terror Strike Online Betting Site as well as its lightning quick crash and burn. According to telegraph.co.uk’s Richard Siklos: “Apart from being a little creepy on the surface, the other obvious problem with (Poindexter’s Patented Terror Strike Online Betting Site) was the notion that, if such a market were to flourish, terrorists could actually end up making money out of placing self-fulfilling bets. After all, there were investigations into bin Laden or associates short-selling airline stocks before September 11 2001 through overseas accounts, although nothing appears to have come of them.” What else did I miss in the space of a few days? I’m left wondering if Ashcroft has come of with a Mystery Random Ruling Wheel to deal with the detainees at Guantanamo Bay. “Why languish in a wire mesh dog kennel awaiting your hearing before a Military Tribunal, when you can simply take a spin to determine your sentence?” So I understand the American public’s penchant for ignoring shit for a while. It’s a strategy I use myself from time to time. I also subscribe to the great American coping mechanism of delusional thinking. In short, we tell lies about ourselves, to conjure up a favorable self-image. An obvious example is foreign aid. We tell ourselves we are the most generous people on earth, but we spend far less of our GNP on foreign aid than any other developed nation. So we’re trippin’. We might as well accept it. Or leaders do. After all, they thought we could cow terrorists simply by attacking a country. Perhaps our biggest delusion is our self-image of a strong, fair and righteous people. It’s an understandable model, since even our presidents seem to prefer the simple black and white morality of the tall-in-the-saddle western hero. But if I were to choose a movie hero to characterize the American psyche right now I’d have to go with Larry Talbot, the tortured protagonist of The Wolf Man. Unable to control his basest instincts, poor Larry slaughters indiscriminately. And when he tries to correct the situation, he discovers that all his efforts are ineffectual. It’s no real surprise. He’s too ill informed to figure out the right thing to do. (MADAM ESMERELDA, AN OLD GYPSY FORTUNE TELLER, LAYS OUT TAROT CARDS AND BEGINS TO PLAY SOLITAIRE. LARRY TALBOT RUNS IN.) LARRY: MADAME ESMERELDA! YOU’VE GOT TO HELP ME! THERE WILL BE A FULL MOON TONIGHT! AND I’LL BECOME A HOWLING WEREWOLF, LUSTING FOR HUMAN FLESH (CLUTCHING A MEDALLION ON HER CHEST, MADAM ESMERELDA RECITES A POEM) ESMERELDA: EVEN A MAN WHO’S PURE AT HEART AND SAYS HIS PRAYERS BY NIGHT WILL BECOME A WOLF WHEN THE WOLFBANE BLOOMS AND THE AUTUMN MOON IS BRIGHT LARRY: YES I KNOW ALL ABOUT THAT. BUT I NEED A CURE. I CAN’T TAKE ANOTHER NIGHT OF THIS, STALKING MY HUMAN PREY. I CAN’T DO IT I TELL YA! I’D RATHER DIE! (MADAME ESMERELDA HANDS LARRY A RING.) LARRY: A SILVER RING? I SEE. IT’S AN ENCHANTED GYPSY CHARM, RIGHT? IT WILL HELP ME RULE MY ANIMAL PASSIONS - KEEP THEM UNDER WRAPS. (CLUTCHING HER MEDALLION, MADAM ESMERELDA RECITES A POEM) ESMERELDA: ONE RING TO RULE THEM ALL ONE RING TO FIND THEM ONE RING TO BRING THEM ALL AND IN THE DARKNESS BIND THEM LARRY: WAIT A MINUTE! THIS ISN’T GONNA BE LIKE THAT GYPSY HAIR REMOVAL CREAM YOU GAVE ME LAST MONTH. I TRIED THAT STUFF AND IT DIDN’T WORK. I STILL TURNED INTO A HAIRY WEREWOLF. I DON’T HAVE TIME FOR YOUR PHONY BALONEY! IT’S BALONEY, I TELL YA! (LARRY THROWS THE RING AWAY. CLUTCHING HER MEDALLION, MADAM ESMERELDA RECITES A POEM) ESMERELDA: MY BALONEY HAS A FIRST NAME IT’S O-S-C-A-R MY BALONEY HAS A SECOND NAME IT’S M-A-Y-E-R OH, I LOVE TO EAT IT EVERY DAY AND IF YOU ASK ME WHY I’LL SAY: CAUSE OSCAR MAYER HAS A WAY WITH B-O-L-O-G-N-A LARRY: DON’T YOU SEE? I CAN’T TAKE ANOTHER NIGHT OF KILLING PEOPLE, MATING WITH SHE WOLVES IN HEAT! I CAN’T FACE ANOTHER MORNING, REMEMBERING THE SHAME AND HORROR! CAN YOU IMAGINE WAKING UP TO THAT? (CLUTCHING HER MEDALLION, MADAM ESMERELDA RECITES A POEM) ESMERELDA: THE BEST PART OF WAKING UP IS FOLGER’S IN YOUR CUP (SPOTLIGHT HITS LARRY. HE STARTS TO YELL AND THRASH ABOUT AS HE TURNS INTO A WEREWOLF.) LARRY: IT’S TOO LATE! I’M TURNING INTO A WEREWOLF! (LARRY HAS SLIPPED ON A WOLF MASK. HE TAKES OFF INTO THE AUDIENCE HOWLING CLUTCHING HER MEDALLION, MADAM