I Know The Feeling

There was a song in the 1951 production of the Lerner & Loewe Broadway comedy "Paint Your Wagon"; it was called "They Call The Wind Maria" (the word "Maria" was pronounced as it had been many years previously as "Ma-RI-ah".)

And towards the end of the song, there's a line that says:

"...and now I'm lost, so gone and lost, not even God can find me."

I have never understood those words so thoroughly as I do right now.

I hope somebody (or Somebody) finds me.

Soon.

PJTT

Diamonds Are A Pope's Best Friend, Or So My Best Friend Tells Me

"...wadda' ya' mean, what's Harley up to, what's he doing?" I asked my consigliore, the Right Reverend Monsignor Michael Jordan (no, not THAT one), when he called me earlier today on the Popephone.

"He's been dragging things out to the Kidding for the last couple of days, like he's leaving or something. You guys don't have any trips scheduled to anywhere that I know of," he said. "So why all the loading up?"

"You know, now that you mention it, he has been acting weird lately, at least, more weird than usual. I'd better look into this; I'll call you later."

(No, the picture above has nothing to do with today's message of the soothing balm of Johnism; I just thought it was pretty funny, and thought that you guys might like to see it as well.)

Now for those of you folks who are not faithful followers of the Pope, and shame on you, let me give you a little background info.

First, the "Kidding" that Mike referred to: that would be the Royal Unionship Kidding, or RU Kidding for short. The Kidding is the Pope's atomic powered rocket ship, and is capable of speeds in excess of the Speed Of Aroma. She has cabin space for 8 adults, or a shitload of midgets, err, excuse me, vertically-challenged persons, plus a swimming pool, a lap pool, a wading pool, a car pool, a McDonalds, a pool parlor, a pool cleaning service, a synagogue, dry cleaners, two Pizza huts, the Leaning Tower of Pizza and it's own area code; yeah, she's a beauty.

In addition, as I said, she's capable of haulin' ass, ahh, sorry, of reaching, and exceeding, the Speed Of Aroma, which is a measurement of velocity akin to the Speed Of Light, which is a visual gradient, or the Speed Of Sound, which is an aural gradient; ergo, the Speed Of Aroma is an olfactory gradient. As opposed to a pepperoni pizza, which you can get onboard the Kidding at either of the two Pizza Huts that serve the crew and passengers of the Pope's ship.

Second, the "Harley" that Mike referred to is my roommate, sidekick, BFF and the official mascot of the All John All The Time World Church, the Harley Dog. He's also the backup navigator when we're onboard the Kidding, a position of responsibility he takes very seriously, or as serious as someone who's favorite pastime is to lay on his back with his legs in the air while I rub his tummy is capable. Yeah, we're a real serious group here at the AJATTWC.

So now that we've gotten all that out of the way, I better go find out what my dog is up to, and why do I have the feeling it's no good?

...later in the day...

"No, that's final, no, we're not going."

(...a piteous whine is heard in response...)

"I don't care how much you want to go, it's not gonna' happen. Are you crazy? Do you know what kind of press we'd receive if what you want to do ever got out; no, no way, fur-breath, ain't gonna happen." I shot my dog a scathing look of intimidation as I finished, which he ignored, which is his general reaction anytime I try to affix him with the "evil eye". (He doesn't listen well.)

I set out to track down the Church mascot to see what he was getting into that he shouldn't, and it didn't take long to find His Harleyness, face-first in the cupboard in the kitchen where I keep his food, trying to drag something out with his teeth.

"Hey, what are doing in there, huh? Out, dude." He backed out, tail swishing back and forth, and sat down on his haunches, with a look of "well?" on his face.

"What are you looking for in the cabinet? You know you're not supposed to get in there. And just what are up to anyway?" I asked, as if Harley would answer.

Actually, in his own indomitable, doggy-way, he did. He stood up, walked down the hall into my office, where I could hear him rummaging through some papers for something. Next thing I know, here he comes towards me with several papers and reports in his mouth. (Oh, and there's nothing better than the smell of dog-breath all over something you're trying to read.) He walked up to where I was standing and dropped what he had in his mouth at my feet.

The first item was a recent edition of the LA (pronounced LAH) Times newspaper, with the paper open to page A16, which had an article on the right side of the page called "Science Briefing", and when I looked at Harley questioningly, he "nosed" at the final item in a column of several.

"Planet thought to be diamond", the headline read.

"So?" I said, looking at him and shrugging my shoulders.

He "nosed" it again; obviously he wanted me to read what the article said about the "diamond planet".

Here was the article in its entirety:

Astronomers have spotted an exotic planet apparently made of a diamond racing around a tiny star. The planet, lying 4,000 light years away, is far denser than any other known and consists largely of carbon. Scientists calculate the carbon must be crystalline, so a large part of it would effectively be diamond. “The evolutionary history and amazing density of the planet all suggest it is comprised of carbon — i.e. a massive diamond orbiting a neutron star every two hours,” said lead author Matthew Bailes of Swinburne University of Technology in Melbourne, Australia. The study was published in the journal Science.-Reuters

That was it.

"So?" I asked again, for the second time in as many minutes.

Then he pawed at another paper on the floor, lying with the others. I picked it up and read the headline at the top of the page: it was a preliminary report from one of my staff members on the value of the religious and secular art treasures currently being held by the Roman Catholic Church in various locations all over the world, particularly at the Vatican. (It's possible that the value of the art in the Vatican alone may be incalculable.)

