All growed up?

Current read: Becoming Madame Mao, by Anchee Min (thanks to Scully.) Very interesting. This passage in particular stuck out:

"The girl looks up at Tang Nah in awe as he explains maturity.
It is like the radiance of the sun but not as bright and hurtful to the eyes. It is a sound that is pleasant and resonant but not sugar-filled. It is a kind of ease. It doesn't demand attention. There is no longer a need to please. It is the point at which one no longer begs for another's understanding. It is a smile that forgives all. It is one's peacefulness, one's remoteness toward the world of materials. It is a height that one doesn't have to climb to achieve. It is when the passion-dough is ready for steam, when the shrill sound of a mountain wind gives way to a gentle moan and the streams gather into a lake."

Really? Is that so? Here I was thinking that one had reached maturity when she no longer found stuff like this pissterically funny. I'm kinda glad I was wrong...if I'm reading ol' Anchee right, I can be a grownup and still laff at doody jokes. Sweet!

What I can't laugh at are the Terri Schiavo jokes making the rounds on the net these last few days...As grossly inappropriate, crude and insensitive as my sense of humor tends to be, I believe that making fun of someone so vulnerable is just fucking reprehensible. I've been quite disappointed in some friends and acquaintances who felt the need to forward me some of that crap. I was sad and happy at the same time today when I heard that Terri had finally moved on to something better. I hope that wherever she is, the folks have better things to do than make fun of people who are suffering.

Okay! Y'all know I hate to go out on a downer, so here's some more grownup humor for you. Yeah, bitchez.

Rock, mutanthood, and the love below

So this is what I did on Saturday night, and it's what you should do as soon as possible. I shouldn't say I "did" it...that could be taken wrong. Witnessed. That's better. Witness it. You will be changed.

Giraffes, this Thursday, Sin-e (home of Supercunt, the LES's favorite mullet bearing bartendress), 8:00 in the PM. Industry showcase. (Sweet.) I can't go. (Dang!)

Best conversation I've had thus far this week...

Helen's Mom: Did you see on the TV that the judge who won't reinsert Terri Schiavo's feeding tube is getting death threats now?

Helen: Yeah, I saw that. Disturbing. But hey, that's the religious right for you.

Helen's Mom: Boy, that religious right sure took a hard left!
(So yeah...it's like, genetic or something. You GO Mom.)

And of course...
Happy Birthday to Princess Scullypants!

Man, yo bitch is foine...

I should probably shut up about some things...

but that just wouldn't be me, would it?

Terri Schiavo
While I can't begin to imagine the horror of losing a child, what I can understand even less is the idea of prolonging the suffering of someone I love by clinging desperately to her withered, vegetative shell. I'm sad for her family, but folks, your daughter died in 1990, and it was selfish not to let her go then.

Pointing out that this case has raised some uncomfortable issues is like observing that Boy George might in fact be gay. I like that people are thinking about this type of "what if", because something like this can happen to anyone. What I object to wholeheartedly is the politics. This, from MoveOn, pretty well sums up why (emphasis mine):

On Sunday, Tom DeLay and Bill Frist, the Republican congressional leaders, convened an emergency meeting of Congress to pass a bill that that interferes with the Terri Schiavo tragedy. And although in five years no other issue has prompted President Bush to return to Washington during a vacation—including the tsunami—Bush flew back from his ranch in Texas to sign it. Bush, Frist, and DeLay claim that they're acting out of concern for Ms. Schiavo. But a memo intended only for Republican Senators—uncovered by ABC News—reveals Republicans' true concern: "The pro-life base will be excited...this is a great political issue...this is a tough issue for Democrats." This story also takes the heat off Tom DeLay, who is facing a number of serious ethics charges and legal scandals.

Thanks for keepin' those national priorities in order, Gee Dubya. I appreciate it, and I'm sure Jesus does too.

All the religious blither blather and propaganda aside, this issue boils down to personal responsibility. We want to live our lives as we wish, and yet most of us don't take measures to ensure that we can die our deaths as we wish without placing the burden of a nightmarish decision on those we leave behind. I don't know about you, but I don't EVER want my mom or some fucking judge deciding whether I get to spend 15 years trapped in a body whose ship has long since sailed.

