Four Guys at the Theater

“Let us wake to the goodness of the Lord”

 

Another Saturday night in New York City and another Saturday night in the theater district. Last time, it was four guys in a diner in Jersey. This time it was four guys going to see “Spring Awakening”.  Three our of the four that met in the diner in New Jersey were there again, and we added another who came all the way from Martha’s Vineyard to see us. The one from Jersey could not join us as he is on a day of recollection performing his exercise for a happy death.  It’s been damn near twenty years since I’ve seen these guys. What started twenty, sometimes thirty years ago for these four, or should I say us four was a journey that still has not reached its destination.

 

We were the junior seminarians, the aspirants for the Catholic priesthood, taken in at a young age in high school and molded to become shepherds to the lost sheep. The fact that at the age of 13 or 14 one cannot and should not be making decisions like this never dawned on us. We entered with high hopes and open hearts because we believed, and we saw what we liked, and admired the superiors [Cue Imperial March Music from the Star Wars movie]. We came to the school at different times and through different means. We come from different backgrounds, geographical areas, and ethnicity and as it turns out, different sexual orientations. Nobody at that age was defining themselves as gay or straight because after all, we were seminarians, and the whole idea was to make us asexual. Sex was for the other folks, the civilians, and only if they were married, which meant boy and girl, married by a priest. Period.

 

I wrote in a previous post here about the four guys in a diner, a gathering of the survivors of this lost institution. The common thread that seems to bind us together is the abuse, betrayal and complete mind-fucking we experienced at the hands of those who were supposed to be holy, those who were supposed to be showing us the path to righteousness. I know as a freshman, I was wide open and scared to death and looking for answers, even at the tender age of 14. I was not finding them at home, or in my parish. I still believed that the church had the answers to what was wrong with me.  I didn’t know I was sick; in this case, I had ADD and probably was already in the throes of Bipolar disorder. I figured nothing like a little structure and a lot of prayer would fix me. Make me a normal person. Stop all those racing thoughts in my head – story ideas, fantasies about movies I would make, girls I was in love with, a happy Hallmark family that had no problems and made the Waltons look like the Manson family. Reality in this mind of mine was a lot better than the real world that surrounded me.  As I entered the seminary, a community of men, it did not take me to long to realize how alone I was.  It did not matter that we slept together in the same dorm, had a rigid schedule that included work periods, classes, study hall, recreation, set dinner times, more chores, more study hall, lots of praying, I think I maybe had an hour a day, a half hour after lunch and half hour after dinner to be alone with my thoughts, where I could escape to the library and read. Magazines, books, anything. Just get me the fuck away from these people for an hour.

 

So last night once again we survivors of the seminary got together.  It’s not all doom and gloom. But we each have our own scars and stories which are frightening and sad, and while we can laugh about a lot of it, the fact is we have all been betrayed, abused, used, lied to and manipulated by men who are priests – people who preach honesty, tolerance, compassion, the real core of Jesus’ message which has been totally lost on this new generation of hard-ass Catholics who secretly long for the days of the Inquisition and are cheered on by a Prada-wearing pope who is turning back the clock to the dark ages. Yet they turn away from the sad legacy of physical, emotional, psychological, and sexual abuse that is turning out not to be an isolated bunch of cases, but a full blown epidemic in the church.  And yet holy mother church turns its head away, blind to the issue, and unrepentant to the damage that is done that still wreaks havoc in the psyche of its victims. Recovery from this type of abuse is possible, but it is long, and abuse from someone who is a spiritual leader, advisor, and confidant is particularly painful. You trust and then that trust is betrayed. You are told to be honest and address your issues and then you are cast aside for being controversial. You are measured for your cassock on the night before your investiture, and then told to leave the order, that you don’t cut the mustard.  You finally confront them about sexual abuse and told it was your fault.  

