Geeze, even I can't go 'there'...

Since my partner's blogstalker intrigued me enough that I read her blog, as well as visiting all of the right-wing links to other blogs listed--her views, and those of her friends make John Birch look like Jesse Jackson-- I read something that shocked, saddened and sickened me.

I dare say that I actually agree with what I read on one of the blogs.

Director Gabriel Ranges' new film, "The Death of a President," recently premiered at the Toronto Film Festival.

No, this is not another documentary about the assassination of JFK. This is a "mockumentary," that explores the sick notion of, "What if President Bush was assassinated?"

It's a 90-minute film, meant to look like a factual documentary, and it's opening scenes include a crude scene of a supposed Bush (the production team has digitally superimposed President Bush's real face onto the actor playing him) being gunned down, after making a speech and walking through a huge Anti-War protest. British television is going to air the film.

As a supporter of free speech, and as someone who believes in the right to artistic expression--no matter if I agree with the expression, or even like it for that matter--I find this one of the most offensive and potentially dangerous films made recently.

Mel Gibson's S&M tribute to the crucifixion of Christ sickened me, and I refused to see it because of its Anti-Semitic overtones and it's glorification of gore, period. No doubt that the crucifixion was as gruesome as one can imagine, but it felt--to me--that Gibson reveled in the gore, almost to a point of enjoying it a bit too much. And I just cannot stomach Mel Gibson, period. I feel he is a pompous, hate-filled bigot, period. You can see the anger in his eyes.

Gibson is the pin-up-boy for the right-wing fundies, and well he should be. He pontificates about being so righteous and pious, such a strict Catholic, etc., but when he thinks nobody is looking, he gets tanked up, and starts spouting his real feelings about Jews. Many times, alcohol is a truth serum for some. It loosens one up enough to let their "Id" out.

Thus why I now refer to Mel as "Id Gibson."

Anyway, his own right-wing, Opus-Dei, fantasy did not appeal to me, however he had every right to produce the film, and many were moved by it. I decided not to pay good money to see that. I think it's telling that he chose to focus on every bloody aspect of Christ's gruesome death, but does not spend anytime showing Christ's victory over death, His resurrection, and His promise to those who believe. Very telling on behalf of "Id Gibson," if you ask me.

With that said, I feel totally different about "Death of a President," even though I completely loathe the current policies of the Bush Administration, across the board.

I can't even bear to look at Bush, or even hear his "Manchurian Candidate-like" speeches. His cronies, as well, sicken me.

Would I like to see him Impeached? Oh yeah! But do I wish for his murder? Never.

"Death of a President" could prove to be a very sick and dangerous film, period. Whether you identify as Liberal, Conservative, Republican, Democrat, Libertarian, etc., you should know that such a film is beyond bad taste.

Though possibly covered under "Freedom of Speech," I am wondering about legal action at the Federal level, if this director actually gets an American film distributor to show the film in the U.S.?

I would think this might fall under the guidelines of making threats on the life of the President. One can only imagine how this would affect Mrs. Bush, their children, the Bush family. But think about what this film might mean to the whack-jobs out there, who might actually be obsessing about doing the same thing?

Look, we all have the Zapruder Film if we want to view a real president's murder, and that's bad enough.

Again, I am no fan of this administration, and I am pretty fed up with the Democratic party as well, but there is no excuse for such a careless and potentially life-threatening film like this.

Read the details for yourself:
http://www.iht.com/articles/2006/09/01/news/shot.php

The filmmaker has a right to make the film, but it's should have stayed as a "What If?" question.

In this volatile political season, this is not something we need, period. I'm going to write to the British TV channel, who is going to air the film, and respectfully ask them to rethink that decision.

If you feel the same way, I encourage you to do the same.

Mean Glee

Recently, I read a column by one of my favorite writers and personalities, Dominick Dunne. In his August 2006 Vanity Fair column, he was describing his long history of attending The Cannes Film Festival, as well as the highlights and lowlights of Cannes 2006.

As much as I really don't care about the cult of celebrity that surrounds Cannes, I do like Dunne's take on things.

He was describing the visceration of Sofia Coppola's film, Marie Antoinette, by critics. Here's his quote:

"Someone described the savage critics...as a bunch of jet-lagged, hung-over shi*s. The mean glee flying around Cannes was so distasteful that it almost spoiled the festival for me."

Mean Glee. What a great term.

Though the world of blogging is not as sophisticated an affair as Cannes, I sometimes feel the same way.

The mean glee that sometimes flies around Blogger is so distasteful, it almost spoils the festival for me, also.

My partner has a blogstalker, who continues to obsessively view her blog--up to 10 times per day--and now this person has posted, specifically about my partner, on her own blog.

Usually, I let my partner fight her own battles and I do not get involved, but I found it oddly amusing that someone that my partner doesn't even know is so enamored and obsessed with my partner's thoughts on religion and the fact that she's a lesbian.

My partner will not engage this woman. However, maybe it's time for her to experience a little "mean glee" herself? I care not if she sees this post, nor her response to it.

She's obsessed so much that she posted parts of my partner's blog on her blog. First of all, from a copyright point of view, unless this troll gets permission, she isn't allowed to post material from another person's blog, if it is copyrighted. I could be wrong, but that's what I understand.

Secondly, as I read the blog, I had to really laugh. If apply her "mean glee," then, just from reading this woman's blog, profile, and previous posts, it's easy to see--at least to me and anyone else that has an IQ over 30-- that she could very well be a sexually frustrated woman who has channeled her frustration into hate of those that are free to express themselves and are living a life of personal truth.

Hmm, let's see. She's married, a stay-at-home-mother to three children with Autism, and is attempting a Weight Watchers comeback. "Mean Glee" dictates that she must be a fat housewife, trapped and frustrated. Autism is not an easy disorder to live with, or to watch in any child. I mean one child with Autism would be daunting enough, but three?

I think I might have stopped pro-creating after the second one, ya know? "Mean Glee" dictates that, obviously, there were some bad chromosomes coming down the DNA pike. From this woman's angry demeanor, and from the time she devotes to obsessively read my partner's blog, I'm wondering if she just leaves those kids in a locked room all day. Who has time to come back to view a blog over and over and over and over, every day?

However, maybe the Autism is borne out of a frustration with mommy? "Mean Glee" dictates that I might beat my head against a wall, repeatedly, if I had this woman for a mother.

Even weirder, is her obsession with Fritz Lang. Specifically, I found it interesting that she is enamored of the Lang character, Mabuse. Mabuse is a character created by and based on the novels of Norbert Jacques. He's a master of disguise, and his main goal is total anarchy against the state through perpetrating crimes such as Counterfeiting.

Interesting. The French meaning of "M'abuse" is to "abuse one's self." This woman is an analyst's dream patient!

