Sunday, April 24, 2005

Holy stains and Sidious Popes

In the wake of Pope-mania, The Daily Herald of Arlington Height has featured no less than three stories about religious imagery found on everyday objects.

There was an egg in Elgin that allegedly was found with a cross shape on it. The family claims it has brought them good luck, including a lottery win. They were putting it up for auction on eBay.

Of course, like most media they were all over the underpass stain in Chicago that allegedly looked like the Virgin Mary. It also looks like a robed boxer, the wine bottle logo from the film Sideways, and a vagina.

Not to be outdone by the big city, a reader told The DH about his turtle, which also supposedly has the image of Mary on its belly. The shape also looks sort of like like King Arthur or maybe one of the wizards from Lord of the Rings.

I love when the media encourages the superstitious side of belief. They rarely interview anyone to counter what the visually challenged claim to see. That might offend those of faith.

But it offends me that such reports reduce faith to a belief that God would waste time doing cheap magic tricks.

If you have a so-called lucky egg that you think has something to do with a Supreme Being is it really such a good idea to auction it off on eBay? That’s bad karma. And, unless maybe you needed the money to fight cancer or because you lost your job, why they hell would God want you to win the lottery? And weren’t eggs co-opted from the pagans as religious symbols?

As for the stain, a Sun-Times columnist pretty much summed it up when he noted that none of the stain-starers lifted a finger to help a homeless man standing nearby who was holding a sign asking for help. I guess the stain wasn’t communicating the message of Christian charity very well.

Now the turtle guy seemed like he thought is was sort of funny. Yet, he called the paper to get a story. Lo and behold he got one. Maybe God is mad about the Bush Administration’s shitty record on the environment and is pissed off about all the SUVs.

If I were an editor faced with such silliness, I would sent a cameraman or a photographer to find stains and odd shapes throughout the coverage area. I’m looking at some wood paneling right now and have seen a set of nipples or an owl, Homer Simpson and Chewbacca from Star Wars.

And already making the e-mail rounds is a set of photos showing how the new pope, Eggs Benedict XVI looks way too much like Star Wars villain Darth Sidious. The Pope is German, which adds to this menacing thought.

I haven’t seen much about that in the mainstream media, because they would consider it irreverent and maybe even sacrilegious. And the man is infallible, you know.

But what if the Darth thing is the real warning from heaven, instead of some water leaking in an overpass or a suburban turtle? It makes about as much sense.

But then the TV has been nuts about the Pope stuff. They were lying in wait for years in anticipation of the last one’s death.

Granted, there are supposedly about 1 billion Catholics in the world. But I think all the fuss has more to do with the DaVinci Code, the intrigue of one of the last bastions of a male hierarchy in the West, and all the pomp and circumstance that looks pretty on camera. I mean, the Catholics pretty much invented the rock concert, or, at the very least the Broadway musical, and that’s what the last few weeks have seemed like.

Sure, I’m going to hell.

But the coverage pretty much convinced me that I am no longer Catholic -- and that I wouldn’t be wanted there anyway.

I mean they are so backwards with the communication stuff. How about next time, instead of polluting the bad Rome air with smoke, they text message everyone when they pick a pontiff? And there should be a Web site which is all white until the new one is revealed, then the screen turns black and his picture slowly reveals itself.

“Hi. I am your new pope. Thanks for logging on to Vatican.org. Remember to go to church every Sunday. Only have sex for procreation and if you are married. Don’t be gay. And if you are American, vote Republican,” the image would say.

Some priests last fall in parishes last fall pretty much were telling people it would be a sin to vote for John Kerry because of his stances on abortion, gay rights and birth control. Those issues mattered more than a war Pope JP II openly opposed.

The Church won’t allow women in roles of authority, doesn’t want anything to do with gay people and priests are supposed to be celibate.

Now I’m not saying Jesus was queer. But, since women have been set aside (even though there is evidence some played key roles in JC’s posse), the Church prefers the image of a single guy in his 30s hanging out with 12 other guys all the time as its savior than one who might have enjoyed the company of women, in the biblical sense or otherwise.

Celibacy just isn’t healthy. It can lead to prostate cancer.

And if sex is only for procreation, not recreation, are married Catholics allowed to do oral or hand-jobs or are those out of the question, too? What about masturbation? How bad of a sin is that? Who is hurt by it?

Birth control is wrong, but keeping people alive indefinitely by artificial means is fine. Parts of the world have AIDS epidemics raging and are overpopulated, but birth control and condoms are the selfish choices.

