And all this time I thought it was Linda Lovelace...

Washinton Post confirms that former FBI official W. Mark Felt was Watergate's "Deep Throat"

Nothing else to say, except that I was really hoping it was Pat Buchanan.

An old McSweeney's story: Deep Throat: Not The Usual Suspects

It's more or less official: I'm leaving Florida on June 13th. As it turns out, I can't take any furniture. Towing a trailer would mean I'd have to drive veeeerrrrry slooowwwwly making an already rough drive a lot longer, and renting a truck/towing the car would cost over $2K. I'll get the desktop, laptop, DVD, VCR, clothes and paperwork into the car, and just take that. The important stuff (books, mostly) has already been shipped and even now is sitting in a garage in Chula Vista.

I think the lesson I'm supposed to learn from this is "how to let go."

New pictures are up on my Flickr page.

First Church of Christ, Jedi

OK. I only have two more paychecks remaining this school year before summer starts. I'm moving cross-country mid-June, with no job lined up. I'm having teeth removed a few days prior to the move, and that's gonna cost some bucks. As I noted in an earlier post I seem to have developed an unfortunate tolerance to novocaine, and another medical condition precludes the use of nitrous oxide... and because I wanna be sedated (cue the Ramones CD), I've got to pony up the ducats for that myself.

I need an infusion of cash, and soon.

So I'll do what hucksters and flim-flam men have done for millenia: I'll found a religion. And since Episode III: Revenge of the Computer-Generated Bantha grossed $150 million over the first four days of its release, that's as good a place as any to start. There's a lot of money there, and there's no reason some of it shouldn't be mine.

The beliefs of the "Church of Christ, Jedi" include:

1. Anakin Skywalker: Born of a virgin (perhaps through parthenogenesis). Jesus Christ: Born of a virgin. If you want to discern the ineffable will of God, whip out your midichloridian detector.

2. Jesus wandered around in the wilderness for forty days (Luke 4: 1,2), where he was tempted by the Sand People and received his father's lightsaber (or, if you prefer, His Father's lightsaber).

3. Matthew 10:34: "I have come to bring not peace, but the sword. Specifically, I have come to bring a big green lightsaber."

4. Jesus's twelve disciples parallel the twelve members of the Jedi Council. They were also proficient in lightsaber combat, as John 18:10 clearly shows: "Then Simon Peter having a sword drew it, and smote the high priest's servant, and cut off his right ear. The servant's name was Malchus." A little known fact: "Malchus" is the Hebrew equivalent of "Jar Jar."

5. Do you need further evidence of Christ's Jedihood? Consider: There's a gospel according to Luke. 'Nuff said.

6. The priesthood of the Church of Christ, Jedi shall be celibate, since the posters for Episode II stated that a Jedi "shall not know love." Um, if I'm going to head up this religion I may need to rethink this one, as I don't see myself sustaining celibacy for any length of time. I think the phrase "The priests of the church shall be celibate except for its founder, who gets to sleep with Natalie Portman and/or Carrie Fisher (who shall wear the outfit from the "Jabba's Palace" scene in Jedi during all conjugal relations)" sounds more reasonable.

7. Darth Vader's ultimate disavowal of the Dark Side in Jedi is the perfect example of the redemptive power of Christ.

8. Jacob's hairy brother Esau? Obviously a Wookie.

9. From Matthew 7: 26: "But everyone who hears these words of mine and does not put them into practice is like a foolish man who built his house on sand." And you know who built his house on sand? JABBA THE HUTT, that's who, and we all know what happened to him... lost his life in a bizarre inter-species erotic asphyxiation accident. Don't fuck with the Jedi, you heretics.

10. Two words: Pontius Palpatine.

I know that there are some theological inconsistencies, but c'mon... creating a dubious new religion is hard work (L. Ron Hubbard's church wasn't created overnight, you know). I'll work out the problems later. As for now, I'm going to stand naked in front of my mirror, and repeatedly murmer "It's not a moon... it's a space station."

In an article about the reaction to Episode III in Beijing, a small number of respondents said that they would like to see Quentin Tarantino direct a future installment of Star Wars. This fact caused a wag over at MonkeyFilter to quip about wanting to see "Han and Lando tooling around in some classic hovercraft, talking about some other planet's intergalacticheeseburgers" in a Tarantino film.