ESMERELDA RECITES A POEM) ESMERELDA: THERE WAS A WEREWOLF FROM NANTUCKET WHO SAID THAT HE WOULD KICK THE BUCKET TIL UNDER THE MOON HE STARTED TO SWOON THEN CAUGHT A SHEEP DOG JUST TO FUCK IT By Patrick Moran :: 6:07 AM Also by Pat Moran: Click here for "Pass the Buck" Click here for "Ground Zero" Truth And The American Way I’ve never been a strict adherent of the Men from Mars/Women from Venus mishmash, but one truth I’m fairly certain of is that men and women process information differently and we reach decisions via divergent paths. As with all half-baked rules, there are exceptions. (And aren’t All rules paradigmatic by definition and therefore half baked?) Simply put, men are more aggressively analytical, women more intuitive. I’m not saying one approach to decision making is better than the other; each has its own strengths and pitfalls. Intuition can be blurred by emotional interference, and the analytical can shade over into meaningless hair splitting and sophistry. That said, group decisions are generally reached via debate, where aggression and analysis are more likely to prevail, so our current model for group decision making is weighted in favor of the male approach. This heady little thesis came to me during a writer’s meeting for the comedy troupe Psychotic Pooch. A woman in the troupe brought up the point that male members tend to dominate the writer’s meetings and that the women sometimes feel intimidated. Of course, she was right, but being a guy I hadn’t been aware of the situation until it was presented to me on a platter with garnish and a choice of two sides. Make no mistake. No guy in the group had been intentionally chauvinistic or overbearing, and scripts submitted by women have been regularly included in the show. But put any pack of guys together to accomplish a task they care about, and the struggle-to-be-alpha-male dynamic comes into play. Sad to say, but even the most enlightened males can’t help it. Luckily, I have the pleasure of doing a show with a bunch of guys who will gladly cut the crap once they’re aware that it’s happening. Our solution to this eternal source of misunderstanding between the sexes: The women will have to speak up, and the guys will have to shut up and listen. It’s a much better solution than a woman trying to out-perform the alpha males at their own game, and becoming just a big a dumb-ass in the process. Case in point: Condoleezza Rice. Condy’s not afraid to step up to the plate with the lying-sack-of-shit big boys of the Bush regime and do her part to play down what could become the first big scandal of the administration. As I see it, the gist of Condy’s sleazy spin doctoring is that George Tenet will take the fall for Bush’s lie about the fictitious Niger-Iraq uranium deal. Furthermore, the unfounded claim is only “part of a very broad case” Bush made before deciding to send American men and women into combat. Apparently Ms. Rice is not concerned that the “broad case” about non-existent weapons of mass destruction could also be branded as "Operation Tissue of Lies." As for Condy’s cohorts, it’s business as usual. Rumsfeld’s take is that he found out about the bogus nature of the Niger evidence anywhere from a year to several months after everyone else is was in the know. Rumsfeld also stated that Bush was “technically correct” when he lied, because he never actually said he believed the British Intelligence claim about the yellowcake connection, he merely included the information in his 2003 state of the union address when he was making his case for war: "Saddam Hussein recently sought significant quantities of uranium from Africa." Meanwhile professional greaseball Ari Fleischer worked up a sweat dodging press questions on the matter with nauseating frequency. It’s kind of creepy, but if you change one topical reference from Long Kesh to sat Guantanamo Bay, British Funk/Punk band Gang of Four’s 1979 “Ether” seems oddly prescient: Dig at the root of the problem (Fly the flag on foreign soil) It breaks your new dreams daily (H-block Long Kesh) Fathers contradictions (Censor six countries news) And breaks your new dreams daily (each day more deaths) Dirt behind the daydream Still I have a sneaky admiration for the