From the research I conducted in college, when I wrote a paper on Fritz Lang, the character of Mabuse is one that is a master of disguise--a master of disguise that is clearly mentally ill. I believe in one of the films-- the Testament of Mabuse--he is seen in a mental institution, endlessly writing, while the director of the asylum conducts some seminar on split personalities.

Isn't the unconscious mind something? I mean, I wonder if this woman really realized the implications of selecting Mabuse as her personality icon for the blog? I mean, it would be like someone picking Charles Manson as their icon, because they liked "Helter Skelter" author, Vincent Bugliosi.

Personally, I enjoyed Lang's "M", but I don't think I'd use Peter Lorre's picture on my blog, with the character name, "Hans Beckert" as my nom de plume. It says a lot about the psyche.

Also, I read scads about Lang being approached by Josef Goebbels about a job within the Nazi party, as a filmmaker. I have no idea as to the validity of those claims, but oddly Lang made the Nazis quite uncomfortable with the political undertones of the Mabuse films.

This woman just posted about something related the Nazis. It was another odd post.

Given all of the above, it paints a really interesting picture of this woman and her need to ridicule others with whom she does not agree, concerning religion, church, God.

She is very skilled in "mean glee." How sad for her. I mean, as I did spend a few minutes of my precious time scanning over her drivel, she seems obsessed with visiting the blogs of those who happen to be lesbian, especially lesbian and Christian.

Hmmm...

I'm all for differing points of view, but this woman is going out of her way to try to get a rise out of my partner, or others she's gone after. It's not enough that she has to post Ann Coulter-ish attacks, concerning my partner's blog, but then she has to obsess about whether my partner is going to respond to her crap.

This is better than Must See TV!!! What a weirdo.

And even funnier is how she really thinks she's Ann Coulter. She tries really hard to have the edge, the uber"mean glee" of Coulter, but she doesn't come close. I don't agree with Ann Coulter, however I think she's incredibly intelligent and she often uses that intelligence to get a rise out of all Liberals.

Half the time, I think it's an act. She can be vile, but she's elevated it to an art form. This woman doesn't come close.

After a mere glance at her blogposts and profile, even a mail-order, diploma holding Psych grad could figure this one out.

The last step, before truly coming out of the closet, usually includes a lot of anger and vitriol toward gays and lesbians, along with an increase in rigid religious beliefs. If her posts are any indication, I'd say she's very closeted and frustrated about it.

Maybe a little "mean glee" is needed to get rid of blogstalkers, like this one. At the same time, I suppose I should have some compassion for a woman who is so lonely and angry, she has to stay online all day and obsess about those she knows nothing about.

Very odd woman indeed. Oh, I do hope she sees this and brings her minions here. I need the site traffic!!!

ATTICA! ATTICA!

I realize that we are living in precarious and paranoid times, post 9/11.

If one looks hard enough, a gunman can be found in the most innocent of grassy knolls. Nothing brought this notion home to me more than my experience last week.

Currently, I am freelancing with a couple of a trade magazines and I had double deadlines last week.

This is for a trade journal that deals with gasoline companies and convenience stores, so I went back to the folks I interviewed and asked permission to take pictures of the outside facade of the gas stations.

Not a problem with the owner/managers. However, for the first picture, I was trying to get a picture of the gas station, along with the traffic coming off of the Interstate, next to the station.

To do that, I had to cross the street and stand at the corner of the Wachovia bank branch. It's on an elevated piece of sidewalk, in front of the bank parking lot. I'm 5'2, so the pre-made perch was perfect.

I snapped a few pictures of the BP, with my back facing the bank, and decided to get a different angle, so I moved to the McDonald's across the street (parallel with the Wachovia).

A few minutes into my picture taking, a cop car pulls up, with lights flashing.

He stops, rolls down the window and asks, "What are you DOING?"

Correct me if I am wrong, but when did it start to be against the law to take photographs in public areas? Maybe it is and I don't know it and maybe post 9/11 it really is not okay to do that anymore.

"I'm taking pictures of the BP station, right over there," I said, as I pointed to the BP station. He says, "Why?"

I reply, "Well, not that it matters, but I'm a freelance writer for a trade journal, and I am taking some pictures of gas stations...I interviewed the owner of that one, last week. He gave me permission to take pictures."

So he says, "Someone from Wachovia called and said you were taking pictures of the bank."

"No sir. I am not taking pictures of the bank," I reply.

"Can I see your credentials?" he says.

"Okay, I'm parked at the McDonalds up there, if you want to follow me, but I am not taking pictures of the Wachovia. I stood on that ledge, right there (pointing to it), because I'm 5'2, in order to get a good view of the BP and the traffic."

"First of all, you can cut the attitude," he says.

Oooh, consider whatever attitude cut, Mr. Jerkycop, as I picture myself in a cell with Big Betty.

"But they said you were taking pictures of the bank," he continues. Not that I wanted to, but because I feared this guy was really ready to haul me in, I offered a solution.

"Officer, this is a digital camera, and you can review any recent pictures taken. I'd be more than happy to show you what I took."

I push the review button, and show him all of the pictures of my cats, my plants outside on the back deck, and the pictures of the BP station. Hell yes. If he was going to force me to forego my personal rights, then he was going to see every boring picture on my camera.

"See? No bank pictures."

His own attitude changes from defensive to apologetic. "Ma'am sorry about that. I think, these days, people get nervous."

I told him I understood, but that I had no idea how anyone would think I was taking pictures of the bank, when my backside was to the bank, and I was not on their property.

I was so angry after that exchange, that I wanted to march into the Wachovia and find the twit that called the cops on me without even sending a representative out to ask me what I was doing. I wasn't on their property at all, either.

But I decided to calm down a bit, finish my deadline, and then go over to that Wachovia and talk with the manager. I understand that people are nervous these days, but instead of making up stories about what I was doing, someone could have just come out there and asked me, don't you think?

Last time I checked I didn't look like Osama.

In fairness, this is a highly conservative area, and I was wearing my tye dye T-shirt, shorts, loafers and my hair is long and in that "won't do anything" stage, so maybe the person watching me thought I was some threat to the bank. Maybe this person was creative enough to think I had a camera hidden in my buttocks, a la 'Get Smart.' My front side was certainly was facing toward the BP, as was my camera, not toward the bank.

I called that Wachovia branch, and I spoke with the manager. She feigned ignorance (imagine that?) and that she didn't know what I was talking about. But, oddly enough, after saying that she says the following:

"But what were you doing on MY property, anyway?"

Hmm...

I reply, "That's an odd question coming from someone who claims she knows nothing about the incident, yesterday."

She stuttered and stammered, which sort of clinched it for me.

I don't know if it's even worth pursuing with Wachovia, or if it even warrants any follow-up.

