Strange Bedfellows at CPAC

A group of gay Republicans
Would tell the truth, they vowed;
These honest, gay, conservatives
Became the GOProud
They would not live life closeted,
Nor with the liberal crowd;
They bravely blazed a different trail—
They were the GOProud
With insight and intelligence
These gay men were endowed;
Their work insured Republicans
Respected GOProud
Conservatives are gathering
To celebrate out loud;
Among the groups responsible,
The mighty GOProud
But there are some conservatives
Who’d keep their brethren cowed;
They will not share the conference with
The sinful GOProud
Some say they pitch a giant tent—
Well, gays are not allowed—
The GOP has bigots, too,
Who shun the GOProud.
Their thoughts are fixed on heaven,
So their heads are in a cloud;
They’d rather miss the conference than
Accept the GOProud
So let the Christian Right demand
Their party wear a shroud;
I’m glad the mainstream GOP
Embraces GOProud.
In the “strange bedfellows” department, the Conservative Political Action Conference (next month, in DC), “the conservative movement’s largest gathering of the year” (NY Times) has lots of daddies.  Including GOProud, the conservative gay organization (because the Log Cabin Republicans were more Gay than Republican, GOProud emerged as the more Republican than Gay alternative).   
Now, I am not a Republican.  But I am very happy to see the mainstream conservative groups sponsoring CPAC are ever-so-slightly more modern less medieval than the [predominately] church-based groups that have refused to share their Big Tent with fellow conservatives who agree with them on better than 90% of their agenda… but who love their fellow men a bit more literally than the bible-bangers can stomach.
The New York Times story focuses on the “Divisions On The Right”, but really, the “divisions” are very meaningfully different.  And this is good news (sorta–bear with me here).  Yes, conservative Christian Pinheads are Homophobic Assholes.  This is Not News.  What is news, though, is that a Gay group is a co-sponsor of the Conservative Political Action Conference.  Yes, it should have happened with the Log Cabin Republicans, and yes, it should not have required even that.   But movement is movement, even if it makes plate tectonics look like speed dating. 

Strange Bedfellows at CPAC

A group of gay Republicans
Would tell the truth, they vowed;
These honest, gay, conservatives
Became the GOProud
They would not live life closeted,
Nor with the liberal crowd;
They bravely blazed a different trail—
They were the GOProud
With insight and intelligence
These gay men were endowed;
Their work insured Republicans
Respected GOProud
Conservatives are gathering
To celebrate out loud;
Among the groups responsible,
The mighty GOProud
But there are some conservatives
Who’d keep their brethren cowed;
They will not share the conference with
The sinful GOProud
Some say they pitch a giant tent—
Well, gays are not allowed—
The GOP has bigots, too,
Who shun the GOProud.
Their thoughts are fixed on heaven,
So their heads are in a cloud;
They’d rather miss the conference than
Accept the GOProud
So let the Christian Right demand
Their party wear a shroud;
I’m glad the mainstream GOP
Embraces GOProud.
In the “strange bedfellows” department, the Conservative Political Action Conference (next month, in DC), “the conservative movement’s largest gathering of the year” (NY Times) has lots of daddies.  Including GOProud, the conservative gay organization (because the Log Cabin Republicans were more Gay than Republican, GOProud emerged as the more Republican than Gay alternative).   
Now, I am not a Republican.  But I am very happy to see the mainstream conservative groups sponsoring CPAC are ever-so-slightly more modern less medieval than the [predominately] church-based groups that have refused to share their Big Tent with fellow conservatives who agree with them on better than 90% of their agenda… but who love their fellow men a bit more literally than the bible-bangers can stomach.
The New York Times story focuses on the “Divisions On The Right”, but really, the “divisions” are very meaningfully different.  And this is good news (sorta–bear with me here).  Yes, conservative Christian Pinheads are Homophobic Assholes.  This is Not News.  What is news, though, is that a Gay group is a co-sponsor of the Conservative Political Action Conference.  Yes, it should have happened with the Log Cabin Republicans, and yes, it should not have required even that.   But movement is movement, even if it makes plate tectonics look like speed dating. 