White House Cabal’s confidence in handling this snafu. Say what you will about them, but they been consistent – scummy lying elitists from day one, who can’t be bothered to come up with convincing lies about their self-serving policies, and treat Americans with blanket contempt. Other beleaguered institutions should take their cue from the Bush regime. Imagine if the pedophile scandal-ridden Catholic Church took a similarly arrogant tack, and embraced their sleaziness: (TWO KIDS, TIMMY AND SUZY ARE SWAPPING TRADING CARDS.) TIMMY: OKAY, I’LL TRADE YOU ONE “MEETS HIS MOTHER” AND TWO “CONDEMNED TO DEATH” FOR ONE OF THOSE. SUZY: NO WAY! ARE YOU CRAZY? THIS IS A PRIMO TRADING CARD – MINT CONDITION. TIMMY: AW GEEZE. I’LL NEVER GET ONE OF MY VERY OWN! (A PRIEST, FATHER MURPHY ENTERS.) PRIEST: THAT’S WHERE YOU’RE WRONG TIMMY, BECAUSE MESSIAH INDUSTRIES HAVE JUST COME OUT WITH A BRAND NEW SET OF “STATIONS OF THE CROSS” TRADING CARDS – ALL FOURTEEN OF YOUR FAVORITES, PLUS EXTRAS OF THAT ALL TIME HALL OF FAMER… TIMMY: NEATO! FIVE COPIES OF “JESUS IS NAILED TO THE CROSS”! THANKS FATHER MURPHY! PRIEST: KIDS JUST LOVE “NAILED TO THE CROSS”…AND NOW THERE’S PICTURES ‘O PLENTY OF THAT GRISLY SCENE TO GO AROUND! SUZY: THIS IS THE BEST SET OF TRADING CARDS EVER! PRIEST: THE GOOD LORD IS INFALLABLE SUZY, BUT YOU’RE AN IGNORANT SNOT-NOSED LITTLE TWIT…BECAUSE THE FINE FOLKS AT MESSIAH PROUDLY PRESENT THE EXPANDED “STATIONS OF THE CROSS” CARDS! (FATHER MURPHY HANDS THE NEW DECK TO THE KIDS.) SUZY: LOOK, IT’S “JESUS WALKS ACROSS THE WADING POOL”. TIMMY: I’VE GOT “JESUS GETS THE JUMPER CABLES TO RAISE THE DEAD”! PRIEST: AT MESSIAH, WE’VE MULTIPLIED CARDS LIKE LOAVES AND FISHES. BUT THAT’S NOT ALL. FOR A LIMITED TIME ONLY, EVERY TRADING SET COMES WITH A COMPLIMENTARY COPY OF THE “CLERGY SUTRA” – THE CATHOLIC SEX MANUAL FOR KIDS. (FATHER MURPHY HANDS THE BOOK TO THE KIDS.) TIMMY: IT SAYS HERE THAT SHE CAN’T TOUCH HER WEE WEE. AND THAT IT’S A SIN IF I PLAY WITH MY PEE PEE. IS THAT TRUE FATHER MURPHY? PRIEST: OF COURSE IT IS, YOU SNIVELLING SHIT! INSTEAD OF POLISHING THE BISHOP, BOPPIN’ THE BALONEY, OR DOING THE TROUSER SNAKE SHAKE…YOU SHOULD BE PRACTICING POSITIONS THAT…PLEASE YOUR PASTOR…WE’RE NOT JUST MISSIONARY ANYMORE. TIMMY: I’M GOING TO DO THE ALTAR BOY SACRIFICE AND THE PULPIT PUNISHER! SUZY: AND I WANT TO TRY THE RECTORY REACH-AROUND! PRIEST: SORRY SUZY, THAT ONE’S JUST FOR THE BOYS…SO STOP PLAYING RING AROUND THE ROSARY. GET OFF YOUR FAT HOLY ROLLIN’ ASS AND SEND YOUR FORTY PIECES OF SILVER TO MESSIAH INDUSTRIES TODAY! IT’S ONLY MONEY, AND YOU DON’T WANT TO HOARDE IT LIKE A FILTHY YID, DO YOU? ANNCR (OS): “STATIONS OF THE CROSS” BY MESSIAH, THE SAME FINE FOLKS WHO BROUGHT YOU “POST HOSTIES CEREAL WITH MARSHMALLOW CRUCIFIXES” AND CONVENIENT “CUP-‘O-CHRIST” – COMMUNION ON THE GO! PRIEST: DON’T BE STINGY NOW. REMEMBER, YOU CAN’T SPELL JUDAS WITHOUT JEW. By Patrick Moran :: 4:19 PM Also by Pat Moran: Click here for "Pass the Buck" Click here for "Ground Zero" In the Dark In my never-ending quest for knowledge, I’ve learned that women should not do inversions when they are menstruating. Okay, it wasn’t that hard to unearth this nugget of information; my wife bought me up to speed. Apparently, both topics came up in yoga class – inversions and menses. Also apparent – and I don’t know why this never occurred to me before – women share period stories, tales of embarrassing body function humor. It makes me almost wish I had a cycle, just for the wealth of comic material. That said, I was not prepared to learn that I am the subject of one such period tale, which may already be approaching campfire favorite status. Here’s the story: When I was eight or nine, my grandmother sent me to the drug store to get some fancy dinner napkins. It was emphasized that said napkins should be nice, not cheap looking. Now in the late 1960’s drug stores did not carry everything from K-rations to KY Jelly, so napkins were hard to find. I finally settled on a box labeled “Feminine Napkins”, figuring that feminine equals fancy and classy. I do recall that the clerk gave me a funny look. Anyway, the feminine napkin story is making the rounds among my female friends. I don’t mind that they’re laughing at my expense, but I