I have never been singled out, for whatever biased reasons, for questioning by police over a very innocent act. This gave me a very small view into what it must be like for minorities in this country. I felt that same sense of dread and fear that so many others have experienced just for the color of their skin, or whatever stereotype that caused someone to fabricate details of an innocent act. There was obviously something that made someone say, "she's a terrorist! she's a bank-robber!"

It made me think of how many African Americans are still routinely pulled over by a jerk cop, for no good reason other than the color of his skin.

You know you are innocent, but the police officer is already biased against you for whatever reason. It's a scary feeling. I felt myself trying to prove that I was really innocent, as if I was guilty. I wasn't.

Yes, for the most part, I appreciate police officers. For a salary that is usually below average, police officers put their lives on the line every day. But for every honest cop, there are egomaniacs who get off on intimidating others, just because they feel that they can.

Somethn' just ain't right...

It's all over the news.

Some schlub has admitted to murdering JonBenet Ramsey.

Though part of me wants to finally take a sigh of relief over a conclusion to yet another collective nightmare--having your own child brutalized and murdered in your own home, has to be one of the worst things that any parent would be forced to live through--something just doesn't feel right about this arrest, to me.

Maybe I will be proven wrong, and this is the guy that really killed that little girl, but his arrest and confession sure seems calculated to me. As well, I find the timing of this revelation quite suspect too.

Do you think it's just a coincidence that only after Patsy Ramsey dies, suddenly there is this monumental break in a story that seemed to have no real ending?

Maybe it is. Maybe I'm too wrapped up in finding a 'gunman in the grassy knoll', but this seems to be all too neat, post-Patsy's death.

About a year or so ago, my partner and I watched a CBS 48 Hours special about the murder of JonBenet, and I do recall that a private investigator, who took on this case pro-bono, to satisfy his own curiosity, revealed that there was a footprint found inside the house, and outside the window (I am not sure on this, but this is what I vaguely remember) also.

Here is a link from People magazine, about the 48 Hours special:

http://people.aol.com/people/article/0,26334,1008739,00.html

Here's a better, more indepth look at the show:

http://cbs2chicago.com/topstories/topstories_story_352213930.html

Michael Tracey is the college professor to whom the alleged killer wrote and confided. But in the 48 hours special, he alluded to several possible suspects.

This guy traced the footprint to some day laborer, who had worked at the Ramsey home previously. I don't remember what the story said, but somehow he was connected to another person of interest in the case.

A pair of boots was found in this guy's house that matched the footprint found inside/outside the Ramsey home. Unfortunately, and strangely, the man killed himself before police could really delve into this.

So, now all of a sudden, two months after Patsy's death, a confession comes from some creepy looking guy, who moved to Thailand.

He confesses that he was "in love" with JonBenet, because she was a little beauty queen, etc., and it was a botched kidnapping. He didn't 'mean' to kill her.

In my heart, I truly hope that this is the guy that did it so both Patsy and JonBenet can finally rest in true peace.

But I sure hope we all find out just how this person knew exactly how much John Ramsey's company bonus was for 1996, in order to write a ransom note--a note that was written in what looks like Patsy Ramsey's handwriting.

As well, what about the writing tablet that was found, with a practice ransom note? I guess we need two things to really confirm this is the guy: DNA testing, and confirmation that he was either living in Boulder, CO, in 1996, or records that he was even in town--airline records, phone records, etc.--during the time of her murder.

I haven't read that much on all of the theories surrounding this case, but I do remember reading about John Ramsey's company Access Graphics being bought out by Lockheed Martin. Allegedly, from some of the information I read, Lockheed Martin has been involved with some pretty weird, underworld things.

And I do recall that there was some allegation that kiddie porn was found on Access Graphics computers.

I don't know. The fact that this little girl was dolled up to look like some come-hither 20-year-old is just plain creepy to me in general.

All of these things just make me a little too unsure of this big arrest. It all seems so orchestrated and timed perfectly, two months after Patsy Ramsey dies.

My hope is that this is the guy that truly did it, and we'll find out how he did it, why he did it, how he knew the Ramseys, etc.

Think about it though. The alleged murderer spent a lot of time in the US, after the killing of Jon Benet, and even started writing a book about it all. How could it take this guy going to Bangkok, living within the porn district there, for our police system to suddenly know that this is their guy?

I want to feel relief that the mystery is finally solved, and that we can all move on from the nightmare, but in the pit of my stomach, I think something is wrong.

It's like my grandmother from South Georgia used to say, "Somethin' just ain't right" about this whole thing.

I'd love to hear any comments about your theories, or if you think this is truly the end of this story.

Elvis

Go around the world and even in the most remote parts, say the name, "Elvis."

The reaction is usually the same. They'll repeat his name a few times, especially if you are wearing a T-shirt with E's picture on it. Then, they smile.

Maybe missionaries who wanted to spread the 'Good Word' to every corner of the world, should have used Elvis as their ambassador.

It was 29 years ago today that I was a 12-year-old kid, sitting with my next door neighbors, Larry and Nita McCrary, holding one of Larry's various Gibson electric guitars. The particular one I was holding was one of those old, big bodied jobs.

I don't know the make or model, but it looked like the one Elvis used in the '68 Comeback special.

Put it to you this way: It was bigger and taller than me.

My little hands and short arms tried desperately to wrap around the big, electric twang box, because I was determined to learn "Heartbreak Hotel."

Larry played in a Country Western band on the weekends, and he had a plethora (love that word) of gee-tars, including a steel guitar, a couple of Fender Strats, a Telecaster and those few Gibsons.

Two years earlier, I begged my mother for guitar lessons. She finally relented, and I was one of the youngest pickers at Bert's Guitar Shop on Memorial Drive in Stone Mountain. Bert built and customized guitars for a bunch of folks that I didn't even know, at that time.

I actually met members of the Dixie Dregs and various musicians that played for local and national bands like Marshall Tucker, etc. It meant nothing to me, at the time, because I didn't listen to them.

My musical tastes, in 1977, consisted of Barry Manilow, Bee Gees, Andy Gibb, Sean Cassidy, and whatever else was playing on mainstream radio....ick, it makes me cringe just thinking about it.

I digress.

Larry would allow me to come over to his house, hold his guitars, play them, because I always treated those instruments--and Larry--with respect.

My first taste of Elvis came through my dad. In many ways, my dad's upbringing mirrored Elvis. Both country boys--my dad was born and raised in Metter, GA--who came from very humble beginnings, both with dominant mothers, passive fathers, and a destiny to get out of the small town and onto bigger things.

Dad had the Elvis Aloha from Hawaii soundtrack, Elvis Gold Records volume 3, as well as a copy of the album, Burning Love. I had listened to them, with my dad, a few times and I had listened to Elvis, as I rode along with my dad on Saturday afternoon errand runs.

But it wasn't until I was 12 and in the 7th grade that I truly wanted to know who this Elvis guy really was.