Inspired by this, I bring you:

Top Five Exchanges from Quentin Tarantino's Star Wars

Lando: You know what they call a Quarter Pounder with cheese on Alderaan?
Han: They don't call it a Quarter Pounder with cheese?
Lando: No man, they got the metric system. Plus, they all got blown up by the Death Star. They wouldn't know what the fuck a Quarter Pounder is.

Han: You remember Antoine Roccamora, half black, half Hutt, used to call him Jabba?
Lando: Yeah, maybe. Fat, right?
Han: I wouldn't go so far as to call him fat, I mean he's got a weight problem. What's the brother gonna do? He's a Hutt.

Boba Fett: Describe what Jabba looks like!
Greedo: What, I-?
Boba Fett: [pointing his gun] Say "what" again. SAY "WHAT" AGAIN! I dare you, I double dare you, motherfucker! Say "what" one more goddamn time!
Greedo: He's g-g-green...
Boba Fett: Go on.
Greedo: He's bald...
Boba Fett: Does he look like a bitch?
Greedo: What?
Boba Fett shoots Greedo in the shoulder
Boba Fett: DOES JABBA LOOK LIKE A BITCH?
Greedo: No!
Boba Fett: Then why you try to fuck him like a bitch, Greedo?
Greedo: I didn't.
Boba Fett: Yes you did. Yes you did, Greedo. You tried to fuck him. And Jabba the Hutt don't like to be fucked by anybody, except for Princess Leia when she's wearing the "slave" outfit.

Emperor Palpatine: Bring out Darth Gimp.
Grand Moff Tarkin: I think Darth Gimp's sleepin'.
Palpatine : Well, I guess you'll just have to go wake him up now, won't you?

Obi-Wan Kenobi [in his first scene with Luke]: He'd be damned if any slopes were gonna put their greasy yella hands on his boy's birthright. So Anakin hid it in the one place he knew he could hide something. His ass. Five long years, he wore this lightsaber up his ass. Then when he died of dysentery, he gave me the lightsaber. I hid this uncomfortable piece of metal up my ass for two years. Then, after seven years, I was sent home to my family. And now, little man, I give the lightsaber to you.

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In other entertainment news, my friend Joe sent me the following article which makes me much happier than it probably should: Evil Dead I and II: The Musical

Attention, Democratic politicians: I know that "growing a spine" runs counter to your long-time political strategy of "winning votes through ball-lessness" (yes, I know I've used that line before, so hush). But if you ever decide that you want to hear what a real opposition party member should sound like, then chiggity-check British MP George Galloway's testimony before the Senate.

Sweet mother of fuck, can I vote for that guy?

Not everyone who reads this blog will understand the following link. But those who do will probably find it to be one of the funniest things they've ever read.

Things Heard During John Cage's Folsom Prison Performance of 4'33"

[Context can be found here. Discovered at McSweeney's]

Frequently Asked Questions About The Bone

My blog fame stopwatch is now at 14:57 and rapidly counting down, and I'm unsure how I can best use this small bit of publicity. Do I use my powers for good (perhaps by pleading with people to visit the website for the Save Darfur Coalition to learn how they can help ameliorate the horrific humanitarian crisis in that African region) or for evil (by directing them to a website with pictures of Marshmallow Peeps having sex)?

And then I think about something my friend Theron once said:

Blogs are essentially a contained, ritualistic dialogue between voyeurs and exhibitionists...

... and I think, "What good is a blog if I can't use it for shameless self-promotion?" Here are questions people have been asking about me.

"Frequently Asked Questions," my ass. Who, in fact, asked these?

I did. I wrote them each a hundred times on small scraps of paper with a no. 3 pencil, and then threw said scraps of paper into the fireplace, watching them curl and burn in the flame with a blank expression on my face.

Do you even have a fireplace?

No. I break into other people's houses and use their fireplaces.

This is South Florida, chump. People don't have fireplaces here.

That's not even a question, and anytime you want to drop the whole "fireplace" thing is fine with me.

Your writing and wit make me ache in my womanly parts. Are you single?

I'm getting divorced but I'm not looking for anyone. I'm not (just) a piece of meat, you know.

How did you get your nickname?

Try looking here.

What do you teach?

I currently squander my opera and conducting training as an elementary school music teacher in Miami-Dade County. It's actually a lot of fun.

This blog has been really dour lately. What's the deal?

My angst is Palmolive; I'm soaking in it.

What is the English translation of "gunter glieben glauchen globen?"

"Our one-armed drummer beats his wife."

What is the air-speed velocity of an unladen swallow?