figure if you’ve earned the laugh you should at least be around to hear it. In my defense, I should point out that I used perfect kid logic in my feminine protection adventure, and like a lot of logical kid conclusions, it was wrong. Can you really blame kids? Even in this era of PC-shattering, faux edgy entertainment, we still employ a bewildering array of euphemisms – everything from downsizing to collateral damage to Operation Iraqi Freedom. As a nation we are overly euphemizing our children, our very future. And I say to you, my brethren, “End childhood Euphemasia!” Actually, the communication disconnect is not just confined to kids. I suspect that we Americans are chronically uncertain about what the fuck the other guy is talking about. The other night I was watching “Dimensions of Dialog”, an animated short by Czech filmmaker Jan Svankmajer. In dimensions, two clay heads carry on a wordless “dialog”, basically a series of overtures and responses: One head spits out a toothbrush; the other obliges by proffering a tube of toothpaste with his (its) tongue. It’s like a game of Rock, Paper, Scissors according to Monthly Film Bulletin’s Julian Petley, but the game goes horribly awry: “Once these (rules) break down, chaos ensues as the heads persist in their habitual gestures except in increasingly inappropriate circumstances and with more and more bizarre results: thus butter is spread on shoes, laces tied around toothpaste tubes, and pencil sharpeners attempt to sharpen each other… the ferocious collision of objects in the… episode are executed with a genuinely surreal eye for the nightmarishly absurd, the visually incompatible, and the conceptually shocking.” Weird, but doubly so, when we realize that we’ve all had conversations like this creepy bit of animation — where we veer off, never quite connecting with our partner in the process, like two bullet trains speeding past one another. I had one such conversation with a fellow extra on the Tampa, Florida set of “Edward Scissorhands.” We were shooting a scene where Edward was on a talk show with his mother. I was there, not so much for the pay (which was pretty good) but for the chance to see the talented Johnny Depp and the incomparable Tim Burton at work. A friend introduced me to a polyester-clad lady – we were all clad in suffocating, heat-stroke-inducing polyester – and I thought I heard that my sister in suffering was an independent filmmaker like myself. She talked about the influence we’d have on the industry, if only we organized at the grassroots level. I was in complete agreement with her until I began to notice the uncomfortably messianic tinge of her conversation. I interrupted her in mid-rant, and asked her what the hell she was talking about. I found out that by speaking in generalities, we both thought we were on the same page. We couldn’t have been more wrong. I wanted to make sleazy low budget exploitation pictures, she wanted to bring Christian values to the film industry, and flush away skeezy vermin like myself. All in all, probably the most surreal experience that afternoon. Well, that and hanging out with John Davidson all day. Damned if I didn’t have yet another disconnected conversation just this weekend – this time in the slightly surreal setting of a Gods and Goddesses party. It was Friday the 13th, you see, and the tasteful party planner decided to devote the festivities to various deities – Freya in particular, if I recall correctly. So there was a fair amount of Gods from the dark and frozen land to the north in attendance. A woman I’d seen previously at a drum circle started pontificating about religions and the term “Cradle of Civilization” came up. Now in the broad sense, this term can mean many things and many places, but I’ve heard it used most often to specifically describe Mesopotamia, the fertile crescent, and with tragic irony, Iraq. But Drum Circle Lady would have none of this: She had converted to Judaism and hence hated anything even remotely connected with those vile Arabs. (Never mind that peoples in the land between the rivers pre-dated the Arabs.) She was black, so the cradle of civilization was Africa. Now I know that the “Out of Africa” theory of human evolution has its