 

The four guys in the theater district last night have their scars, but their spirits are not broken, merely bruised. We got the last laugh and then some. After the theater, we retired to a piano bar. Two of the four are extremely talented in the music department. We kicked back and started to talk. The bartender loved us. We acted in ways unbefitting of seminarians which was cool by us. We could be ourselves, not what somebody, not what a superior wanted us to be.  We could be gay or straight, musician or writer, singer or teacher, unedited and honest. This is the second time in as many weeks that I have gotten together with these guys, this part of my past that many years ago I blocked out and did not want to engage in. I never told a soul when I was in college where I really went to high school. Attempts were made to get me to reunions but I avoided them like the plague.  I had my own path to walk down, and it was not always pretty. And sometimes it was fun as hell. Now that I am at a place of health, I am glad I am slowly reconnecting with these guys because they are truly the only ones who can understand the experience, the good and the bad, of being a high school seminarian, particularly where we went to. Much like the survivors of cancer can really only understand what it is like to get to the other side of the disease, or a recovering alcoholics relating their stories of their battle with the bottle, we the seminarians are the only ones that can relate, identify and empathize with the pain and confusion and utter despair at the betrayal we faced at the hands of the powers that be.

 

I’d be lying if I said that I am not angry that part of my childhood has been ripped away because of this experience.  But I have to be honest and say it was my choice.  It was a geographic for me.  My home life was chaotic, and I do not blame my parents here, I hated my hometown, I hated myself.  I figured throw a suit and blazon on, and I too can become a perfect person. One without confusion, or racing thoughts. One that could pay attention in class and not let his mind wander.  One that despite being 100 pounds soaking wet could do as much work and be as tough as the bigger guys. One that was not “lazy, a sneak, a slacker” one who would not run a “craphouse” when he was ordained a priest. It did not work out that way. I never became that perfect person. Nor do I want to. Perfect people bore me.  And I would be boring if I were perfect. I am glad I have this band of brothers back in my life again.  I’m the baby of the group.  I consider them my older brothers that I never had.  I looked up to them when I was in high school. I still do, although I also feel a little more equal now that the collars and class rankings have been removed. It’s been a gift having them around lately.  Stay tuned – we may just have a musical about the whole experience.  But right now we have this terrific bond of friendship and love. Today is gay pride day, and while it may be a day to celebrate pride in being gay, it is also a day to celebrate liberation and freedom in general. Last night was a pure example of that. The four guys at the theater, like the four guys in the diner, are happy, joyous and free, although they struggle. But we have each other.  That’s what I love.  So Jorge, Fred, and Dan, thanks for a great night and Hey, keep in touch, hey I said are you listening to me, hey, I want to keep in touch and hey stay in contact. Hey, that sounds like a great idea. 

Happy Gay Pride Weekend, A Little Video to Cheer You

Sunday marks Gay Pride Day and what better way to mark the day than put up one of my greatest hits from YouTube. Ahhh yes, the Phelps Family from the Westboro Baptist Church. You may know these people, they carry the God Hates Fags signs at funerals of soldiers, people who have died of AIDS, Billy Graham crusades and pretty much any other event.  They beleive that unless you are in their inbred posse, you are a fag.  Catholic – you are a fag and will burn in hell. A solider serving in the armed forces – you are a fag because you serve a nation that allows homosexuality to exist. I love taunting these people to no end. So Happy Gay Pride weekend to all who are gay, their family and their friends.  God loves you no matter what the Westboro Baptist Church says. And for the record, so do I.  I am pretty sure if Jesus were around today he would not be holding a sign saying God hates anyone, let alone fags.  Hell, he may even go to the parade himself. Why? Well, that’s the kind of guy he was.  He kept company with those who were downtrodden and marginalized. He would open up a can of serious whoop ass on Fred Phelps and his ilk faster than he cleaned that temple out of the moneychangers. So enjoy the weekend and know that people support you and love you, despite what some morons think.

Book Review: The Up And Down Life : The Truth About Bipolar Disorder– The Good, The Bad, And The Funny

 

The Up And Down Life : The Truth About Bipolar Disorder– The Good, The Bad, And The Funny written by Paul E. Jones with Andrea Thompson is a refreshing, new look at this often misunderstood mood disorder.  It is written by a person with Bipolar Disorder for people with the disorder, especially for the newly-diagnosed.

