And the Oscar for Best Fiddling While Rome Burns Goes To...

About a billion people watch the annual Oscars telecast. This begs the question...WHY? It's a freakin' AWARD SHOW! Go read a book, write a book, walk the dog, anything else has got to be more important than watching boring parade of T & A.

The only reason I watched the first hour is that Mom is a fan of Ellen DeGeneres, who hosted the yawnfest. For some reason, Ellen is really funny whenever Mom AND I watch her together. When I'm alone, she's not so funny. Otherwise, I would've picked another topic to rant about. So any complaints about this post can be sent directly to her.

The last time I've seen a movie in the cinema was when I was still living in England. It was The Terminal, starring Tom Hanks. Not only do I not have the money to go to the cinema, I don't have the attention span. So I was watching the Oscars when I hadn't seen a single movie nominated. I can't be the only one. Does anyone ever see the movies nominated?

I'm currently writing a sci-fi novella. Ocsar night definately is a peek into an alien universe. I guess that is it's appeal -- for a few hourse, the viewer can pretend s/he lives in a different world at the end of the rainbow.

Killing Off Humanity is Fun

Man, there's nothing like getting a glimpse of what it's like to be God by writing a novella about the end of humanity. Well, for me writing is a form of worship. It's where I'm most connected with the flow of the universe. It's when I feel most spiritual stuff (now that I've been celibate since Christmas Eve, 2004 (not that I'm counting)). I didn't just approach this novella to get my rocks off -- no, there's a paying market for these novellas. Granted, $80 for 18,000 words is...what...a penny per page? Still, token "money" for being published in an intersting sci-fi anthology (knock on wood) might lead to better things.

I still don't know why I'm so attracted to this project. I still have to go through the submission process -- this might wind up being 18,000 words for a rejection slip!-- but I just couldn't stop thinking about it and so I think that might be my instinct kicking in and, since I'm not employed in the traditional sense (I was just hired by Stivers Staffing Services, but they have yet to send me anywhere)what have I really got to loose?

I kinda wonder if God/dess goes through this crap when S/He creates a universe. Perhaps the Archangels are His/Her critics. "Hey, Je, these dinosaurs just seem to be repetative, man. A million varaitions on a theme. Can't You come up with a new story?"

Getting back to my novella (which is only at 9,000+ words so far), I'm suprised at how difficult it is to wipe out the human race creatively. Some plot lines have been done to death (global thermal nuclear war--alien invasion--mankind evolving to the point where he just becomes a bip of light that floats away). And the DETAILS. What happens to the pets? Who becomes the last person and why? Does anyone still believe in God? Do the trains start running on time again?

So, I aplogize in hindsight and advance for neglecting this blog. At least, I'm keeping busy.

Lucid Dreams

Lucid dreams are boss. They make acid look like Ovaltine. What are they? They're the ultimate in dreams, where you realize you are "only" dreaming and can thus play God/dess with the world around you until you wake up. Now, you can either indulge in your hedonistic Napoleon complex as much as you like, OR

you can try to build your character and be a better person by finding out what you're suppossed to be discovering in the dream situation you find yourself in.

Now, I've been lucid dreaming since I was a teenager. Usually I go the power trip route and try to find where Peter Gabriel is hiding as soon as possible (for spiritual enlightenment, of course!) Anyway, so a couple of nights ago I dream I'm dressed only in a pink sports bra and panties (as you do in dreams) and I'm suppossed to go to gym class. Me and a few others (including John March, they very first guy I ever dated) figure out how to get out of gym class and goof around under trees instead. I then walk through the locker room and into a shopping mall (as they're always connected in Dream Land, as you know). As I'm riding the escalator up, I suddenly realize I'm lucid dreaming. At first, I yell for Peter at the top of my lungs, then I decide "Wait. Here's a great chance to build up my spiritual life by trying to discover what I'm to be learning in this situation." SO, I go back down the escalator where, conviniently, a customer information desk is. I walk up to the woman behind the counter and say, "Hi. I'm the dreamer of this universe. I'm trying to discover what it is I'm supposed to be learning from this dream."