detractors, but I’m perfectly willing to buy the African scenario. All the same, last I heard, Mesopotamia was the birthplace of writing and cities, so I wouldn’t be so quick to trash those hard-working Sumerians. In any event, Drum Circle Lady professed to be open-minded while touting an ugly streak of anti-Muslim bigotry. The best religion, of course, was Judaism. I repeated a quasi-homily, which is fast becoming a personal cliché – the notion that there should be as many different creeds as there are people. She countered that true faith is like the monolith in Stanley Kubrick’s 2001. Everyone sees the thing, and all at once they get it – they subscribe to the same idea. And lo, it sounded wondrous, but I had to ask: What if I look at the monolith and come up with a revelation that is fundamentally different from the one she shares with her friends? It’s the question that finally put the nail in that disjointed conversation. Drum Circle Lady went inside, and left me on the porch – in the dark with all the pagan Gods and Goddesses. By Patrick Moran :: 8:11 AM Also by Pat Moran: Click here for "Pass the Buck" Click here for "Ground Zero" Up The Yin-Yang I’ve been writing and performing with the comedy troupe Psychotic Pooch in conjunction with some very talented people from innerVoices Theater for a little over a month now, and it’s going quite well. Audiences have been building, and response has been very favorable. There’s an even male/female split in troupe membership, and everyone is writing material, so a fairly broad spectrum of humor is on display at Charlotte’s Central Avenue Playhouse. In regard to funny stuff, I’ve had if not an epiphany, then at least a bitch slap to the forehead, about the differences between men and women. In the current show, there are two contrasting sketches, both equally funny. One, written by guys, is a wicked send up of the wretched Kid Rock/Cheryl Crow schmaltzfest, “Picture”, wherein a morose married couple slam each other with a series of scatological put-downs. Since I’m a guy, I find a good fart joke akin to a sonnet, so I love the tuneful toilet humor. The second sketch, penned by a woman, is a lampoon of the orgy of cutesy talk women (and men) fall prey to in the proximity of an adorable puppy or a gurgling baby. Since I’m not in either sketch, I’m free to gauge the crowd. What’s interesting about audience response is that more men appreciate the first sketch as opposed to women, while the opposite is true of the latter. So I’ve come up with a half-assed template - a useful stereotype (if that’s not an oxymoron): Gals gravitate towards the situational/character driven stuff, while guys go for the gross out. Bear with me. I know there are so many exceptions to this wobbly rule that you fairly trip over them. And I’m not saying the female to male humor equation is strictly drawing room opposed to bathroom, Moliere vs Moe Howard. (Come to think of it though, I don’t know any women who like the Three Stooges - the Marx Brothers and other comedians of the same vintage, yes, but the stooges, no.) Anyway, I feel there’s enough of a grain of truth in my contention to make it a useful tool for the aspiring comedy writer. Without opening the whole biological-evolution-of-the-sexes can ‘o worms, I’m comfortable with the “Most guys like shit kept simple” paradigm. And this simple (if not to say simplistic) working premise can apply to things well beyond comic taste. Case in point: I’m hanging out with a bunch of guys and the subject of Bum Fighting comes up. To the uninitiated, this is the practice of coaxing homeless people into mayhem and bloodsport for fun and profit. Profit, that is, for the promoters of this cash cow of cruelty.The bums are lucky if they get a few beers. To a man, this group of guys were outraged that a homeless participant in the carnage would dare to sue the Bum Fighting entrepreneurs. To add insult to injury, Howard Stern has gotten some flack (and a pop in publicity before he completely drops off the radar) for promoting the Bum Fight videos. You must understand that the men in this scenario worship Howard; to a suburban white man sporting a hefty spare tire, Stern is “edgy”. Now I’m not the worldliest guy, but unlike my