Happy Schaden Gras!

Schadenfreude: \'shä-dən-,frŏi-də\ n, often cap [G, fr. Schaden damage + Freude joy] (1895) 1 : enjoyment obtained from the troubles of others 2 : A dish best served cold 3 : A whole lotta fun

This week, let's celebrate Carnival the German way--by raising a foamy, frosty stein of cheap-and-easy snickering at the public humiliation of the financially fortunate and shame-impaired. Once more with feeling, chug-a-lug these painfully pleasurable and pleasurably painful headlines--

• Gay Has-Been Times (London, U.K.): "George Michael Charged with Face Stubble Offense; Genitalia Remain under House Arrest at This Time"
• Stoners' Anonymous Newsletter (Steamboat Springs, Colo.): "Bode M. Asked to Relinquish American Citizenship and Bong Collection; Après Ski, Rehabs at Norway's Betty Fjord Clinic"
• Guns 'n' Ammo--Middle East Edition (Baghdad, Iraq): "Cheney Smokin'!: How to Shoot First and Say 'Fuck You' Later--the Vice-Presidential Way"
• Overexposure Daily (Los Angeles, Calif.): "Sugar Shocker!: Nick Lachey and Jessica Simpson Slip into Diabetic Comas as Saccharine Marriage Dissolves"
• Snowball's Chance Magazine (Gaza, Palestine): "'Not Having a Wonderful Time, Wish I Weren't Here': Condoleezza Rice Winters with Friends in the Middle East"
• Fox News Toady (sic) (Washington, D.C.): "Bush Administration Reveals $10 Billion U.S. Plan to Build 'Way-Back' Machine; Device will Allow President to Return, Erase 2003 Aircraft Carrier Gaff, 'Bring It On.'"

Boo hoo. Tee hee. Herr Bartender, I'll have another, bitte.

I, the wurst of all

My recent close encounter with neo-Nazism has led me to out myself (once again). I can now say it loud and proud--Ich liebe Deutschland.

It's not because of my lifelong obsessions with über-talents like Kraftwerk (which is justified) and Amanda Lear (which is not).

It's not just because I really do like sauerkraut and weinkraut and (now, now, friends) everything sausage on the menu. (That's wurst to the deutsche cognoscenti.) And a good thing, too, because if you ever visit Germany, that's pretty much what's on for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, morning, noon, and night, respectively.

It's not even because Death in Venice by Thomas Mann blew my middle-aged mind when I finally got around to reading it--for it's more than a story of a closeted geezer's obsession with a young piece of Polish beach candy; it's also an allegorical tale of an older man's futile pursuit of his lost youth. Heavy. Billy's Hollywood Screen Kiss, it ain't.

And my love of Germany certainly isn't inspired by some sad-souled, shaved-headers dressed like street trade in the Castro, who insist upon fomenting retro aggro with a bunch of old Nazi tat. Germany has moved on, boys, and so should you.

No, I love Germany because all what I experienced while visiting there was an incredibly pleasant surprise. Like so many ratings on a good employee's performance appraisal, Germany didn't meet my expectations, it exceeded them.

What's to admire, oh incredulous ones? Here's the ICE (inter-city express, Deutsche Bahn's fast train) version for your consideration:

The cities are pleasant, well laid out, clean, and welcoming, in part because so many of the larger ones had to be entirely rebuilt after the second world war and in part because, lucky us, English is a lingua franca in many places, making it possible for the monolingual to survive and thrive. The smaller towns still retain an oom-pah-pah, Oktoberfest charm but aren't precious or preserved within an inch of their historical lives. (Annapolis, anyone?) They look lived-in and livable, rather than like some historically themed development project run amok.

I could see myself living in one of the small towns near a bigger city. I imagine myself taking the train in daily to work or to enjoy the plenitude of cultural offerings in the city. And because there's significant government support of the Deutsche Bahn, the U-Bahn, the S-Bahn, and the Autobahn, as well as generous funding of the fine and performing arts--and let us not forget six weeks of vacation per year--this fantasy isn't all that disconnected from reality. (Unlike my youthful dreams of becoming a pop star, a revolutionary, and a soap opera actor, in that order.)

Germans have style. Frankfurt is not the fashionista epicenter of the country. Please, the European Central Bank and Deutsche Bank are located here, and while bankers have money, generally variations on a theme of gray suits do not haute couture make. (Washingtonians, please take note.) However, a trip down die Zeil reveals shops full of attractively designed and reasonably priced clothing. The colors du jour last fall were orange and a bright green known as "leaf" in Germany. Admittedly, it was the color of a leaf only if it had been clinging to a tree outside a cooling tower at Chernobyl. Nevertheless, the clothes were sleek and stylin'. And, yeah, I'm wearing that green these days, along with that orange (just not at the same time).

The people. Who knew? Germans are friendly, funny, diverse, charming, and quite handsome in an of-this-world, not-created-on-a-mad-scientist's-private-island way--so unlike the I-only-wear-black-and-look-tragically-hip faces you meet on the streets of some European cities. Reportedly, Northern and Western Germans are less warm and cuddly than Southern and Eastern Germans. Hard to fathom, as I thought the people of Frankfurt, Cologne, and environs, couldn't have been lovelier or more welcoming. Nonetheless, a trip to Bavaria or Saxony may need to be in the offing. It might mean for me a little more nookie and a little less clothes-shopping next time.

Now it's not like I'm some Deutschophile with a lot of specific and pedantic knowledge of Germany. I don't know which team is the most successful in the Bundesliga, or what's on Zweites Deutsches Fernsehen (ZDF) TV on Saturday night, or which autobahn routes to take for travel between Düsseldorf and Dresden. I can't even say that, other than Mann's Tod in Venedig, I've bothered to read any German literature in my lifetime. If truth be told, prior to visiting in October 2005, I'd never given Germany much thought, except maybe when listening to Deutsche Welle on the radio, catching Run Lola Run on the Independent Film or Sundance channels, or watching Mike Myers hawk the character of "Dieter from Sprockets" on Saturday Night Live.

Germany's not flawless, of course. The little bit I saw of Frankfurt and Cologne was interesting, but they didn't knock me out. While attractive, they seemed a little sterile, the result of being rebuilt in the clean-lines-meets-cheap-materials of the 1950s and 1960s. (The heavens curse you, Mies van der Rohe. You were in league with the construction industry the entire time, weren't you?) I enjoyed them, but a trip to Berlin or Munich is probably in order before passing final judgment on the German urban environment.

The home-grown pop culture scene suffers from being campy for all the wrong reasons. I wish I could remember the name of the German rock group that was enjoying a big hit while I was there. Suffice it to say that Robert Smith of The Cure is missing his make-up artist and Bad English is missing their producer.

And the town names did make me chuckle like an American idiot, so much so that I started making up ridiculously labeled communities while riding the Bahn through Hesse and North Rhine-Westphalia. "Nächste halt, Bad Schadenfreude." "Nächste halt, Weltschmerzburg." "Nächste halt, Neunzig-Neun-Luftballone-am-Main." I have to keep myself, if no one else, entertained. And blessed soul that I am, I find that I have a sense of humor that, as I once heard described of the Germans, would make a dog laugh. Thus, we're a Verbindung made in Himmel, it would seem.