If the Church is serious about not liking gays, tear down the Sistine Chapel. All that nudity. And it was painted by a homo. You could sell it to some club in San Francisco’s Castro district.

If I’m being blasphemous, so be it. This too shall pass. Besides I did get something out of my Catholic education: Live and let live. Don’t screw people over. Don’t be selfish. Don’t judge. Treat others as you would like to be treated. And be skeptical.

I must a missed the parts about stains and standing on ceremony.

And once your Catholic, you don’t go anywhere else -- which spares me from being born again, which judging from the politicians who claim such would involve buying a gun, helping credit card companies and oil companies make more money and listening to lousy music.

Sunday, April 17, 2005

Book idea: Faustian bargain hunters

I recently found out from a friend that a reporter at a major daily newspaper is on sabbatical writing a book about celebrities and their thoughts about God.

My first thought was, hey, this person is ripping off Studs Terkel’s book Will The Circle Be Unbroken, but removing all those common folk that the populist thinks are just as important as the famous. So, naturally, more people will want to read the reporter’s book, because we live in a celebritocracy.

But, hold on a minute. Wouldn’t a more interesting book be interviews with all the celebrities who have made deals with the devil to get to where they are?

Off the top of my head: Larry King; Rush Limbaugh; Britney Spears; Ashton Kutcher; anyone associated with American Idol; the cast of Desperate Housewives and Sex and the City; Jerry Bruckheimer; Paris Hilton; Dick Cheney; the Osborne family; that Mormon who won on Jeopardy; Jerrod the Subway dude; Ann Coulter; Sean Hannity; Hillary Clinton; Andrew Lloyd Webber; Sting; Bono; the Rolling Stones; Billy Bush; Lorne Michaels; Anne Rice; Puff Daddy; 50 Cent; Donald Trump; the guy who wrote Wicked; Arnold Schwarzenegger; Maria Shriver; the cast of Friends; Phil Collins; Barbara Walters; anyone who has ever been on The View; Oprah Winfrey; Cher; Peter, Paul and Mary.

I could type all night.

Send me your suggestions.

Gimme the grant money: proposal for another cellphone and driving study

Recent findings by researchers at major land grant universities confirm that people who use their cell phones while driving are a potential danger to others because they are so distracted by the conversation. This is even true for those using the hand-free phones, and phone-using drivers are even more distracted than those listening to the radio, eating or talking to someone else in the car.

No studies have indicated if such drivers are more distracted than those who are reading newspapers or books perched on the steering wheel or those talking to themselves.

First we would like to offer our scientific opinion: Well, duh. These people, for the most part are hideous morons.

So, in order to fully understand how truly dangerous cell phone drivers are, we here at State U. would like to propose the following experiment: compare and contrast the driving of cellphone using trophy wives in SUVs to that of teenage boys who are allowed to masturbate while behind the wheel of their “beaters.”

Our hypothesis is that the cell phone users will be proved to be even more dangerous behind the wheel than a teen toting his tool. More dangerous still would be the if such drivers see each other, especially if the women in question look like the cast of Desperate Housewives.

The experimental driving would be done in control situation on a course similar to ones suburban police use for drunk driving demonstrations.

Teens will be allowed one piece of stimulation (magazine on the seat, phone sex CD), but will not be allowed to use lubrication. One hand must remain on the steering wheel at all times. Michael Jackson is not to be made aware of this project under any circumstances.

Cellphone users may not use camera phones and also must keep one had on the wheel.

Tuesday, April 12, 2005

The funniest hour of free TV: American Idol

I recently read that the theater critic for the New York Times is blaming the sad state of singing on the TV show American Idol.

First, craptacular, over emotive singing can be traced at least as far back as the monster Broadway created, the creature known as Barbara Streisand. Has there ever been as cloying a performer.

Next, in the 1970s, schmaltz like Barry Manilow ruled the middle of the road airwaves and I’m sure that bled into Broadway like a bad infection.

The late 80s and 90s, the pop charts contained toxic divas such as witless Whitney Houston and moronic Mariah Carey, egotistical singers whose motto was and is “Why be subtle, when you can show off? Why sing one note, when you can stretch it out into a display of vocal prowess?”

That’s to say nothing of ham-fisted shit like the works of Andrew Lloyd Weber which are filled with hyperbolic numbers; bad attempts at rock musicals like Rent and Tommy which neither rock nor are musical; or pabulum pop stars like Elton John and Billy Joel having their music make the Great White Way.