compadres I’ve actually had more than fleeting contact with homeless men and women. In my limited experience, a few of these folks are off their mental health medication (which they may not be in any position to afford) or they may be plagued by alcoholism. To put it bluntly, they’re not in their right minds, so suing a crass promoter for taking unfair advantage of the hopeless and helpless is not exactly an outrage. But such shadings were lost on my manly crew as one guy launched into a tired anti-lawyer tirade: These bums would be perfectly happy with their beer if some shyster hadn’t whispered in their ear. And could I believe that there were people suing McDonald's because they burned themselves on hot coffee? Well, actually I could. I could even believe McDonald’s equally absurd suit against an Italian food critic for having the temerity to suggest that they serve tasteless toxic swill. (Who’d have thought poor old Mickey D’s would have such a thin skin? And when can I start suing people for voicing unflattering opinions about me?) I brought the McDonald’s debacle to the guys’ attention, but it blew right past them. They were in no mood to see the other side of any coin, or to admit any complexity into their worldview. Next topic for group discussion: SARS. An acquaintance of ours was returning from a trip to Asia, and these men were afraid that said world traveler would come back into our midst spreading disease and destruction like a walking petri dish of death. Never mind that he was in Cambodia and SARS is still pretty much in China, both countries were on the same continent and that was good enough for the boys. (And never mind that we Americans share a continent with Toronto.) Now I’m not about to advocate reckless behavior in the face of a health problem, and I’ve no plans to play naked Twister in a leper colony, but the panic gripping my fellow macho boys was palpable. I was about to suggest that they should fear the other virus going around - the one that dissolved their balls, but I thought better of it. Call it a little cowardice on my part. To be fair, this group of guys was not exactly a scientific sampling of the mind of the American male. And perhaps I’m being uncharitable when I get the impression that these men have rarely questioned why they think and feel the way they do. Perhaps to many men, self-examination is way too sissy. And they’re probably not aware of the Socrates quote that I never fail to mangle: “An unexamined life is not worth living”. By Patrick Moran :: 9:10 AM Also by Pat Moran: Click here for "Pass the Buck" Click here for "Ground Zero" Slam-o-rama I am no longer a virgin slammer. No, I haven’t acquired a new kink for whiling away the idle summer months ahead. I’ve simply taken the plunge and competed in my first poetry slam. It was fun but surprisingly nerve-wracking – surprising because I’m no stranger to public performance, and nerve wracking because so many of the competing poets were so damned good. I’m proud to say that I definitely didn’t suck – at least that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. Initially, my view of what a poetry slam entails was skewed to say the least. Composed of equal parts romantic reverie and the coffee shop scenes from Roger Corman’s “Bucket of Blood”, I envisioned black beret wearing, clove smoking hipsters in shades showing their appreciation by snapping their fingers, or maybe Neil, Jack and Bill playing crazy espresso bongos for chicks in Capri’s over at Ferlinghetti’s. Well the real scene wasn’t exactly the Maynard G. Krebs school of beat, but it felt like a spiritual descendant of Kerouac and crew. The 16th Lake Eden Arts Festival outside Black Mountain, North Carolina included an amazing xylophone player from Ghana, a dynamite Afro-Cuban dance band, yoga and shamanism workshops, a mountaintop drum circle held in the dead of night around a blazing bonfire, and of course, the poetry slam. These poets kicked ass – I was clearly out of my league, but at least I wasn’t the only first timer. And the judges, pulled from the audience were easy on us novices. I doubt that I could’ve been as fair as the panel, particularly when one intense guy gave an anti-abortion rant in staccato