Compostcompote

The more I think about it, the more I think Bishop Earl Paulk might be onto something with the whole "Kingdom Relationship" idea. I mean, if a "Kingdom Relationship" negates the whole, "Thou Shall Not Commit Adultery" thing, aren't we all pretty much free and clear?

I'm composing a list of men with whom I would like to have a Kingdom Relationship. This is what I have so far:

1) John Stewart
2) Stephen Colbert (not necessarily in that order, although it makes sense if you consider that John's TV show comes on _before_ Stephen's)
3) The really hot man I saw in a cafe last week (name not available, nor required)
4) George Clooney -- wait! He's not married! Does a "Kingdom Relationship" cover general fornication or would one of us have to be married?

That's enough for now. I don't need a whole stack of restraining orders.

Bishop Earl Paulk of Atlanta's Chapel Hill Harvester Mega-Church is back in the news. Several female members of his congregation have accused him of coercing them into sexual relationships, many of which spanned years. Now, I’m not saying he raped them. Rather, he convinced them that it was God’s will for them to commit adultery with him.

According to an article in Sunday’s AJC, some of Paulk’s best pick-up lines include:

“You and I have a special gift of love outside holy matrimony.”

“You are a special handmaiden of the Lord who has been placed in (Paulk’s) life for a special cause – serving the kingdom of God.”

We’re going to have “special, Kingdom relationships not bound by earthly interpretations of morality.”

And it worked! Evidently, Earl (and his brother/fellow pastor Don and a couple of assorted Paulk nephews) scored big-time with the ladies at church.

If you are an ordinary person (i.e., not a member of a Charismatic Megachurch), you’re probably thinking, “what a bunch of stupid women. Who’d fall for lines like that?” Thing is, when you’ve been trained from birth – or at least from conversion – to obey male leadership without question, you can and probably will believe some shyster with a Bible and an erection.

Churches such as Chapel Hill Harvester, an independent Charismatic church, answer to no one – except the immediate church leadership (Bishop Paulk and Co.). Church members are taught to submit to the leadership of the church as a means of honoring – and submitting – to God. And if God wants you to bang the pastor, well you’d better start undressing.

Those of you who read my blog know I’m a sassy thing, but I’m not exaggerating the control that a minister has over a congregation, particularly if it’s one of those “the Bible is the absolute literal Word of God,” churches. These groups almost always push an agenda based upon submission. And what they mean by this is that women must submit to the men in their lives, whether it’s a father, husband, brother, or pastor.

Like extreme Muslims, Evangelical Christians don’t think much of women – unless they’re naked and submissive…and even then, these folks will turn around and blame the woman when the, ahem, “Kingdom relationship” becomes public, which is exactly what Paulk has done. He says those women initiated all the affairs and he, apparently, was powerless to say no. Sounds as if someone isn’t praying hard enough, Bishop.

At any rate, I have a solution to the larger problem. People should read the Bible for themselves and decide what they want to believe. Of course, that would require a certain amount of discipline (and reading ability), and God knows (really, God does!) how much Americans hate to read.

Also, we should leave submission where it belongs: in the S&M community. These people have chosen to be either Dominants or Submissives, and they know how to play the game. From what I hear, they also have special “safe” words that they use when the hi-jinks get to be too much. Those poor, deluded women (and men) at Chapel Hill Harvester didn’t even have that.

That's right. The Bush Administration has identified "Environmental Terrorists" as the most serious terrorist threat in the U.S., and you know as well as I that where there are environmentalists there are vegans. These non-meat-eating extremists expect red-blooded Americans to eschew (as in, don't chew) meat and meat products, such as dairy (almost everything found at Dairy Queen, dang it!).

But the government is on to these vegans. A dear friend forwarded an article to me that described the government in action. In this case, it was the DeKalb County (GA) Division of Homeland Security; these brave, patriotic souls were casing a vegan protest against a HoneyBaked Ham store on Buford Highway in late 2003. When one dangerous, meat-despising liberal jotted down the license plate of an undercover DeKalb County Homeland Security detective's car, this stalwart representative of our government arrested her scrawny, tofu-loving self. First, he demanded that she turn over the piece of paper on which she'd written down his license number; when the radical refused, the detective took her to the Big House.