But all in all, it was a prejudice-cleansing, mind-expanding trip of the non-colonic, non-narcotic variety. We live a very isolated life in the States. Many of us don't, can't, or won't travel beyond the border, even to Canada or Mexico, and when we do, we make the journey with lots of other Americans or huddle together in all-inclusive resorts, too cocooned to taste and touch the world outside our gated compounds. Which I could understand if the whole world was as money-grubbing and tawdry as Puerto Vallarta during a circuit party, full of under-aged rent boys, beach beggars, and Californians. But, thankfully, it's not.

Many of us still perceive Gemans as if they were all extras in a Danielle Steele made-for-TV movie: Dour, racist, malevolent, and prone to dress in severe, Central Casting military drag.

That was sixty-plus years ago, Mutter-Völker, and Germany has done its best to make amends. Do we still see the Japanese through Tojo-colored glasses? No. We see them as makers of great cars, even better electronics, and as our employers. So why do we insist on viewing the Germans as if they had just re-invaded the Sudetenland for old time's sake? Would a rehabilitation of the Opel help? Maybe a Grundig radio in every pot? Perhaps another Scorpions reunion tour? No?

I don't have the answers, not being a scholar, just a mere gästarbeiter in the academy. All I can say is danke schön, Deutschland, for the gemütlichkeit, good memories, and the new and improved welt-view.

Now I know what it's all about

Just when I think I've got life all figured out, it goes and changes on me.

Sometimes, after a loved one falls ill or I've had a hard week at work, when I've been so busy I've missed a friend's birthday or not absorbed the fact that they're having a difficult time of things, I think the most important thing is being Nature Boy, that the best measure of life's success is just to love and be loved in return. (By the way, I'm thinking of the Caetano Veloso and Nat King Cole versions of "Nature Boy," not the George Benson one, and certainly not the Celine Dion one. Jeez, give me some credit.)

After 9/11, I thought maybe it was about not sweating the small stuff, caring about only the most important things, always keeping your eye on the bigger picture. But then we had several celebrity telethons and concerts, and I learned that it was actually about Julia Roberts, Tom Cruise, Sarah Jessica Parker, and, uh, maybe Rhea Perlman, and what they thought it was all about.

At other times, I could have sworn it was all about Oprah and her fantastical, mystical, and constantly televised voyage of self-discovery. When Oprah starred in Beloved and appeared in publicity photos with fake scars on her back from a Hollywood-simulated lashing; when Oprah gave her audience all her favorite things--including cars--on her 50th birthday celebration show; when Oprah got locked out of Hermés in Paris because she and her entourage arrived after-hours, yet still felt entitled to shop; and when Oprah confronted falsehoods and misstatements in James Frey's autobiography, A Million Little Pieces, as if she had been lied to personally and ruined for life, as if it were her slightly misrepresented autobiography, rather than an overwritten, over-exposé by Mr. Frey--I was sure it was about The Lady O.

At still other times, whenever I listened to George "Chairman Moe" Bush and his sidekicks, "Larry Not-so-Fine" Cheney and "Shemp" Rumsfeld, I thought it was all about security, homeland or otherwise. But, no, now I've learned differently. It's not about security at all, at least not about the security of our ports. Fully cocked and loaded container ships--also known as floating fertilizer bombs--tugged into our inner harbors is not how any self-respecting evil-doer would choose to do evil in the evil empire. I know I'm comforted by Fearless Leader's words, much in the way I'm kept warm and cozy by the Star Chamber's continual assurances that the end of the war in Iraq is just around the corner . . . .

So imagine my joy and relief when, finally, this week, I learned what it's all about. Or, I should say, who it's all about.

It's actually all about the egoïste troika of Chad Hedrick, Shani Davis, and Bryant Gumbel.

I discovered this recently from yet another article in Harrisburg's Patriot-News, my only source for news these days (it is, after all, "Pennsylvania Newspaper of the Year," according to the print edition's banner). The headline of the article, written by Bernie Lincicome and originally appearing in The Rocky Mountain News, reads that "for 2 skaters [Hedrick and Davis], it's all about them." Somewhere in the middle of the article, whose narrative structure was frankly lost on me, Mr. Lincicome talks about Bryant Gumbel and his recent comparison of the Winter Olympics to a Grand Old Party rally.

So now that I've cited my source and given credit where credit is due, let the dishing begin.

Up first, Chad the Cad. There’s so much to say and so little time left on the planet for any of us to do so. Therefore, let’s cut to the 500-meter men’s speedskating chase: Chad Headcase represents the straight-man-as-drama-queen scenario, which I've commented on before, and no doubt will again.

Chad thinks the Dutch have a problem with him, Chad thinks Shani has a problem with him, Chad thinks the ice has a problem with him, Chad thinks the Texas Prairie Chicken has a problem with him. Welcome to Chad's World where all Chads are gold and no Chads are gold. Chad, Chad, Chad, 24/7 Chad on the al-Chadzeera Network. I haven’t spent so much time harassed and bothered by Chads since the 2000 election.

Chad darling, pardon me for saying so, but do you ever think that maybe you’re the one who has a problem with you?

I experience less consternation when I ponder Shani Davis's dramatis persona. Yes, he does seem like an intense, humorless git, and nearly as it’s-not-what-he-said-but-the-way-he-said-it petulant as La Hedrick. However, a lack of humility, charm, or self-awareness certainly wouldn't disqualify him from participating in sports or even enjoying a career in religion or a lifetime in politics.

I was a bit surprised at the recent, post-go-for-the-gold, NBC TV interview with Shani--not surprised that he seemed less than pleased with the reporter, mind you, just surprised he didn't bite off her head and drink her blood halfway through the segment. Which I understand is legal for Olympic competitors, though a path more often taken by disgruntled Belarussian weightlifters at the Summer Games.

After commenting on the fact that Mr. Davis was the first African-American to win best in show at the Olympics, the reporter made a few overly assertive statements posed as questions. Finally, the reporter asked Shani if he was "angry" (ding ding, pay attention, America! angry black man alert!), to which Shani replied, no, that he was distracted, had other things on his mind. Probably he was thinking how tired he was of being asked how it felt to be an African-American on Team America. "I wonder if Debbie Thomas had to put up with this shizzle?" he must have thought to himself.

But just when Chad thought it was all about Chad, and Shani thought it was all about getting away from the cameras and interviewers, and somewhere out there—in Chicago, in Montecito, on a bench outside of Hermés with her best galpal Gail and her best gigolo Steadman--Oprah thought it was all about Oprah, along comes Bryant Gumbel. Darlings, don't you know? It always has, is, and will be about La Gumbel, the Maria Callas of sports spokesmodels.

In case you haven't heard, Bryant apparently made some churlish, baby's-teething-and-feeling-fussy remarks on his show, HBO’s Real Sports, about how he wouldn't be watching the Winter Olympics because Team America looked like a “GOP Convention” and, besides, none of the games were real sports with real athletes anyway.

Oh, can’t we all just get along?

* * *

In my original draft of this post, I had an extended diatribe about Gumbel’s general unpleasantness in this and other matters throughout his career. I described him as “the most miserable, most constipated, most Bergman-esque representation of Death ever to appear on screen without benefit of a scythe and a chessboard.” Then I concluded with an admonition not to be too upset at my criticism, because Bryant could handle it. "After all, Gumbels bounce," I wrote.

Which, if you happen to be a fan of Yukon Cornelius, the polar "bear" he-man from Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, is a pretty funny allusion, if I do say so, but a pretty mean-spirited one, as well.