Larry had been telling me about Elvis, and he'd been playing a version of Heartbreak Hotel that I really wanted to master. I had not heard the original, but the way Larry was playing the tune, it sounded really great.

On this day--August 16, 1977--Larry and his wife were telling me all about who Elvis was and how big he was, when they were kids.

What happened next I will never forget as long as I live. Larry was playing an old Elvis album, and I was hearing Don't Be Cruel for the first time. As well, I was showing them that I figured out "Marie's the Name of His Latest Flame" on the guitar, because it used the easy G chord and the E minor chord.

Through the oral history that Larry and Nita shared with me, I was sensing that Elvis was something big, and rightly so.

I promise what happened next is not some James Frey fabrication. This truly happened.

We were talking about Elvis, and I remember looking at Larry and saying, "Wow, I bet people will freak out whenever he dies," and Larry said, "He's still pretty young, so hopefully we won't have to worry about that for a while."

At 12, someone in their 40's is pretty old.

All of a sudden, I heard my brother outside the McCrary's living room window--which was open--yelling for me.

Angrily, I went to the window. See, my older brother had a way of always being in my business, or listening to my conversations, so he could run and get me in trouble over anything. I thought this was one of those times.

He said, 'Elvis is dead.' I said, "David, shut up and go home. You've been standing out there listening haven't you?"

He said, "No, I'm serious. Elvis just died. They said it on the news." I looked at him, sort of shocked, and I came back and said, "Larry, my brother just said Elvis died."

Larry said, "Are you sure he's not just pulling your leg?" And I said, "No, he said it was on the news."

Me, Larry and Nita turned on the TV, and there it was scrawling across the bottom of the screen. "Elvis Presley Dead at 42."

We were all stunned, and even more stunned that we had been sitting, minutes before, playing his music, talking all about Elvis, and I made the comment about his death.

All I could do is go home.

I sat glued to the TV for information, and as word spread, I really got the sense that this man was something big in America, and had made an impression on people of very age.

I can remember talking about it at church, in my youth group, and our youth leader getting upset. He told us, "The only king is Jesus." That made absolutely no sense to me.

My big memory was watching this special on Elvis, hosted by Charles Kuralt, that was hastily put together right after his death. I learned all about Elvis's youth, his Vegas years, the Comeback, Priscilla, Lisa Marie.

I felt the same sense of loss that others seemed to feel, but I was just truly getting to know who Elvis was and his impact on our culture. I just remember sobbing, after that show. As usual, my dad didn't understand. "Why is she crying?" he said to my mom.

In one of my mother's rare nurturing moments, she held me and let me cry. I truly can't tell you why it moved me so much, because I hardly knew who he was. But I sensed that someone great had gone, and I sensed it was a sad death.

Watching the news footage of those white limousines and the throngs of fans in Memphis never left me.

When school started that year, we were asked to do a book report. I decided to read the only book that had come out, at that time, about Elvis. "Elvis What Happened?" Yeah, great fare for a 12-year-old to read, but I hardly comprehended the whole thing. What I looked forward to was giving the book report.

We had to give oral book reports. I already knew what I would do to get an A. I often tell my mother, "Like you didn't know I was an 'outdoor-sy girl', then?" when we talk about how I became Elvis for the book report.

See, I wasn't one of those girls that fell in love with Elvis and fantasized about being his date, or lover. Nope. I wanted TO BE Elvis. He was the coolest, and I knew it. I wanted to dress like him, I wanted my hair like his. I wanted to sing like him, move like him, maybe be his little sister, but not his girlfriend.

That's what I did. I slicked my hair into a makeshift Ducktail, wore my brother's old tuxedo jacket, a white ruffled shirt from my mom, black pants, and my mother's white 'Go-Go' boots (I kid you not).

The fact that I did not get beat up, or shunned is a miracle.

I slung my guitar over my neck, and I was ready to be 'Elvis.' When I got up to give my book report, I did my best Elvis impersonation, trying to stammer and slur my words like he did, while I described the book, etc.

Then, I tried my best to sing Heartbreak Hotel, as I had finally learned the dreaded F chord. I re-created every move I had seen Elvis make in that CBS special, and I do remember I really got into character.

Looking back, it must have taken my teacher a lot of effort not to laugh, but I know she appreciated the creativity. When I finished, the whole class clapped, I received an A, and I was asked to recreate this for three other classes. Looking back, was that good or bad?

Of course, when you are that young and innocent, you don't understand when older kids call you 'gay.' I had no idea what 'gay' meant. But here I was in my first drag show!!!!

The thing was this. It was innocent, and I truly adored the Elvis I had gotten to know far too late. Those growing up in the early 60's can remember exactly what they were doing when JFK was shot, when MLK and RFK were shot.

For my generation, it was Elvis' death that is remembered with such clarity. Over the years, my love and understanding of who he was has only grown. I truly think he was much too sensitive for this world, and after all I have read about him, what comes across to me is that he was a very sensitive, lonely, man with a great gift he had been given.

Psychologically? Yeah, no doubt he was pretty messed up. A little too close to 'mama' for my comfort, and toward his tragic end, from all accounts it was pretty pathetic. His interpersonal relationships with women were at bit, well, odd. He sure had a temper, and I'd have to say that he may have flirted with being manic depressive.

What was great was his sense of humor. If you watch some of the concert footage, rehearsal footage from "Elvis That's the Way It Is," or if you listen to some recordings taken from concerts, he had a tremendous sense of humor that was really deep and off-the-wall. And what can you say that hasn't been said about the man's voice?

He also had one of the best concert bands in history. James Lee Burton, Ronnie Tutt, etc. Need I say more?

At the same time, I so identify with his wanting to give as much as he could to others, never worrying about what he got in return.

Think of all of the "Elvis just handed me the keys to a Caddy," lines from some blue-collar or down-on-their luck person, to whom Elvis just happened to interact. He gave so much to so many, most of them he did not know.

Look at pictures of him and focus on his eyes, but more than that look at his hands. Long, sensitive and expressive hands. It says a lot about the guy.

He truly believed in respecting your elders, and his loyalty was admirable, but many times misplaced. Colonel Tom had way too much control of Elvis, but being the good southern boy that he was, he could never stand up to him.

I've read, recently, that maybe the reason he didn't stand up to him has to do with dirt Colonel Tom had on his boy, Elvis. Maybe so. I have no idea about that.

But as you can see from his last concert ever televised, this was a very tired man, with substance abuse problems, who sought to numb himself out from the pain of losing his mother, the pain of being lonely, the pain of fame, and the fame of being trapped as 'Elvis.'

Don't get me wrong. I have made several jokes about Elvis, and after I gained weight, I kept telling my partner, "God, I hope you don't find me on the crapper like Elvis." I also am amazed and love the whole kitsch thing that surrounds Elvis. It's amazing to watch. Most of his films were laughable, but there were a few gems. To me, King Creole is the best. Check it out, when it shows upon AMC or TCM soon.