So...to make sure that YOU never end up like Terri Schiavo and her family, click here to access a New York State Living Will that you can print out and keep on file. (Non-NY'ers can, of course, Google the docs for your state.) Via 1010Wins, who gets huge props for posting this link on their site.

Michael Jackson
He did it. He's fucking crazy and scary and sick and should never, ever have access to any children, including his own, ever EVER again. Lock him up and get it over with, already. Leave the victim and his family the fuck alone. If it was up to me, there would be but two words that mattered in Jacko's future: GENERAL POPULATION. Since it's not up to me, hopefully he can become a Catholic priest while he's in prison so the Pope can excuse his behavior and we can all move on.

Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper
LOVE IT!

Okay, enough with the pontification (and the Pope jokes, for that matter.) Hope you and your peeps enjoy the weekend.

Wait...just one more Pope joke...it is Easter, after all...here you go. Okay, I'm done.

I hurt myself with oatmeal

I actually kinda did, but I don't really wanna talk about that.

Anyway, it's been brought to my attention that I've sorely neglected my blogospheric duties in the last week, so here I am to babble about the inane and pointless for the amusement of friends and strangers. Ready, go:

The last BFZ show was a good time, in spite of being ridiculously (and flatteringly) crowded, smoky, and overpriced. All the favorites were played, boobs were flashed (no, not mine), tears were shed (by drunk people but whatever), and I'm sure some groupies were shagged. Hoo-wah. I'll miss them. Afterwards, my scotch-soaked ass got the Rock-n-Roll Prize Patrol lost in a cab on the way to Trash, and then proceeded to crap out before the Sex Slaves even hit the stage. Not one of my finer moments, but hey, bitch got a job, and Irish or not, I hadda work the next day.

Couple of other tidbits, some fun, some not so much...y'all have J-Dawg to thank for this...if CNN says it don't count if it comes in the back door, who am I to argue? (And just to reconfirm...I am never, ever having kids. Ever.)

Please take note that Matt's Promise now has a site, the link to which is now conveniently located in my sidebar. The site's pretty bare bones right now, but I'm told that it'll be updated with lots of fun stuff in the next couple of weeks. Donate! Do it!

I'd be remiss if I didn't mark the passage of three people I admired: Chris LeDoux (how did I not hear about this?), Danny Joe Brown, and, most importantly Tom Brockish. Tom was a friend of my family's since I was...ten, maybe. Maybe longer. When my mom needed a lung transplant, Tom offered her one of his without hesitation. There's no way to thank someone for something like that, and nearly no way to appreciate him enough. All I can say is thank you, and we will miss you.

Whew...okay. So as not to go out on a downer, there's this. Please know that I had the good sense to hate the film, and the even better sense to start using the word at every opportunity. (My friend Johanna can vouch for this. Can't you, missy? Bwah ha ha...)

Aiight, time to make the donuts.

Helen go Bragh-less

Yeah, don't you wish.

Presently drinking my first Guinness of the evening...suddenly there's this gnawing feeling that tomorrow ain't gonna be pretty. Woof. But hey, I'm half Irish, and I have a genetic obligation that I have no intention of shirking.

Happy Saint Paddy's...

She's a lady...

Buuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuurp

I got nothin'.

Oh wait...I got one thing...Banana Fish Zero's last ever show, St. Patrick's Day, Continental. Get there early, coz it's $10 before 10 and $15 after. (I can't believe I'm gonna pay that much for a show at that shithole.) As I've said before...damn you, John Law. Damn you all to hell.

We went home in a fucking ambulance

Okay, not really...but considering the pain in my head this morning, maybe I shoulda.

But my oh my, was it ever worth it.