Once more, with feeling.

"So?"

Back to the pile on the floor; this time it was this week's TV Guide, open to yesterday.

"Yeah?" I thought a change of pace might be in order.

He nosed the listings from the previous evening, right around dinnertime. I looked at the page, and realized we had watched the Evening News together last night, something we rarely did, because I NEVER watch TV news; it's inane for the most part. I thought that was what he was trying to tell me, that it had something to do with the news report we had seen.

"Does this have something to do with the news from yesterday evening?" I asked His Furriness; the tail started going back and forth at about the Speed Of Aroma.

"Okay, what about it?" I asked; Harley barked in response, a sharp, quick bark.

I tried to think of what part of the news Harley was trying to get me to remember; it was obviously something in which he was interested.

Then it dawned on me.

"Does this have anything to do with the story about that dog at that jewelry store?" Another quick bark, accompanied by almost spastic tail-wagging.

"Okay, the story was about a dog that lives in a jewelry store that his human owns, and where he hangs out all day, and how he ate a bunch of diamonds off one of the showcases one day recently. I don't get it." I looked at him quizzically.

He nosed around for another sheet of paper on the floor, a picture that I had printed out from the 'Net, showing Paris Hilton Hotel holding one of those useless little puffs of fur that purport to be dogs, which was wearing a diamond collar. (Paris had on a matching collar as well.)

"You want a diamond collar?"

One thing about having been around Harley for all these years, I've gotten to know when he's frustrated with me. He pushed the Vatican report at me again with his nose, and then the article on the "diamond planet", and then sat back on his haunches again and looked at me like, are you kidding? (That's the name of my ship; I knew I had heard that phrase someplace before.)

A diamond-eating dog, a diamond-wearing dog, a report on the art treasures of the RCC and a "diamond planet"?

And then it clicked.

"You want to take the Kidding, head out 4000 light years away to a planet that MAY be made out of diamonds so you can have a diamond collar and live a life of luxury and the Church can get rich like the RCC, is that what this is all about?"

The look of triumph on his doggy face said it all.

"First of all, since when do you give a shit about "having" things? You've never cared about stuff like before." Harley cast his eyes towards the floor; I think he heard a "BAD DOG" coming, and believe me, for Harley, a BD is the nuclear bomb of punishments. He HATES being told he's a BD, which is why I so seldom do it.

"Second, the AJATTWC doesn't need all that dough to spread the message of the soothing balm of Johnism, you know that. The two things just don't have anything to do with each other." Now the head is really hanging down.

He looked up at me, and then bent down again to the papers on the floor, and uncovered one more I hadn't seen before: it was a brochure on the Pagani Huayra, which to my mind is the most beautiful automobile on the planet (and the source of great longing in your Pope's heart). Then he looked up at me with this "pleeeeease" look on his face.

"No, that's final, no, we're not going. I don't care how much you want to go, it's not gonna' happen. Are you crazy? Do you know what kind of press we'd receive if what you want to do ever got out; no, no way, fur-breath, ain't gonna happen. (Scathing look at canine companion here.)

"And besides, you don't even know if the planet IS made of diamonds; they just THINK it is, you big dummy."

Damn dog tried to bribe me.

I called Mike back to tell him about Harley, and to ask him to check with our head pilot, Captain Art Senscrafts, to find out about how long it would take, at the Speed Of Aroma, to travel 4000 light years.

Do you know how good a Huayra would look in my garage? WAY better than that Nissan pickup with the ass on the tailgate.

Oh yeah, and that line back there about how "the AJATTWC doesn't need all that dough to spread the message of the soothing balm of Johnism, you know that. The two things just don't have anything to do with each other." 

Maybe someone should explain that to the Roman Catholics.

Love and carrots, (that's "carots", you bird-brain),

PJTT

copyright 2001 Krissongs, Inc.

"...This Is Porcine Airways Flight 236, Requesting Permission To Land..."

I'd consider voting for this guy.

That slightly maniacal-looking person with his head stuck out of the Armored Personnel Carrier is the mayor of Vilnius, Lithuania, Arturas Zoukas, or as he's known around town, Clem, and that's a Mercedes Benz he's crushing the living dogpoop out of, and I'll explain why in a moment. (You'd like to know, wouldn't you? Well, tough, I'm writing the story anyway.)

My primary function as your Popemeister, here at the All John All The Time World Church, is to spread the message of the "soothing balm of Johnism", at least, that's what they told me when they interviewed/hired me for the position. (On the AJATTWC employment application, where it asks about my "position" on my last job, I told them "prone".)

My secondary function, other than to ride roughshod over the Church mascot, my roommate, sidekick, BFF and three-times-a-week sparring partner, the Harley Dog, (you can see a picture of the great beast right over there <---, oh, sorry, --->), is to provide guidance and leadership to my flock of loyal followers, all several of them, particularly in the area of influencing, ahh, excuse me, helping them make informed decisions about the various issues that confront us all, all the days of our lives, especially the young and the restless of my flock. (In fact, when I finish this post, I'm headed over to General Hospital to visit one of my "people" who's currently under the weather; it's a minor surgery thing, she'll still be bold and beautiful when she gets out.)

Hey, did I tell you guys I have tickets to see "La Boheme" next week? No?