See the young adults (hell some of ‘em are pushing 30 this year) aren’t the trendsetters. For the most part, they don’t seem bright enough for that, but are only aping back some sort of vision of what they think the public wants in a pop star.

Which is what makes the show the damn funniest thing on free TV. (It doesn’t hurt that there are some fine looking women on the show -- but that’s another story. I’m guessing they’ll all be booted anyway, because, what straight guy is going to vote on such a show, which favors teen heartthrobs)

Take tonight as an example, in which the theme for the singers was “pick a song from the year you were born” -- which is how I learned a couple of them are pushing 30.

It started off with this beautiful black woman named Natalie, apparently just out of bed in her sexy red nightie -- actually it started with some lame banter by the cloying pretty boy host Ray Seacrest but I digress.

Natalie sand some obscure Mac Davis-penned tune that Crystal Gayle once crooned. Who knew black people listened to such boring country music? But to give her credit, she took a chance on a not-so-familiar tune and sang blandly but subtly.

Which, of course, had the judges all over her for not picking better material. Except Paula Abdul, who has got to be on some sort of mood altering medication, because for the ex-Laker Girl just about everything and everybody is super-fantastic.

Next came the one of the cheesiest of the finalists, a dude named Bo, a real Velveeta-case who is billed as a “rocker.” His idea of rock, though, is one with appeal to people in their 50s. And on this night he sang one of the most hackneyed, overdone numbers, the Stairway to Heaven of Southern rock, Freebird.

I hate Freebird. If it ever did have any value, the song has been ruined by hearing in 12,347 times and hearing an equal number of morons request it, trying to be funny, at many a concert.

In other words, it was a perfect song for old Bo, who is stuck in the 70s with you, America.

Next up, was this wuss named Anwar who sang a freaking Dionne Warwick hit that Barry fucking Manilow wrote. For that alone he should be voted off the show.

Judge Randy Johnson told him he sounded great and Prozac-popping Paula just loved his way -- and he does have a nice, smooth voice.

But Simon Cowell nailed it when he called Anwar a warm blanket. The audience hates Simon. Simon has the Brit accent, so it is ok not to like him, even if his snarky comments are usually on the money -- though he is not exactly a proponent of good music either.

None none of the panelists ever seem to offer tips that will actually help make anyone a better singer.

And the audience, like Paula Abdul, is overly supportive and packed with people with homemade signs for their favorite wannabe. This is how Hollywood sees middle America, proud but tone-deaf, supporting our singers on key or off, just like our troops. Don’t mess with them. they are all superstars in our hearts. Rubes with cardboard and poster paint, being sold a lousy bill of goods.

(Ever seen Live at the Apollo? That’s cheese too, but at least the audience boos shit off the stage.)

Speaking of immigrants, next up was the Russian-born Antony, who covered a Paul Young number written by Hall from Hall and Oates. The slick duo was in the audience, dressed pretty much the same way they have for the last 30 years and with plastic surgery to preserve the look.

Antony sings in that all too eager to please way Euro-pop stars who barely know English have about them. Think ABBA, that daffy kind of brainlessness. Or Steve Martin as a wild and crazy guy.

Next up was Vonzel, an attractive black woman who sang Let’s Hear It For The Boy, from the ridiculous 80s movie Footloose -- you remember, the flick about the town in Iowa where dancing was banned -- until Kevin Bacon cut a rug and changed everybody’s mind. (Boy has Sean Penn’s brother Chris gotten fat since then.) Boy they sure used a lot of keyboard riffs in 80s music.

Then ballsy fat-ass Scott attemted a Hall and Oates song, mumbling then shouting his was through She’s Gone. If America is lucky, he gone. But we love arrogant fat guys - just not fat girls.

Carrie, the cute blonde chick followed. Carrie usually sings a purty country tune, but she tried to rock tonight -- to a Pat Benatar song, Love Is A Battlefield. Pat Benatar was a queen of overdoing it. This was her attempt at “new wave.” Carrie looked hot, like someone you would see at a karaoke bar in Tampa.

Finally, the show closed with the cheesiest of the fake fromage, the aerosol cheese product that is named Constantine. He trotted out Queen’s bombastic Bohemian Rhapsody, a song like Cheetos, that leaves a yellow stain on your hands.

Connie loves to pout, so this was his song. He was in the touring company of Rent, and his emoting never lets you forget that.