Granted, being mean-spirited rarely bothers me when I'm lampooning and lambasting egotistical public figures, but then I started doing a little web research, trying to quote Gumbel fully and accurately and to cite a source for the quote. You know, you’d be really surprised and shocked what comes up in Google when you type in the search words, "Bryant," "Gumbel," "GOP," and "convention."

The first reference to Bryant's big-mouthedness I stumbled across was from a white suprematist bulletin board that referred to Gumbel’s comments and ethnicity with less than enlightened words and abundant "creative spellings." The site did have dazzling graphics, I’ll give the little skinheads that. Who knew you could decorate a webpage so stylishly with World War II-era German crosses? What next, dolls, using images of rainbow-colored swastikas for radio buttons? Maybe a Vargas-fashioned pin-up of Eva Braun in a peek-a-boo nightie as a watermark? Gals, the possibilities for creative hate-mongering are simply endless this season!

Then I found an article in my new favorite web resource, the Wikipedia, which related how after an interview with Robert Knight of the Family Research Council (better known as the I Hate Homosexuals and Anyone Else Having More Fun in Life than Me Council, or, if you prefer, the Southern Baptist Convention), while still on air, Gumbel referred to Knight as “a fucking idiot.”

Well, friends, sometimes you gotta do right and call 'em as you interview 'em.

So I learned two things here: 1) Somedays, it ain’t easy being African-American, ‘cause there are legions of "Payday Nazis" (i.e., nut-bars of the Hitler Youth variety) in this country just dying to use the word “mulatto” in a run-on sentence whenever you screw up in public, and 2) maybe Mr. Gumbel is more perceptive than I ever gave him credit. I mean, he did once say that Willard Scott held the Today show "hostage to his assortment of whims, wishes, birthdays, and bad taste" and that Gene Shalit’s movie reviews “are often late and his interviews aren't very good.” (Again, thank you, Wikipedia.)

Clearly, the man is gifted in character appraisals and character assassinations. A big lug after my own heart. Now if he would only take some potshots at Katie Couric, all would be right in the universe.

I can't completely go into "don't fear the Bryant" mode, as he can be unpleasant and arrogant, so unlike his seemingly sweet-natured brother Greg, who at least smiles when he's on camera. But I think I'm willing for now to give Gumbel an extra helping of grace.

Instead, let’s get back to basics and just blame all the badness on Chad Hedrick. He's the one bad sour apple spoiling the whole bunch, girl. I don't care what they say, I don't care what you heard--it's always all about some Chad-ass hanging around the TV cameras and voting booths for far too long.

Oh, and Oprah. It's always about Oprah.

Step away from the vehicle--and keep your Ritalin where we can see it

For your approval--a little hijinx, hilarity, and hysteria from our crazy corner of the country . . .

From the Patriot-News, dated Friday, February 17, 2006, journalist Pete Shellem reports in "Pair receive probation in garage fracas" ("Local & State" section B, p. 1) on the sentencing of two Harrisburg residents, one Mr. Thompson--a dentist--and one Mrs. Thompson--"his schoolteacher wife"--for a May 8, 2005, incident in which the Thompsons were found guilty of resisting arrest, harassment, and disorderly conduct. Mrs. Thompson was found guilty of an additional (and my personal favorite) charge, "taunting a police animal, a felony that could jeopardize her teaching certificate."

Wow, sweeties, and here you thought scraping tartar off molars and grading Algebra quizzes was a hard-knock life.

So what the heck happened in that parking garage?

Apparently, "after a night of dining and listening to jazz" at a downtown hotspot, the Thompsons returned to the garage and attempted to exit. However, they could not find their parking ticket, a $5 value, and were told by the parking attendant that they would have to pay the full-day's charge of $18 to be able to leave.

A mêlée ensued. Although Mrs. Thompson "eventually found the ticket," the report states, "the situation . . . [had] escalated to include [Mr.] Thompson trying to force the garage gate up, arguments with a motorist stuck behind the couple, and an altercation with mounted police officers summoned by the attendant." As if there weren't enough eyewitnesses to the madness, a security camera caught the entire episode on tape.

The surveillance video showed Mr. Thompson "swatting" at one of the mounted officers and Mrs. Thompson "waving her hands" in the face of one of the officer's horses. The report concludes by stating that the Troublemaking Gentleman claimed he "didn't realize the people on the horses were police officers."

Hmmm. Interesting approach that, claiming a form of cognitive dissonance rather than copping the more obvious insanity plea.

Nonetheless, who could those "people on horses" have been? Here are a few of my theories regarding what Mr. Thompson might have been perceiving:

• Maybe he thought they were Amish and had lost their way--and their buggy?
• Maybe he thought he and his wife were about to be carjacked by unemployed mujahedin extras left over from the filming of Ian Fleming's The Living Daylights? (How they ended up in Central Pennsy I will leave for a good defense lawyer to explain.)
• Maybe he thought matches for the West Shore Polo Club had been moved indoors to a dingy, downtown Harrisburg parking garage because the horses were suffering from a peculiar and rare genetic defect--equine porphyria--which prevented them from frolicking outdoors in the gorgeous, abundant sunshine of a Pennsylvania spring?
• Or maybe he thought they were holding try-outs at the Whitaker Center for a hippodrome version of the musical, Gay for Pay: The Story of the Village People.

Well, you have to admit that any of these are plausible excuses. I know if I were the judge, I'd have believed them. However, I might still have had some trouble, given the last scenario, understanding why you would taunt the horses--mere props, mere pawns--and not the actors. "Hey, what's up with the two policemen? So you're too good to carry an Indian, a Construction Worker, a Soldier, and a Leatherman on your back?! To the glue factory with you, you uppity mares!"

Now it's not that I don't sympathize with the Terrible Two just a wee bit. The Harrisburg Parking Authority must be strong-armed weekly for protection money by the Susquehanna Valley chapter of the Cosa Nostra. Then the Authority turns around and shakes down drivers for the payola, as it does indeed charge $18 freakin' dollars for an all-day stay in one of their downtown garages. I mean, it's come a long way in the last twenty years, but it's Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, ferchrissakes. It's not like by parking here, I'm going to walk out the door and enjoy Roman ruins, the pyramids at Giza, Ayer's Rock, the Eiffel Tower, or Machu Picchu.

The situation also presents the challenge of dealing with other types of "authority"--civil servants (although I've always found the parking attendants still capable of offering a cheery smile while uttering, "That'll be $18, please") and the police. Enough said about my feelings toward that authority in this forum. At least for now.

So I can vaguely fathom where the Thompsons might have been coming from that night. Add in some rich food, a little demon jazz, and a long day at the office spent extolling the merits of regular flossing, and I, too, might have threatened to break off the arm of any parking lot gate that got in my way.

Being an occasionally good Green, I've opted to take the train to Philadelphia or New York, rather than driving. Thus, I've used the Chestnut Street Garage on more than one occasion as the "gateway" to the Harrisburg Amtrak depot. But a few days' stay in the garage quickly equals or betters the cost of your train ticket. And there's the added worry of arriving to the garage too late, after it has closed (it's not an automated, 24-hour facility), then having to call the parking authority to free your car from this late-night hostage situation. Don't forget to have $50 to $100 worth of cash on you to get the gate lifted--and better make sure you have exact change or the attendant will get a nice tip for "liberating" your auto.

At those parking rates and with all those hassles, it might just be cheaper and less frustrating to saddle up a horse and a packmule and make your way down the Pennsylvania Turnpike to Center City.

Oh, hey, judge, I think I've just figured out an appeal for the Thompsons . . . .