And now the ACLU of Georgia wants to sue the U.S. of A. because they think the government is engaged in unconstitutional surveillance! What is this country coming to, I ask! Why, if the vegans are allowed to take over, the fast food restaurants will go under! No more ice cream! No more cheese! No more frozen yogurt, for the love of God! Not to mention how difficult it would be to find a patty melt. We'll be left with thin, healthy people, which translates into less business for doctors, drug companies, and insurance plans. Not to mention a surplus of cows.

Any sane person could see how disastrous this would be. Thank God we've got a Christian president who sees these threats for what they are and isn't afraid to fight them. I feel sure Osama bin Laden sees, too, and I'll bet he's shaking in his sandals.

I'm just going to lay it out for you -- I don't approve of the Bush Administration's Spy Games. Listening in on Americans' phone calls without getting that special court's permission (which, apparently, is pretty damn easy) up to _72 hours_ after the actual spying part is just plain lazy.

I hate most everything about the Bush Administration, from the cow-towing to religious nuts to the race bating to the sheer stupidity of our Commander in Chief (and God help me, I hate the fact that this moron is the President). I despise the fact that the Supreme Court is about to be taken over by a bunch of over-privileged little men who hate women (yet love fetuses -- fetusi?) and black people (yes, Clarence Thomas, I think you are consumed with self-loathing), and the environment. The supreme arrogance of the Bush Administration, as the whole Iraq debacle demonstrates more powerfully each day, will probably be cataloged in history books 100 years from now -- if the U.S.A. is still a viable country by then.

But having to listen to Alberto Gonzales explain that the Administration just doesn't have time to be through the hassle of applying for FISA permission, having to fill out the paperwork, explain why they needed to listen in on these phone calls -- hell, that's just insulting! It's also lazy, lazy, lazy.

I'm sick to death of the Bush Administration stomping all over the Constitution, acting as if there is no such thing as checks and balances and separation of powers. And I'm even more sick that Americans don't seem to be overly alarmed by the fact that their government is spying on them.

Well, I hope the Bush Administration is tracking me because right now I'm giving each and every one of them my middle finger.

Love,

Gardener (but they already know all about me, I'm sure)

I’m not big on mixing food together. When I was growing up and attending four family reunions each year (big family, both sides), I grew fond of those Styrofoam, sectioned plates. You could put your green beans in one slot, your squash casserole in another, and your sweet potato casserole in yet another place and know that none of it would get mixed together before you ate it. I don’t dig green beans in my sweet potato casserole, so the “segregated” (as my goofy cousins called them) plates were ideal.

Now I do like some foods mixed together. For example, I love black-eyed peas and collard greens all in a pile. In fact, I just had a plate-full, and it was better than some of the sex I’ve had (I’m sorry to say!). I also like to mix scrambled eggs with grits…and those of you who are thinking, “Yuck! Grits!” haven’t had _my_ grits. My pal Kary, who is from one of those cold states in the Midwest, raves about my cheese grits so I know I’m not just kidding myself.

The point is, some things go well together – chocolate and peanut butter; black-eyed peas and collard greens; George Clooney and, well, yours truly! And some things should never, ever be combined. Things that are quite acceptable on their own, such as green beans and sweet potato casserole, are hideous together.

Religion and politics are two things that, in my opinion, call for the old “segregated” plate. Many people reading my blog probably assume I hate religion, and that’s not true. Like many good Southern girls, I was raised in the church and I know my Bible (and the Apostles’ Creed, the Lord’s Prayer, and lots of old hymns by heart). Even though organized religion gives me the heebie-jeebies these days, I can honestly say I still love Jesus. In fact, I probably love Jesus more than I’ve ever loved any man. But some of his followers scare the hell out of me.

I’m also a follower of politics, an avid voter, and a long-time Progressive Democrat. I believe that politics, justly applied, can do a lot to improve peoples’ lives. I am a staunch Democrat because I believe the Dems do a better job of applying politics justly to more people than do the Republicans. In a perfect world, however, I would vote Green Party and feel confident that my vote wouldn’t serve to elect the likes of George W.

