Dia de los Muertos Part III

Just to quickly recap, I've put the highlights in bullet form:

-Renee is a woman who works for me
-Renee is crazy
-Renee believes a ghost is haunting her house
-Michael is Italian (sort of)
-Renee believes the Italians killed Jesus Christ
-Jesus Christ is responsible for countless wars and billions of lost lives
-Lives are something only appreciated in theory by Republicans (ie Abortion of the Unborn vs Abortion of the Born thru War and the Death Penalty)
-Renee is crazy (wait, did I say that already?)

In case you're wondering, she did end up calling that Roman Catholic priest. Apparently he kept referring to her as "baby". This led her to believe that it was an impostor on the other end of the line. Maybe she dialed the wrong number? Maybe she imagined the whole thing during a schizophrenic episode? Those would be logical answers. The only answer Renee could muster up was that it was the spirit communicating with her through an unrelated human medium.

To briefly sum up these events:

-Renee is crazy
-Renee's sister hung herself
-Renee's sister hung herself exactly three years ago to the day
-The anniversary of her sister's suicide has now passed
-Renee is not crazy any longer
-Well. . . I guess 'less crazy' would be a better way to describe Renee.
-Happy Halloween!

Dia de los Muertos Part II

-OR-

Il Diavolo Siciliano

"My brother would kill me if he found out I got a priest comin' over to bless my house". "Why?" I asked, "He doesn't believe in ghosts?" "No. He just doesn't have anything to do with those Roman Catholics".

Despite her brother, Moses, having killed someone, I knew that he considered himself a very religious man. "Hating Catholics isn't very Christian-like, you know".

"Oh, he doesn't hate Catholics. Just the ROMAN Catholics. They're the ones that killed Jesus. Not the Jews. The Romans".

I was perplexed as how to approach this argument but gave it my best shot. "You do understand that the Roman Catholic Church is just a denomination of Christianity, right? The Romans don't actually exist as a people any longer". "Oh, yes they do!" "You mean the Italians?" "That's right!"

I paused. "Renee, you do realize that I'm Italian, don't you?" I wanted to scream Can't you see it on my face!?! The olive skin! The Mediterranean hook-nose! The dark, coarse hair! The god-like beauty! She looked at me puzzled. "No you're not". I looked down at my ID badge, "Michael Anthony DeAn- err, I mean- Valentino! If my name had legs it would walk to Brooklyn and open its own pizza place".

I couldn't convince Renee that ghosts weren't real, but I think I did manage to convince her that I was indeed Italian. She left work that day swearing to get in contact with the priest despite what her brother on the hill thought. It doesn't bother me that Renee hates Italians, but I helped slay Jesus? No, Mel Gibson did that.

Dia de los Muertos Part I

"I got a ghost in my house! I swear to God I do!" That was the impassioned ranting of a co-worker named Renee. Citing her past tendencies to create her own realities and truths, I temporarily ignored her. But it didn't stop.

"My daughter hears it, too! Everyone that comes over to my house hears it! It sounds like Big Foot's walkin upstairs!" I found it a little incredulous that she referenced a mythical man/beast to help plead her case, but continued to follow her logic for the sheer delight of it. "I had all my neighbors come over and search the upstairs and none of 'em could find nothin! Then when they'd come back downstairs you could hear it. It was like Big Foot, I tell you. Big Foot".

I then proceeded to explain to her how our Biometric Time Clock is actually what the Bible references as the 'Mark of the Beast' and randomly hummed the refrain from John Carpenter's Halloween. This frightened her to the point of painting giant crosses in the windows of her home. I found all of it amusing. Her landlord, however, might not share my sense of humor.

Negro, Please

I bought a gun rack at an antique shop today. Before that I spent a few hours down at WNCW learning the ropes to become a volunteer DJ. In a few weeks I'll get to man the ship, albeit, when most people are fast asleep (12am-4am EST). I've been warned not to play anything too controversial. So I suppose Suicidal Thoughts by Biggie Smalls is out of the question.

Speaking of black folk, I had my first black reader a few days ago. Riva, you must understand that your endorsement gives me free reign to expand on all of the horribly racist things I've said over the past few months. Like this: Remember when John McCain said that he didn't hate all Asians, just the "gooks" who tortured him? And, yes, he did use that word. Well, he has revisited that issue by declaring "I don't hate all niggers, just that good looking one who's gonna steal my job". When a reporter asked the follow up question, "Really?", McCain responded with, "Oh, yeah, and the 40 million other niggers who live in America".