cadence. Since I’ve opened this can of worms, I must admit that I have little patience with abortion opponents, particularly men. Now I certainly believe that men should hold views on this volatile subject. But I always catch a simplistic attitude from these righteous brethren. It’s as if they believe there are hoards of ravening womenfolk are racing to get this still risky medical procedure on the merest whim, or at the drop of a hat. I’ve known a few women who’ve agonized over the decision of whether or not to carry a child to term. It’s a bit more complex than choosing a nail color for a pedicure. I would have welcomed a woman poet’s views on the uncertainty of her decision, pro or con. I would have applauded a man’s conflicted perspective on a lost chance at fatherhood versus freedom from added responsibility. But this angry young man, though technically a proficient poet, left me cold. You can’t do any poem justice by giving a Cliff Notes version of it, but here goes: We got three minutes of spurting fluid and palpitating parts told from a forming fetus’ perspective. The audience is supposed to expect a denouement with the miracle of birth, but instead our narrator is flushed away as medical waste. Amen brother. The fact that I saw the O’Henry-esque surprise ending coming a mile away didn‘t put me off, but I’m profoundly tired of the perspective that a morally complex issue that effects millions can be boiled down to, and only down to: “It could have been me” Such a solipsistic view admits no grays, no moral relativity (and in my less-than-humble view, any belief system that admits no moral relativity has never truly been tested, and hence is not very useful). So it was a good thing that I decided to compete in the slam, and declined when asked to judge. I also should acknowledge a preference for poetry that is less than literal, stuff that draws correspondences that have no clear-cut connections, but rather follow the logic of dreams. It’s one of the things I feel poetry does so much better than prose. In other words, leave the didactic manifestos to rants like this column, and not to the realm of poetry. It’s merely a personal preference, but I like going through the whole range of gestalt gymnastics to find my own way through a piece of verse. It’s not that I mind being nudged to draw from a range of conclusions, but points come off if I see the hand pulling the strings. And I’m a sucker for a puzzle offering multiple interpretations. After all, isn’t that what symbolism and archetypes are for? Anyway, here’s my contribution to the slam, distinguished I think, by being the shortest piece in competition (because brevity is the soul of keeping butts on seats): COMPASS Flying over deep blue water, Compass heading due north-northeast, I thought I saw Earhart’s Cessna in that cloud, The cloud that looks like Elvis. Sailing over deep heavy water, I lost the plumbline in the sound. I thought I heard the Flying Dutchman in the shoals, In the sea Chuck Heston parted. Sinking under cold black water, The bosun calls out, “Paul is dead!” I don’t ask about Plutonian sunken drums. Is that the sun? It’s in the wrong place! By Patrick Moran :: 6:19 AM Also by Pat Moran: Click here for "Pass the Buck" Click here for "Ground Zero" The Sap Also Rises The Scandinavian Folk Rockers Hedningarna do a darkly romantic, north woods ditty called “Raven”, which translates as “Fox Woman”. It conjures up the magic of the spring thaw after a long hard winter: "Lust rises to keen desire Sap rushes up in the trunk Rises without the help of witchcraft Rushes straight without the help of spells" Of course, it’s all sung in Finnish, so it doesn’t border on Van Halen territory, as the English translation might lead you to believe. I’m not sure which is the most potent sign that spring has truly spring here in Charlotte. Perhaps it’s the agitated acidhead at the outdoor festival. I swear I didn’t mean to let the helium out of his high. I was just doing my job as a lovable walkaround cartoon character at rock concert. What could be more innocent than that? Anyway, although I was a big hit with the kids, I think my big happy frog suit gave this poor day tripper a major anxiety attack. Last I saw, he was making