What I don’t like or trust is this nasty mixing of religion and politics as practiced by the “New Evangelicals,” or as I prefer to call them, “Neo-Puritans.” These folks are great at lip-service, but as my buddy at Emilyviolet (a terrific blog – you should read it) describes, Evangelicals positively suck at serving people who are poor, sick, gay, mentally ill, or otherwise “different.” Evangelicals seem to be a lot more interested in tax cuts than they are in serving others, which flies in the face of everything Jesus taught. I have to wonder if these folks read the New Testament at all; I suspect the majority of them are content to attend their mega-churches and soak up everything the Rod Parsley’s, John Hagee’s, and Jerry Falwell’s of the world spew out of their mouths. I also suspect they spend a lot of time during the week listening to other “religious” leaders such as Neil Bortz, Rush Limbaugh, and Bill O’Reilly (even my very conservative father says O’Reilly is a “pompous ass.” This is one thing we agree on, thank goodness.).

Back to religion…I believe it is in the book of Matthew that Jesus says, “as you have done it unto the least of these, you have done it unto me...and as you have done it not to these, you have done it not to me.” If you are an Evangelical Christian who believes the Bible should be taken literally, it’s tough to get away from the meaning of these verses. If you believe what Jesus is saying, you can’t go around suggesting that the United States needs to kill Hugo Chavez (Pat Robertson). If you really believe what the Bible says, you have to love Hugo Chavez because Jesus does. And you have to be kind to the poor and sick and mentally ill because that’s what Jesus did. You also have to do what is just, not what is politically expedient (Tom Delay? Ralph Reid? I’m talking to you. Or, rather, Jesus is, via the New Testament.).

If Evangelicals were really practicing what the New Testament teaches, they wouldn’t all be voting Republican, railing against illegal immigrants, and bitching about the public schools. They would be actively engaged in service to others, and people would be falling all over themselves to join up. Seriously! If Christians were actually living what Jesus taught in the New Testament, there would be no gated communities, a lot fewer homeless people, adequate treatment centers for the mentally ill/substance abusers, better schools for all kids (not just the rich, white ones), etc.

The Christians who do strive to follow Jesus’ teachings stand out so vividly they practically shine. I know people like this: Renee, June, Wanda, Tim, Matt, Gayle, Abby, Barbara, Ron…and lots more I won’t name. I have so much respect and love for these folks, and I make a point to think of them every time some crazy-ass, so-called Christian mouths off about how all Gay people are going to hell unless they “turn straight.”

Christians ought to be involved in politics, but they shouldn’t be ruled by politics. The idea that all Christians must be Republicans (or Democrats, for that matter) is both offensive and ludicrous (not the rapper, Ludacris. I have no idea what his political affiliation is, though I do know he lives in Decaturrrrr! with the Indigo Girls. Talk about strange bed-fellows!).

In the same way, politics can – and probably should – be influenced by various people’s religious beliefs. However, politics shouldn’t be so closely linked to one religious group that you can’t tell the two apart.

So I guess I’m saying this: you can have religion and you can have politics, and the two can influence each other…but if you mix them together you wind up with a nasty mess that nobody can swallow.

Yesterday, I read an article entitled, "Girl Gets Bird Flu After Kissing Chicken." The little girl in question lives in, I believe, Turkey, and the bird in question was her "pet" chicken. Apparently, the chicken was dying and she kissed it goodbye. On the mouth. If a beak is actually considered a mouth.

Now, I love animals, too, and I've been known to kiss my kitty-cats on the tops of their heads, but I absolutely abhor mouth-kissing between humans and animals. My pal, D., actually lets his dog lick him on the face! I can't even watch that without channeling Lucy Van Pelt: "AAARRGGH!! I've been kissed by a dog! Get the disinfectant!" I like dogs, but I have no desire to French-kiss them.

So don't go kissing chickens (or any other animal) on the mouth. It is unsanitary, and you might get the Bird Flu. Also, it is creepy.

While we're at it, don't go kissing Ann Coulter or Sean Hannity on the mouth, either. I have a strong suspicion that they've spent a good bit of time sniffing around George Bush's nether-regions. You'd be better off letting a dog lick your face, and you already know how I feel about that.

When Pat Robertson (a.k.a. Crazy Fool -- see my previous blog entries) announced last week that Ariel Sharon's massive stroke was God's punishment for Sharon's willingness to work with the Palestinians, I resisted my usual urge to mock him relentlessly in this blog. Not that I wasn't amused by C.F.'s latest pronouncement. It's just that mocking C.F. is too easy these days.