This book is very informative and accessible to patient and family member alike, and avoids the temptation to delve too much into a clinical dissertation.  Paul Jones does an amazing job helping outsiders see the true depth of depression and the soaring highs of mania. Plus, he does not gloss any of this over with excuses or self pity. This book is just the facts and told in a narrative that can be sometimes hillarious, sometimes terrifying. The creator of the “”Bipolar Boy” website has been through the battle of his life and emerged on the other side a true hero of this disorder. He offers many different tools and ideas to help those who are just discovering their  illness  and to those who have been dealing with it for years. “The Up and Down Life” is also a wonderful tool for family member or friends of the patient.  Paul takes family and friends by the hand and teaches them the best way to treat someone  with this disease.  He clears away any of the misconceptions about the disease and helps both patient and family member or friend alike understand the disorder for what it truly is – a disease, not a disgrace.  This book has been a comfort for many since their diagnosis and it’s not all doom and  gloom. He uses humor effectively to demonstrate, not demonize, the disorder.  If you have been diagnosed recently, or have been living with this for years, or if you have a loved one with this disorder, pick up this book.  This book is truly a profile in courage and is inspirational for anyone, regardless of whether you have the disorder or not.  Society has a long way to go in recognizing mood disorders for what they truly are, and there continues to be many false stigmas attached to mood disorders. Paul Jones clears this up rather quickly in a provocative fashion intertwined with humor and a compelling narrative style.

George Carlin: People Who Ought to Be Killed

Salesian School of Goshen alumnus George Carlin, best selling author of “When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops” and Grammy-Award winning comedian and actor hailed for his irreverent social commentary, and the famous Seven Words You Can’t Say on Television,” died in Santa Monica, Calif., on Sunday.  He was 71. He attended the Salesian School for Boys in Goshen, New York for a short time for 7th grade. Before it was a seminary. So when it was Sing-Sing as opposed to the Alcatraz it was when I attended. Some people did some digging, and found an interview with George in Playboy where he talks about his experience with “The Brothers” [Cue the Imperial March Music from the Star Wars Movies]:

PLAYBOY: In your routines, you return constantly, almost
obsessively, to your parochial education. Did you ever attend public
high school in New York?

CARLIN: I went to George Washington High School for six months
before my 16th birthday, when I could legally quit. That was an even
worse experience than the Catholic schools. I mean, they were still
teaching fractions. But mostly, I played hooky. I had one 63-day
streak.

PLAYBOY: That’s quite a streak.

CARLIN: Yeah, and I didn’t count weekends or holidays.

PLAYBOY: Would you describe yourself as a problem student?

CARLIN: I was a discipline problem, and I never did homework.

PLAYBOY: What sort of trouble did you get into?

CARLIN: When I was in seventh grade, I was caught stealing money
from the visiting team’s locker room during a basketball game. So I
was sent to The Brothers. That’s what they called this parochial
school up in Goshen, New York. I was supposed to get closer
supervision there and more “masculine influence,” whatever that
means. But I was thrown out for telling a couple of really lame kids
on the playground that I had heroin.

PLAYBOY: Did you?

CARLIN: It was just a joke, but back I went to my old school, where
all the kids I’d been with for eight years were about to graduate.
But the sisters wanted me to repeat the whole term; so I went to the
principal and pleaded with her to allow me to graduate with my class.
She finally agreed on the condition that I write the graduation play.
It was called How Do You Spend Your Leisure Time? Catchy title, huh?
But, once again, I was rewarded for my cleverness, my show-business
skills.

PLAYBOY: Even before adolescence, the essential themes of your
adult life and work were pretty clearly laid out: humor, rebellion,
and drug use.

CARLIN: And the patterns became even more vivid at Cardinal Hayes
High School. That’s when I began failing subjects and running away
from home for days at a time.