So there I was, minding my own Pope business, when I received this email from one of my flock of followers, not to be confused with Flock Of Seagulls, a really bad rock band from back in the '80s (actually, the band wasn't that bad, but the hairdos, yike), asking me a profound legal question (yes, your Pope is also a legal expert, holding a JP degree (Juris Poopahkis), as well as my degree from the school of Hard Knocks) that I felt had implications so profound as to compel me to answer in one of my thrice-weekly posts. (Thrice? Whoa, that's a good one.)

("La Boheme" is an opera by Puccini, okay? Soap operas, get it? Geez.)

The email, and the question it contained, came from some John guy's nephew, or at least he says he's John's nephew, although I'm sure only John's sister knows for certain, and it dealt with an obscure and little known legal tenet, commonly known as the "Are You Guys Really That Dumb?", and it requires a little background information to understand the principle.

Many years ago, back in my pre-Pope days, I had occasion to work with a gentlemen who, besides being afflicted with the social stigma of being a Minnesota Vikings fan, clung to the belief that the answer to the question "If a tree fell in the forest, and no one was around, would it make a noise?" was a resounding No. (The company we were working for had no pre-employment requirement of an IQ or any common sense; yeah, they hired me too.)

I learned this fascinating bit of information one day at lunch, when said fellow employee blurted out this amazing theory, just after asking someone to pass the salt.

"Yeah," he explained, "if there's on one in the forest, then there's no eardrums for the sound waves to bounce off of". (And at the next table, another of my fellow employees sustained an injury just then, a sprain of the muscle that allows you to roll your eyes.)

I left the company not long after that; I figured, with guys like that on your team, you're probably looking at a long, losing season.

The legal theory that John's nephew (?) asked about was along the same vein: it involved the crime of "mopery", which according to The Nephew is the "exposing of one's self to a blind person." (I had heard the word defined that way previously, but I wasn't sure that was accurate, so I looked up the definition in my New American Law Dictionary and Explainer Of Obscure Legal Theories but couldn't find it; shit, I'll just make something up; he won't know the difference.)

Where these two very obscure ideas meet is at the junction of "what, are you kidding me?" Allow me to explain. (Good luck stopping me.)

A tree falls in the forest, crashing to the ground in a great flurry of leaves, breaking limbs, snapping branches and small, furry animals, like the ebert, being violently thrown to the ground from their various nests and hiding places. The only reason that the noise attendant to such an event goes unheard is the absence of organs that can receive and interpret the sound waves, which are necessarily produced by said event. (The sound waves are produced, not the organs.) The boy genius at work there even mentioned them, thereby validating the alternative to his theory. Duh.

In a similar vein, the exposure of one's genitalia to another person, despite the fact that the recipient of the "exposure" is a person not having the ability to see, is still a crime, based on intent; the inability of the "exposure recipient" to see and be offended by said exposure does not ameliorate the crime. The "exposer" still has his yaya hanging out, and in most precincts, that's illegal. Or at least a crime against the senses. (Think Rosie O'Donnell naked).

(Not bad for off the top of my head, huh?)

So the answer to the question of whether or not a tree falling in the forest makes noise, and whether or not it's a crime to expose yourself to a blind person, even if it is Tuesday, and maybe to the most profound question that faces us all in life, is this...

...I believe the Dodgers can still make a late season run at the NL West crown; hey, they have Kershaw, who's getting serious consideration for the NL Cy Young, they have Matt Kemp...well, never mind that now.

(You didn't really think I was going to give you some great, profound legal insight did you? What, are you crazy, I'm a Pope, I'm not Robert Shapiro, gimme' a break.)

Oh, the mayor up at the beginning of the article? (See up.) I just used that because I liked the picture. I like Ol' Clem, too; the reason he was squashing expensive European automobiles was to put emphasis on a city ordinance banning parking in "bike lanes", which is where the ignorant douche-bag owner of the Benz parked his car.

Yeah, I like Clem; he wanted to send a message to the city's drivers: "Park in the bike lane at your peril". Then he showed his followers "the peril".

Just as your Pope will just keep trying to show all my loyal AJATTWCers out there the peril of "stupid".

Because maybe one, or even several, of the folks out there who believe in soundless falling trees, or the theory that "well, they can't see me so it's okay" or "hey, I'm important, look at my big car, I can park anywhere I want" will read one of my posts and wake up to what assholes they really are.

(Hey, Nephew Guy, I know you asked me about mopery just to have to have some fun, so that wasn't meant for you.)

You guys ever hear of a comedian named Judy Tenuta? Very funny lady; I have no idea if she's still performing or not, but when she was, she had a line she often used in her act, right after making some thoroughly outrageous statement: "Hey, it could happen."

When pigs fly.

Love and courtrooms,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

East Coast Disasters With An Left Coast Theme

 

...now I understand why James Bond ("Shaken, not stirred.") drove an Aston Martin...

  ...and now I understand why some people say the Roman Catholics don't have the sense to come in out of the rain...

 ...and I doubt I'll EVER understand this, but I promise to continue trying...

Your Pope is giving some consideration to running for President.

...(several minutes pass while the hysterical laughter dies down)...

That's not funny.

Why wouldn't your Pope Guy be a good President, huh? Americans seem to want their leaders to be male, tall, good-looking, somewhat articulate and charismatic as hell.

Okay, let's take them one at a time:

*Male...last time I looked.

*Tall...duh, check out my name.

*Good-looking...hey, it's all in the eyes of the beholder.

*Somewhat articulate...please.

