Ethical Dilemma

Hi, all. I'm knackered. Since last blog post, I sold another poem that's coming out in June, but also was hired by two web content sites. One is an American site, and addresses me by my name. The other is a Russian website, (but they want me to write in English, fortunately) and refers to me as Writer 870. Wow--I think I've discovered my true alter-ego. ("Aha! Writer 870! So, we meet again!") I'm also still scribbling and submitting as well as doing keyword articles and trying out for other writing gigs. I'm amazed at how little time you get to spend writing when you're a freelance writer. Most of the time is spent in sales and blagging your talent to invisible editors.

Now, I've noticed that most online and hard-copy publications will not consider anything that has been "previously published". Unfortunately, I've discovered that this blog counts, for a majority of editors, as a publishing source, even though I don't get any money for it.

Which brings me to my ethical dilemma: what do I post on this blog as free to the world and what writing to I try and squirrel away and sell? I cherish my loyal readers, both of you, and want to treat you as the extra special souls that you are. But I'm also flat-ass broke. So don't be suprised if I don't post as frequently anymore. No offence.

Jewish Lesson

I guess someone does want me to post about the history of the Jews and Judiasm, for I haven't sold anything in a bit and the freelance/columnist jobs haven't panned out. (I know -- pity party for rraven!)

I'm not Jewish (not that I know of, anyway)and I do not profess to be any sort of expert. But I can't help but notice that the history of the Jewish people is one of the grimmest stories out there. I'm hard pressed to say that they've been blessed. Pograms, concentration camps, Krystal nacht, the whole "didn't they kill Jesus?" bugaboo, Woody Allen...definately not any stories you'd like to tuck your kids in at night with. And yet, after all the thousands of years of Gentiles determined to wipe out the Jews in the name of God or country or whatever, they're still here. In fact, most of the peoples and kingdoms who bullied them are now dust. We haven't heard a lot from the Babylonians or the Chaldeans, huh? Heck, Jews were around long before AND AFTER the Roman Empire, and we still haven't completely gotten over that.

Why?

Personally, I think it's for 3 reasons:

1) They arguably were the first peoples to REALLY develop a sense of humor. hat gets you through quite a lot. It has been reported (I don't know how true it is) that Jews in Auschwitz wrote and told each other jokes. Now that is one hard room, let me tell you.

2) Someone has always kept the myths, traditions and little rituals going. This gave a sense of comfort, continuity and inner strength, even whe exiled (helLO, Tibetans!).

3) In one way, I do believe that they are a chosen people. What they've been chosen for, I do not envy. But they have continually shown triumph over adversity, grace under pressure and thrived. No matter what your religion or nationality, there's a lot to learn from sturdying the history of the Jews.

"Beware of Goatfeathers"

(NOTE: This has NOTHING to do with any businesses/resteraunts named Goatfeathers! Thanks for your patience. We now return you to your regulary scheduled blog post, already in progress...)

"Let's pick our target, set our aim, but let's beware of goatfeathers."

I'm currently reading one of the best kinds of books in the world -- FREE. This book was in a give away bin so I took it. It's called Your Creative Power : How To Use Your Imagination by an Alex Osborne (no relation). It was published in 1949. It's quite good.

But what the heck are GOATFEATHERS? I asked my Mom and she'd never heard of the expression. We assume it means horsefeathers, just the feathers are a lot smaller. But what a great title for a book, huh? I've got to keep that on file.

I do still firmly believe that books are kinda blocky looking spirits that travel from who needs them to who needs them. When they're thrown out is when they're dead and going on to the next reprint and no one goes through the trash to pick them up...not that I do that anymore, but I think you get the idea.

That's one of the reasons I'm so drawn to writing. When I'm really in the "zone", I feel as if more of a reporter than a fiction writer, because the scenes and charactes are so vivid. There have been times when the pen/typewriter seems to move by itself, but those episodes are happening less and less often. Perhaps the Prozac has something to do with that. But it's a brilliant feeling and I enjoy it.

Ooo! Ooo! One of my poems is now published. Go read it. And I got the check, too. Makes all those goatfeathers worthwhile.

