After complaining on a local radio talk show about West Virginia becoming a "police state" and detailing his belief that our government has become too intrusive into lives of citizens, Constitution Party gubernatorial wanna-be and pastor Butch Paugh was asked by host Tom Roten how he'd handle the issue of gay marriage, should Paugh ever become governor(at the 8:00 minute mark on the 8/28/08 podcast).
Paugh's response: As governor, he'd like to be able to identify and imprison homosexuals for, as he says, their crimes against nature and mankind.
Even Uber-Con Tom Roten was dumbfounded by the jacknuttiness.
Roten seemed to almost gulp before he asked the next question.
Paugh's comments demonstrate one thing: what constitutes a "police state" and whether or not a government is too intrusive depends upon how one perceives the world. And from my perspective, Paugh's world-view is frightening.
Something about the headline, Licensed To Pipe, from the Charleston (WV) Gazette reminded me of the classic SNL character, Fred Garvin, Male Prostitute.
Don't know Fred?
Dan Akroyd's character was Matt Foley before Chris Farley was in Middle School.
Tom Cruise may have his career back on track, thanks in large part to his latest role in Tropic Thunder. But he's still not enjoying the can-do-no-wrong artistic mojo he weilded in the early 90s.
As I reflect on his career, I think I know why: Cruise's movies are better accepted and better reviewed when he dances, but doesn't take himself -- or his dancing --too seriously.
In Risky Business: Cruise's character lived by the motto "Sometimes you gotta say 'What the fuck." And his loosey-goosey, what the fuck attitude helped endear him to the audience. As a result, Risky Business was a hit, and Cruise became a major star.
In The Color Of Money, Cruise combined his dancing around the pool table with a smarmy, arrogant grin that let the audience in on Cruise's belief that he'd made the big-time. The goofy dance with the pool cue, combined with that way-too-thick hair made me want to hit him in the face with a broken Bud bottle.
(Plus, he ruined a perfectly good Clapton song.)
Cocktail...
Man, Cruise really believed his stuff was gold in this flick. I mean, the sneer, the weird laugh, the perfect hair -- it's all there. Along with the pansy-ass dancing, of course.
Really. Bad. Dancing.
After the couch jump on Oprah, the whole Scientology thing, dumping a talented (and hot) Nicole Kidman to marry that chick from Dawson's Creek and that strange Today Show interview with Matt Lauer, Cruise saw his career headed south. He had to get back to basics.
So, he danced again in Tropic Thunder.
But this time he did it with humility, and humor. And he did it with style.
And it worked. Welcome back, Tommy. Dance more, my friend. Dance in your underwear or dance in strange prosthetics, but don't stop dancin'! Your career depends on it.
UPDATE: Well, YouTube dropped video of Cruise dancing in Tropic Thunder. Go see the flick, you'll see what I mean.
During my late teens and early twenties I had a series of strange, surreal dreams that had a recurring theme: in each, I was covered top to bottom with small, white "potato-eye" looking buds that grew out of my skin. As I'd wipe off or break off a bud, another one grew in it's place.
Bigger, thicker and harder to get rid of.
People in my dreams didn't seem to notice my dilemma, and when I'd point out to them the bizarre vegetation covering my body, they'd suggest I was over-reacting. If I'd just be calm, they said, it would all be OK. I never calmed, and it was never OK. In my dreams these "potato-eye" looking things took over my body, completely covering me from head to toe.
What's that you said about my need for control, Dr. Freud?
Whatever...
The Ruinsreminded me of my old series of dreams. The movie, which tells the story of twenty-somethings who stumble upon the ruins of a centuries-old Mayan temple, employs intelligent, killer vegetation that craves and consumes human blood as a main plot device. But that's where the similarities between the movie and my dreams end.
Because my dreams were more entertaining, more suspenseful and scarier than this movie!
Sometimes -- usually late at night and, maybe-not-so-coincidentally, after a couple of stiff shots of whisky --a very tiny and very imaginary Duct Tape Bandit and I hang out and discuss the jacknuttiness of life.
Last night, just as I finished my third shot and chaser, I heard a small commotion in the guest room, where The Bandit's been sleeping for a couple of months. I stepped inside the room, and saw a cleaned-up Bandit fixing his tie.
(It was a bolo tie, but a tie nonetheless.)