*Charismatic...what, are you kidding, I have boatloads of charisma, I have super-tankers of charisma.

So why wouldn't I make a good president? Anyway, I said I was just considering running for President, I didn't say I'd made up my mind to do it. Geez.

We'll talk more about this later. (Boy, that sounds ominous.)

I will tell you that I, like so many of my fellow Left Coast residents, particularly those of us who live in and around the environs of Southern California, made light of the recent distress of our East Coast friends and neighbors, in their response to a 5.8 magnitude earthquake that hit parts of Virginia, Maryland, Washington, D.C., and New York earlier this week and was said to have been felt as far west as Chicago.

If the news reports are any indication, and in this instance, since there's so many of them telling the same story, I'm pretty sure they got it right, it was chaos and terror all over the Eastern Seaboard, as folks who had never had the unique experience of living through an earthquake poured into the streets, basically scared shitless.

Now Left Coast folks, SoCal area veterans especially, don't even begin to acknowledge an earthquake until it's at least a 6.5 or better. Yeah, 5.8 on the Richter scale, that's nothing to mess with, but after you've been through a half-dozen or so of these things, anything under 6.5 is a yawner. (Ever see the movie "Independence Day"? Think of the scene where Will Smith wakes up suddenly in bed next to Vivica J. Fox, and believe me, that's somebody I would love to wake up next to, thinking they're having an earthquake in their neighborhood of LA (pronounced LAH), and when he says, "Hey, I think we're having an earthquake", and oh yes, thank you, Mr. Obvious Man, Vivica Fox puts her head up and says, "Not even a 4.0, baby, go back to sleep.")

Yeah, it takes more than a 5.8 to get our attention out here.

So, and I'm a little ashamed to admit this, like so many of my fellow LaLaLand residents, I chuckled a little maliciously at the sight of all those battle-tested veterans from the front lines of the daily political and financial market wars, running around looking like they didn't know whether to shit or go blind. (I have no idea what that means, but I like the sound of it. My old man had one even stranger: "Put his brain in a pee-wee's ass and it would fly backwards." I have NO idea what that means, but you have to admit, it's evocative as hell.)

This derision from we veterans of the "Quake Wars" here in SoCal towards our terrified brethren in New York, Washington, et al. is based, I believe, on two factors:

a) East Coasters in general, and New Yorkers in particular, have always cast a jaundiced eye downwards towards residents of LA; the East Coast has the nation's capital, the country's seat of power, the financial markets, media giants and corporations of New York, the intelligentsia of Boston, the Terrapins of Maryland (what the hell else is in Maryland?) and the beauty of New Jersey (???); we have Miley and Charlie and Paris and Lindsay and the 236 Kardashians and Disneyland, so there's an inferiority thing going on here, and;

b) we have just as many assholes out here as they have back there.

But just as I was getting some good chucks from watching NYC execs running around the streets of Manhattan in their Armani suits and Hermes ties and Prada handbags, trying to find a place to hide from Mother Nature, I started thinking about my first experience with the phenomena of an earthquake.

(You hear a story coming?)

I moved to LA in late 2000, after spending the bulk of my life in the Chicago area, and mostly I moved out here because I was sick to death of freezing my ass off every winter. So like so many before me, I heeded the words of Horace Greeley and migrated west, along with six oxen, a covered wagon, my wife Bess and my good Sharps rifle at my side, and as we moved over the plains where Indians...whoa, did I wander off or what? (I really hate when that happens.)

On a Saturday afternoon in February is when it happened to me the first time, and it was an experience I will not likely forget soon.

It was a pretty much a typical day here in the Southland; the weather was in the 60s as I remember, and it was sunny and pleasant outside. I had done some shopping and run some errands earlier in the day (hey, this was before my Pope gig with the All John All The Time World Church, so there was no staff to haul your water or bake your bread), and was settling in for a couple of hours of NBA basketball, because for some reason, there was an early Saturday afternoon Lakers' game on the tube that day, and I was all over it.

Now I'm about to admit to something illegal, and I hope that all my loyal followers will allow their Pope his little peccadilloes, and not call the local constabulary: I find that a couple of good hits off the ol' pipe enhances the "Laker Experience" considerably.

Especially the Laker Girls part.

So there I sat, in my lovely home here in the bucolic and generally misunderstood San Fernando Valley, basking in the warm glow of marijuana, Lakers basketball and an In N' Out Double Burger with cheese, a large order of fries and a Diet Pepsi, (have to watch the old waist line), watching as Kobe pours in about 20 in the first quarter when, very suddenly, I noticed one of my hanging plants was swaying in the breeze...

...inside my apartment, with no windows open.

Even stranger, my "swivel rocker" across the room was doing both, swiveling and rocking, like someone walking by had bumped into it.

Except that I was the only one home, and hadn't moved from my chair in the last half-hour, and Harley hadn't budged off his spot on the floor for at least a millenia.

Then I felt it; my chair moved, with me in it. Not much, but it moved.

No, wait, that's not quite right, the floor moved, not the chair.

No, wait, that's not quite right, the floor didn't move, the building moved.

Ah, excuse me, ah, anyone, THE FUCKING BUILDING IS SWAYING BACK AND FORTH LIKE A WILLOW IN THE BREEZE, THANK YOU, WOULD SOMEONE PLEASE, PLEASE TELL ME WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?!?