Rest in Peace George.

George Denis Patrick Carlin (May 12, 1937 – June 22, 2008)

I will let the man speak for himself.  Yesterday, I wrote about four guys in a diner who went to the same high school.  George Carlin attended that school when it was merely a “school for boys”.  Carlin was a genius and I agree with him, religion is bullshit. However, I still disagree on who to pray to.  He prays to Joe Pesce. I pray to Jessica Alba. We both pretty much got the same results.  Anyone who has the Supreme Court rule on his act certainly has made an impact on society.  I will miss his misanthropic banterings and his cynical insights. The man was brilliant, and comedy today has been dumbed down fart jokes and genital gibes.

Four Guys in A Diner in Jersey…

It was a Sunday afternoon and four guys converged on a diner in New Jersey. No, this is not the final scene from “The Sopranos”

These were four guys who went to the same high school.  Okay, so where’s the big opening. Where’s the excitement. Well we  four went to a place called a junior seminary. For those of you who are not catholic, a junior seminary is a catholic high school for boys who are considering the priesthood. In our case, we lived there, it was a boarding school. The picture above is the chapel where we spent a good deal of time.  But more on that later. Let me tell you about the four guys in the diner, and the place. 

 

I was an odd kid, definitely not the dominant paradigm poster boy for the suburban New York 70s kind of kid. I had little use for Little League, Baseball Cards, Cub Scouts, Soccer or socializing. I did really weird things like go to the library, read books, make films with a Super 8mm camera and try to dream of a life that did not closely resemble hell. I was in Catholic grammar school at a time when the nuns were still very free with their hands and did not hesitate to beat your ass silly for the slightest infraction like dropping your pencil on the floor and forgetting to ask permission to pick it up. I was a square peg, and they didn’t deal with those too well.  Their method of making a square peg fit into a round hole was to pounce on it mercilessly through shame, torture and utter contempt. Funny enough, this square peg could not be beaten down. He kept popping out of that round hole much to the chagrin of the nuns, the priests, parents and other assorted authority figures. The beatings did not force me to conform; I just became numb to them and took a certain sadistic glee when I saw the look of utter frustration when I refused to tow the line.  It was the late 70s, and this was not the peace and love generation. Love ins became layoffs, Peace and Love became Punk Rock, but there was still a whiff of altruism in the air, Vatican II was making it’s mark in the Catholic Church. For a while it seemed totally tolerable. They started having guitar masses, with music you could actually get into. I grew up in a Catholic household and knew a lot of seminarians from Maryknoll, who use to come over to my house a lot. These guys were hippies, kind of cool. Played guitars, smoked herbal jazz cigarettes, gave the peace sign, I dug them. But it never dawned on me that I would want to become a priest.

 

Eighth grade rolled around and I went on a weekend retreat to this junior seminary, and it seemed like a cool idea at the time. A bunch of cool guys, playing guitars hanging out. They weren’t hippies, they wore suits and had somewhat of a Mormon missionary look about them, but hey, it was slowly becoming the 80s and everyone was wearing suits. And I have to admit it; I look good in a suit, even if I have gone more jeans and t shirt kind of guy today. So I decided I wanted to go. Give it a shot.  It was my ticket out of suburban boredom, and I would not have faired well at public high school, and my grades stunk, so I probably could not get into a good Catholic high school. But the seminary would take me. They needed more bodies, minds to shape, souls to mold, future prospects for the order. They love bombed me and I bought the whole party line hook, line and sinker, and happily jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire.