Yet More Proof That Ignorance is Bliss

(Note: No dogs were harmed in the taking of this photograph...really!)

Well, folks, the writing "career" stumbles ever onward. I've sold three short stories and four poems (only one published so far) and am on pins and needles (and Extra-Strength Excedrin) finding out if I'll be accepted as a writer for a dog website. (I'll not put a link to them here ...might jinx me). Things are starting to very very slowly roll in my direction, whether for good or for a smashed foot, I don't know.

Now, memory is a tricky beast. I used to have a photographic memory up until my 30th birthday...or my 29th...wait, maybe it was the 28th...ANYWAY, I could quickly recall entire conversations, comedians' momologues, what artist did what album cover, arguments...fun stuff like that. My head was full of useless trivia. And I discovered that if you have a photographic memory and no one else in the room does, you can really piss a lot of people off really fast! :-)

So it was an absolute shocker for me to find the first draft of an old poem called, erm, "The Ballad of Lucky Feet" (which I am NOT letting out of the house!) which had a scribbled note which read: "This is the version sent to Peter Gabriel".

OH.

MY.

GAWD!

I didn't send my hero a copy of a crappy poem about a horse, did I???? Alarm bells were going off in my head, my blood pressure hit the roof and I needed more Excedrin. I really didn't want to know the answer to this question, but the cobwebs cleared and I suddenly remembered that I sent my inspiration and my aspiration A WHOLE BOOK of my handwritten poems for his 47th birthday! Oh, NOOOO! Knowing idiot pre-Prozac me, I sent him a few exquistitely crappy love poems that make me blush to remember. Hell, I'm not even revealing the TITLES of them on my blog, let alone any excerpts. If I ever get to be a famous writer, he could blackmail me with that damn book. God, he must think I'm a lunatic...well, I am a lunatic, but I'm a harmless lunatic. There's probably a list of CRAZY FANS TO SHOOT AT ON SIGHT list at his studio(and if there isn't, why not?) and my name is on it in big black capitals.

"Now, calm down," the Excedrin and the Prozac told me (after a while, the chemicals do give some good advice)"what are the odds that the great, supremely busy Peter GAbriel would ever sully his hands on a grubby little poetry book from an ugly, unpublished American? You have NOTHING to worry about. His secretary probably chucked it in the bin."

Ahh....thank you for that mental image of someone tossing my blood, sweat and tears into a paper shredder. I feel so much better now.

That's Capital, Mate

I have arguments with Peter Gabriel inside of my head or during my lucid dreaming sessions. I guess Dream Pete and I both getting a bit bored with sex (and it's just so TIRING)so mostly we either play games, visit other people or argue like a married couple. (Note to self: Perhaps I should ask my shrink why my dream life is so much more interesting than my waking life). ANYWAY, last night we bickered about capital punishment. (Married couple --> Capital punishment. Logical connection, ennit?). It went something like this:

PG: So, how's the writing going?

Me: It's punishing. I'm a bit worried whether any of my fellow man will be left alive to read it.

PG: Oh, God, this isn't going to become another rant about the murder rate in Philadelphia, is it?

Me: Well, I hadn't INTENDED to rant, but now that you point it out, I wonder how many of the murderers are repeat offenders. I know you're against capital punishment, but do we really need to play Russian Roulette whenever we leave our homes?

PG: It's illogical to kill, for almost any reason. If we abhor it in murderers, then why murder them in turn? It doesn't make sense. I'm glad we don't have it in England. I hope one day America will join Western civilization.

Me: Hardy ha ha. But what should we do with all of these mental cases who care nothing about anybody but themselves? They just get into a pattern and go killing again and again.

PG: Not every one.

Me: No, not every one, but what about those that are? Come to think of it, what about those who volunteer for police assisted suicide? Shouldn't we just give them what they want and get on with our lives? Less time, money and effort that way.

PG: Capital punishment by no means is an effective deterrrent to crime.

Me: I don't think anyone ever believed it was. They just wanted to sound clever in capital punishment debates.