Congress(7)woman Bachman

A forefather-fetish gets Bachman all wettish,
And frightfully warm in her bloomers
She’s all hot and bothered and “ooh, founding father”ed;
She wants to dispel all the rumors
That the founders she craves were the type to own slaves
And to hold fellow humans in chains
In defense of her crushes her brain turns to mush,
As it quite understandably strains
In this instance we find that love truly is blind
And she really believes what she’s sighing
But when push comes to shove, though it may be true love,
The other true thing is—she’s lying.

By now you have likely seen Congresswoman Michelle Bachman’s Tea Party reaction to the State of the Union Address. And probably some of the reaction to her brand of revisionist history. If not, the couple of videos here will get you up to speed.

I think I have the whole thing figured out. Bachman has a crush on the founding fathers. She’s got a journal somewhere where she has written “Michelle Adams”, “Michelle Madison”, “Michelle Jefferson” and “Michelle Washington” over and over and over… you can tell she gets excited by the way her quill pen sometimes runs out of ink when she forgets to re-dip it, and the exquisitely curled script becomes illegible. I suspect she ran for Congress when she saw definition 7 while looking for definition 1:

Congress(7)woman Bachman

A forefather-fetish gets Bachman all wettish,
And frightfully warm in her bloomers
She’s all hot and bothered and “ooh, founding father”ed;
She wants to dispel all the rumors
That the founders she craves were the type to own slaves
And to hold fellow humans in chains
In defense of her crushes her brain turns to mush,
As it quite understandably strains
In this instance we find that love truly is blind
And she really believes what she’s sighing
But when push comes to shove, though it may be true love,
The other true thing is—she’s lying.

By now you have likely seen Congresswoman Michelle Bachman’s Tea Party reaction to the State of the Union Address. And probably some of the reaction to her brand of revisionist history. If not, the couple of videos here will get you up to speed.

I think I have the whole thing figured out. Bachman has a crush on the founding fathers. She’s got a journal somewhere where she has written “Michelle Adams”, “Michelle Madison”, “Michelle Jefferson” and “Michelle Washington” over and over and over… you can tell she gets excited by the way her quill pen sometimes runs out of ink when she forgets to re-dip it, and the exquisitely curled script becomes illegible. I suspect she ran for Congress when she saw definition 7 while looking for definition 1:

AAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrghghghghgh!

I’ve had broken bones
And kidney stones;
Had migraines wrack my brain
I’ve been cut; I’ve been burned,
And eventually learned
That it doesn’t help much to complain.
I’ve got scars I can trace
Where a dog bit my face
(Well, there’s really no good place to bite us)
Ah, but son of a bitch,
I just can’t stand the itch
Of this damned contact dermatitis!

In the “true tales from the life of Cuttlefish” files, I am going nuts! My hands are shaking with the effort of not scratching (which effort fails miserably), and I can think of nothing but the itching. I want to take a belt sander to my torso, and I think amputating my arms at the shoulder is worth considering. Yes, I’ve called the doctor.

Oh, and all the stuff in the verse is true. The dog was a german shepherd, and it was going for my throat while its owner pulled it back, so it only bit my face. Sitting here, itching, that seems like the good old days.

AAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrghghghghgh!

I’ve had broken bones
And kidney stones;
Had migraines wrack my brain
I’ve been cut; I’ve been burned,
And eventually learned
That it doesn’t help much to complain.
I’ve got scars I can trace
Where a dog bit my face
(Well, there’s really no good place to bite us)
Ah, but son of a bitch,
I just can’t stand the itch
Of this damned contact dermatitis!

In the “true tales from the life of Cuttlefish” files, I am going nuts! My hands are shaking with the effort of not scratching (which effort fails miserably), and I can think of nothing but the itching. I want to take a belt sander to my torso, and I think amputating my arms at the shoulder is worth considering. Yes, I’ve called the doctor.

Oh, and all the stuff in the verse is true. The dog was a german shepherd, and it was going for my throat while its owner pulled it back, so it only bit my face. Sitting here, itching, that seems like the good old days.