I almost wet myself laughing at this perfect finish to a celebration of mediocrity, a Wayne’s World moment, without any intended irony. Or if he did, more power to him.

Either way it was funny. Way funnier than Everybody Loves Raymond.

Tuesday, April 05, 2005

Pope mania and Illini fever

Actually, I have tonsillitis. Or so the physician’s assistant told me. But it’s the maladies around me that I can rant about. For the other, there’s omoxycillin.

The Illinois thing was fun while it lasted. To a point. Actually, five points. (Rim shot here). But seriously folks. They were a fun team to watch regardless of your opinion of the U of I, the largest Greek system in the country which by my stereotypes means it produces the highest quotient of assholes of any college campus, excluding the Ivy League, the ski-U’s of Colorado and any places founded by a right wing nut minister.

But U of I also is a place that’s given us many a scientific and technological innovation, from transistors to the Internet and numerous Nobel Prizes in between.

It’s also Hugh Hefner’s alma mater. I wonder if he wore a bath robe to class. Was he always as creepy as he seems now? Does anybody still think his shtick is or was really sexually liberating?

I wonder if Hef watched the big game from his highly chlorinated hot tub?
TV would have liked that. TV loved the Illini. What wasn’t to like?

They seemed like a nice bunch of guys, unselfish ballplayers with a flair for the dramatic. And even though they were # 1 most of the season, this being Illinois, even here deep down in our hearts we sort of felt they were overachieving underdogs.

Now the world is supposed to love a Cinderella story. But the world loves success more, which is why the street kids wear North Carolina blue not Illini orange. It’s why you see Yankee hats in Chicago or London or anywhere you go and not too many Milwaukee Brewer ones.

The Carolina win was depressing that way, because it showed Darwin’s laws at work. The deck is stacked in favor of a team like that. If you want to get the best basketball jobs you, if you have to go to college you go to a place like there as your first choice, much as a business bastard would go to Harvard.

And didn’t Cinderella, after all want a Prince Charming, to become royalty, too.

The world is filled with contradictions like that (ooh deep -- like a Chicago Tribune Pulitzer nomination, you’re saying, I’m sure).

Actually, it’s a lousy segue to this whole Pope frenzy. Now granted there are a billion Catholics in the world. But would you know it by how the place is run?

I mean, if every Catholic really did what the Pope said, this might be a peaceful yet quite sexually repressed and even more overcrowded planet.

It’s odd how beliefs seem to split themselves into patterns. Typically when you think pro-choice, pro-birth control, gay tolerant, anti-death penalty, anti-consumerism and antiwar, you think LIBERAL. Conservatives are usually the opposite on these. Duh.

So it gets confusing when you have a religious leader who is pretty much anti-sex but the marital kind and then pretty much for making babies, but who is against not only abortion, but war, pig-like consumerism and the death penalty.

Which is why I found it weird when I heard churchgoing Catholics I know telling me it was pretty much implied by their allegedly chaste priests that they should vote for George Bush. I mean W only had part of the list right, too.

But being Pope is filled with contradictions. I mean you’re supposed to be Jesus’ man on Earth, which is to say a humble if preachy sort, but you get to live like a king of kings. You get to tell people how to run their sex lives, sex being something you allegedly never tried.

You pretty much tell gay people they are on the disco floor to hell, even though there is considerable evidence a good many of your fellow priests are gay. You talk about freedom, but women can’t be leaders in your church and freedom doesn’t include a discussion of sexuality (like you don’t think Muslim terrorists are the most sexually fucked up people on the planet and that has a lot to due with their violence?).

You preach about the need to feed the hungry, clothe the naked and the dangers of livin’ large, then you get to stay in Vatican City, one of the richest places, one so over the top I’m surprised the fortress of good taste that is Las Vegas hasn’t at least thought about basing a hotel resort casino around it.

You just wish once somebody in a position like that would talk more about the yin and yang of it.

And this is not to speak ill of the dead. I’m finding some of the stories of JP II fascinating, that a man from such a background could survive what he did and rise to such heights.

But now he is beyond real. He is a superstar, mourned by the world. That, too, is fascinating, how events take on lives of their own, especially in the media age. And I don’t mean this glibly, but there’s a good chance if the Pope didn’t die when he did, there would almost have been as much attention on the the wedding of Prince Charles and Camilla Parker Bowel Movement.

It’s like the end of the Great Gatsby, the line about ceaselessly rowing our boats into the past.

No one reads anymore, anyway, just what suits them.