Yes, I admit--and I am proud of it--that I have a framed Velvet Elvis hanging in the guest bedroom that we have dubbed "The Dead Celebrity Room."

I often do a 'What If' when I thinking about Elvis.

What if Elvis had actually gotten off the drugs at a Betty Ford Center?

What if Elvis began psychotherapy, with a qualified therapist?

What if Elvis became the spokesperson for Jenny Craig?

What if Elvis did Infomercials?

What if Elvis ended up on Regis and Kelly show?

What if Elvis had told the Colonel goodbye, and taken charge of his own career?

Hell, maybe Elvis would have played JR on "Dallas," played the Kris Kristofferson role in Star is Born, or made cameo appearances in some big films.

It's a game I often play, when I'm feeling creative or silly. It's because I miss the guy, and I wish I had been able to know him on a personal level, away from 'Elvis the Image.'

Of course, there are many who say he isn't dead. I love a good mystery, and it would be so choice if he did show up, next year, in Memphis on the big 30th Anniversary.

Hey, wait, I think I saw him at the DQ, downin' a Dilly Bar. I swear!

Black Velvet
Alannah Myles

Mississippi in the middle of a dry spell
Jimmy Rogers on the Victrola up high
Mama's dancin' with baby on her shoulder
The sun is settin' like molasses in the sky
The boy could sing, knew how to move, everything
Always wanting more, he'd leave you longing for

Chorus:
Black velvet and that little boy's smile
Black velvet with that slow southern style
A new religion that'll bring ya to your knees
Black velvet if you please

Up in Memphis the music's like a heatwave
White lightening, bound to drive you wild
Mama's baby's in the heart of every school girl
"Love me tender" leaves 'em cryin' in the aisle
The way he moved, it was a sin, so sweet and true
Always wanting more, he'd leave you longing for

chorus

Every word of every song that he sang was for you
In a flash he was gone, it happened so soon, what could
you do?

(Solo)

chorus repeats 2x

If you please, if you please, if you please

We sure could use a little good news

I admit that in a lot of ways, I'm very jaded and cynical about the world we live in. I, along with millions of other sane people, lost a lot of hope when George Bush stole the 2000 and 2004 elections.

As many credible authors such as Vicnent Bugliosi and Alan Dershowitz, along with dozens of others including Greg Palast have noted, the Supreme Court gave Georgie his crown in 2000. Al Gore should have been president, and if he had been president, I'm wondering whether there would be such inane slaughter in Iraq, or whether America would be the laughing-stock that it is within the world community.

And never have the words, "Hey children what's that sound, everybody look what's goin' down," meant more to me than when the stealing of Ohio votes in 2004 to place, in order for King Georgie to keep his throne.

And it's not that most of us who bother to read alternative sources for our news, instead of the pabulum that spews from the corporate owned newspapers and TV networks, don't know this happened. We all do. It's that no major news outlet will even attempt to make the assertions and back them up with the cold, hard facts that statesmen like Rep. John Conyers (D--Michigan) have already done.

Again, I tip my hat to Gore Vidal and reporter, David Barsamian from The Progressive for such an insightful article concerning the real 'state of the union.' Here is another brilliant quote from Vidal:

"Conyers is the ranking Democrat on the Judiciary Committee, and he went up there with a bunch of researchers. They went from district to district, and they found out how the election was stolen. He wrote a report that was published by a small press in Chicago. To help out, I said I’d write a preface for him on how the election was stolen. We were thinking that might help. But The New York Times and The Washington Post were not going to review the book about how we had a second presidential election stolen. They weren’t going to admit it."

If that is not depressing enough, think of all of the innocent Iraqi citizens who are being blown away in the name of 'democracy;' Think of how we basically took a stick to the hornet's nest of different religious/political factions and sects within the Muslim country. With our usual hubris, we pronounced "mission accomplished" way before troops even stayed a week in Baghdad.

The only mission we accomplished was getting rid of Sadaam Hussein, however we all know that there are no WMDs, and that Hussein was nothing more than a saber rattler. Yes, he was a brutal dictator, and the mass graves that are being uncovered prove it. I don't disagree that he was a tyrant, along with is brain damaged sons, but don't you think it's awfully interesting that this administration picks and chooses what vile dictator needs to be overthrown?

There are several brutal dictators in power as we speak, across the globe, with atrocities far greater than those perpetrated by Hussein. We all know deep down, why King Georgie picked Iraq. And I'm sure the owners of Haliburton thank him so much for his true 'bravery' in standing up against 'tarr-er-ists.'

So, the body bags pile up on each side. There is no end in sight, and most high-level officials are saying that it will probably take about 6-10 years to reasonably end this conflict. As much as I believe we should have never been there in the first place, it is too late to just 'pull out' of Iraq. The damage is already done. King Georgie has seen to that. We leave now, and the instability will cause tsunami-like waves of instability throughout the whole region.

We are feeling the first waves with Iraq and the Israel/Lebanon conflict, and if King Georgie has his way, we'll just hop, skip and jump over to Iran, also. Don't even start with me, concerning writing about the current economy, including how our debt has far exceeded the surplus that Bill Clinton left us when he vacated the White House. If we are not careful, we might all be tattooed with "Made in China" in the near future.

Add to that, what we are finding out about how the US doesn't feel the need to abide by Geneva Convention rules at all. Not at Gitmo, or in Abu Grahib, nor anywhere, really. Now, we've even recruited members of the APA, for psychological torture and interrogation.

What this means, domestically, is that bit by bit our rights are being stripped. There is nothing patriotic about the Patriot Act I and II. Right now, if martial law was enacted, or for whatever trumped up reason this government could have after tapping into your phone lines, federal agents could come take you in the middle of the night, with no warrant, and could hold you indefinitely. Ask Jose Padilla.

If the things I write don't upset you, or make you think about another time in history, maybe you are too numbed out on American Idol or Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes sightings to realize what is happening.

Without sounding like a whacked out survivalist, I do believe that we are headed down a scary path within this country, period. If there is another 9/11 incident, don't be surprised if martial law is enacted. Also, don't be surprised if many of us that are considered subversives, for simply reading 'Mother Jones' magazine, voting as a Democrat, or attending a rally in support of Cindy Sheehan, end up in American Gulags/concentration camps.

If you think it could never happen here, think again. Take a look at the following article:

http://www.rutherford.org/articles_db/commentary.asp?record_id=400

If I have to wake up to one more day of seeing innocent Lebanese and Israeli children killed or maimed, or one more young man or woman from our own armed forces blown away, I feel I might puke. When I start to think about what a mess 'the monkeys' have gotten is into at this point, it's enough to make me roll up into a fetal ball.