She looks at me as if I'm insane and promptly tends to the person behind me.

"Wait a minute, bitch!" I yell, 'cause I know it's a dream and I can get away with it. "I was in line first! Don't you dare ignore me! Don't you know I can kill you just by waking up? Now, what is it I'm supposed to be learning from this dream?"

Everyone then looks at me and says, "Oh, piss off."

So, that's my big spiritually enlightening dream. Now I know that forever afterwards, my purpose in this universe is to track Peter Gabriel down and jump his bones. This actually answers a lot of questions.

Happy B-day Peter Gabriel

It's snuck up on you again, I know. It's Peter Gabriel's Birthday today! (Not May 13, as reported in some publications. Personally, I think PG told different people different dates for his birthday so he could get more prezzies that way). So just what do I get the man who has everything? The only thing he probably wasn't expecting :

A rant.

Happy Birthday, Beloved Gabrielmeister!

For someone severely devoted to human rights, you sure like to toture your fans, Peter. (I can't understand this devotion to human rights. I do understand devotion to human lefts). You are such a TEASE. You only put an album out once a decade now. That doesn't bother me so much is that you keep saying, "Oh, something will be out any time now--" KNOCK THAT OFF. Just say, "Damn. I don't know what I'm doing." and be DONE with it. Don't leave us twitching on your hook. You're the only supplier of what we're addicted to and I know you know it.

I do know you have been dropped by your American label and are looking to start your own record distributiuon company. You're holding out for the highest bidder, aren't you? I don't blame you for that (in fact, I wish I thought of it first) but just TELL us that's the plan, will ya?

I've got a feeling in the future PG fans, in order to hear/see new material, will have to go into these dark back alleys and use code words to get into smoke-filled rooms of other PG fans in trenchcoats willing to sell a kidney for new PG stuff.

Right. Seriously, now, I love Peter, no matter how much or how little he puts out (literally and metaphorically). He's been the best lover I've ever had. The fact that Peter is completely unaware of this is a mild snag. Well, all relationships have their problems. At least Peter doesn't hog the covers, eat the last biscuit and call me during the best parts of Star Trek.

Off to party.

Humanity in One Picture

Damn. I've never seen more beautiful skeletons. Their skulls come together as a Valentine Heart. You have to wonder what their story was. But it's probably the same as everyone else's. You reach out for what you love, and it dies with you. Also, you get famous when you're dead for 5,000 years. Sometimes I think God made people just to screw with our heads.

We don't know their skin color, religion, political allegince or faveorite football teams. They're just the distilled essance of humanity -- elegant lines of calicium emerging from the earth. Sometimes I wish we couldn't see what seperates us, but see that we're all the same. Would we really discriminate and shoot at skeletons that look just like any other skeleton? Knowing the human race, probably!

In other news, I sold a poem about my late Uncle George who fought in World War Two, came home and shot himself. It will appear in a future issue of The Custer-Hawk Gazette. That's two poems now. I wonder what they'll look like in 5,000 years.

Do I Smell Smoke? Better Rosin Up the Bow...

Well, it's official. We're screwed. Even the White House admidts that global warming is real now.

So how does the government react? By trying to ban trans fats. Not by making big businesses change their ways, or banning unnecessary car trips or recyling--no, no, that might harm the economy. Heaven forbid.

It's our fault the planet will most likely be a burnt out conder block by 3000. So instead of trying to do something about it, let's just go on a diet and save some cash. Yeah, that'll do it.

Folks, all the money ever printed won't buy us a new planet. Why do we still persist in the lie that we're God's gift? The human race is an evil species--we're responsible for the death of everything on this world. And we don't care. God trats this planet like a loaf of bread. "Hmmm, fancy some toast--oh, yuck! It's got all human mouldy! Well, got to toss that and get another loaf."

If we really cared about the planet, we'd take people who are suffering, such as in Darfur and put them to sleep. What's the point of saving them and educating their kids if they're only going to grow up poor, starving and crammed together on a cinder block? Killing all of our kids would be kinder than what we're doing now.

Yeah, yeah, I know--shut up and pass the fat-free donuts.