December 7th, 2007

baby demon

Well, my calendar says it's 2007 A.D., but that's clearly a typo

Okay, let me make this clear: I don't like Mitt Romney. I don't want Mitt Romney to be president. And I myself have plenty of problems with the notion of a Mormon president.


This is from today's New York Times.

Evangelical Christians, who make up a crucial voting block in the Republican Party, consider Mormonism to be heretical, and polls have indicated a significant number of Americans are less likely to vote for a Mormon presidential candidate.


A crucial voting block of the party that runs this country are likely to withhold their support from a particular candidate because they think he is a HERETIC.


Not because they think he's a flip-flopping toady who will take whatever position is convenient to win public support. Not because of his positions, or indeed anything about his politics whatsoever. It's because they think he's a HERETIC. An APOSTATE. He's left they embrace of the true church. He's some sort of crazy cultist who has turned away from the path of the Lord. He's a motherfucking HERETIC.


Leonard and the Incredibly Belabored Analogy

"Hey, son?"

"Yeah, dad."

"I'm going down the block to Bill's house and wreck up the place."


"I'm going over to Bill's to wreck it up and kick him out of the house."


"Remember when those kids egged our house? I think he was responsible."

"Geez, I dunno, dad."

"Well, at any rate, he might have paid for the eggs. Anyway, what if Bill throws a rock through our window? We've got to stop him. He's probably got all kids of rocks over there."

"I was just there last week, and he didn't have any rocks."

"Sure. He was probably hiding them from you. Don't be so naïve, son. That's the kind of thinking that gets a rock thrown through it."

"Bill lives pretty far away, dad. I don't think he could throw a rock through our window even if he wanted to."

"He's going to throw a rock through someone's window, son. What if it's your friend Tom? Or that cute little Vicki who works at the lemonade store?"

"It seems kinda fishy to me, pop."

"Look, son, I didn't want to have to tell you this, but Bill beats his kids. Those kids deserve a better father."

"I guess so."


"Hey, son!"

"Dad! How's it going over at Bill's?"

"Great! Bill ran off after I hit him a couple of times in the face with a chair leg, and I barely even had to threaten his wife and kids to let them know who's in charge now. I'd say that we've accomplished everything we need to accomplish here."

"You know, the neighborhood association is pretty pissed at you. They say you're lowering property values."

"Well, screw them, son. There's right and there's wrong and a man has to do what's right. Also, it's not like I'm acting alone here. I got the two guys who do pool maintenance to help me kick some ass over here, and Martin, the guy who moved in across from the Orleys last week, sent over a nice coffee cake. It's got cinnamon crumbs."

"Did you find any rocks?"

"No, not yet. We're still looking. But you know how I told you he might have bought the eggs that messed up our vinyl siding?"


"Well, he didn't. But now all kinds of people are egging this house! That should prove something to you. It's a major accomplishment."

"I don't see what's so great about it."

"If they're egging Bill's house, they can't be egging our house! Try and keep up, son, for goodness' sake."

"How are the kids?"


"Bill's kids."

"Oh, right! Well, they're a bit lippy. I had to smack them around a little to keep them in line."

"What? I thought you were going over to stop that sort of thing!"

"Look, son, it would be nice if we didn't have to beat the kids, but that's the way it goes. I'm sure that they're happier being beaten by me than by that vicious bastard Bill. And pretty soon, I'm going to let them vote about what happens around here!"

"Will they get to vote to make you leave?"

"Don't be ridiculous, son."


"Hey, son!"

"Hey, dad! How goes it over there?"

"Oh, you know, there are good days and there are bad days."

"What are the good days?"

"Well, I've invited a bunch of my work buddies to come over and take a bunch of Bill's stuff."

"Great. And the bad days?"

"Those are when Bill's family keep beating the shit out of me. Or each other."

"Why don't you just come home?"

"I'm accomplishing something here, son! Things are looking up!"

"I've seen the block watch newsletter, dad. Your face looks like hamburger, and Bill's kids are barely alive. Two of them are in comas. You're draining our bank account to pay for repairs to the damage you did to Bill's house, and the whole neighborhood hates you."

"The whole neighborhood except the junior pool maintenance tech. Besides, who are you going to believe, me, or the liars at Neighborhood Watch? This is my house, not Bill's, and if I want to walk around naked, I shall!"

"Gotta go, pops."


"Hey, son!"

"Hey, pops. What's new at Bill's?"

"Frankly, son, Bill's is old news. We're starting to think that Jeff might be stockpiling rocks."

"So…does that mean you're finally going to leave Bill's house?"

"Of course not. It would be irresponsible to leave. There's a bunch of rotten punks trashing his garage, Bill's kids are fighting each other, and the place is a mess. We can't just leave it like this."

"But isn't it all basically your fault?"

"That doesn't mean we can just walk away from our responsibility, son."

"It seems like maybe we could just get a social worker to help, or someone that Bill's kids don't totally hate. Or maybe just send a check."

"Then we wouldn't be able to do as much good as we're doing."

"Uh…like what?"

"Well, we have this new strategy where we beat his kids twice as hard as we did before in hopes they'll stop hating us."

"That seems kinda counterproductive."

"You just don't want us to win."

"I don't even want you to play! What difference does it make if you win or lose?"

"Because I'm your father, that's why."

"Well, couldn't you come up with some way to help his kids that doesn't involve beating them?"

"You just don't understand how the world works, boy."
flavored with age

3, 2, 1, Kontakte

Karlheinz Stockhausen is dead at age 79. I can't claim the kind of knowledge of the man and his works that some of my friends can, but when I was young, he was the first person who made me aware that what I then thought of as "classical music" was not strictly the purview of dead men in powdered wigs. He helped open my ears to the possibilities of electronic, avant-garde, and modern concert music, and, ultimately, jazz. So he'll always mean something to me.