tracks for the Carolina Panther’s practice field. Instead, the surest sign that the season of renewal is upon us may be the fact that even the dead can’t sit still. I was in the audience at the Charlotte Body, Mind, Spirit Expo last weekend, where Medium and Psychic Mary Beth Wrenn was attempting to give a message to woman seated behind me. There was a spiritual speed bump or two, because the entity communicating with Mary Beth apparently couldn’t keep his big mouth shut. The Medium would hold up her hand to silence the spiritual guide, occasionally telling him to hush up. (Mary Beth, by the way, is a joy to watch at work. She could give John Edward a run for his money, and perhaps some day soon she will. She’s involved with a worthy ghost hunting society, and she’s pissed off a bunch of god-fearing Carolinians by channeling Princess Diana. What’s not to like?) I admit to being agnostic about Spiritualism and Mediums, which also means I’m skeptical about the skeptics. When I lived in Florida, I’d often visit the spiritualist community of Casadega. Clueless Floridians considered it a spooky place, but I found it quite peaceful. And I loved to see the Mediums work – the method each used to contact the other side varied with each personality. They responded to the sound of the vibration of your voice, saw auras or visualized symbols – techniques ran the gamut of human sensation. I’ve never doubted that these people are sincere in their belief in their abilities. Indeed this very sincerity makes the prime targets for a battalion of debunkers. I don’t discount the possibility that Mediums may rely on a subject’s selective memory (they recall when the Medium was right but forget when said psychic was wrong), and it may be likely that they rely on cold reading techniques. But by definition, charlatans using the cold-reading con “bank upon their subject's inclination to find more meaning in a situation than there actually is.” Maybe I’m missing something, but isn’t determining the meaning of a situation entirely a subjective process – even on the part of the dispassionate skeptic? It’s a common trap that would be skeptics fall prey to – wrapping themselves in the mantle of science, while forwarding an agenda based on personal predjudices. Not that I don’t have my own set of personal predjudices, but I don’t claim to be an unassailable debunker of frippery and psychic mumbo jumbo. Years ago I was watching the normally quite lucid James Randi on PBS bemoaning the public’s misguided belief in the irrational. (Mr. Randi, it should be noted, is not above a bit of chicanery himself.) I was struck by the closing comments of the master magician/debunker – words to the effect that common people should realize that magic has not improved their lives one jot, while science and technology have enriched the great unwashed immeasurably. This, of course, is true, but science and technology are the proverbial double edged sword, bringing us terror and a toxic environment as well. So it’s not too difficult to see why many have begun to doubt the wonder of modern science. I’m not about to turn my back on the material world, but countless people have done just that. The documentary “The Devil’s Playground” follows Amish youth as they undergo Rumspring, a rite of passage where at sixteen, they explore what they refer to as the "English World" of flesh and temptation. It’s the ultimate Spring Break, where the faithful believe the very soul is at stake. Only after they sample the wares of our wicked world, are the Amish teens considered ready to make the most important decision of their lives: whether to join their church for life, or foreswear their family and friends for MTV, Eminem and bitchin’ Camarros. According to the film, 90 percent of the kids choose the church. But a few break free. It’s difficult to see which decision is best for them, but it’s heartening to see that many have chosen to join the rest of us in the wild and deadly woods, where there are many wondrous things to behold. Whether or not they are magic depends on your point of view. By Patrick Moran :: 3:51 AM Also by Pat Moran: Click here for "Pass the Buck" Click here for "Ground Zero" Click here for "SINS OF THE FLESH" archives.