Now I have been through numerous earthquakes since that first one; typically, and I think this is the reaction of most SoCalers, it's oh, we're having an earthquake, what time does the Dodgers game start?

Sorry, but no biggie.

But the first one, your first time, whoa; I was scared shitless.

No, actually, that's not accurate; I'll explain that in a moment.

Now I admit that being half way to I'mBakedLand does have a way of enhancing your first experience with an earthquake in a very scary manner; I believe straight it would have been much less frightening. But Mother Nature had not consulted me as to the most convenient time to start shaking the crap out of Southern California, so there I was, stuck in an unfortunate situation.

Putting it mildly.

Fifteen or twenty seconds into Bedlam, I realized what was happening, and I started to calm down. Hell, I had slept through tornadoes that took half the roof off our next-store neighbor's house when I was a kid, so I was pretty sure I would live through this as well, once I understood what it was that was, as Richard Pryor once put it, "making everything go gibbety-gibbety-gibbety".

So when everything settled down, and after I had taken a shower and changed my underwear, I called my sister, who also lives here in Valley, to ask if she had felt the quake. (This is my older sister, who came to LA back in the 60's; 18, not 19.)

"Yo, big sis, did you feel that?" I asked rather breathlessly.

"Feel what?" she responded.

Sorry, East Coast sissies, 5.8 is just no big deal, pretty much like Times Square, Fenway Park and Carmelo Anthony.

And did you see the pictures of the lavish wedding that Kim and Kris threw over the weekend, gush, gush? (Oh, and FYI, that "change underwear" thing was just literary license; I wasn't THAT scared.)

But I was pretty scared.

Love and natural disasters,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs Inc.

Party Time At The Zoo

Go ahead: I dare you.

I was "surfing the Web" the other day (does anybody else ever use that term anymore?), which is part of my duties as your Pope Dude, when I stumbled onto this headline:

"Holliday leaves after moth gets stuck in ear".

Since I saw this little blurb in the "Sports" section of MSN.com, I quickly realized that the "Holliday" the headline referred to was Matt Holliday, the left fielder for the St. Louis Cardinals. So I clicked on the link to find out how a moth got stuck in Matt Holliday's ear. (I mean, wouldn't you?) On the surface of it, you know it had to be a strange story, even without having all the particulars.

Without getting into all the gory details, suffice to say that Matt, who seems to be a decent human being and is outstanding in his field, was standing out in left field the other evening in a game against my L.A. Dodgers, pretty much minding his own business, doing his left field gig...

...when a moth flew in his ear.

Lemme' run that by you again, in case you missed it.

He was standing in left field when a moth flew in his right ear (Matt bats right-handed). You could see something was wrong with him; they stopped the game and the trainer came out, looked in Matt's ear, and then they took him out. But there was no explanation as to why he had to come out.

So after witnessing this, I immediately called Dr. Bill O'Lading, the director of the All John All The Time World Church-sponsored think tank, the Center For The Serious Consideration Of Weighty Matters, and the resident "science guy" here at the AJATTWC, to calculate the odds of having a moth fly in your ear when you're playing left field for a major league baseball team. (I think the odds change when you're playing for a minor league team.)

Dr. O'Lading called me back a few minutes later, after I had explained what I wanted, and after he questioned if I was crazy, which of course I assured him I was, but that my sanity had nothing whatsoever to do with having a flying insect becoming stuck in a ballplayer's ear.

According to the good doctor, the odds of having a moth fly into your ear while standing in left field at Busch Stadium, in the first game of a three-game series, are...

...about 800 bagillion to one, give or take a few zeros. (I'm not sure what to make of this, or whether it has any relevance, but on the Dodger's current road-trip, they've played in Miller Field (Milwaukee), Coors Field (Denver) and Busch Stadium (St. Louis). Is there a message in that somewhere?)

And this wasn't one of those little wussy moths, you know, the dinky kind that get into your house when you leave the door open for the one minute it takes to let the dog out, and then they fly all around the lamp until you get disgusted and you smack the little bastard, just so he'll stop flying in those crazy circles like he just fell into a bottle of Jack and swam his way to the top. No, this was one of those "industrial strength" moths; they showed a picture of the villain in a plastic bag after the Cardinal training staff pulled it out of Holliday's ear with a tweezers. (According to the Dodger's announcer, Steve Lyons, they first took Holliday into a completely dark room and tried to coax the moth out by shining a flashlight in his ear, (Holliday's, not the moth's) but the moth, figuring he had stumbled into a good thing, didn't take the bait; true story.) The damn thing was about an 1-1/2" long, weighed about 15 pounds and had a tattoo on his left wing that said, "Newt For President". Nasty damn thing.

Matt was able to return to play in the second game of the series last night, when the Dodgers beat the crap out of the Cards, 13-2. There were no further reported incidents of insect infestation.

You guys ever see "Mothra", the sci-fi flick about the giant moth that attacks Japan? If you're a fan of 1950's monster movies, you know that the island of Japan was regularly visited by evil, giant, radioactive mutant animals, (have you ever noticed how often my ex- manages to sneak into my posts?), like Mothra, Godzilla, Ghidora, Biollante, Oprah Winfrey and the Pillsbury Dough Boy. Mothra was, by the way, a giant lepidopteran, which in Latin means "one big effing moth".