PG: It's a clever, bloodless euphemism for government sanctioned murder, isn't it? Capital punishment...sounds like they make criminals stand in a corner and wear a dunce cap.

Me: Well, I can't argue with that. I think "cold revenge" is a better term. I mean, that's what it is, isn't it? A sort of trying to get the fairness balance back in the victim's lives.

PG: There are no lost cases. And who are you to judge who should live or die? Or me, for that matter.

Me: Two words.

PG: What?

Me: Mark Chapman.

PG: (Sighs, then shakes head). Even for Mark Chapman, I still say that capital punishment is cruel and inhuman treatment.

Me: That's the point, isn't it? It's SUPPOSED to be inhuman. He made me suffer, I want him to suffer.

PG: Um, are you still taking the Prozac?

Me: Yes, I am, Mr. Let's Change The Subject.

PG: I thought you were a Witch. Leave the revenge to the Goddess Nemesis, kiss a tree and all that sort of thing.

Me: Well, I make my opinions from observing nature. And nature seems to condone revenge. Therefore, I do, too. (Narrows eyes) Which reminds me, you did a concert in my hometown of Philadelphia on my birthday AFTER I'd moved to England!

PG: Wow! Is that the time? Shouldn't your bladder be screaming at you to wake up about now?

Me: AARRGGHHH!

I guess reading this far in my dream is punishing enough. (I'm just a fan of Peter's -- neither he nor his charities endorse this blogpost in any way, shape or form.)

We're Number One!

Right. Philadelphia, the City of Brotherly Love, which is about ten minutes from where I type, has now been rated the number one murder city in the nation. WHOO-HOO! And I'm sure we can do much, much better! Hey, it's only April!

Good Lord. Seriously, it is a little much. Even New York cops are making fun of Philadelphia, and just that makes me know the situation is BAD. I mean, I assume that eventually the problem will go away because everyone will have shot each other, but does it really have to come to that?

"So, rraven, save us!" I hear those in Philly cry. Here are my suggestions for lowering the murder rate in Philadephia:

1) Pay people to not shoot other people. Hey, some people need a basic incentive. Money, or lack thereof, is the reason behind most of these shootings. Let's nip the problem in the bud, I say!

2) For those who have guns, free shooting lessons with no questions asked. It's always these "innocent bystanders" who get killed. Why can't we at least make sure these punks kill who they're aiming for?

3) Spray marijuana smoke over Philadephia with crop dusters. That way, some pilots of small planes will be employed and no one in Philly will care about the murder rate, money, lack thereof or anything else except Tastycakes, for that matter. Perhaps to keep anyone from shooting anyone for a Butterscotch Krimpet, the crop dusters could drop them all over the city after the ganja.

4) Watch this public service announcement.

5) Take all the people tracking down illegal immagrants and add them to the police force. Philadelphia NEEDS illegal immagrants. Who else would be grateful to work two full time minimum wage jobs and never be able to pay the bills? Only kick the immagrants back to their places of origin after and only after they've committed a crime...I mean a REAL crime.

6) Lower the cost of everything. No one can make enough money anymore to buy what they need, let alone what they want. No black/white/tan kid says, "Yeah, I think I'll grow up to sell drugs and kill those who don't pay me." But where are the alternatives?

7) Use drug addicts for medical research. Hell, they already like killing themselves with unidentifiable objects. Why not pay them to test medicines or surguries and let the research animals go? Also, it would just be damn funny (says the woman who was abused by an alchoholic).

8) Immediate death penalty for anyone who says, "It's not the heat, it's the humidity." Well, I think that's self explanatory.

Check It Out!

I love acceptance letters. I love the trilling "ca-CHING" promise they make. I love the way they continue to do that months later. You're ready to smash that noise with a sledgehammer by publication (if and when that ever happens). For some reason known only to those in the publishing biz, payment to authors is on publication, NOT on acceptance. Cute, huh? But today in my snail mail I got the shortest and most spectacular acceptance note ever:

A check for five American dollars. It was only a check. No note, no explanation, nothing. From Atomjack virtual magazine.