The ice princess of Pennsylvania

(Editor's note: No, friends, despite the title, this one's not about me. Instead it's a tribute of sorts to a Quarryville, Pennsylvania, Olympic hopeful.)

Sometimes, it's not enough to command respect through your actions, deeds, talents, words, or even a staggering number of costume changes. Sometimes, you just have to throw it down, serve it up, and get all "princessy" up in their junk.

Exhibit A from today's Harrisburg Patriot-News--a front-page story from the Associated Press wire service, which originally appeared in the Boston Globe, apparently. (However, I'll cut to the middleman and link to the article on the Associated Press website.) In said exhibit, Central Pennsylvania's own Olympic men's figure-skater Johnny Weir lamented the "dusty" and "undecorated" conditions of his room at the Olympic Village in Torino, describing himself like so: "I am very princessy as far as travel is concerned and having a nice room and things like that."

Somebody please call Surya Bonaly, très rapidement. I think we've finally found a suitably strong competitor for her in the next episode of Celebrity Skate-Diva Death Match. It's difficult to know who might win this war--either the in-yo'-face, bugle-beadazzled, take-no-prisoners, somethin' fierce Queen of Ashanti--or, perhaps, Miss Bonaly. To avoid another Bikini Atoll incident, I'm hoping both manga-styled she-wolves would agree to use their powers for good rather than evil.

Unless said evil was directed toward Nancy Kerrigan. That I could forgive.

My favorite description (so far) of Our Miss Weir comes from the bloggish-type website, PEN15 (get it? PENIS?) Club:

He has the face of Paul Rubens, the hair of Nick Nolte, and the fashion sense of a gay dolphin caught in a fishing net while reenacting a scene from Showgirls. What's not to love about U.S. Olympic figure skater Johnny Weir?

(The full posting is available here: http://www.pen15club.net/archive/2006/02/johnny_weir_the.html)

So, in other words, he's Clay Aiken.

At the risk of offending my dear friend Jean Naté, the world's most fabulous Claymate, I'm not sure we need another Clay Aiken. However, at least this one appears to be an out-in-the-open Clay Aiken, not a mush-mouthed, gay?-yes-I-guess-I-am-a-gay-happy-person-full-of-good-Christian-joie-de-vivre Clay Aiken like the one we've already got. New and improved Clay, as it were. Now with more real glitter.

I suspect Mr. Weir will endure endless ribbing (but not for his pleasure) over the princessy faux-pas--from the press, from the Blogosphere (who me?), and from really stupide, macho stand-up comics who think that a gay male figure skater is somehow a novel chuckle, on the level of the first time they gave a wedgie to a classmate in the 5th grade. Puh-leez. Have you already forgotten Tonya Harding? Now there's a ice-skatin' he-man who could knock your block off and hand it back to you in a big brown Bloomingdale's bag.

How refreshing, though, to find a person--gay, straight, or in-between--who isn't so quick to censor his "uniqueness" in public, someone who is a competitive athlete--yes, athlete; you try doing a combination quintuple toe loop salchow half lutz dressed as Elizabeth Berkley sometime--yet who (so far) seems to get the joke. Exhibit B from the Associated Press: "'Sorry to say "princessy,"' [Weir] added, laughing, 'but that's what we do.'"

In other words, someone who isn't a humorless mo' fo' on skates--or skis, for that matter.

Oh yeah, I went there, Miss Bode Miller--right up to your Mama and slapped her in the face for birthin' such a tedious, cocksure media 'ho.' Lady Ski Bunny, you just got served.

The night the lights went out in Texas

"That's the night the lights went out in Texas/That's the night the veep shot an innocent man/Well, don't trust your life to no backwards, figurehead president/'Cause the real head of state has powder burns on his hands . . . ."

Vicki Lawrence, where are you when we need you?

Nothing like a little gang-bangin' between those two well-known, East Coast-Gulf Coast, thug rivals--the Neo-Straussians and the Quails--to get the ol' comedic juices flowing.

Not to mention the blood flowing.

Here's to you, P. Dicky, and to the proof that you are capable of changing your rigid, my-way-or-the-high ways. Why, instead of assaulting someone using the standardized Wyoming Method--tying them to a fence, beating them severely, and letting them freeze to death--you've adapted to a kickier, more "Don't Mess with Texas" style.

Now you can start shootin' whenever the wind rubs the sagebrush the wrong way. Perhaps you'll work your way up to running over cheatin' spouses in parking lots or will start recommending the ever-popular Lone Star "medically induced coma," aka the lethal injection, for those meddlesome Guantánamo detainees--or for the journalists who won't let the subject, erm, die.

Now please back away from the dirty martini and put down that atlatl, Mr. Cheney, before someone else gets hurt.

* * *

"Everybody run . . . Dick Cheney's got a gun." (Sung to the tune of Julie Brown's "The Homecoming Queen's Got a Gun.")

Man, I finally understand how these rappers do it. This shit just writes itself.

Legalizing Sim-sex marriage

Once again, it's Valentine's Day, and I find myself at home alone, padding around my big apartment in bunny slippers and a flannel nightie, my hair in curlers as I try out a new perm (something perky but professional, naturally). I nurse my midnight hunger with gobfuls of less-corporate chocolate while watching a woman-in-danger movie on Lifetime, the Valomilks and Clark Bars somehow helping me envision Victoria Principal as an assistant district attorney for San Diego County defending herself from a kinky, prostitute-killing paramour.

And I'm, like, totally grateful for this.

Because I'm just one of those people. The thought of someone crowdin' Babydaddy's "me time" with their needs, wants, and Hershey bars, just doesn't sit well with me. No sirree.

Nonetheless, while a steady boyfriend has eluded me like sobriety has steered a clear path from Courtney Love's door (in both cases, by choice, I would imagine), I support the right of all people to love anyone they choose--even if those people are Avowed Simosexuals. As long as it's consensual and the partners are of legal age, where is the harm to anyone?

Besides, you Simeterosexuals out there reading this, put aside your Big Moral Questions for a mo' and consider your needs here--having Simosexuals in loving, committed relationships that result in the quest for your home ownership could be a boon to you. Simply stated, encouraging coupled Simosexuals to move into your neighborhood may actually improve your property values!

A case in point: Meet Hardy and Abel Warmbrudder, both out and proud Simosexuals (or, to quote former North Carolina Senator Jesse Helms, "not your garden-variety Simosexuals, but militant, activist, mean Simosexuals"). These gay gauchos have just moved into your 'hood and might have already begun to frighten your pets and impede the growth of your houseplants with their public displays of affection. Nonetheless, your spouse and friends seem to like them just fine. Think about that for a moment.

Hardy (on the right) and Abel (on the left) are in a loving, committed relationship, having dated for sometime now. Recently, they decided to take a giant step forward and move in together, after months of unhappy homelife apart--Hardy having been the odd-man-out roommate at the Fratt household, Abel having been the more sensitive, less "free-love-oriented" member of the Trade family. Now together, they have bought, restored, and decorated their own home, a lovely neo-Tudor cottage in a rapidly gentrifying section of San Simeon.