My parents, who are good people who nevertheless voted for our primate-in-Chief, had the best explanation I've heard for C.F.'s ridiculous charges. They suspect he has some form of dementia, and I'm thinking they might be right.

I realize those smart South Park boys wouldn't let a little thing like Alzheimer's deter them -- they regularly mock the mentally disabled, so I feel sure they have a Robertson-themed show in the works (and I am also sure it will be screamingly funny. I love those guys, even when they make me feel smarmy for laughing.). But I'm just not that cool. In truth, I'm not cool at all, which makes me cool in some quarters. You're not? Well, then you are! Very confusing.

So I suppose I'll back off on C.F. for a while. After all, there are tons of other people I could mock and not feel a twinge of guilt. Ann Coulter? You're on my list, and it ain't no gift list, missy!

Okay, one parting shot. Are Dick Cheney's many ailments God's punishment for a lifetime of being a dick? Or is Dick Cheney America's punishment for being stupid enough to elect (then reelect) a bunch of neocons (hey, that sort of rhymes with morons)?

When I was a young teenager, my cooler older cousin Jill explained about the elevator dance. See, whenever you get into an elevator alone (or with someone else who is in the know, such as a cooler, older cousin), you’re supposed to dance in a writhing, Soul Train sort of way, shimmying all around that little suspended cage from the time the doors close until right before they open. The trick is to stop dancing before anybody else gets on…and to look as if you were doing anything except busting a move barely seconds prior. If you get caught, the jig is up. You’ve got to be smooth, so smooth nobody knows about your secret, groovy dance moves. The elevator dance is the opposite of what Napoleon Dynamite demonstrated (so masterfully, I might add) in the movie of the same name.

In the years since, I have danced in many an elevator. I have also shared the elevator dance with those who need to know (and who will, I hope, share the dance with other enlightened souls). The elevator dance was intended as a lark – I think my cousin and her brother invented it during a family vacation. You know the kind: your family is staying in some Holiday Inn at some beach and you’re too young to go off by yourselves so you spend a lot of time riding the elevators and having ice fights in the stairwells. However, I found an actual purpose for the elevator dance several years ago when I was working as a temporary in Atlanta.

At the time, I was in my mid-twenties and intent upon nothing more than working just enough to pay my rent and subsidize my concert-going hobby. I saw some great shows during that period, and I also worked in lots of big buildings in town. One job required me to hand-deliver “important papers” to the big cheeses whose palatial offices took up the entire penthouse suite of a 55-floor building (that shall remain unnamed). I worked on the 6th floor, but when I made a delivery, I had to take the express elevator which was frighteningly like the one in Willy Wonka that flew through the roof. Of course, I thought about flying through the roof every time I got on the express elevator. I also thought about the possibility of getting stuck in that elevator, which skipped floors 10 through 50. How long would it take the elevator repairperson to rescue you from the express elevator if you got stuck between stops? Claustrophobic much?

But the cheeses had to have their vital documents, and I needed money for Ticketmaster, so deliver I did. What calmed my nerves and made it all possible was good, Irish whiskey…kidding!! It was the elevator dance, of course. Every time I made a delivery, I practiced what Jill taught me long ago: ever so demurely, I waited until the gleaming doors enclosed me into that potential death-trap, looking like the fine, young professional I most definitely was not. As soon as I was sealed in, I commenced shaking my money-maker all over that elevator. The trick is to use your whole body, not just your booty, like some idiot frat boy who never moves his feet and bites down on his lower lip because his pledgemaster told him chicks dig that. Think Soul Train – shake anything that will shake and even a few things that probably shouldn’t.

I did the elevator dance every time I had to ride the express elevator; miraculously, there was never anybody else on the elevator with me, although I suspect that somewhere on the Internet there are bootlegged security tapes of a crazy woman flailing around in an elevator. I am not ashamed. The elevator dance kept me from hyperventilating during the dizzying ascent, and I always got a little thrill when, as the elevator stopped and the doors opened into the CEO’s realm, I stepped out all composed and appropriately dressed to present my offering to the captains of industry (or, at least, their executive assistants).