I personally thought Matt Holliday was damn lucky the radioactive mutant monster genre of films is mostly defunct these days; you're sure as hell not pulling Mothra out of someone's ear with a pair of tweezers. Or Godzilla, for that matter. (I've never understood that term, a "pair" of tweezers; wouldn't that be two? And apropos of nothing, I once had a friend that used to say "Godzilla" to people when they sneezed.)

So Matt was fine, and I thought things were getting back to normal, although "normal" at my house probably isn't the same as "normal" at your house, when my eyes were assaulted by this headline:

"Hawk swoops inside NYC apartment building".

Run that back, please.

"Hawk swoops inside NYC apartment building".

According to this article, again on MSN.com, and aren't they just full of interesting news and stories, amongst other things, a red-tailed hawk recently flew into an open 5th-floor window of an upscale apartment building in New York. The hawk, being brighter than the average Tea Party Republican, immediately realized that the unit he had  flown into was not "rent-controlled", and flew right back out, after leaving a small deposit on the resident's shoulder.

Has Mother Nature slipped a gear or two here? Are the animals finally disgusted with humans to the point that they're thinking of taking over?

Yeah, you guys think I'm crazy, but what was one of the top-grossing movies from last weekend (8/19 through 8/21)?

That's right, opera lovers, "Rise Of The Planet Of The Apes". You gettin' the chills yet?

So I called Dr. O'Lading back, to ask him to speculate on whether or not, based on the strange happenings of the last few days in the "Animal Kingdom", it was possible that a REAL "Rise" of the animals was taking place. (Okay, I was just screwin' with him, but you know how snooty these "science" types can be. I once emailed Doc to ask him to calculate how much wood a woodchuck could chuck, if in fact a woodchuck could chuck wood; just bustin' his chops again, right? Then I got his answer: 56.3. Not cords, or tons, or pomegranates, just "56.3". Smart ass.)

Dr. O'Lading, understanding my proclivity for tasteless humor, declined to comment.

And in the meantime, while I'm trying desperately to get a handle on this whole "animal uprising" thing, guess who walks in the room with his leash in his mouth and a look of need in his eye?

That's correct, children of the corn, it was my roommate, sidekick, BFF and occasional sparring partner, the Harley Dog. (Harley has more titles than Moamar Ghaddafi, or however you spell his name, and a quick aside to the Libyan rebels who are currently working feverishly to throw that douche-bag piece of crap into the Mediterranean Sea: nice job, guys; how about when you're done in Libya you head to Iran and see what you can do about that bunch of happy assholes.)

And I thought to myself, self, I thought, any time Harley needs to go out, I jump. Any time Harley needs to be fed, I jump. Any time Harley needs to go to the vet, I jump. Any time Harley needs anything, I jump.

(And that isn't a complaint, by the way; anyone with a companion like Harley doesn't mind the aggravation, but it is a reality of having a pet. Actually, women are WAY harder to maintain.)

Harley's activities, on the other hand, where he wears a glove, are confined to going out, eating, lying on the floor, sleeping on the floor, bugging me for Girl Scout cookies, chasing an occasional squirrel or cat and not much else. Certainly no jumping, of any kind.

Uprising in the animal kingdom? Animals making an attempt to take over the world?

Shit, they already run things around my house.

Love and June bugs,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs Inc.

"...and Remember Our Motto Here At Camp: Clean Mind, Clean Body, Take Your Pick"

I turned the TV on the other evening to watch the Dodgers/Rockies game, about 10 minutes before game time. Since I was early, I caught the end of one of those ubiquitous "infomercials", which, in this case, was trying to sell a "compilation" CD of all kinds of soft-rock "singer/songwriters" from back in the 70's, you know, like America, James Taylor, Carole King, Gordon Lightfoot (and his band, Heavy Hand), Dan Fogelberg, Toad The Wet Sprocket, the Hornwater Doo Dah Band and the Vienna Boys Choir.

Now please don't think that I'm going to disparage these music collections; I love the damn things. I never buy them, but I love listening to the commercials, because you know something? Despite all the gushing and phony whimsy on the part of the announcers, the fact remains that, in most instances, these really are some great tunes. Especially if they come from a time in your life when you were, say, in high school, or going through your first "real" love or trying out your new "adult" wings for the first time or possibly that time when you were caught back in the rear of the barn with Bossie or any period of your life for which you have some nostalgia. (I'm thinking of a time, back in the late 70's, when I was gratuitously over-served at a neighbor's New Year's Eve party and yarked in the snow in their front yard. Unfortunately, due to the extreme amount of snow we had that year, it was spring before it all melted, so the "evidence" of my discomfort wasn't found until several months later.)

(Full disclosure: this was WAY before I became the Pope of the All John All The Time World Church. These days, I'm much better behaved, thank you; shit, the truth is, I'm just too effing old to act that any more. I'd love to say I'm smarter than that now, and for the most part I am, but not that much.)

The one name (and picture, see above) that caught my attention in those last few moments of the show was that of Carly Simon; they showed a quick clip of her singing "You're So Vain", and then cut to a shot of the by-now infamous album cover.

I know what you're expecting, given my reputation: something crude and sophomoric, right?

For once, I will rise above my baser instincts, not give in to my inner 14-year old and just say this...

...Carly Simon, to me, is one of the most breathtakingly gorgeous women I have ever had the pleasure, the joy, of seeing. And she has a world-class smile, which this particular photo doesn't highlight, which is a shame, because, despite the obvious, it's her best feature, and she's a fine musician and song-craftswomen as well.