They purchased their home from another Sim-sex couple, Elise and Gertrudis Sappho. (And here you thought they were just divorced career gals like Kate and Allie, sharing expenses and childcare duties.) While Elise and Gertrudis had done an exceptional job on the plumbing and brick-masonry (including the construction of a massive barbecue pit and walk-in meat locker in the back garden), Hardy and Abel found the womyn's taste in wall coverings, parquet floors, and state-of-the-art kitchen appliances somewhat lacking. (Just how many Holly Near posters do you need in a home, anyway?) Thus, they are putting all their hard-earned Simoleons into new furnishings and design elements--Parisienne dining tables, Dolce Tutti Frutti sofas, fountains of tranquility--in order to make their home not only their personal cocoon, but also the epicenter of hospitality for the neighborhood.

Unlike Elise and Gertrudis, Hardy and Abel have no children or pets of their own at this time. They are both striving to be successful in their chosen careers. Hardy is following the Law Enforcement track and is currently the most decorated officer on the Vice Squad, reportedly superbly suited to undercover operations. Abel is on the Pro Athlete track and is an All-Star, serving double duty as both "pitcher" and "catcher."

Hardy and Abel have, in effect, formed a domestic partnership. Their earnings accumulate in a joint Bank of Simerica savings account. They make household purchases together, both large and small, such as whether to festoon their garden with bonsai or birds of paradise or to splurge on a new "vibrating love bed," something they've wanted ever since they shared one during their first romantic holiday together, a wonderful winter weekend spent snowboarding, sledding, and sauna-ing at Big Al Pine's Poke-yer-Nose Mountain Resort.

Of course, it's not easy being Simosexual. Like you, Hardy and Abel have had their share of heartaches and headaches. There's the time they ran out of Simoleons and had to fire the maid and the gardener, then do all the housework and yardwork themselves. Speaking of fire, there's the time--OK, several times--when they burnt a home-cooked meal so badly that they ended up having to play "rock, paper, scissors" with Death to bring their friends and appliances back to life. There have been burglaries, late-night crank calls, alien abductions, party-crashing mimes, and sad-sack clowns hanging around who would not take the hint and shove off. They've even played footsie too friskily in public on dates at Friendship Meeting at San Simeon Landing, only to suffer the indignity of having well-known moralist and gay-basher Mrs. Crumplebottom assault them with her handbag.

In other words, the Warmbrudders have suffered for love and life. Just like you. (Well, at least, almost like you but with better accessories and home decor.)

Yet despite persevering against all odds, despite being productive and professional citizens of their community--not to mention good friends (to some) and great neighbors (to you)--and despite the fact that marriage between Simosexuals is legal in certain parts of the Sim Universe, Hardy and Abel are unable to have their union officially recognized by the powers-that-be--unlike their Simeterosexual colleagues and comrades.

Need proof? Note these exchanges from the Sims Bulletin Board:

Date: Jul-17-04 08:21 AM PST
Subject: men moving in with men

Is it possible to have guys moving in with other single guys with out having the hot date edition?

Date: Jul-17-04 08:28 AM PST
Subject: Re: men moving in with men

Have the two Sims build a strong and high relationship. Eventually when interacting, the option to "Move In" will come up, similar to the "Propose" option. They will only move in if their motives are filled, so make sure you keep them happy while they're visiting. If they accept, they'll move in. If not, you need to pay attention to what they need and then fulfill it.

Date: Apr-11-03 01:18 AM PST
Subject: I Have a Serious question all though it will seem silly and rude.

I was wondering, how come on Sims, you are allowed to have Lesbian sims, but they are not allowed to be married? My sims were two girls and they actually fell in serious love. How come the only thing they can do is move in with each other, while they can sleep together in public places. Im just wondering. Please Answer. Im serious!

Date: Apr-19-04 09:19 AM PST
Subject: Re: Move in option

When two Sims of the same sex become very good friends you sometimes get the "proposition" option. This would be "move in" for that person. If it were Sims of opposite sex, you get the marriage proposition. Move in works pretty much the same as Marriage, except they don't have to have hearts.

"Except that they don't have to have hearts"? What are you saying here, Straight Simerica? That Simosexuals will just proposition anyone to move in? That Sim-sex relationships don't involve love, don't involve commitment? That Simosexuals warrant a separate-but-unequal status to their relationships? Please. Go spew your ignorant Simophobia elsewhere.

When you really think about it, it just doesn't seem fair. After all two men or two women can form a legal, business relationship together in Simerica. Why shouldn't they be able to kick off their shoes, push their beds together, and form a legal, personal relationship together? Who's life is it anyway?

My fellow Simericans, please don't be so stingy with human rights. Let Simosexuals enjoy the plethora of privileges that Simeterosexuals take for granted in this country. For example . . .

• Let them savor the consumer madness of blowing their life's savings on a wedding and honeymoon with the debt probably lasting longer than their union.
• Let them pay more taxes by filing jointly as a married couple, rather than separately as singles.
• Let their children's overscheduled, after-school activities suck the life out of them so much that they believe The World According to Jim and Yes, Dear are actually kinda funny shows truly reflective of their lives.
• Let them decide that rather than entertaining some "afternoon delight," mowing the lawn or caulking the bath tub would be a greater pleasure.
• Let them enjoy the social stigma of going from "soulmates for life" to "I sold all your clothes and your Donna Summer collection to Goodwill for ten bucks, you jerk!" as 50 percent of their marriages wind up in Divorce Court.
• Dammit, be fair: Let them even savor the most elite, Simeterosexual privilege of all--serving on the board of the Neighborhood Homeowners Association.

In other words, let them live like everyone else.

Won't you join me in supporting Hardy and Abel's right to love? No one's asking you to sanction their marriage in the church/temple/mosque of your religious preference--although you should know that Elise and Gertrudis's research (one's on the Science track, the other, Medicine) has determined that Simosexual behavior is primarily biological in orientation. In other words, there is no religious or moral reason for excluding Sim-sex couples from a marital union. But nobody's going there. Prejudices die hard, especially when they have been misrepresented and mistranslated for thousands of years.

Instead, I'm only asking you to support legal recognition of Hardy and Abel's relationship. Call it a partnership, call it a union, call it a marriage--but please acknowledge and celebrate it. After all, love is love, and it deserves to be acclaimed and cherished whenever, wherever, and with whomever it happens.

Plus, like, you could tax their relationship. That ought to meet with your approval.

Happy Valentine's Day, Hardy and Abel. Tonight, guys, I think you deserve a once-around-the-park in the vibrating love bed.

Feed me, burp me, wipe me

Another week, another sequel to a John Travolta/Kirstie Alley vehicle. This one’s called Look Who’s Whining in Front of Congress Now. And it has all the makings of a blockbuster, especially if you favor performances with tears! tantrums! table-turning dramatics! and Brooks Brothers suits!

Hollywood, are you watching this boffo performance? I smell Oscar! And it’s not just the whiff of rotting garbage from the overturned trashcan of our favorite Muppet curmudgeon, sadly missing from his second home on Bourbon Street since the levees broke.

When all is said and done, we as a nation/cineplex operator will definitely have to give Mr. Michael Brown, former director of the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA), an award for Best Juvenile Actor in a Cecil B. Demented Tragedy of Biblical Proportions, as well as credit for sheer moxie. I mean, who else could have more than 1,000 people die and a squillion’s worth of damage occur on his watch, have not one but two show-stopping performances before Congress, and yet somehow be the victim in all of this? Now that's talent!

