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A Sunny Place for Shady People

Pithy, contrarian, politically incorrect and curmudgeonly rants on sex, money, power and politics and religion and philosophy. In short: Nothing matters, everything changes and there are no guarantees. The rest is rationalization and bribery. (c) Tom Milner 2002-2003. DIRECTORY of offensive POSTS at Archives: 07/09/03. RECOMMENDED BLOGS: Archives: 07/29/03. email: theoldbuzzard AT sunnyplaceforshadypeople DOT com.

Thursday, October 17, 2002

Monday, October 21, 2002

(c) Tom Milner 2002

Happy Hunter's Moon to you -- in all its "full-orbed glory."

Lunacy visits again.

We know the anecdotes: the crowded hospital emergency rooms, increased rates of violence and suicide, rowdier than usual bar patrons, lovers dancing naked, howling, around the pool.

Unlike other superstitions, such as religion, the full moon's effects on us have some semblance of science to them. Something to do with the lunar tides exerting unexpected upheavals in the brain's synapses. (We do not necessarily credit this.)

Used to be a useful religion or two based on moon worship: in some cultures food was left out at night, soaking up its rays, the better to eat and cure disease, prolong life. Those were the good old days.

In our youth we attended enthusiastically some swell moon rat parties -- ether bowl centered in the room at the ready. (Smoking prohibited for a while.) Our coven was middling mellow, given the combination of moon, marijuana, ether and alcohol. That alcohol --so often responsible for passions rough -- muted somehow with all the other drugs.

"Paging Dr. Thompson."

But that was long ago, far away.

Now we just bathe in the gleam -- only half naked -- and only an infrequent forlorn bay streams from our throats.



Friday, October 18, 2002

You've seen a variant of this all too familiar bumper sticker: "My Child was Student of the Month at Schopenhauer Elementary School."

These self-promotional proclamations rank high in the Nausea Index, alongside "Baby on Board," and "Honk if You Love Jesus."

This claptrap is all part of the "new education," a feel-good-about-yourself agenda in which "self-esteem," "diversity" and political correctness all weigh more than teaching reading, writing and arithmetic.

And, of course, it's easier for the students' cretinous instructors to play these socially elevating games than to teach how to think.

Secret: all the students at Schopenhauer Elementary will, at some time during the school year, be anointed "Student of the Month." Wouldn't be equitable to praise one child more than another, these dolts tell us.

When everybody is a student of the month -- nobody is.

What demented pride grips these parents, who flaunt this vile placard on their automobiles?

Do they really think the embattled guy in the car behind them gives a damn about their little swine?

We think we'll mount our own bumper sticker: "A Difference to Be a Difference Must Make a Difference."

Chew that over.


Wednesday, October 16, 2002

Thursday, October 17, 2002

Let's legalize victimless crime.

Not a new idea, but worth even a futile try.

We're talking about legitimatizing drugs, prostitution and gambling, all of them great sport in the American tradition of libertinage -- of which we wish we had a more vigorous history.

Of course, the politicians will never suffer it because they enrich themselves at the inflated expense of all these petty vices, continually driving up the price of fun.

But it would be worth the show just to watch the anally retentive puritans morosely agitating themselves at the thought of someone actually enjoying himself.

These silly prohibitive laws serve not only to swell the wallets of the pols, but to soothe and appease the putative Guardians of our Morals, who insist on calling such indulgences "sins," afflicted as they are with Stout Religion.

People will pleasure themselves, whether licit or illicit. (You might as well proscribe masturbation!)

Let's just get out of the way.


Tuesday, October 15, 2002

Wednesday, October 16, 2002

One of the most irritating moments, for us, in a movie or television play attends the utterance of dialogue in which telephone numbers are enunciated.

We mutter shamelessly to ourselves: what fascinating numerical combination will follow the inevitable telephone exchange 555?

The continual use of this device (to avoid actual phone numbers that the troglodytic masses might feel compelled to call) disturbs, interrupts, impedes and distracts, for a few moments, the viewer's dramatic engagement with the piece.

So everybody in movie and television land is on this one convenient exchange -- not bucolic Twinbrook 6 nor titillating Butterfield 8 -- but 555. Boring and intrusive.

With all show biz's creative talent, couldn't producers, directors, writers discover a better solution to this problem?

Since they haven't, it's probably because they're at best indifferent or, at worst, too greedily busy placing paid commercials and product placement in films and plays.

At least we know where all characters can always be reached (in an emergency) -- at the good old 555 exchange.


Monday, October 14, 2002

Tuesday, October 15, 2002

"The secret anniversaries of the heart." -- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

We don't read much Longfellow. Probably no one does, unless compelled by the schoolmarm. But we found the above line, completely out of context, in an all too handy book of quotations.

It would make a hell of a title for a book or a country western song. It does smack a bit of the sentimental and overly romantic, yet it resonated with us.

We each hoard our "secret anniversaries," frequently refusing to even acknowledge much less reveal them. Often they evoke past moments of elation, despair, love or sex, petty tragedies, or epiphanies incandescent .

We can appropriately call them "marked moments," assorted milestones in a past knowable only to us.

These are not so much secrets as they are touchstones of memory, whether actually dated in time and place or not.

What's the point?

Cherish these small occasions of reflection anchored in the past.

Their sum is you.


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