Um, the Broadway success of Spamalot aside, Monty Python references are old and broken. All the cool geek kids are throwing Napoleon Dynamite quotes into conversation these days. But if you really want an answer to that question, go here.

Do chickens have very large talons?

Yes. Yes, they do.

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(I like the websites in the sidebar, and you might too. And please consider visiting the Save Darfur site)

The New Times posse has finally HTML-fied their 2005 "Best Of Broward-Palm Beach" issue. Find the blurb about my little site here, and go here for the blog post quoted in the mini-article.

I'm trying to be all blasè about this, but I'm actually a little giddy.

Other than that, not much is going on. I moved out of my house, and in the process of doing so I sliced open my hand on some broken glass. Tomorrow I'm going to try to pick up really religious girls by telling them it's "stigmata."

UPDATE, 5/13: I just glanced at the currently-displayed posts, and it seems as though this blog hasn't been very "light" or "whimsical" lately, despite statements to the contrary by the New Times. Here are some posts that are a little more humorous...

Improvements made by Mel Gibson for the rerelease of The Passion

Reviews of American Patriotic Songs

The Bone Writes to the Broward County Supervisor of Elections

The So-Called "Bush Doctrine" As Risk Game

UPDATE, 5/14: It just occured to me that I have not as yet thanked the New Times staffer(s) that threw my name out there as someone who should potentially receive this recognition. That's ungracious of me, but I'd like to make amends now by saying: Thanks, anonymous journalist. You are rad.

Greetings, New Times Readers!

I took the day off today to move out of my house. After packing for a few hours this morning I wandered over to Winn-Dixie to acquire a fine breakfast of Pop-Tarts and Dr. Pepper, and on a whim picked up the Broward-Palm Beach New Times, since this week's edition is their annual "Best Of Broward-Palm Beach" issue.

And I almost choked on my strawberry-frosted toaster pastry when I saw that the bone was named as "Best Local Blog."

Weird. That means people actually read this thing. I always assumed that most of my traffic was from friends, or people doing Google searches for the English translation of the phrase "gunter, glieben, glauchen, globen" from the song "Rock of Ages" (as recorded by UK hitmakers Def Leppard).

The New Times site doesn't have a working URL for the 2005 "Best Of" yet, so the "cover story" on the main site redirects to the 2004 edition. I'll link to it once they get their Intarweb working, since I don't want to waste my digital terrain repeating a review that most of today's new readers have ostensibly seen already.

Interestingly, in the print edition I share a page with props given to an independent escort website (representative quote: It's rich with porno), the Florida Renaissance Festival (representative quote: Generally, the word "huzzah"is in short supply these days), and the man recognized as Broward/Palm Beach's "Best Bum." Make of these facts what you will.

And of course this happens when I'm too busy to really maintain the site. The same thing happened last September; I was hurricane blogging (scroll up from there), and my site was posted at the mighty MetaFilter just as my laptop's battery died. Updates should resume Friday night. Be good, kids!

Casey and I started a joint blog. It'll probably die a quick ADD-related death, but for the moment you can find it here: infrequently asked questions

"Good, it is. Up, George Lucas has not fucked it."

Flashboy's excellent (and brilliantly-titled) review of Revenge of the Sith can be found here.

When the going gets tough, the tough get going. Wusses such as myself, however, read poetry under those circumstances.

I haven't done a poetry post in a while, so I offer these verses by Marge Piercy.


One reason I like opera

In movies, you can tell the heroine
because she is blonder and thinner
than her sidekick. The villainess
is darkest. If a woman is fat,
she is a joke and will probably die.

In movies, the blondest are the best
and in bleaching lies not only purity
but victory. If two people are both
extra pretty, they will end up
in the final clinch.

Only the flawless in face and body
win. That is why I treat
movies as less interesting
than comic books. The camera
is stupid. It sucks surfaces.

Let's go to the opera instead.
The heroine is fifty and weighs
as much as a '65 Chevy with fins.
She could crack your jaw in her fist.
She can hit high C lying down.

The tenor the women scream for
wolfs down an eight course meal daily.
He resembles a bull on hind legs.
His thighs are the size of beer kegs.
His chest is a redwood with hair.

Their voices twine, golden serpents.
Their voices rise like the best
fireworks and hang and hang
then drift slowly down descending
in brilliant and still fiery sparks.

The hippopotamus baritone (the villain)
has a voice that could give you
an orgasm right in your seat.
His voice smokes with passion.
He is hot as lava. He erupts nightly.

The contralto is, however, svelte.
She is supposed to be the soprano's
mother, but is ten years younger,
beautiful and Black. Nobody cares.
She sings you into her womb where you rock.