 

So today at the diner, us four took our turns telling our stories about the place we call the junior seminary.  We talked about the so-called Superiors (Cue the Imperial March Music from Star Wars). These were the men in charge. Then there was the regimen. Up in the morning really early, suits and ties, beds made with hospital corners at a perfect 45 degree angle. If it was 44 or 46 degrees, there would be hell to pay. No, they did not hit us, they had other methods of torture. Then we prayed, Morning Prayer, which took place in that chapel above. I honestly can’t remember much about morning prayer because you see, at the time I had undiagnosed ADD and Bipolar disorder, so this was my special time to check out, you know, think about things, play movies in my head, you know, like me making out with that girl with the big tits that came to mass on Sunday or replaying the “Hungry Like the Wolf” video in my head over and over again. We did chores, oh did we do chores. Mop floors, mow lawns, scrub toilets, serve dinner, do dishes, we were basically slave labor. You see, basically the place was like a Catholic Jonestown, without the cyanide laced Kool Aid. We even had our very own cult like leader whom we all worshipped, at least for the first year I was there. For the sake of anonymity and to avoid lawsuits, I will just refer to him as Father Melodramatico. Father Melodramtico could put on a good show for the parents and the benefactors, the people who ponied up big bucks to keep the doors open. When he gave mass on Sundays, he would gaze at the communion host with a face that could be described either as angelic or orgasmic. They dragged all of us nice boys out in our suits and ties and the money just kept a rolling in. Basically, Sunday mass was like Up with People with a cover charge, and not all of the cast members were that eager to participate.

 

The Superiors were on us like stink on shit. I was scared so I basically did whatever I was told my first year there. You see in a house of formation, that’s fancy church parlance for places that train clergy, scrutiny, criticism, perfectionism, and mind-fucking were the order of the day. Remember, all four of us sitting around that diner table were teenagers when we went there, but we were expected to act like adults, and like adult clergy no less.  Problem is, the adult clergy sent to run this place were a little long on dry wall and a little short on nails. The place was kind of an “Island of Misfit Toys” for members of the order that needed a little drying out from the booze, or a little rest after a complete mental collapse. There were some of them there that I could easily see today in a locked psychiatric ward sitting in a corner with a hockey helmet on, mumbling to themselves. You also had a lot of old geezers that were sent there because the order was too cheap to invest in a retirement home, and every community had to have its quota of sick, aged clergy. I would like to say they were respected and admired members of the community, but looking back on it, they were just kind of shunted to the side and marginalized. Then there were people called Brothers who were recent graduates of the college seminary and they were sent there to teach for practical training. They were the ones that had to get our ass up in the morning, organize work periods, teach, supervise study halls, and get our asses to bed. Keep in mind they were 22 years old at the time. When I was twenty two, the only ass I wanted to get into bed was blonde, with big tits and preferably gone by the time morning came.

 

So between all this work, praying, more work, studying, trying to be perfect, not having a clue as to what was happening, we maybe got a few hours a week to form independent thoughts.  That was something that was not encouraged.  You see, the more time you spent alone with your thoughts, the more dangerous it could become.  You could start thinking that maybe all of this religion stuff was bullshit. You could start thinking hey, I don’t want to be a priest, I want to be a doctor. Or when that priest was touching me like that, he was just being friendly, he really wasn’t trying to have sex with me, was he? Dangerous thoughts. And not allowed. When I got older, I got more responsibility. I had keys to everything in the place – the cars, the liquor cabinets, the supply closets.  My senior year I started hopping the wall at night to meet this girl from the Public Defenders Office at a bar not far away. Imagine my surprise when I saw one of my superiors in there one night.  He told me to get my ass back to school, but he did not rat me out.

 

The four guys at the diner went through a lot of this at the junior seminary. Some of us were emotionally, psychologically and spiritually tormented by Father Melodramatico. He was a classic love-bomber one moment and self-esteem deflator the next. You never knew what twisted bullshit this guy was going to throw at you next.  Thankfully after my first year, he was being groomed for a top spot in the corporation and went elsewhere. Some of us were asked to leave. Two of the crazy bastards actually went onto to the Major Seminary and took vows of Poverty, Chastity and Obedience. Crazy motherfuckers, here they were, in their prime, good looking guys, giving up some serious humpage time, earning potential and freedom. Sorry, that was the deal breaker for me. Poverty I never liked, I like making money, and I say make as much as you can and share as much as you can. Chastity???? You have got to be kidding me. I am 43 and I am still as horny as I was when I was 14. When it’s springtime, I want to pollinate. I want to get me some. Call me a whore, I don’t care. As long as it’s legal, safe and nobody gets hurt, the mattress mambo is just too good a thing to pass up. Obedience. This is really tricky.  Basically they can tell you what to do and you can’t say dick about it. You have to go work in this shithole parish. Under obedience, I order you to not talk to this person. No you can’t get an advanced degree in theater or communications, we need teachers.  As we discovered earlier in this article, I was never obedient. If I didn’t obey my parents, and they at least commanded obedience by virtue of having raised me, educated me, put up with my crap, taken care of me when I was sick, taking me on cool vacations and building a pool in my backyard, I was not about to obey the “Superiors” who were far from.