I really must attempt this kind of bravura performance myself some day, playing the public, professional victim to a packed audience. I envision my show-stealing scene going something like so:

“Yes, Senator Hairplug, I realize that by posting on the web a cartoon about Allah’s mother alongside of detailed instructions for bioterrorism, accompanied by an offer for free samples of ricin to the first 100 customers, applicable only to those with Tehran post office boxes, might, in theory, lead to terrorist attacks on the U.S., but . . . well, you see, my superiors, in this case my parents, didn’t tell me what to do and what not to do. As I have no will of my own, let alone any cerebral capacity, I just can’t be held responsible for this incident. Sorry about the deaths. I do understand that New York won’t be habitable again for another thousand years, but, again, not my fault. What can I say? I’m an irresponsible, irrepressible moron. Talk to the hand--and my superiors! Ha ha!”

I’d give this performance in a gorgeously tailored, blue Italian suit, a 150 or above; a crisp, dazzling shirt, all-cotton, all-white (for that innocent, virginal effect); and a stunning, perfectly complementary yet rakishly histrionic, silk tie—pulled together by an $85 Hugo Boss belt and some kick-ass loafers, no doubt. The only thing missing from this ensemble would be the blood on my hands from all those deaths caused by my incompetence. I’d have used a hint from Heloise, making a paste out of a combination of anthrax and petrochemical-laden Gulf waters to leech out the stains. Out damn spot.

This is, of course, an oversimplification of the issue. Clearly, in the above scenario, my parents would not be culpable for my gross negligence, serious errors in judgment, and child-like, antisocial behavior. However, I can see some culpability on the part of Michael Chertoff, the Director of Homeland Security (hereafter known as The Zombie for his “caring, feeling” approach to the people of the Gulf Coast during and after Disaster Katrina) and our esteemed President, hereafter known as That Aging Frat Boy (“What’s all the whining about? Ain’t these people ever heard of a Hurricane Party? When life gives you lemons, use 'em in cocktails! Woo-hooooooo!”).

Of course, there are capable culpables on the local and state level, too. (Are you listening to me Mayor Ray Nagin and Governor Kathleen Blanco?) However, my point here is that you need to hire—or vote in—competent people to get competent work. Or rather, you need to be competent in order to hire/vote in competent people to get competent work. So maybe we’re all a little culpable here, but let’s not get off track by taking the high road to Calvinist Misery, Population: All of Us. The low-slung, shore-hugging expressway to Guiltyville, Population: One Michael Brown, will get us to our destination in plenty of time.

Some job skills basics for you, Mr. Brown, as I'm assuming you're looking for work these days: You, as a new hire and a human being, need to know what you’re capable of in life. You don’t just take on a job like the head of the FEMA for the prestige of a triple-digit GS rating or the glamour that only a life among the Trenchcoat Mafia in our nation’s capital can afford.

Knowing what one is capable of, knowing one’s strengths as well as limitations, is an important part of adulthood. It’s necessary, even healthy, to take challenges and chances in life, especially if one tends to undersell one’s self—and, obviously, as a former head of the Arabian Horse Registry of America, you are used to underselling yourself, Mr. Brown.

However, there’s also praise to be garnered for your character in knowing what you’re not capable of, despite what everyone around you says you can do, especially when the risk of someone ending up dead under your direction is a distinct possibility. In other words, if your sole claims to fame are managing a horse fanciers’ association, being chummy with the administration, and having deep pockets filled with Louisiana commemorative quarters, perhaps those don’t qualify you to direct operations during a national crisis—unless, of course, there are regular “shit explosions” after each horse show, and you’ve become especially adept at sweeping up the, um, fall-out.

Yes, you’re so right, there’s so much pressure—these nice people in the administration sooo want you to have the job! And, yes, that title would be a real boost to your résumé, certainly sexier in a career wonk kind of way than your former title of “stable manager.” And, golly, your kids need to go to Harvard or Yale to make something of their lives. Being on the inside of this administration would be a surefire way to make that happen, either through the regular salary or the alumni connections.

Nonetheless, perhaps the strength you should show here involves putting aside what others expect of you and instead thinking about what you want of you.

Life’s about taking on challenges, yes, but it’s also about having the wisdom to take on the right challenges, the one’s we’re suited for, the one’s that might result in blessings or benefits to others, rather than in deaths and destruction. You don’t see tone-deaf me trying out for American Idol—no one needs to hear that many dogs bark simultaneously. No one needs to experience that kind of excruciating, aural pain. Nor do you see me, in a Homer Simpson-esque fit of pique, signing up to manage waste disposal operations at Three Mile Island. I'm just pleased if I empty my garbage regularly, separate my paper from my plastic, and make it to the dump without the bags breaking.

In other words, I know my limits. Perhaps you might have learned yours, Mr. Brown, before thousands died on your watch.

Because look who's crying now . . . .

Terrorists planned attack on Los Angeles four years ago! And other non-news . . .

This just in—more details on other late-breaking non-news from President Bush’s press conference on February 9, 2006. As you may recall, the President announced during this news opp that members of Al Qaeda (including one of the members voted most likely to play Luigi or Mario in the sequel to 1993's Super Mario Brothers movie) had attempted to carry out a terrorist attack on Los Angeles in 2002, although very little in the way of detail was provided.

However, President Bush was more forthcoming on other late-breaking non-news from the last 60 years of his existence. Here’s what else he had to say:

“I was born in 1946 in New Haven, Connecticut, to George and Barbara Bush. My parents immediately enrolled me in Yale, as they figured I’d never get in on my own once I learned to talk.”

“I have spent most of my life smirkin’ my way through serious moments. Did you see me during Coretta Scott King's funeral? That was classic Dubya! That one's going on my Emmy reel.”

“You know, up until the day of the funeral, I thought Coretta Scott King played a minor role on Knots Landing in the late ‘80s. Laura explained to me that was Kent Masters King, not Coretta Scott King. She seemed like a real nice girl. I wonder what it's like to have kids . . . good kids, I mean. We got saddled with twins--a drunk and an egghead."

"Speaking of Knots, I sure would have liked to execute some boardroom hijinx with Abby Cunningham, if you know what I mean. Hey, wait, don't write that down. Cut! Cut! That's the sort of thing that really gets Laura's pantsuits in a bunch."

“Hey, speaking of Coretta Scott King, I have never understood why her husband Martin Luther King nailed 99 feces to a church door back in the ‘60s. How the heck do you nail feces to a door? Me and my fraternity brothers just thowed it at people’s doors; we never tried to nail it to one. It just goes to show you that people ain’t got no respect for religion in this country. Unlike me—I use my religion ever’ chance I get.”

“In the late ‘50s, I hung out a lot in the boy’s restroom at Midland Junior High, before my folks shipped me off the Phillips Academy to build the kind of manly character you can only gain at an all-boys' New England prep school. In Midland, I spent a lot of time trying to catch a look at the girls in their restroom through a peephole I had my valet drill for me.”

“In 1989, when I first became owner of the Texas Rangers, I had my butler do the same in the Rangers’ locker room, trying to catch a peek at the cheerleaders in their dressing room. It was only much later that I realized the Rangers didn’t have any cheerleaders.”

“No one knows exactly where I was during the Vietnam War. Neither do I, for that matter.”

“I have never really been all that interested in government and politics. My entire career has, in fact, been based on a bad bet I made in the late '70s. Never, ever play 52-Card Pick-Up with Dick Cheney and Rummy when you're coked out of your head in Nuevo Laredo, got no money, no credit cards, and can't remember where you put your keys, that's all I can say.”

“In 2005, me and my staff did precious little to help the folks on the Gulf Coast deal with the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. Here’s a prediction—looks like I’ll be continuin’ that policy in 2006. You can quote me on that.”