Wow! Wait...did I submit anything to Atomjack? And if so, WHAT! I had to go scrambling into my records to see what went to Atomjack.
Aha! It was a 3,000+ word science fiction story partially based on my dog Pony called Big Wet Nose. Oddly enough, the first poem I sold was also inspired by Pony (which has yet to be published).

Right. No more links. Go read it. Meanwhile, I'm gonna yell "ca-CHING!"

Be Still My Beating Heart

Well, someone somewhere seems to be determined to halt my blogpost on the history of the Jews (although I'm all for Jews -- heck, Rena is a Jewish name! Imagine my mother's suprise when she and I found out when I was 15!) because I SOLD A SHORT STORY yesterday! My legs literally went numb when I read the email. I could barely lumber down the stairs, screaming for Mom to read what was on the computer screen. She thought it was all quite funny. Although I rocked, I didn't rock out too much.

"How Does Your Garden Grow" was sold to newWitch for an upcoming (but not the next) issue for about $15. newWitch is a quarterly, so who knows when this'll come out. What's especially sweet is that the first draft was written in my late-lamented bender in England. Bits of the second draft survived the fire and I just worked on it from there.

So, I'm still recovering. And I've now forgotten the gist of the Jewish History post I was going to do! (And the blogosphere breathes a sigh of relief...) I should charge people to have me NOT write blogposts! Oh, no, wait -- that's the Mafia, isn't it? Oh well, another great idea shelved...

FOUR!

Well, I was going to do a report on my Jewish history studies, which might have required footnotes, but I've bagged it to report that I've sold a fourth poem! All hail, GlassFire, which has taken a chance on me. The poem is entitled (wait for it) "The Reason Why I Was Mad At You, But Didn't Admit It, So I Babbled Like An Indiot Instead". I wrote it when I was attending Delaware County Community College in the late 1980's. I had this intensely weird platonic relationship with a guy named Neal (not his real first name). I wrote this poem while in the throes of being bent under a massive crush for him, which went unrequited. My Mom somehow saved a copy of this poem in her basement when I took off for England (to pursue yet another crush...which unfortunately was NOT platonic). I haven't really changed it much and sent it off. GlassFire was the first place I sent it, for no particular reason.

I endured a lot of arguing and hopelessness with Neal. Now I'm getting paid $5 for documenting it. I guess it was worth it.

Obligatory Blarney

It's St Paddy's Day and I'm exhausted from SHOVELING SNOW. For those of you not familiar with March weather in the Philly area, this is the equivelent of having fish rain from the sky.

That's the main reason I'm exhausted. The other reason is that I was up until 5 in the morning concieving, performing and getting results on a spell. (Yes -- I do spells. The odd thing is I can never remember to use spell check.) I'm not going into any details so as not to offend the Christian readers, but it was a communication to my dream Peter Gabriel to help me remember a forgotten poem. (Can you say that three times fast?) I couldn't get to sleep after the spell, and thought I'd look through a notebook I looked through a hundred times before looking for this damn poem. If you guessed that I found it, pat yourself on the back. But not only did I find the poem, but about twenty others I lost in 1997.

Oooo. Ahhhh. Well, I was impressed.

So no one has to wait for sleep to talk to Peter Gabriel, here's another "based-on-PG" personality you can email: The Adventures of Mini Peter.

The Score So Far

Well, I thought I'd do something special for the first anniversary of this blog, but I've been felled by a virus for the last week, so just being conscious seems a celebration in and of itself. So, I've posted a picture of a hamster's butt for your enjoyment.

So, what are the numbers? Well, we have:
* about 132 posts
* an average of four links per post
* an average of one coherent thought per post and about thrity incoherent ones
* an average of zero comments per post (I must not be pissing enough of you off)
* about half of the posts have an image due to screw up in a security program. I keep meaning to go back and add images to all of the naked posts, but, quite frankly, I have better things to do.
* at least a dozen posts that actually comment on what is going on in my spritual life
* at least fifty-seven references to Peter Gabriel (one day I'll get around to fixing the links to those PG videos that were yanked by YouTube. Damn you, YouTube!)
ANYWAY, thanks for reading, even if this is the only post you ever read of this blog. Se ya same blog time, same blog channel.