 

The four guys sitting around this table in this diner in Jersey at one time or another felt a betrayal, were hurt by this experience, and had to fend for themselves and reconcile what had happened to them, sometimes much later down the road. This was not a high school reunion, as much as it was a reunion of the survivors from the last lifeboat of the Titanic. The four of us speak each others unspoken language fluently. Our heads are bloodied but unbowed. We are not victims, we are survivors. It was fun hearing the stories and reconnecting again after all these years. Only the four of us, and anyone else who had gone through this experience could really understand what we were talking about.  Beneath the humorous anecdotes were years of struggle, pain and anguish that even now some of us as adults are trying to sort out.  We are still here. The seminary is long gone. It closed due to a decline in enrollment. The only thing that remains is the cemetery, where members of the order who die are buried. I am sure that when death came for some of them, it was the happiest moment of their lives. The religious life is a lonely one, filled with struggle, isolation, scrutiny and frustration. It’s as every bit as political as the Senate cloak room.  The chapel in the above photo lies abandoned, but still holds the prayers of the hundreds of boys now men who passed through there.  I am not talking about the monotonous prayers of the Liturgy of the Hours or the Rosary, but the silent prayers of anguished souls crying out “God, please help me”.

 

If I had to do it over again, would I? Perhaps I would. It was a unique experienced that has molded me, shaped me and ultimately led me to become the writer that I am today. The pain and anguish and betrayal from that period in my life took me down a dark path that led me to seek help and get a proper diagnosis and treatment. It led me to make friendships that are deep and last to this very day. I did not realize until today how strong I have become, and how much esteem I have for myself. Having spent time with the guys today helped me realize I needed to be where I was then, and I am right where I want to be right now. That’s a gift.  So Fred, Joe, and Jorge, thanks for lunch.  But more than that, thank you for the gift. You guys are great!

 

A new disease has been discovered, and there is no cure

 

Yup, it’s pretty prevalent especially in people like me. Bipolar boy. It’s called the fuck-its.  The doctors have not cure for it. And quite frankly, I hope they don’t because I like this disease. It gives me a reason to live on this god forsaken planet with the likes of you people. Yes, you inhabitants of Earth. The human ones. I am not talking about the animals they are cool. It’s just people I can’t stand. Let’s review my lovely few weeks in review. Someone is accusing me of lying when I am not. Fuck it.  It’s her problem. Somebody who is wonderful and has helped alot of people is ill with pancreatic cancer and this is the one where there are few options. Fuck it. No one cares. Fucking George Bush just wants to win his war and catch that Bin Laden and line all his oil buddies pockets with money. We can spend billions to send a shuttle up to the space station to fix a fucking toilet, but we can’t get the greatest minds on the planet together to cure AIDS and Cancer. No, that would be too altruistic, too humanitarian.