“Speakin' of which, it's later than you think, and I’m still smirkin’.”

Faster, Pixy Stix, kill! kill!

I’ve been reading again, always a dangerous habit, or so it seems in the current cultural milieu. Reading = Independent Thought and Independent Thought = Death—or at the very least = Fewer Dates. Guys don’t make passes at other guys wearing glasses, I'm told.

The latest attempt at self-improvement involves devouring Steve Almond’s book, Candyfreak: A Journey through the Chocolate Underbelly of America, a cheery-flavored tale of the author’s lifelong obsession with candy, particularly chocolate-covered candy bars.

Now this is an obsession I can get into. Some people have a lot of sex, some people drink or smoke a great deal, some people try to over-organize and over-direct the world based on their personal control issues, some fight, some play amateur chemist with their bodies. But Steve Almond is a self-avowed, pigging-out-makes-perfect Sugarbuzzaholic. And so am I for that matter.

Oh, I enjoy pretzels now that I’m in Pennsylvania and chips like everyone else (particularly Utz’s hand-cooked, kettle variety, another Pennsy favorite), and ice cream, too. But, to quote BowWowWow (and I often do), "I want candy." They were singing about chocolate bars, weren't they? I know at least candy makes me feel like I'm wrapped in a sweater. So good. So comforting. So satisfying. And, if you're lucky, no lint.

I think Mr. Almond would understand.

As you no doubt have noted by reading this blog, I live in Central PA, which is home to the chocolate monolith that is Hershey, Inc. (And here you thought New Orleans was the only chocolate city . . . .) While the author doesn’t denigrate Hershey, Mars, Nestlé, or the other major corporate confectioners, his interests lie elsewhere, namely, in conducting search-and-rescue missions for obscure candy bars and candies, made by Mom-and-Pop (or if you prefer, Adam-and-Steve) “sweet”-shops. In particular, he focuses on nineteenth- and twentieth-century regional U.S. candymakers, some of whom still are in production today—but are barely hanging on to their nougats in some cases.

Sometimes you feel like a nut, sometimes you don’t, but, regardless, most of us buy from Big Candy—Hershey, Mars, Nestlé, and friends. Big Candy has more money and more muscle. It can advertise more, distribute better and wider, and can pay the exorbitant “slotting” fees (in the $20,000 to $25,000 U.S. range) that retail chains charge snackmakers in order to insure the sweet spot in the store, at the customer’s eye level. Big Candy is good, but it means Big Trouble for Little Candy—the Standard’s, the Sifer’s, the Palmer’s, and all the remaining others.

To his credit, Almond doesn't completely decimate the military-industrial complex that is Corporate Candy. Nonetheless, in addition to 21-gun-saluting his candy bar favorites, he does lament the all-or-nothing, survival of the fattest warfare waged in the chocolate battlefield.

I’m only halfway through the book, but I’ve already started to get my own candy freak on, by rummaging the racks of 7-11s, gas station stores, Dollar General, and, lawsy, even the Cracker Barrel. The latter came about from a tip from the author himself who mentions that the Candy Bar of the South, “Goo Goo Clusters” (http://www.googoo.com), manufactured by Nashville’s Standard Candy Company, are still sold by Cracker Barrel but generally aren’t available outside of the South.

Ha, the gods bless you Cracker Barrel, even with your historically apartheid hiring practices (which I trust have changed). The local CB does sell both types of Goo Goo Clusters, the regular kind made with peanuts and the “supreme” kind made with pecans. They only sell them by the box, containing 10 “clusters,” for about $4 per box, but still, they are there--and they are fantastically, deliciously addictive.

They also sell "Lookout Mountain Moon Pies," the original, not one of those knock-offs made with cheap chocolate or other bizarre-o coatings. (Banana? You are seriously sick in the head.) Now if only grits and sweet tea are on the menu at the Barrel, I may be able to live a prosperous and long (or at least well-fed) life in Yankeeworld.

In addition, CB sells lots of other types of “retro” (my word) or “nostalgic” (their word) candies in their adjoining “tourist trap of yesteryear” shop (not the official name), some of which I know, but many of which I am less familiar with or were completely new to me.

For example . . .

Chase’s “Cherry Mash” (St. Joseph, Missouri; http://www.cherrymash.com), a mound of chocolate, roasted and ground peanuts, and mashed, maraschino cherries, along with other ingredients you don’t want to think about too much. Really good! A nice combination of chocolate, cherry, and nuts. They even give you a recipe on the package, detailing how to melt two Cherry Mashes in milk and pour over ice cream. Seems like a perfectly good waste of Cherry Mash, but still, might be worth a try on a dare or when you’re overcaffeinated in the kitchen at 3 am.

Almond only briefly mentions the Mash, instead concentrating on a similar, Iowa-made candy bar, the “Twin Bing” (http://www.palmercandy.com).

Then there was Orlando, Florida-based Anastasia Confections’ “Coconut Patties Dipped in Chocolate.” Not much on descriptive nomenclature, but, nevertheless, I bought a package (includes two) but am saving these for another day. Not out of some sense of decorum or weight consciousness, trust me. It’s just that I need to save room for the Goo Goo Clusters . . . plus I already ate two other candy bars that I found at a Sheetz service station further down the road earlier in the day.

Namely . . .

Gardners Candies’ (http://www.gardnerscandies.com) “Original Peanut Butter Meltaway,” which consists of a bar divided into small sections covered with a rich milk chocolate and filled with a very liquidy (and I personally think, caramelly) peanut butter. Delicious! Really outstanding! I will be hording these when Three Mile Island blows again, I can assure you. I had never heard of this bar, produced in nearby Tyrone, Pennsylvania. Sounds like a road trip to me.

Goetze’s (http://www.goetzecandy.com) “’Original’ Caramel Creams,” which really isn’t a candy bar but a package of six or eight or maybe ten (I ate them fast while driving, so I didn’t bother with counting, just consuming) caramel and cream candies, similar if not identical to the Baltimore company’s “Bull’s Eyes.” I like the Bull’s Eyes a little better because they are individually wrapped and taste fresher and richer (as rich and fresh as anything off a conveyor belt wrapped in plastic can taste), but the six-to-ten pack’s contents are still quite yummy. Plus compare Goetze’s 5 grams of fat to Gardners’ 19 (!!!), and you can practically consider this a diet food—one without the torment of having to watch Kirstie Alley hawk it to you on the Jenny Craig plan. “Have you called Jenny?” Yeah, and I told her to find a new spokesmodel.

Obviously, I have my own candy freak coming on, or at the very least a renewal of my candy freak from childhood. After church (yes, this has been a very long time ago), my family would make a run for the Stop-n-Go on the way home, and we four kids were allowed one snack of our choosing.

My brothers, I believe, went for Three Musketeers sometimes, a Snickers, or a Zero. Maybe there was a Baby Ruth and a Milky Way in there, too. My sister, ever the iconoclast, craved the salty and savory--Wise’s cheese waffle sandwiches, filled with the most disgustingly delicious, fake, processed cheese food in the world.

My choice was, at least for a time, the gayest candy bar ever made, the “Milkshake.” How can a candy bar be gay, you ask? Because I always liked the shimmy-shaking, hoof-clapping, dolled-up cartoon cows in the TV ad for the candy bar. With eyelashes fluttering, earbobs dangling, and painted lips puckering, they sang together at the end of the commercial, “Milkshake! (clap clap) Milkshake! (clap clap)." And then at the very end, one of the cows, the Diana Ross one no doubt, breaks out in a solo. "It’s Moooooooolicious!" she bellows.