I keep telling my partner that soon she will have to unroll me out of the fetal ball every morning.

With that said, I'd like to post the lyrics to a great Anne Murray tune that I remember from 1984. What's so interesting and ironic is that in 1984, we were all talking about the fighting in Lebanon.

I remembered this song, and it is so fitting today, not only about war, but the price of gasoline, the bleak economy. I wrote an email to Ms. Murray, asking her to re-record this song, with updated lyric references. The song is called, "A Little Good News Today."

Read the lyrics. Powerful.

A Little Good News
Anne Murray
Written by Charles Black, Rory Bourke, and Thomas Rocco

Peaked at # 74 on the Pop chart in 1983 while hitting #1 on the Country chart

I rolled out this morning
Kids had the mornin' news show on
Bryant Gumbel was talkin' 'bout the fighting in Lebanon
Some senator was squawkin' 'bout the bad economy
It's gonna get worse you see, we need a change in policy

There's a local paper rolled up in a rubber band
One more sad story's one more than I can stand
Just once how I'd like to see the headline say
"Not much to print today, can't find nothin' bad to say", because

Nobody robbed a liquor store on the lower part of town
Nobody OD'ed, nobody burned a single buildin' down
Nobody fired a shot in anger, nobody had to die in vain
We sure could use a little good news today

I'll come home this evenin'
I'll bet that the news will be the same
Somebody takes a hostage, somebody steals a plane
How I wanna hear the anchor man talk about a county fair
And how we cleaned up the air, how everybody learned to care
Whoa, tell me

Nobody was assassinated in the whole Third World today
And in the streets of Ireland, all the children had to do was play
And everybody loves everybody in the good old USA
We sure could use a little good news today

Nobody robbed a liquor store on the lower part of town
Nobody OD'ed, nobody burned a single buildin' down
FADE
Nobody fired a shot in anger, nobody had to die in vain
We sure could use a little good news today

Also, read the lyrics from my buddy, singer/songwriter, Martha Ann Brooks. She's a semi-local writer, but I'm telling you she's got real talent. I feel she is on the cusp of being one of our more relevant and powerful singer/songwriters. She can warble a hardscrabble blues tune like you wouldn't believe, and then turn around and write/sing a poignant song about our men and women in the military that can really make you think.

It makes me think of Cindi and Patti, two women on a Web group we belong to. As soon as Cindi and Patti make a commitment to be together as partners, Patti was called to duty in Iraq. She returned with a severe case of PostTraumatic Stress Disorder. To top it all off, Hurricane Katrina destroyed their home. Now, our lovely government won't pay for Patti's much needed therapy. She's a veteran of this nutty war, and she served her country well. I am so reminded of Patti, when I listen to Martha Ann's song.

Martha Ann is really great, so I will frequently tout her here in any way I can. Check out her cool Web site, and if you are in the Chattanooga, TN/North Georgia area, look for her. You will not be disappointed.

Check out the song by Martha Ann. It's been voted as a top song about the war on Neil Young's Web site. I think that's awesome.

This will make you think and it will make you want to thank all of our soldiers in active duty and those who are veterans:

When Your Soldier Comes Back Home
© 2005 Martha Ann Brooks BMI


When your soldier comes back home
You will be happy
You want things to be like they were before
But your soldier has been forged through trial by fire
After all he lived through war
Be patient when you see he’s not the same
Your soldier’s changed

When your soldier comes back home
He will be different
He’ll think about those that gave their lives
He might be feelin guilty that he’s living
He will keep that guilt inside
It may show sometimes in things he’ll say and do
Please help him through

Chorus:

War is never over
For the ones who fought side by side
They are bruised and battered
The deepest wounds don’t show outside

You may think that time will heal
There is no healing
The days are like sandbags around him
But ghosts will not be held back by a wall
Bad memories always win
If you love him you must be the one who stays
You must be strong
When your soldier comes back home

Chorus:

War is never over
For the ones who fought side by side
They are bruised and battered
The deepest wounds don’t show outside


© 2005 Martha Ann Brooks BMI Published by Brux Music

The meaning of the title...

Okay, maybe this should be my second post.

What in the hell does it mean? Well for the one person viewing my blog, I guess I should explain the deep title.

When I was a kid, no amount of cajoling, threatening of bodily harm, or pragmatic discussion would get me to actually get up off my ass and do my assigned chores around the house. Let's face it: I was a spoiled rotten, upper-middle-class kid. Well, that was part of it. The other part was the fact that dear ole' mumsy was a complete control freak, but that's another story for another post.

Therefore, my mother resorted to bribery and started paying me five dollars per week, if I would just empty trash cans and vacuum. In the 70's, that type of money was akin to being 'in' with Jimmy Hoffa, or at least pretending that you had information on where he disappeared to and why.

I must have been around 9 or 10, because I do believe that it was the same year that I told the pasty-faced, nasal voiced girl that lived next door that I knew for a fact that the "Black Panthers" were living in her basement.

Once I convincingly told her that I knew that these badass black dudes were indeed hiding out in her basement, she began to cry but she did go home. That was my intent. However, little did I know that hours later, her mother would appear at our door and summon my mother outside, so I couldn't hear the conversation.

However, I cracked the door and all I heard was my mother saying, "What? I don't know why she would say that...yes, I know who the Black Panthers are....well, do you really think your own daughter knows who they are?....I understand hold on a minute..."

My mother opened the door, which basically knocked me over, as I was eavesdropping. My mother helped me up, sort of half laughing and whispered, "Did you tell Ann that the Black Panthers were living in her basement?"

In that split second I had to decipher whether telling the truth was going to get me a slap or two, or whether my mom would be proud that I even knew who the Black Panthers were anyway.

Given the Margaret Hamilton-as-the-Wicked Witch of the West look my mom had, I figured I better fess up.

"Yeah, I told her...I just wanted her to go home." My mom tried very hard not to laugh and this was reflected in the fight her lips were having, because she wanted to really have a scowl on her face, but I could see the edges of her lips turning upward into a smile.

For appearances sake, sternness won out as she forced me to apologize to Ann's pasty faced, nasal sounding mother and to Ann, also.

My punishment was no TV for a week, and for someone who actually used a tape recorder to record every episode of Welcome Back Kotter, that was a big deal.

Okay, sorry for the synapse segue...

Back to me getting five dollars a week, for doing chores that I should have been doing in the first place.

Shielding my eyes from actual sunlight, as I was forced outside to actually play with the other kids, was a part of my withdrawal symptoms from not being able to burn my retinas watching everything from the Mike Douglas Show, re-runs of Leave it to Beaver, to Welcome Back Kotter, Happy Days, Laverne and Shirley, One Day at a Time, etc.