Then there are all the answer people, you know, they know fucking everything. Oh you should look at your part, you should try to understand rather than be understood. Fuck that. I am not Saint Francis and don’t want to be. Yeah that brick wall up at this post is the wall I have been talking to all week. What i really want to do is smash my head through it. Oh, what’s the matter, is this not the nice blog you thought you would get. Sorry, I am not in nice mood. And not in the mood to be particluarly all airy fairy and spirtual either.  I’ve dealt with a fair amount of bullshit and verbal cannonballs in the last few days and have reached my breaking point, and emotional/mental Hirsoshima so to speak, so this is a new type of blog entry. It’s called the Fuck You blog.  And its pretty much directed towards everyone, including myself.  Fuck you, the ones who are judgemental, who are so quick to put on their robes and point the fingers at others and point out the faults of you. My mother, god rest her soul, she is in a better place and has not had to endure the crap that has come down since she rolled loose of this mortal coil, used to tell me when you point the finger at someone else, there are three more pointing back at you. So as i point the finger, believe me as I point the finger at you, there are three pointing at me, so fuck me too! Sorry, I can’t be perfect. Nor do I want to be. Perfect people suck. And I am begining to think nice people suck too. Most of the nice people I meet really are not that nice once you scratch the surface. They always got some agenda. It may be they are trying to sell you something. It may be they got a little passive-aggressive drama they need to engage in, and you are just the perfect ping-pong ball they can bounce around. Watch out for those nice people.  Somewhere up there sleeve or in the back pocket, they’ve got a two by four just waiting to hit you with it when you least expect it and are most vulerable to it. I have a nice emotional lump on my head right now, and no amount of ice is making the swelling going down.

Another big Fuck you goes out to the so called spiritual leaders of this generation. Pope “I wear only Prada” Benedict, the Dalai Lama, Eckhart Tolle, Bob Proctor, Rhonda Byrne, and all you other sorts of enlightened folks. The God i believe in is not short on cash. And you folks with your secret knowlege, with your satin robes, with your pious pontifications and pie in the sky pronunciations, fuck you. Yeah it’s very easy to write a book that makes millions and tell everyone else how to be in the now and visualize yourself in your dream house, your dream relationship, your dream career when you already have these things, and lets face it, you got these things and got rich by coming up with tricky ways to tell people how they can be rich, be beautiful, be whatever they want to think. Shit “The Secret” is no secret at all – Rhonda Byrne practically plagiarized the shit from James Allen’s “As a Man Thinketh” and Charles Haanel’s “The Master Key System” Cribbing from other people’s work is not authorship and does not qualify you as a guru.  It kind of makes you a thief. I say if you want something, pray. You got about a 50/50 chance of getting what you want. Yes or no. It’ nothing personal. God just may have run out of his quota of Ferraris, Rich Boyfriends, or miracle cures for the day or week. But keep trying.

Another big fuck you goes out to the people who just don’t take responsibilty for shit. We see this in corporate America everyday, an institution I wade in while avoiding getting fully into the pool. Again with the finger pointing. Again with the blaming. God, blaming someone else sure makes people feel so damn good about themselves. Quarterly profits down, well hey, lets lay off the janitors, it’s their fault, the place doesn’t need to be that clean anyway. Finance lost the financial records. Well it can never be their fault, let’s find the guy who sent the forms in the first place and make him jump through hoops, and act like it was his mistake when someone was obviosly not paying attention when the timesheets were personally handed to them.  But it’s not their fault they fucked up. It’s the guy who conscientously walked these papers up to the department and handed them to them personally. Note to all you folks: Always make copies and always take notes. I made copies, but now I have to take time out of my weekend to search for these records, but someone else’s fuck-up has become my problem. Fine, but I say a big fuck you to all those who have made it my problem.

Finally, I’d like to personally say fuck you to my neighbors who think they are on American Idol or something. While I appreciate the arts, do I really have to hear you practice your art morning, noon and night. Do I really need to hear your bad karoke versions of “Wind Beneath My Wings”. Get a job, pull some money together and rent some rehearsal space.  And fuck my fat ass lazy landlord. Clean the fucking lobby for christ sakes. Show some pride or sell me the building.