I was thinking about the elevator dance today and wondering how all those folks who took money from Jack Abramoff (a guy I can only assume is not a very good Jew, Orthodox or no) are coping with _that_ stress. Are the high-rises in D.C. full of nervous politicos slam-dancing in elevators, or are they merely banging their heads on their office desks? Personally, I wouldn’t be sorry if an express elevator filled with the likes of Abramoff, Scanlon, Tom Delay, and Georgia’s own poster boy for hypocrisy, Ralph Reed, blasted through the top of the Peachtree Plaza and into the Stratosphere.

Let’s boogie!

When I first drove by the Krispy Kreme on Ponce de Leon, I couldn’t help but notice the “Hot Doughnuts Now” sign was on. It took every ounce of willpower to keep driving toward my damn appointment. Since I had to take a physical, I figured I probably shouldn’t load up on sugar and caffeine (doughnuts and coffee) _before_ the exam, so I practiced the art of delayed gratification and waited. Of course, by the time I skidded into the parking lot for “Hot Doughnuts Now” the sign had been turned off and I had to settle for “cold doughnuts jetz.” Anybody who knows jack about Krispy Kreme knows how sublime a fresh, glazed doughnut is; however, even a cold Krispy Kreme is better than a lot of hot other things, so I settled in with a chocolate- glazed, custard-filled and a cup of strong coffee.

The doughnuts haven’t changed since I lived a couple of blocks from Ponce in the early 90’s. Back then, Midtown was still a little scruffy – white guys in nondescript cars would follow women out walking in the neighborhood and offer them cash for sex. Men looking for men cruised the streets behind what was then First Baptist of Atlanta, near the corner of 5th and Peachtree Streets. And the Ponce Krispy Kreme was a dingy, little establishment filled with homeless folks, musicians, and former Mayor Bill Campbell’s infamous Red Dog Squad (a supposedly elite group of Atlanta Police that acted more like a well-armed militia – nobody messed with those guys). From my tiny backyard four blocks away, I could smell the Krispy Kremes cooking, which led to more than a couple of midnight runs for deep-fried bread.

How to describe a Krispy Kreme? A hot K.K. is sugary, glazed Zen. It’s a poem on your tongue. The fact that it is also a coronary waiting to happen matters not (and that is only an issue if one over-indulges, which one should not do. End of sermon. I will now pass the collection plate.).

Visiting a Krispy Kreme store is also great fun, since you get to see the doughnuts on their little assembly line, inching their way toward the inevitable glazed sugar waterfall through which all doughnuts _should_ pass. The Ponce store has been expanded, revamped, cleaned-up, and de-homeless-ified, as has much of Atlanta. The entire city, like Midtown, is well-scrubbed condo-land now, though a few odes to scruffiness remain: The Eagle, a leather bar; Clark Music; and a couple of package stores still line Ponce. And, praise the Goddess of small things, the doughnuts are still as tempting as ever.

My best friend’s boyfriend is a total music guy. Not only is he a fine musician in his own right, he is also someone with fine musical taste. Their house is music central – seriously, they are constantly educating me on musical trends, history, you name it, and I am thankful for the help. Just this past weekend, I was treated to Joe Cocker’s Mad Dogs and Englishmen concert DVD. I can now say with certainly that Joe Cocker always acted like he had Parkinson’s disease when he performed. Before I knew K & D (best friend and boyfriend – identities protected by my hyper-encrypted use of their initials rather than full first names), I thought Brian Jones was one of the Rev. Jim Jones’ illegitimate children. Now I know enough about the Brian Jonestown Massacre/Dandy Warhols epic tale to “get” those not-so-cloaked references on Gilmore Girls.

So, yes, I am learning and evolving (since I was “a surprise” – my parents’ term for unplanned pregnancy – I can’t claim any type of intelligent design) as a musical fan. However, unlike D, I still lay claim to some questionable music. Right now, for example, I am listening to the Psychedelic Furs’ “Love My Way,” which reminds me of being a teenager in the 1980’s and working at Kentucky Fried Chicken. And they say smell is the biggest memory jab! I would argue for sound any day.