Oddly enough, my mother's own will to not have to do the mundane chores around the house, allowed me to still get my five dollars, even after scaring my predominately white neighborhood into thinking that Stokley Carmichael and Huey Newton might leap from their finished basements, like some broken black-jack-in-the-box, and proclaim that they were bought "by the man."

That weekend, my mother needed to go the pet store, and me and my two older brothers decided to tag along, for whatever reasons--probably because my dad was sitting around, getting drunk with "Bud," but I truly don't remember why we tagged along.

Pet stores are great places for kids, period. As usual, I ran right for the birds. The guy that ran the pet store had a Cockatoo, that looked like the one on the TV show, Baretta. I used to go and see what the bird would say, if anything.

This time, near the bird, I saw a one of those really ugly little monkeys. Not a cute, cuddly chimp, that you can hold like a baby, or watch on Saturday morning television--Anyone remember 'Lancelot Link-Secret Chimp?'-but the little "we'll use them for experiments" Rhesus monkey, that looks like an old man in the face-an old, mean man.

The type that run all over the streets of India, right in front of you. Hey, they are really cute when their dressed in some little gypsy outfit, performing with Grogan the Organ Grinder, or whatever, but close-up those monkeys freak me out.

But since there were bars separating me from him, and because I was such a weird kid, I thought it would be cool to taunt the little, ugly monkey.

My mother was purchasing a new leash for our dog, and who knows what my brothers were up to, but I suddenly got a brilliant idea.

See, here I was a nine-year-old, with five dollars, so I thought I ruled the world. I mean, I got in trouble for the "Black Panthers Incident," but here I was a mere five days later with a whole five bucks to spend!!

It was wrapped in a plastic baggie, and in my pants pocket. I reached in, took it out, and began waving it around, up and down, up and down, up and down and across. Over and over, as I watched the monkey's eyes go every whichway.

This sparked me even further to begin to do a little bump-and-grind dance with the plastic baggie, seductively waving the baggie over each shoulder, and then dangling it in front of the monkey. Then, I added some audio commentary. Sounding like a junior Peggy Lee, I began my song.

"Nah, nah, nah nah...look at my five dollars....you can't have it....nah, nah, nah nah nah...it's all mine...you can't get it..."

Yep, my five dollars. All mine. Poor, ugly little monkey couldn't get my five dollars.

For one, brief second, the monkey and I locked eyes. What happened next stands right up there with a viewing of the Zapruder film in slow motion.

With one fell swoop, as I was in the middle of another verse of "Look at my Five Dollars," the ugly little monkey's arm swiftly moved in between two of the bars of his monkey prison, yanked the baggie from my hands, and stuffed it in his mouth.

My reaction was in slow motion too, as I couldn't believe the baggie was now in this monkey's mouth.

I let out with a scream, and began to shriek, "THE MONKEY ATE MY FIVE DOLLARS! THE MONKEY ATE MY FIVE DOLLARS!"

I saw my mother, brothers and the owner--who was behind the cash register--all turn around to look at me.

I took off, tears streaming down my face, as my mother had that irritated look on her face. That, "Oh damn...don't embarrass me here!" look.

She said, "What happened?" And, with great dramatic flair, like a Shakespearean actor holding Hamlet's skull, I said, "I was waving the bag, in front of the monkey, and he just reached out and ATE MY FIVE DOLLARS."

Oh, the horror.

As the tears ran down my face, the owner said, "I'm so sorry. Here...take this," and he reached into the cash register, pulled another five dollar bill out, and proceeded to hand it to me.

Yes. He clearly felt my pain. I was just a kid, who meant no harm to his ugly monkey. Given that his fate might have been having instruments of death shoved up his butt, or being injected with cancer or whatever, I'm sure the owner didn't think what I did was so bad. Yeah, he knew that childhood was a fleeting gift, and I'd have so many years to learn the ugly lessons of life.

I eagerly went to reach for the peace offering and an arm intercepted the hand-off.

"Oh no. Thank you, sir, but no thank you," came the words from the Wicked Witch of the West.

She had 'that look,' as she stared at me.

"No, if she was dumb enough to taunt your monkey like that, with her five dollars in a baggie, then she doesn't deserve getting that money back."

Oh my God. There was the Zapruder-film impact shot.

The owner could feel my pain, as we locked eyes with each other.

My brothers, of course, were laughing the whole time, and as we got into the car, The Wicked Witch was spewing the whole time.

"How DUMB can you be? Brilliant. Just brilliant. Waving your money...wait, MY MONEY... in front of a monkey," she kept repeating.

"But mom, he was going to give me my money, and YOU stopped him," I wailed.

"Damn right I stopped him," she shot back.

We piled into the station wagon, me in the front seat, and my two brothers in the back. With this Greek chorus in the back, continuing to mimic me, in unison, by saying, "The monkey ate my five dollars," over and over, the witch continued her diatribe.

"You don't deserve to get that money back, period. If you can't take care of what you get, and a monkey can outsmart you, that sure doesn't say much for you, does it?"

Well, this was certainly not the way Michael Landon would handle this on "Little House on the Prairie," if poor Laura had done the same thing. And Tom Bradford, from "Eight is Enough," certainly would not call little Nicholas--I pick Nicholas, because I swear I look like Adam Rich, even moreso when the show was on the air--dumb.

But as the years have gone by, I have learned that my mother taught me a valuable lesson of life, by refusing to reimburse me for the five dollars.

Life is not fair, period. You do control your own actions, period. For every action, there is a reaction. Your whole life can change in the time it takes an ugly little rhesus monkey to eat your five dollars.

Throughout the years after this incident, when I was fired from my first full-time job out of college, when depression threatened to knock me down for good, when I got ripped off by employers, insurance companies, mechanics, when friends betrayed me, when that jerk in front of me is going way too slow, but speeds up so he can get through the light and I'm left with the red light, etc., I always say:

"Damn. The MONKEY ATE MY FIVE DOLLARS!" Lately, this statement has taken on a global meaning.

When I watched King George take over our country, not once, but twice, I yelled the phrase. When I watched the horror of Katrina, I yelled the phrase. When we invaded Iraq, I yelled the phrase over and over and over.

It pretty much covers any sucky occasion, so if you aren't a fan of the film, Network, or you want something new to yell out your window, to let the world know just how you feel, try "The Monkey Ate My Five Dollars."

With that said, I will close with a quote from one of my favorite writer/thinkers, Gore Vidal. In a recent interview with The Progressive magazine, here's what Vidal had to say about our glorious leader and monkeys:

"I was brought up in Washington. When you are brought up in a zoo, you know what's going on in the monkey house. You see a couple of monkeys loose and one is President and one is Vice President, you know it’s trouble. Monkeys make trouble."

Yep, Mr. Vidal. I can attest to that. Monkeys really do make trouble.