So there you have it.  Fuck each and everyone of you and have a nice weekend

 

 

Al Gore Endorses Barack Obama for President

Okay, in the better late than never category, I guess Al Gore finally felt it was safe to come out and endorse Barack Obama for President.   In a release from the Obama Campaign, Gore says the following:

“A few hours from now I will step on stage in Detroit, Michigan to announce my support for Senator Barack Obama. From now through Election Day, I intend to do whatever I can to make sure he is elected President of the United States.

Over the next four years, we are going to face many difficult challenges — including bringing our troops home from Iraq, fixing our economy, and solving the climate crisis. Barack Obama is clearly the candidate best able to solve these problems and bring change to America. This moment and this election are too important to let pass without taking action.

Over the past 18 months, Barack Obama has united a movement. He knows change does not come from 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue or Capitol Hill. It begins when people stand up and take action.”

It was followed of course by  the usual plea for a campaign contribution. I made quite a few of those since the primary, and I will again before Election Day. But I am kind of steamed at Al Gore at the moment.  He denied my request for an interview for this blog. Or rather, one of his handlers did, I am sure Al was never even made aware of it. Ahhh, the filters of power.  Congrats Barack, everyone is in your corner now.

Meet the Press – The First Sunday Without Little Russ

Well it was the first Sunday after Tim Russert’s death, and “Meet the Press” soldiered on.  I added this clip of Tim with his famous marker board  explaining how Obama won the nomination,  the marker board that he first started using on the famous Election Night in 2000.  Sadly, there will be no Tim Russert to bring us the news this November.  Peggy Noonan, Author, Columnist, Ronald Regan Speechwriter, sums it up best to describe Tim’s passion for politics.  ”It was a few months ago, the day of the New York Primary. I was walking into a studio at Rockefeller Center and bumped into Tim. We said hello and he took me aside and his eyes were glowing. He said he’d just being walking along Sixth Avenue and met an immigrant to America who came up to him with great excitement. She said to him ” He, you’re the TV! Listen, i just voted for the first time as an American.” Tim said he told her congratulations and then he said: Here is the great thing. Your vote counts just as much at the president’s. It has as much weight as anyone else’s who’s been here forever. His eyes filled with tears as he told me this. He was a real patriot. He really cared about America and its future.”

Tim Russert May 7, 1950 – June 13, 2008

NBC Washington Bureau Chief and host of Meet the Press Tim Russert has died today in Washington, DC. While recording a voiceover for Meet the PressRussert collapsed and died at his office.He had just returned from family vacation in Italy, which is where he went to celebrate his son’s graduation from Boston College. News of his death was reported live on NBC, CNBC and MSNBC by former NBC Nightly News Anchorman Tom Brokaw. Little Russ, as he was called in his family, was a fixture on Election Night, known for keeping track of the electoral college votes with his little tote board and magic markers. He was also known for his gotcha questions, particularly during this year’s presidential primary debates.  Sometimes I was hard on Little Russ, thinking he was a little unfair to Hillary Clinton. But he was by far a political journalist  that commanded the respect and admiration of his colleagues. Russert penned a bestselling biography, Big Russ and Mein 2004 (which chronicled his life growing up in a predominantly Irish working-class neighborhood in South Buffalo and his education at Canisius High School. Russert’s father, a World War II veteran who held down two jobs after the war, emphasized the importance of maintaining strong family values through the methods of the “carrot and the stick,” the reverence of faith,  and of never taking a short cut to reach a goal. Russert claimed to have received over 60,000 letters from people in response to the book, detailing their own experiences with their fathers. He was a die hard Buffalo Bills fan.

Tim Russert is survived by his wife  Maureen Orth, who has been a special correspondent for Vanity Fair since 1983. They have a son, Luke, who graduated had just from Boston College this year.

Heaven just go a little classier. I can see Tim at the Pearly Gates posing a question to Saint Peter “Saint Peter, now I know you have the keys to the kingdom, but it is on the record that you denied Jesus three times, it says so right here in the Gospel of John”  A booming voice from the throne of God, says to Peter “He’s got you there Pete, let the man in”

Goodbye Little Russ.  I will miss you on Sunday mornings. You were the best. Election Night will not be the same.