Sing it loud and proud, Miss Elsie and Miss Bossie. Drag cows after my own heart, even at a very tender age. Who says it's not nature but nurture? Ask the drag cows, honey. They know.

I am middle-aged, hear me roar!

Below is a slightly revised draft of a letter I sent recently to CN8, http://www.cn8.tv, the regional Comcast Cable news channel, transmitting from Philadelphia. This message was in response to a recent interview with State Representative Sam Rohrer (R-Berks), one of the cosponsors of House Bill 2381, a "marriage protection" amendment to the Pennsylvania Constitution.

By way of context, Comcast Cable runs its own news channel, CN8, but also features easily digestible information segments, Comcast Newsmakers, broadcast five minutes before the hour and half-hour on the Headline News channel. Generally, most of the topics are informative but pretty softball--biodiesel--what is it and what it means to Pennsylvania agriculture? Or maybe "the Pennsylvania Lemon Law and you"--but interesting, nonetheless. The interview format traditionally follows a familiar path--interviewer asks government official or nonprofit community organization to comment on their work or topic, with the interviewer asking questions for clarification or making comments to move the discussion along.

So I'm being pretty nervy when I chastise the interviewer, Carla Showell-Lee, for her "lackluster, enabling style" in this letter to Comcast Newsmakers. But then they haven't handled a topic like this one before--and perhaps this isn't the best venue for an "in depth," five-minute discussion on a controversial issue, which is clearly a not-in-depth, one-sided, propaganda campaign on a misunderstood topic.

It's taken me nearly 45 years on this planet to start to get really p.o.'ed in public, not just to my friends and family. If nothing else, I have to thank the current moralist junta--ediciones nacional y regional--for that much-needed character development. After watching me endure some unsatisfying personal and professional relationships, during which I seem to exist speechless yet seething, my last therapist always encouraged me to find my voice. I think I'm starting at least to creak out some disco versions of show tunes at least, working my way up to opera.

Well, read on, and you'll see what I mean . . .

Dear Comcast Newsmakers staff,

Thank you for your recent interview with one of the proponents of House Bill 2381, the so-called Marriage Protection amendment that has been proposed for the Pennsylvania Constitution. I appreciate the coverage of this topic, as it is an issue that needs to be addressed statewide, yet seems somewhat lacking from coverage by most media outlets.

However, to say that I was pleased with the coverage is an altogether different matter. Actually, I was quite perturbed by what I viewed as a lackluster, enabling interview that Ms. Carla Showell-Lee conducted with state representative, Sam Rohrer, R-Berks, one of the cosponsors of the legislation. At least, that is my interpretation of the recent Comcast Newsmakers segment, shown on February 5, 2006.

Judges are not "activist judges," despite what the representative claims. Judges have as their job to interpret laws made by legislatures and governing bodies. There is no activism in interpreting a law--this is the very nature of judgeship. Unfortunately, the representative and other conservative leaders in this country seem not content to do their jobs as legislators, which as I understand it, involves making laws and creating and funding services to benefit the population. Clearly, micromanagers that they are, they won't be happy until they interpret their own laws and provide in person all the services they fund, so that they exert total control. While I didn't expect Ms. Showell-Lee to convey this exact point, she did fail to challenge the representative on this gross misstatement.

In addition, Ms. Showell-Lee failed to challenge the representative on his disingenuous claim that this house bill was being proposed merely to "protect" marriage, that by adding "only" to existing language on marriage laws in the state, which define marriage as being allowed between a man and a woman, such a revision would protect the populace from outlandish, emotionally charged situations like "a 25-year-old man marrying a 13-year-old girl."

My apologies that this is not an exact quote; I am perversely hoping to see a repeat of this segment so I can directly quote the esteemed legislator at his most disingenuous.

(Editor's note: Actually, I've now corrected this so that it is an exact quote. I originally heard this as "a 35-year-old woman marrying a 15-year-old boy," assuming that the representative was trying to be topical, referring to last year's Georgia marriage shocker. But no, our illustrious representative relied upon the "Jerry Lee Lewis Strategy" to convey his point. What next, references to crimes committed by Fatty Arbuckle?)

Please. How naive and ignorant does he--and do you--think we are? This legislation is clearly and primarily designed to further inhibit the possibility of same-sex marriage in Pennsylvania and is a direct response to recent court decisions (not activism) in Maryland, which stated (as I understand it) that limiting marriage to men and women, in the current legal language, was insufficient to prevent same-sex marriage, should one have that as one's legal goal.

Ms. Showell-Lee did not counter the representative's argument. How unfortunate.

For the final blow to journalistic integrity, Ms. Showell-Lee concluded the interview by encouraging the representative to return to discuss the topic again and then made a reference to the language of the law and compared it to the language of the Bible. In other words, she linked the language of the proposed legislation to Biblical teachings, which, despite the claims of some clergy and legislators, are open to interpretation with regards to same-sex relationships. (See John Boswell's seminal work, Christianity, Social Tolerance, and Homosexuality: Gay People in Western Europe from the Beginning of the Christian Era to the Fourteenth Century, et al.)

I may have misunderstood her point here--it was late, I was tired, and it was a very quick, almost under-the-breath reference--but that is how I interpreted her remark, and I'm assuming many others would as well.

The last time I checked, separation of church and state was still the operating procedure of our government entities. Thus, I do not see how this bill's language should reflect that of the Bible, or I should say, the particular version of the Christian Bible that Ms. Showell-Lee was referring to. It was certainly useful of her to point this out--it clearly met with the approval of the representative, and thus tipped his hand about his true agenda here (one might even take pleasure in referring to this as the "Heterosexual Agenda").

(Editor's note: OK, I admit it, a cheap laugh. For the record, I love heterosexuals. Why, even some of my friends, not to mention my parents, are heterosexuals. I just couldn't resist this perverse crack at the often-bandied slur, "Homosexual Agenda." If only I'd thought to add "radical" in front of that . . . .)

Nonetheless, I find it dismaying that Ms. Showell-Lee would encourage such a line of argument, especially in a multicultural and multi-faith environment as ours, one in which we are guaranteed the right to religious freedom, the right to hold many different beliefs about religion and religious teachings. I suspect it could even be interpreted that we have the right to freedom from religion under these constitutional guarantees. Should one want that.

I am beginning to wonder if I dreamed this episode of Comcast Newsmakers because I don't see it listed on your current schedule for Pennsylvania. (Editor's note: Saw it again this morning, and it still ticked me off.) I should hope I don't see it again, despite my earlier claim. You offer a fine, quick, informative news program on state government happenings and state issues, which I hope will continue. However, if your newscasters are going to fall in lock step with bigoted state representatives, perhaps it would be best to stick to safer topics, such as the Lemon Law and global warming.

If I have misinterpreted Ms. Showell-Lee's remarks or behavior, I do apologize. However, it might be worth your organization broadcasting a retraction or a clarification of this segment—or perhaps offering an alternate view from a dissenting legislator or community organization. There are those of us in this state who don't have a problem with same-sex marriage, although I wouldn't call it my number one issue. (Personally, I favor equal rights for all residents and mutual respect for one another's similarities and differences.) Thus, so as not to offend your viewers and adversely affect the bottom line of your cable and internet operations, it might be worth considering and respecting the diversity of opinion on this topic among your audience members.

Thank you for your time and consideration.