That's pretty intense stuff. I do have to state that I am in strong disagreeance with him. Good thing I bought that gun rack to keep the shotguns handy. No, I don't hunt. No, I'm not preparing for a race war. I just thought it would be nice to have them displayed. It's a daily reminder for me to kill myself if the McCain ticket wins.

The Lost Highway

As I looked up to the big blue moon hanging low overhead I couldn't help but think of Teddy Roosevelt walking for days on end in the Dakota Territory hunting deer and bison. For my own fleeting feelings of masculinity I was glad that I was unaccompanied by the modern conveniences of man such as a cellphone or OnStar. Five miles down the road my legs and feet were in strong disagreeance with my pride.

I left work last night around 1am and decided to drive south into Landrum, SC. The small town of Landrum is only five minutes from the North Carolina border and considered by many to be worth the effort to avoid NC's $.17 sales tax for gasoline. On the trip back, however, I found myself stranded on the side of I-26 after my car sputtered to a stop. The five mile walk back to town was quiet and black, interrupted only by the occasional big-rig pushing 10 tons of cold air onto my back and my sporadic singing of The Lost Highway by Hank Williams, Sr.

The cars that made a point to avoid me by switching lanes probably upset me more than the 18-wheelers barreling down the shoulder five feet to my left. I figure that there was always a chance that the 18-wheelers hadn't seen me. The cars that actually swerved into the far left lane had no such excuse. I should hold that judgment for myself, though. I don't pick up hitchhikers, either. At one point I glanced to my right to see a herd of deer looking curiously in my direction. I've never before stood so close to a wild herd of animals. Possibly they heard me butchering away at the Hank Williams' classic and decided to investigate the strange noise. Unlike Mr. Roosevelt, though, I allowed them to turn and gallop hurriedly into the night.

The Revolution Will Not Be Downloaded

In an age of political sound bytes and speed dating, isn't it about time that our art be dumbed down as well? Bekki and I descended from our little hilltop village last week and ventured into the big city. I was interested in purchasing a CD and thought that Best Buy might be the only place around that might have it. Remember when Blockbuster Video slowly let their VHS collection fade away? Well, that's exactly what Best Buy and every other store are doing with their CD collections. Finally we can usher in the age of the One Hit Wonder.

Now we as consumers won't have to shuffle through the filler crap that artists put on records and can go straight to the top ten hits we yearn for. This, of course, removes one more hurdle for the corporate executives that are only in it for the quick buck. Who cares if it limits artistic expression? I think that a room full of suits with business degrees are far more qualified to tell me what I should listen to than my own cognitive reasoning abilities. So analyze that market trend data, set up your target demographic and create me a wonderful melody that speaks to my inner consumer and plays on my own narcissistic nature by suggestively selling me on who I think I am as a person.

Fists of Fury

Has anyone else seen or even heard of the indie film Mysterious Skin? If you would prefer spending an hour and a half of your life feeling as uncomfortable as possible then this is the movie for you (just don't watch it with your parents or, Heaven forbid, your children). It deals with pedophilia, homosexuality and aliens. Joseph Gordon-Levitt plays the lead role as an ex-child abuse victim who has turned to a life of homosexual prostitution. Brady Corbet plays opposite Gordon-Levitt. His character is also molested as a child, but opts out of promiscuity in favor of becoming an asexual retard. This only confirms my belief that all homosexuals are either the victim of a sex crime or mentally retarded.

Bekki and I watched Mysterious Skin this past Monday. If anyone is wondering, she picked it out. I probably would have picked out something a tad more masculine like Enter the Dragon or Dirty Harry- which, by the way, I finally got to see Tuesday night in my hotel room in Charlotte. The first half left me shaking my head at what I thought would be just another predictable cop movie, but then the vigilante-style butt-stomping pinned me to the wall as Clint Eastwood pounded on the back door of the crooked judicial system.

Dirty Harry is what America needs right now. So while those Prop 8 fags out in California petition you to pound on their back doors, remember that this country was forged by the hard work and dedication of real men like John McCain. The debate last night left no doubt in my mind that McCain has the spunk and grit to lead this country out of the Hell that he voted us into. So if you enjoy films about children fisting old guys with moustaches then vote for Barrack Obama. But if you enjoy a good, old-fashioned American butt-stomping movie then vote for John 'the Maverick' McCain. Because although McCain endured horrible acts of brutality as a POW in Hanoi, I'm sure his mind is scarred in a completely different way than the boys in Mysterious Skin. No, the only thing that clouds John McCain's judgment is a heavy fog of raging patriotism.