Give the People What They Want

Now, heaven only knows why, but for the past month or so, I've gotten 20 or so hits a day, looking at this picture. I decided to move it up to the front page and save everyone the trouble (at least temporarily) of digging through years of archives to find it. So, kind visitor from Kuwait or Finland or Mexico or Greece, have at.

It does make me happy that it's fulfilled it happy little purpose.

Actually, that's only about half the reason I decided to bring this thing back to life. Not too long ago, I sent an email to my good friend Ms Laura Llew, in an attempt to garner pity. It didn't work, exactly, as apparently pity and farce don't coexist peaceful.

(Uhh... I'm a good little theatre historian, so I *knew* that. I just didn't related it to myself. Comedy and pity do go together, coincidentally, which is why Chekhov and modern tragi-comedy work so well. Which is a lesson to myself: don't be pretentious. You fall squarely into farce, and no Bentley-esque transcendence will elevate you to high comedy.)

All this was, of course, a long-winded way of saying the email was funny. And it was. And a few days later, when I was reading some of the oldest posts from here, they were funny, too. And they came from a point in my life that was almost -- but not quite -- as painful as the current one. So, in an effort to life my funk, I'm going to be funny.

Here, by the way, is that email. I point out it is entirely true. And if it makes me sound like I'm living in an episode of Hee Haw, then, well, there's a lot to be said for that.

I started out comparing myself to the Ice Bear in The Golden Compass, and pointed out that no, the comparison fails for one, important reason:

                      ...I haven't actually had any alcohol
in months. Months. I didn't take communion last week for fear I'd
bogart about a dozen of those little shot-glasses of home-brew wine.
It's about 120 proof. I understand the new pastor they from got
Missouri coughed up his first draft onto the president of the Lady's
Aid Society. I'm sorry I missed that. Then again, maybe I'm not.
   (God only knows what I'll do when (or if) I ever see a nice glass
of single barrel bourbon. I'm thinking something  Cookie Monster-esque
with  decidedly unpleasant consequences.)
    Yes. My parents make me go to church every Sunday. Despite the
fact that I've explained patiently that a) I don't believe in god and
b) Even if I do meet a nice girl there, I won't know what to do with
her. But they insist.
   I even threatened to come down with a dose of the Spirit and start
speaking in tongues, but my mother pretty much double bluffed me out
of that. I am looking for a nice serpent to handle, so if you come
across a rattlesnake, just punch a couple of holes in the top of a
shoebox and mail it on. It'll be like Ray Stevens meets Samuel L.
Jackson.