Prayer Is The Cure… Why Not The Prevention?

Some eight in ten Americans,
Or so the pollsters said
Believe that prayer saved Gabby’s life,
Though many tears were shed;
The bullet could have broken up
But stayed one piece of lead,
And so did far less damage
As it passed through Gabby’s head;
It missed the major arteries,
And so although she bled
She did not die from loss of blood—
To hospital they sped;
In merely days she showed the signs
While lying in her bed
That Gabby’s health was coming back,
Not hanging by a thread.
So, praying was the answer.
But the comment left unsaid:
If God did this, why not just make
The bullet miss, instead?

Cuttlecap tip to TribalScientist, via twitter

Paul The Octopus, Honored

Octopuses come and go—
So must, of course, we all—
A final act, celebrity
Does nothing to forestall;
But there was one eight-legged sort
Who held us in his thrall
The octopus-cum-oracle
We came to know as Paul.
A bit of zoo publicity
You probably recall:
Presented with two choices,
Toward the winner he would crawl!
His name lives on in legend;
Now he takes a curtain call,
With a statue and memorial,
Where he sits atop a ball.
NPR has the story, and pictures of the monument.

On A Personal Note…

After a lingering illness that took his mind, his bodily functions, his personality, and his dignity, the husk that used to be my brother in law finally lost his life.   Within a year, I have lost a brother suddenly, and a brother in law slowly.   I’m feeling quite mortal these days.
I had a friend who contemplated suicide a few years ago.  She was in her mid 30’s, widowed, suffering from depression; she quite rationally looked at the possibility of 30-50 years of pain and suffering, and nearly ended it.  She has not told me what stayed her hand; I once thought it was the realization that, whatever this life holds, it is “better than nothing”, and that is the choice.  Watching my brother in law, I realize how naïve I was to think that.  
It is perhaps understandable that I have been watching Christopher Hitchens as he fights his cancer.  He has retained his intellect, his wit, his self, through great pain, discomfort, weakness, and cancer’s best attempts to steal his dignity.  Storms, landslides, illnesses, lunatics with weapons… there are so many different ways to die, and none of us get out alive.  … I’m not going anywhere with this, just free associating.  Like I said, I’m feeling mortal.  Hug your loved ones.  
If you ever get the chance to visit me in the hospital (very unlikely, I’ll grant you), bring me the oldest bottle of scotch you can find, and a bottle of pain pills.   If you can talk me into taking both, then it’s likely for the best.  If I refuse the pills, have a drink with me, and we can have a great talk. 
And visit frequently.  Just in case.
Oh, yeah, right, a verse…
There once was a man who, with pride,
Said he’d never let dreams go untried—
So he spent ninety years
Building hopes, taming fears,
And then—far, far too early—he died.

This post is likely not going to stay up for long.  I just had to say something somewhere.  So if it vanishes, it doesn’t mean you were hallucinating.  Or, to be honest, that you were not.

The Mediocrity Principle

I want a special planet,
One created just for me;
I want a perfect paradise
A garden, can’t you see?
That waited through eternity
For my exalted birth—
But Eden is a myth, so I
Will settle for the Earth.
It’s not so bad, as planets go,
I’ll do just fine with Earth.

I want a special status
Where I’m more than just a beast;
With godlike comprehension
Or intelligence, at least;
Created sui generis
And not evolved from goo—
But rather than be fictional,
Humanity will do.
I’m going to have to face the facts;
Humanity will do

I want a special function,
Or a purpose, or a plan;
I want to be much better than
The ordinary man;
I want to be a shining star
Whom everyone can see—
The odds are astronomical;
I might as well be me.
The product of my history,
I might as well be me.

I want a special talent
That’s the product of my mind;
I want to be a genius
Of the greatest, grandest kind;
Where Shakespeare, in comparison,
Would just give up and curse—
But dreams are not reality;
I think I’ll write this verse.
I’ll never be a Shakespeare,
But at least I wrote this verse.

Why “The Mediocrity Principle”? Here. Cuttlecap tip to PZed.