The benefit for Aaron was absolutely amazing at so many levels. The turnout was huge, which impressed but didn't surprise me much. The performances ranged from... interesting...to fucking STELLAR. Demander is a goddamn good band, Baby Dayliner rocked the pawty, Josh Taggart's rendition of Million Dollar Man absolutely KILLED, and the Giraffes...well...I've seen them play many, many times in varying states of inebriation, but this was...whao. There was beer spewing all over the room, cash, cups, and cans flying in every direction...MADNESS. Truly awesome. It was also Aaron's girl Maggie's birthday, so of course he surprised her with a cake and the whole messy crowd sang Happy Birthday. We had many, many Coronas, danced, banged our heads, and I even had the opportunity to drop a HUGE dis on a certain jackass who made the mistake of mistreating my girl Scully. (Mess with the bull & you'll get the horns, J.J. Get a haircut.) Overall...priceless.

The thing that stands out, though, is that Aaron kept saying, "I don't deserve this...thank you..." I couldn't disagree more. Gurn, you got EXACTLY what you deserved, which was a ton of mad love from friends and fans and strangers who are lucky to even know who you are. That's no bullshit. You, my semi-psychotic friend, are a good monkey. Just no more of this heart attack crap and we'll be good.

But, um...I'm the one that tagged you with a quarter during your set. Sorry. (Who knew my aim was that good?)

Sean Hannity is the fucking devil

And in this instance, I don't mean that as a compliment.

Know why the Republicans are winning, people? Because Sean Hannity is encouraging them to breed. Hannidate. Fucking HANNIDATE. Wow. So disturbing that I can't bring myself to say much more about it.

See, didn't I promise to spew hate for you today? Who loves ya, baby...

Okay, here I go, off to Gurn's rescue with Coco, Charles, and J-Dawg...full report tomorrow, of course.

The sound of one hand in yer pocket

Okay, I need you to focus here, people...we got some ground to cover today.

First, more about Matt Wiederkehr and his unbelievable wife Jen...Jen's participating in Pfizer Oncology's Colon Cancer Challenge this Sunday, March 13, in Central Park. Her team of walkers, Matt's Promise, has raised nearly $10K , far exceeding Jen's goal of $5K. Please click here to donate. Matt should've been around much, much longer...cancer research will help prevent senseless losses like his someday. I've said it before, but Jen, YOU FUCKING ROCK, and I admire you almost inordinately.

Next, check out the Westword (Denver's weekly paper) story on Do it for Johnny...haven't yet heard the results of the visit to Aspen for Hunter Thompson's memorial service...I can only hope it went better than the near-stabbing at the red carpet. Yeesh.

Speaking of Hunter...this snippet, from 1010Wins today, nearly made me piss my pants (God, but I'm gonna miss that man):

At the memorial, neighbor and actor Don Johnson remembered
once asking Thompson: What is the sound of one hand clapping? Thompson responded by slapping Johnson across the face.

Moving right along...Don't forget Aaron's benefit at the Knitting Factory tomorrow night. Who knew a couple of heart attacks could be so gahddamned expensive? Gurn's looking at close to a million bucks in bills so far...so come out, see Baby D, Theo, and a host of other New York rock star types, get wasted, dance like a moron, and donate! (Can't speak for anyone else, but my ass is takin' a half day on Thursday.)

Alright, enough. All good stuff today. I'll save the talk about someone famous whose ever-lovin' guts I hate for tomorrow. (Hint: He's a fucking Republican! Who knew?)

911 is a Joke in MY Town

Sunday, March 6, 2005, 2:17 AM: Your heroine (that being me) is awakened by the sound of an insanely loud bell-type building alarm going off in the warehouse across from her apartment, indicating that either some type of emergency is in progress, or pterodactyl-sized pigeon has taken enormous dump on alarm trigger from great altitude.

Sunday, March 6, 2005, 2:21 AM: Heroine, noting a lack of any sort of emergency response, reluctantly rolls over and calls 311 to report alarm. Retarded 311 Operator asks heroine what type of action should be taken. Heroine replies with something to the effect of "um, well, since I called YOU for HELP, and that's, you know, your JOB, maybe you should kinda KNOW what to do here and whatnot." Retarded 311 Operator seems to agree, and transfers call to 911 Operator, who takes report on alarm and says she'll "send someone out."