A very talented, very beautiful young woman, a symbol of her age...

...who also has a really nice rack.

(I couldn't do it, I just couldn't do it; I tried, I really did, but I just couldn't do it.)

All of the above has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with today's topic, which is "10 Things Your Mother Didn't Tell You About Gonorrhea", no, wait, that's not right, uhhhh, yeah, okay, here we go, "Health Tips From Dr. Bill".

I got a call last week from Dr. Bill O'Lading, the Director of the AJATTWC-sponsored, in-house think tank, the Center For The Serious Consideration Of Weighty Matters, with a suggestion for my blog: how about if he wrote a periodic "health tips" article, under the name "Dr. Bill", you know, a question and answer, folksy, whimsical discussion with your old country GP and pillar of the community about contemporary health issues facing people today, such as VD, the HIV virus, vaccinations, health-care insurance, cancer research, the proliferation of short people and what doctor to choose for your penile enhancement.

After a brief discussion with the Harley Dog as to the feasibility of the idea (he was in favor of it immediately), I told "Dr. Bill" to get cracking and crank out his first column, which I approved and which follows below (below):

"HEALTH TITS" From "DR. BILL"

Ring...rin

"PJTT...hey, Mike, what's up...he wrote what?...oh, yeah, I just looked back...yeah, that's not good, especially after the Carly Simon opening...yeah, okay, I'll have him fix that right away, thanks for telling me...yeah...yeah, okay...hey, are we still on for lunch at the Beaver's Den?...cool...yeah, call me."

That was my consigliore, the Right Reverend Monsignor Michael Jordan (do you REALLY think it's the same one?); he noticed a small error in the heading for Dr. Bill's column. I'd better have the good doctor try that again.

            "HEALTH TIPS" From "DR. BILL"

(a huge cheer goes up from the crowd)

Hey, all you pine-nut lovers of nature and all things healthy, this is your old country GP and pillar of the community here in the bucolic and always befuddled San Fernando Valley, Dr. Bill, with this month's message of good health and clean living. Let's get right to the mail bag and she what she has for us today...well, here we go, thanks, Penelope.

Okay, here's our first enquiry:

*Dear Dr. Bill: I had been experiencing some problems in my abdominal area, so I went to my doctor and he told me I had a rupture and would need surgery. Problem was, he couldn't do the surgery for six months, something to do with when he was supposed to finally receive his medical degree from some college in the Upper DopeyLand. So I said okay and went home to wait. But I got tired of waiting and decided that the surgery didn't look that hard to do, and that I could do it myself. So I got a kitchen knife and had at it. It didn't come out as well as I expected. Dr. Bill, where did I go wrong?

            Signed, A Non-Doctor Who Treats Himself Has A Moron For A Patient

*Dear "Patient": At first I thought that my ex-in-laws had a lock on the annual stupidity award, only to have them be replaced by the TeaBags from the Republican Party recently. Then you wrote in, and I realized that this, this was the epitome of stupid. YOU DIDN'T EVEN USE A SHARP KNIFE, YOU SIMPLE SHIT. Geez.

...And Dr. Bill's "Lesson To Be Learned" from this question? If you're going to do self-surgery, keep it simple, like a spleen or a thorax. A hernia should only be repaired by a licensed, mostly sober physician.

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/43897202/ns/us_news-weird_news/?gt1=43001

We received this letter just last week:

*Dear Dr. Bill: I'm damn sick and tired of all these piss-ant third world countries trampling all over our God-given American values, and if that pinko weak-stick in the White House isn't going to do something about it, then I will. So I've decided to build my own nuclear reactor, right here in my kitchen. Yep, brew me up a big batch of U234 and make my own "White Lightening". I'll give that piece of crap Ken Ill Frong, or Kay Pill Tung or whatever the hell his name is over there in North Korea a little message he doesn't want. But before I do, I just want to know what kind of medical hazards I might run into while building my machine. Thanks.

            Signed, Cher Noble Was My Ex-Wife's Name

*Dear "Cher": If handled properly, both the product of the nuclear reaction, the U234 and other radioactive isotopes, and the nuclear waste should be fairly safe. Low level exposure to radiation of this type can cause nausea, vomiting, itchy eyes, in-grown toenails and lesions on the testicles, plus a strange affinity for zither music. High level exposure would probably result in various parts of your body falling off and/or causing any children you might have to come out looking like Newt Gingrich.

...And Dr. Bill's "Lesson To Be Learned" from this letter? This may not be as dumb an idea as self-surgery, but it certainly ranks somewhere on the list of Top Ten All-Time Stupid Ideas. Unless you're a responsible, experienced handler of atomic power, or a third-world maniac, best be advised to stay away from nuclear fission. And may the E=mc2 be with you.

 

http://www.thelocal.se/35306/20110802/

Or this letter from a poor soul in Kentucky:

*Dear Dr. Bill: I was hoping to hear more about the "Health Tits" that you mentioned earlier in your column; any possibility of that happening? Oh, you changed that, didn't you? Never mind. Anyway, here's my question: I've had some real problems in the past when trying to decide on a physician; some seem good when they first examine you, then they disappear. Some others, not so much, and some just don't seem right from the git-go. I've already had one unfortunate experience, and I want to make sure it doesn't happen again; my wife is upset enough as it is. Dr. Bill, what's the best way to choose a physician that will ensure I'll leave the OR with all the parts I came in with?