Cute Chimp--Lancelot Link



Ugly Monkey--Ate my five dollars













Bush Monkey--Continues to eat my five dollars

Lead Pipe Society: Linda Schrenko to room with Big Betty!

My first inductee into the Lead Pipe Society is Linda Schrenko.

I will often have a title that will start with "The Lead Pipe Society." This is a special society, saved for those individuals with whom you wish you could have five minutes alone with them, in order to exact the punishment that might make you feel better. In no way am I advocating that someone truly use a lead pipe to exact revenge on anyone, and in no way do I endorse that sort of vigilante justice.

However, this is a good way to vent our frustrations. Some only need a few raps of the lead pipe, but others deserve a good whipping with one. OJ Simpson deserves a good whipping with one, as do any serial child molesters, etc., in my opinion. Politicians are in that category, also.

If you would like to nominate someone for "The Lead Pipe Society," please feel free to email me, and I will post it.

Back to the subject of my inagural post:

Today, Georgia is holding the 2006 Primary for several offices across the state, including the biggies: Governor and Lt. Governor.

My partner and I discussed whether we would even vote, as we still have PTSD over the first and second elections of our current President. (I can't even write his name, without needing a Phenagren), but we know that citizens from other countries like Sierra Leone, risk losing fingers, hands, arms just for attempting to voice their opinion during a vote. I have so much to say about the other reasons that we are bereft about even voting this year, but I'll save that for another post.

So, as I pressed my own index finger to the voting screen, this morning, I couldn't help thinking about Linda Schrenko.

Why did I nominate Ms. Schrenko for the Lead Pipe Society, you may ask?

Well, maybe because she ripped off students across the state of Georgia--most of whom think that Chernobyl is the latest perfume from Jessica Simpson--a state that is continually at the bottom of all education polls.

For those who aren't familiar with the current politics in the great state of Georgia, let me see if I can actually write a recap, without it sounding/reading like a dissertation by Earl Hamner at the end of an episode of The Waltons.

Linda Schrenko was elected as the state's school superindenent in 1994, becoming the first woman, and the first Republican, to hold that non-judicial office since Reconstruction. Whether I ever agreed with her politics, that was big step for women in this state.

She was re-elected in 1998, but decided to run for Governor in 2002.

I thought she was somewhat a loon, when she started pushing for creationism to be taught in Georgia schools, as well as when she battled appointed school boards just because they were Democratic appointees. Even better, she refused to speak to PTA groups, because she said they were too liberal.

But something stuck with the electorate, because they voted her into her position a second time. What I really remember, was her acrimonious relationship with Governor Roy Barnes, who was up for re-election in 2002. It was brutal.

Every time I looked at her, or when I saw her on TV, she was always wearing some waist-length mink coat. She just reminded me of some middle-aged, bored 'Lady who Lunches', whose picture you might see in the back of a really bad "Swingers" magazine.

The kind that would allow a naked Polaroid to be taken of her, wearing only the mink coat, with legs splayed wide open. But she'd make sure to blot out her privates, however had someone told her the truth, they would have blotted out her face, so more people would respond to the ad.

Harsh maybe, as I have been told that she is kind to animals--so was Hitler--having rescued Bassett Hounds, etc., but she came off as really cold, snooty and way too 'Bible'-thumpin' for my taste. The bad part was, at least for me, is that she railed against the GOP GOBs (Good Ole' Boys), here, and realized how sexist they were when it came to women in politics. Whether I agree with her politics, or not, she made strides for all women, by being elected to the same state-wide post twice.

To the surprise of Schrenko and Barnes (note to Barnes: Don't diss' teachers in an election year, and don't believe Republican businessmen), Sonny "Mah Flag" Perdue won the election, which ended the political life of Schrenko.

In 2004, Schrenko, who I feel portrayed herself as some sort of Maria Von Trapp for the state's school children, was indicted by a grand jury for supposedly embezzling over $600,000 from federal funds, some that were meant for deaf students.

What did she need that money for, anyway? It turns out she needed it for her 2002 bid for Governor, and...

A FREAKIN' FACE LIFT!

Yeah, who cares if the deaf kids need new schools, or new books? Who cares if students in rural counties were forced to bring their own toilet paper to school, because the school didn't have enough money to afford items such as that?

Linda needed the same embalming fluid used to preserve the corpse of Eva Peron, to give her that young, yet pinched look, and who better to pay for it than a bunch of deaf kids?!

It turns out this friend of the fundy conservatives, allegedly had an affair with her campaign manager, who helped Schrenky-dink funnel over $600,000 in education funds into payments to companies set up by Steven Boats, who performed no services for said payments.

At first, she pleaded 'not guilty' to the 22 counts of money laundering and fraud charges, but after her lover pleaded guilty to wire fraud and conspiracy charges, ole' Linda decided to sing like a canary about her co-defendants, and agreed to plead guilty to Fraud and Money Laundering, in exchange for an 8-year prison sentence.

After she asked U.S. Judge Clarence Cooper to be placed in a minimum security prison in Tallahassee, FL, Judge Cooper said the following:

"You're the reason the public confidence in the political process continues to erode," Cooper said. "Hopefully the sentence, and the humiliation you subjected yourself and your family to, will send a strong message to public officials on the state, local and national levels."

Cooper also ordered Schrenko to repay the state Department of Edcuation $414,887.50, and added three years of probation and 100 hours of community services.

But wait..there's more.

It looks like she's still going to get a pension from Georgia, which will give her enough money to pay back the state, and still have money to live a comfortable life when she gets out of prison.

So, let's see, I work as an independent contractor and I have to pay for my own health insurance at $521 a pop each month, but a convicted felon will receive a pension of around $3,000 to $5,000 per month.

I think Judge Cooper should have gone one step further:

He should have ordered Schrenko to do community service by visiting deaf schools around the state, and, using sign language, she must tell every student,

"Hi, I'm Linda Schrenko. I stole money from you, and all YOU got was this lousy facelift!"

I love it that some inane reporter asked her whether she was going to write a book, while in prison.

Yeah, how about this one, "The Children Couldn't Hear Me Laundering Money Anyway: The Linda Schrenko Story."

But, you know, if I were Linda, I'd sue the plastic surgeon who basically didn't do anything but use anesthesia for a couple of hours, then tell her she looked different. That's $9,500 she could return to the state.

Linda before facelift







Linda after facelift







Ms. Schrenko will be taking her own 'menstrual show' on the road, to a minimum security prison near you very soon, where I hope she rooms with a big ole' CEO disel dyke who will continually hide the toilet paper from her boney ass.

Thus, forcing Schrenky-dink to perform degrading acts of slammer sex on 'Big Betty' in order to be able to wipe her privates on a continual basis, or maybe in Linda's case, to be able to use a 7 Iron on the prison golf course, while 'Big Betty' continues to say, "What? I can't hear you?," when Schrenky-dink begs for tp.