Sunday, March 6, 2005, 3:17 AM: Heroine, who is at this point both deeply concerned at the utter lack of response from police/fire/ambulance to what may or may not be an actual emergency, and REALLY pissed off that insanely loud bell-like alarm has continued to ring unabated for the last hour, again calls 311 and is subsequently transferred to 911 Operator Numero Dos, who, unlike her predecessor, says she will "send help right away."

Sunday, March 6, 2005, 3:28 AM - 7:39 AM: Heroine's insanely loud heater kicks on intermittently, drowning out insanely loud bell-like alarm intermittently, allowing heroine to sleep intermittently. At this point, if someone was bleeding in that warehouse, he/she is dead. If someone was robbing warehouse, he/she/they are LOOOOOONG gone. Etcetera and so forth.

Sunday, March 6, 2005, 7:40 AM: Heroine is awakened by the Sounds of Sirens (my apologies to Simon, Garfunkel, and Engrish speakers everywhere) as firetrucks scream onto her block, all in a rush, some FIVE HOURS AND NINETEEN MINUTES after the initial 911 call. Firefighters proceed to break into warehouse, climb up on roof, and generally futz around for close to an hour, during which time they at last succeed in shutting off insanely loud bell-like alarm after numerous tries. Great work, guys. Whew. Heroes to the rescue.

Sunday, March 6, 2005, 8:34 AM: Your absolutely fucking FURIOUS heroine AGAIN calls 311, this time with the intent of reporting this gross failure to respond to someone, ANYONE who will listen and may have the authority to do something about it. She encounters Retarded 311 Operator Numero Dos, who, like her predecessor, asks heroine what she should do. Heroine is understandably low on patience by this juncture, and requests to speak with 311 Supervisor. 311 Supervisor agrees that this lack of response is a "reportable issue," assists me in filing a formal complaint against the NYPD, and further provides me with the means and information necessary to follow up on said complaint. Heroine assures 311 Supervisor that he can bet his sweet bippy that she will not only follow up, but pursue the issue as far as is necessary in order to glean an explanation as well as an apology from the "protectors" of our fair city. Heroine also informs 311 Supervisor, as diplomatically as is possible given the situation, the hour, and her lack of sleep, that 311 Operators are, by and large, completely fucktarded. 311 Supervisor resignedly agrees. Heroine is SO not comforted by that fact. The end.

Points of contention:

1. If I lived on, say, the Upper West Side instead of pretty much anywhere in Brooklyn, the response time would have been more like five minutes. No question.
2. FIVE HOURS AND NINETEEN FUCKING MINUTES? ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME WITH THIS? WHAT IF THERE WERE KIDS BURNING UP IN THERE, YOU FUCKS???
3. Of course I'm not a heroine. I was being facetious. Fucking relax already. (I do have great boobs, though.)
4. Now that there's an official complaint against the NYPD out there with my (real) name, address, and phone number attached to it, I best hope I don't have a real emergency of my own anytime soon. But you know what? Fuck it. What are they gonna do...fail to respond in a timely manner...? Yeah...

So there you go...Our tax dollars, hardly at work. Fight the Power.

Aaron Lives, and Matty keeps his promises

I promised I'd let you know when the benefit to pay Aaron Lazar's medical bills would be...well, here it is. This is the most amazing lineup I've seen since...um...the first Lollapalooza? Okay, so Living Colour's not on the bill. But some damn good monkeys are, so come on out and pay for Gurn's pacemaker. It's like oatmeal...it's the right thing to do.

I also told you back in September that my wonderful and much-loved co-Googler, Matthew Wiederkehr, had died of cancer at the age of 34. Of course Matt's death broke a lot of hearts, primarily that of his incredible wife Jen. But instead of curling up in a ball in the corner (as I probably would have done), Jen and Matt's friend Randy created Matt's Promise, a foundation intended to carry out Matt's dying wish. Awesome enough...but what's even awesomer is that if you click here, you can read the TIME MAGAZINE ARTICLE ABOUT IT. Yeah. Amazing. There aren't many I admire more than Jen.

If you'd like to make donations to Matt's Promise, please email me and I'll forward you all the relevant information.