Moon Power

Not exactly as groovy flower power or as dangerous as nuclear power, but "Moon Power" is the title of my latest poem to sell. Whoo Whoo! I can't print the poem here, as that would blow the contract with the magnificent, the munificent Scifaikuest, which publishes

Scifaikuest publishes original scifaiku, haibun, senryu, tanka, and horrorku, and articles about these forms.

"Moon Power is a multi-haiku...or multi-ku...or ku-kus (not to be confused with couscous...I'm not sure what it's called. ANYWAY, what makes this especially gratifying is that I wrote the first draft of this poem when I was


(get ready for it)


twelve.


That was back in the year 1983. You do the damn math. Every five or ten years, I'd take it out and fiddle with it. Now, it's finally going to be out there about February 2008, when I will be a hell of a lot older than twelve.

I love the moon. There is a definate compassionate pair of eyes there looking down on us. There can never be enough songs about the moon. I'm glad she approves of this one enough to get me a buck or two. I can't live without my spirituality, but I also need to feed my dog. Hopefully, one day I can combine the two.

I Couldn't Resist

No offence to any Catholics out there, ESPECIALLY my Mom, but I saw this on Post Secret and just had to steal the bandwidth. Hell, you're Christians. Forgive me.

I've had a time of it. Although I'm not into believeing in the Be All And End All of Jesus, I do believe in Yin and Yang. When good things happen, bad tend tend to follow to balance out the living experience. I had a really good day yesterday. I slept too much, ate too much, and finally finished the first draft of my 19,000 word killing off the human race novella, tentativelt titled Rainbow's End. It was one of the most intense days of my life. I felt happy, at peace, totally connected with the universe and my place in it...as well as slightly nauseaous from eating half a hoagie and a cheeseburger on the same day.

Today, I tried to download a message Peter Gabriel stuck up on his official, Mac-infested website with my measely Gateway Windows XP Real Player. Oh for shame. Not only can Real Player NOT play it -- hell, they can't even RECOGNIZE it -- the damn video wiped out three quarters of my music library. Thank God/dess for backup files, or I'd be even more pissed off than I am now.

Not that Peter's going to be upset by this. He ever hears about one of his rabid fans not being able to access his site and he'd laugh his lovely ass off. Ah, now that's something I'm not giving up!

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.

Let's Stop Horse Racing Now

Barbaro died today. I am glad his owners tried to save him -- that's what a racehorse owner should do but rarely does. But I think the American public is hypocitical. Thousands of race horses die every year, in far worse situations than Barabaro's. Even being a Kentucky Derby winner can't guarantee that the horse won't be slaughtered for meat.

Racing Thoroughbreds are magnificent, fragile babies that can barely support their own weight, let alone that of a jockey's. They run until they literally implode, because we ask them to. The entire gene pool is derived from just three stallions. Funny how no one wonders about what that might do to generations of animals.

These animals are bred for speed, not to survive. What are we DOING? Winning a trophy should not be so high up on our priorities that we condem millions of horses to misery. I've got a feeling if the situations were reversed, the horses wouldn't do it to people. They're not that greedy.

I used to worship horse racing. Football fanatics had nothing on me. I knew statistics, bloodlines; collected books, movies and artwork about racehorses. As a kid, I'd daydream about having my own racehorse.

Then, as I got older, I grew up. Seeing Charismatic being overtrained for the 1999 Triple Crown made me afraid to watch a race he was in, for I knew it was only a matter of time before he'd go down. And he did. And no one said boo. All they wanted to know was "Who do you like in the next race?"

It appalled me. I'd wasted years of my life on a sport that cared not one whit for the very animals it needs. I shocked my family and friends when I no longer watched races and wanted nothing to do with them. But I love horses more than what I looked like to others.

And I've never regretted it. I learned about other things, like paganism. The money, land and tracks of the racing industry can be used for better things, like building homes for the homeless, sheltering abandoned animals or becoming halfway homes for suddenly unemployed racehorses.

And the Thoroughbreds won't even mind if their breed goes extinct. The only ones who would mind are people.