"Why the tie?" I asked The Bandit. "You got a hot date?"
The Bandit guffawed: "Naw, no date. I'm a-fixin' to go see da gov'ner."
I wasn't sure I heard him correctly, so I asked for clarification. "The governor of West Virginia? You mean, Joe Manchin?"
"Gov'ner Manix, MoJo, whatever people call'em these days. I hear Mojo meets wit' people all da time to hear their beefs, and I gots a beef. I'm gonna be sentenced in a few weeks for some things I done across the river, and I figure Mojo might be willin' to talk to da judge for me. You know, put da fix in for a lighter sentence."
"Why would he do that, Bandit? Governor Manchin doesn't interfere in the legal system for people. Especially for people from outside the Mountain State. Bandit, I gotta remind you, dude: you're from Kentucky!"
"Dat's not what I hear,"snorted The Bandit. "Iheard somewheredat Mojo was helpin' out some Yankee-based chemical plant by fixin' it's beef with da judge. You probably saw da movie 'bout it, the one about da West Virginia town dat got sick from da chemicals. It starred that chick from Pretty Woman, Ellen Brokowitch."
"The movie was Eren Brockovich, and it starred Julia Roberts, Bandit. And the movie was not about the townspeople of Spelter, West Virginia who were made sick by environmental contamination. The movie was about something else. But that's besides the point; the point is, the governor is not going to see you, much less commute your sentence."
I felt sort of sorry for the guy, really. The Bandit's view of life is sometimes way too simple.
"Can't hurt to try, man." The Bandit finally got the tie just right, turned away from the mirror and started for the door. " It worked for da freak who thinks dat driver's licenses are da damn mark of da beast."
Around age 14, I discovered my Dad's stash of adult magazines hidden in his closet. I'd wait until he and Mom went to the store, to visit a friend or whatever (it didn't matter where they went, as a drive to anywhere was at least a 30 minute trip) and sneak into their room, find the Club and Hustler magazines and [ahem] read them.
I read 'em real good.
He suspected, I think, but he never knew for sure.
I don't have a lot in common with my dad. He is nearly bald, and I have hair. Lots and lots of hair. We don't share the same beliefs about life, and we have different views on religion. Dad still counts himself a Bush supporter, even though it's not trendy to be so. Given his druthers my old man would stay at home all the time, and avoid interacting with other people. Dad needs the fewest people in his life than anyone I've ever known.
But I have one thing in common with my Dad, who turns 66 years old today: we both love us some porn!
Happy birthday, Dad. My gift this year is some sound advice: Remember, if the erection lasts for more than four hours, please call the doctor!
UPDATE: Because my Mom emailed me this morning, horrified and defensive after reading my blog, and because Mrs. Film Geek didn't get the joke either, I wanna add this update:
Balls-busting is a guys way of saying "I love you."
On most days, catching up on the goings-on from West Virginia blogs is an enjoyable part of my morning routine. With it's hot cup of joe and the occasional sausage melt from Tudors, the early hours of the morning are reserved for The Huntington Herald-Dispatch, The Charleston Gazette and the newest blogposts fed to me by Bloglines.
The fun came to a halt this morning, though, when I read that my friendScarlethad her car burglarized. I'm guessinga planhas already been put into place at the home to keep things safe and secure, and I pity the fool(s) should he, she or they be caught.
As I read the story I kept wondering what I would do if I was in the shoes of Scarlet and Jackie. And then I remembered.
I remembered how my grandpa distributed country justice.
During the early 1970s, a thief regularly stopped by our rural chicken farm during the wee hours of the morning.
He'd help himself to a chicken here and there, and once in a while to something of more value. My grandpa--a County Constable--didn't take nicely to thieves, especially those brave enough to thieve regularly.
Although I was very small, I still recall watching my dad and grandpa string electric fencing around the perimeter of the barn, then hearing my dad ask something about where it would be plugged in.
"We'll run an extension cord into the house, and plug it in there," my grandpa answered.
"But that high voltage could kill anyone that walks into the wire," replied my dad.
My grandpa paused for a second, then said: "Yes. Yes, it could."
He was a nice guy, but he really hated thieves. And ours sure didn't come around much after that.
Paugh's response: As governor, he'd like to be able to identify and imprison homosexuals for, as he says, their crimes against nature and mankind.
