2002-07-10 - 7:15 p.m.
More goofy shit from yesterday�s L.A. Times:
"Some baby boomers--members of a generation that long has prided itself on doing things differently--are embracing ethical wills as a way to put a personal mark on life�s grand finale. Many say the Enron debacle and other corporate scandals have made middle-aged businesspeople rethink their own codes of ethics. The terrorist attacks of Sept. 11 also boosted interest in ethical wills, affording both a reminder of life�s fragility and an incentive to pass along lessons that can grate when delivered at the dinner table. Encompassed in an ethical will, advocates maintain, these same admonitions become loving and sweet."
Someone get me a bucket. Members of one of the most ethically-challenged , self-indulgent and materially wasteful generations in human history--a generation whose greatest contributions to the leadership of the Free World have been Bill Clinton and George W. Bush--nevertheless think they�re so goddamn special that their children and their children�s children will gladly sit still and listen in solemn reverence to their videotaped hypocritical from-beyond-the-grave lectures about the virtues of honesty and thrift? I�ve got 5,000 quatloos here saying most of these posthumous life-lessons get taped over within a year.
Me, I don�t plan on dying in the first place--once my health begins to decline, I�m having my brain transplanted into one of the clones I�ve had specially vat-grown for that purpose. But if I do pass away unexpectedly, each of my descendants is getting a fluffy little brocade pillow embroidered with my life�s credo:
SHOW NO MERCY.
That�s more thoughtful than some long-winded video. And it�s decorative, too.
***
Last night I worked out and then went for my Tuesday Night Booze-Up--the end result being that I missed the All-Star Game.
I�m told I missed a whole lot of nothing. MLB apparently let Debbie Allen sit in on the planning meetings and thereby came up with a pre-game show that made the average Academy Awards dance number look like a somber display of quiet dignity. Then the game itself became confused with the Special Olympics and was called a draw once everyone on both teams had gotten a chance to play. Then Bud Selig was left to explain the whole fiasco to an angry mob of fans and sportswriters.
I feel sorry for Bud Selig, having to answer all these questions all the time. His jaw muscles have been so stretched out from all the constant sucking of club-owner cock that it must really hurt him to talk.
***
So, how was your holiday weekend? Mine was fabulous--and I mean that only in the most heterosexual way. Sort of.
After watching fireworks from my balcony (which has two advantages--one, no having to fight crowds, and two, no having to listen to the zillionth replay of that fuckawful Lee Greenwood song), I went to a party at a friend�s loft. Being in a loft, of course, meant I had to let myself be manhandled up about 30 of the scariest stairs in San Diego by people of good intention but questionable blood-alcohol levels, but it was well worth it--cool people, good music (both a dj upstairs and an Afro-Caribbean band down in the garage), plentiful eye-candy, near-continuous dancing with the aforementioned eye-candy, and lots of beer, vodka and happy-herb. It�s hard sometimes to find an event in this rather vanilla town that befits my reputation as an international bon-vivant and evil genius, but when I do, I�m one happy little megalomaniac.
And that was just Thursday. On Friday I went to see the Breeders (highlight: some moron in the front row makes a wise-ass comment about Kelley Deal�s heroin problems and Kelley responds by flicking her lit cigarette directly at him with pinpoint accuracy--I think I�m in love), and then on Saturday I spent the afternoon at the zoo and capped off the evening with a screening of Dr. Strangelove at one of the museums in Balboa Park. (The museum is showing cult movies several times a week all summer. Coming soon: a week of Russ Meyer films, a John Waters festival on my birthday, and a double feature of Glen or Glenda? and Myra Breckenridge. I should just bring my sleeping bag to the place and camp out in one of the restrooms till Labor Day.)
By the way, just in case anyone out there thinks Dr. Strangelove is dated, there�s one point where the Sterling Hayden character (the "precious bodily fluids" scene, for those who�ve seen it) is lit and shot at such an angle that he bears a truly frightening resemblance to GW. And I don�t mean George Washington.
***
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