Every time I hear Hall & Oates’ “Say it isn’t so” I think about riding around at night with my cousin Jill in her red Capri. Mention the B-52’s, and I have a raft of memories that span the gamut from riding the bus in 9th grade (“Private Idaho”) to the Laser Show at Stone Mountain, GA (“Song for a Future Generation”) to my first “real” job (the whole “Cosmic Thing” album fits here). R.E.M. symbolizes being out on my own for the first time, while Nirvana means getting in touch with my angry side (I’m calmer now, but I still love me some Nevermind).

While I also like a lot of music that the critics like – Alison Krause & Union Station, Lucinda Williams, Steve Earle when he’s not too preachy, and U2 sans that horrible “Pop” period – I find myself drawn to the cheesy, more-than-a-little embarrassing acts that most people don’t like to admit they like.

So I will. I like Cher. I don’t care if you don’t. Cher doesn’t care, either. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Cher will still be a goddess when Brittany Spears et al are dried up old thangs (which should be right about now, I’m thinking). “If I could turn back time” is fabulous. End of story. Also, “Dark Lady” and “Gypsies, Tramps & Thieves.” The thing I love about Cher – okay, I love almost everything about Cher, but I’m focusing on a few particulars – is her sheer resilience. She started out singing along with Sonny Bono, who was a master of marketing if not a great singer (or skier, God rest his Republican soul), then graduated to Variety Show land and proved that she could do comedy and even act. A combined movie and musical career followed. Even now, when Cher is well into her 50’s, I wouldn’t trade her for a container truck full of Mariah Carey, Celine Dion, Beyonce, Whitney “my pupils are permanently dilated” Houston, Brittany, Christina Gag-ulara, blah, blah, blah. Because that’s what all these so-called Divas are: a bunch of boring-ass blah, blah, blah. Emphasis on the blah.

Speaking of which, Elton John also bores me to tears these days. I love my mother, but when she starts talking about how much she loves all those Elton John songs in “The Lion King”, I realize exactly what has gone wrong with E.J.’s career. Some of you are probably thinking, “but don’t you like cheesy music?” Of course. “The Lion King” soundtrack isn’t cheesy; it’s just really, really sucky music. Cheesy, to my mind, implies some degree of cleverness, a little self-deprecation – that one line or musical rift that says, “I know this is bullshit. I meant it that way. I’m not a complete moron.” True cheese is postmodern in its too-cool-for-school, I’m-a-step-ahead-of-you wittiness. When Fred Schneider (B-52’s) sings, “I’m in shipping, if you’re receiving!” you know he gets the reference – probably because he has both “shipped” and “received” many times. But do you think Brittany Spears actually knows what chaotic means?

But back to E.J. He kicked butt in the 1970’s with a string of amazing albums (not CD’s, you young studs, actual vinyl). “Funeral for a Friend” still gives me chills, and “Love Lies Bleeding” rocks harder than a million 80’s hair bands competing on Star Search. Even so, a great musician such as E.J. has a cheesy side, and I love his fat, disagreeable self for it. I am speaking about “Rock of the Westies”, of course. This is E.J. at his cheesiest, touring with the ugliest band ever and gleefully belting out some of the most politically-incorrect tunes you’ll never hear on the radio again.

“Island Girl,” for example, is a paean to a Haitian hooker who, apparently, kills her johns when she’s done with them (you go, girl!). With lines like “Island Girl! Black Boy want you in his island world,” Elton isn’t doing anything to help the cause of race relations. Ditto with “Grow Some Funk of Your Own,” in which E.J. whines about not being able to hook up with Mexican hotties because their boyfriends are too protective. “Grow some funk of your own, amigo!” says the Mexican boyfriend in question. He continues: “We no like to with the gringo fight, but there might be a death in Mexico tonight if you don’t grow some funk of your own.” As a feminist, I’m not sure what to do with the whole “grow your own” metaphor, but as a lover of cheesy songs, I have to say (again), “go, girl!” (this time, directed at Elton John).

Gosh, all this talk about music is making me want to go spend that Borders’ gift card my brother and nephew gave me for Xmas. On the musical list? U2’s latest, The Killers, “Hot Fuss”, the best of Mother’s Finest (awesome Atlanta-based Funk Rock group from the late 70’s/early 80’s), and some sort of best-of-Disco compilation.

D, K: you can only do so much with my musical tastes! Just be glad I know that Robbie Robertson played with The Band (and that I know The Band has nothing whatsoever to do with reality show, “Making the Band”).