What you see is work like digging a ditch,
hard physical labor. What you hear
is magic as tricky as knife throwing.
What you see is strength like any
great athlete's. What you hear

is still rendered precisely as the best
Swiss watchmaker. The body is
resonance. The body is the cello case.
The body just is. The voice loud
as hunger remagnetizes your bones.

- Marge Piercy, from Colors Passing Through Us

I'm getting personal for a bit. If you're here for "the funny" or "the political ranting," let me reassure you that this confessional style is not something that will become the default tone for this blog. I'll scribble something witty again soon. Feel free to scroll past this entry, and I apologize in advance if it's vague in parts; that's intentional.

I've been reading The Analects by K'ung Fu-tzu (better known to Westerners as Confucius) for the past couple of days. It's really good, once you can see past all of the "reinforcement of heirarchy" stuff. I now feel kind of bad for all the Confucius Say-style jokes I've told over the years.

A couple of the aphorisms I read today particularly stood out. The following quotes are from David Hinton's translation:

The Master said: "If you expect great things of yourself and demand little of others, you'll keep resentment far away." (XV.15)

The Master said: "The noble-minded worry about their lack of ability, not about other people's failure to recognize their ability." (XV.19)

I'm in the process of moving, and I'm not in a position to take much with me. Several boxes of books, a daybed, a computer, some knickknacks, some basic home entertainment gear... in a few days, that's all I'll own in the world (I'm trying to sell my piano since it's too heavy and bulky to store and transport, and I'm just trusting that I'll come up with the money to replace it when I'm settled). I gave away my interest in the house (long story), and although I'm not in immediate danger of starving I'm doing my best to not think too hard about my financial position.

As I read the two sayings quoted above, I realized that I've made all of these sacrifices for the wrong reasons.

I want recognition.

I want it to be said that I've done the right thing, and that my efforts are appreciated.

And not only is that probably not going to happen, it's a mistake for me to make that the rationale for major decisions in my life.

I realized today that it'll be 20 years before the people to whom I'm trying to prove myself will acknowledge my choices as being gracious, if ever. That doesn't let me off the hook in making them. What's important here is not the recognition for the work, but the work itself. I need to remember that.

The "Disappointment to My Parents" Meme

Waveflux tagged me with this sucker. It's rather oddly-titled... I mean, none of this has anything to do with being a disappointment to one's parents, except maybe peripherally. Not that it matters; I'm pretty much a disappointment to everyone.

If I Could Be A Scientist: I'd study nuclear science. I would love my classes, and possibly have a crazy teacher who wears dark glasses. Things would go great, and would only get better. I would be doing all right, getting good grades... and the future would be so bright, I would have to wear shades.

If I Could Be A Musician: I've been a full-time working musician and music teacher for many years now. Of course, I'm nowhere close to being the musician I'd like to be. So I guess my answer to this would be "Me, but more technically accomplished and with a more voluminous composition portfolio."

If I Could Be A Doctor: Albert Schweitzer. But, you know, alive.

If I Could Be A Painter: If we're going on aesthetics, I'd like to be someone like SHAG. If the criterion is temperament, I'd probably be someone like Jackson Pollack.

If I Could Be An Innkeeper: An innkeeper? What the fuck? I don't know of any innkeepers except for the guy that made Mary and Joseph stay in the stable, and even though that would be an entertaining story to tell my Jewish and atheist friends, that dude has probably doing the butterfly stroke in the Lake of Fire for almost two millenia now.

But still... what a story.

Paying it forward: I'm sending this to people who in my opinion don't post frequently enough, so as to give them something to write about. These folks are Space Kitty (even though I probably preempted one of her "painter" choices :P ), Lee at givemethevalium, and Theron at semiselector.

Don't click on the following link at work

An email from my brother:

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FROM: bassclefjohn
TO: bone, jnn., tapehead

SUBJECT: The most...

...biting, vulgar, polemical and surprisingly well-written political blog. Ever? Perhaps. Chris, you must've read this guy's stuff by now.

http://rudepundit.blogspot.com/
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WARNING: This blog, as befits its name, is indeed rude and probably not safe to read at work. For instance, the first post on the front page right now is an extremely graphic tale of the president, um, having sex with a squirrel monkey during a press conference. It's strong coffee, but if you have a vulgar sense of humor and a lot of anger in your soul, you'll probably like it. If you're offended, please don't whine at me; I didn't write the stuff.