            Signed, Shorter In Seattle

*Dear "Shorty": Are you by any chance Jewish, and was this a circumcision gone seriously wrong? If not, then please rest assured that one over-zealous (boy, there's a nice way to put it) doctor is not indickative of the entire profession. Check with your local AMA board for their recommendations, always get a second opinion, and consider having an armed gunman in the operating room to monitor what's being removed the next time you have major surgery. And in a related item, you followers of Pope John The Tall might want to check out the Pope's post from way back in February, 2/7 to be exact, to find out about the horrors of vasectomies gone wrong as well.

...And Dr. Bill's "Lesson To Be Learned" from this writer? In this instance, size does matter.

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/44178165/ns/us_news-crime_and_courts/#.Tk6C8l34JMU

And finally, a "Health Tip" directly from Dr. Bill to all the Neanderthal, dirt-bag South Korean men who ride the Seoul, Korea subway and grope and otherwise assault women on their way to and from wherever:

Guys, if Dr. Bill and some of his friends were residents of South Korea, and those were our wives, daughters, mothers, sisters or friends that you puss-bucket pieces of crap have been pawing at on the subway, you'd find it difficult to maintain your good health for any appreciable length of time, because we would catch you. And I considered as a fitting punishment, once either myself or one of my friends caught any of you in this repulsive activity, doing the same thing to your wives, daughters, mothers, sisters or friends, right in front of you, but I decided that would put us down at your level, and I refuse to lower myself to that extent.

No, here's what we'll do: the first time any of us hears a women cry out on a subway car that she's being "groped", we'll find you, take you outside at the first stop...

...and break all your fingers.

Slowly.

Please see "Seoul plans women-only subway cars", L.A. Times, 8/17 edition, page A6. (Sorry, no link for this one, but the article basically said that officials in Seoul were considering "women-only" subway cars because of all the groping of women by men. Somebody should explain to the Seoul City Council about the difference between treating the symptom and treating the sickness.)

Stay healthy and eat your broccoli,

"Dr. Bill"

Okay, well, thanks Dr. Bill, for those enlightening tips; boy, I fell healthier already. I think I'll go run a marathon.

Not.

Love and measles,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.

The Pope And Harley World Tour: "Incognito", Part Four (And Final)

My neighbor downstairs, who by the way, apropos of nothing in particular, is a very attractive woman in her early 50's, left recently on vacation to visit her sister in Nova Scotia. When she told me she was leaving for Nova Scotia ("Hey, Pope, how you doin'? I'm going to Nova Scotia next week; do the mail and plant thing for me, would you?"), I had to stop and think if I knew anyone, not IN Nova Scotia, because as far as I know, other than my neighbor's sister, nobody actually lives in Nova Scotia, but just anyone who had ever even HEARD of Nova Scotia.

Nova Scotia, which is Latin for "...all hands on the poopdeck", err, sorry, "New Scotia", according to WikiPedia, is one of Canada's Maritime Provinces, and although Wiki has an article on the Province, according to the world map I received for free a number of years ago from some organization I had just joined, Nova Scotia doesn't exist. That's right, rodeo fans, this freebie atlas I received is like "Map Light"; they left off all but the biggest names of countries and oceans, so all you see is "America" or "Denmark" ("Did you leave the lights on in the den, Mark?") or "Water", so if you're say, Luxembourg or the Vatican or Lower Zimbabwe (home of the ebert), you just don't exist.

So I don't where my neighbor is right at the moment, but she can't be in New Scotia, 'cause it's not there anymore. (Nova does have a younger brother who manages the Los Angeles Hollywood Angels of Anaheim in Southern California, who's name is Mike.)

(I got up this morning and decided to be just as esoteric as I could be, all day.)

"...so in conclusion, just let me say how much Harley and I appreciate the Bored giving us this opportunity, once again, to go forth and spread the message of the soothing balm of Johnism to all the poor souls in our world who cry out for solace, for comfort from their afflictions, who thirst for a single drop of the cooling water of care on their lips, parched from the years of degradation...(Harley barks in the background)...yes, well, I should wrap this up and allow you ladies and gentlemen to get back to your meeting. Ahh, thank you." And I sat down.

That was how I ended my report to the Bored Of Elders of the All John All The Time World Church, of which, as you probably know by now, I am the Pope Guy.

After about a bajillion miles on the road, and a shitload of stops along the way, we finally arrived back at the headquarters of the AJATTWC yesterday, after leaving Washington, D.C. and the offices of Dr. Aaron Thetires, located at the Center For Really Important Space Stuff, the day before.

Before we left on the Pope And Harley World Tour: "Incognito" tour, the BOE had instructed us to, as quietly as possible, investigate a number of stories that they were monitoring, that they felt had grave implications for the future of the Church. So by day Harley and I were the usual media darlings we always are, and then, when our "official" duties had been seen to, off we went, into the night, to become our alter-egos, Spaceman Spiff and his sidekick, Harbacca.

(Actually, "Spaceman Spiff" was the alter-ego of Calvin, half of the funniest cartoon strip ever written, "Calvin and Hobbes", which was penned by a very erudite, hysterical human being named Bill Watterson; unfortunately, Mr. Watterson retired some years ago, and Calvin and his stuffed tiger are no more, and the world is a lesser place from the lack. Mr. Watterson, on behalf of all of us who thought C and H was essential reading, every day, please come back. We'll take up collections, we'll get you free tickets to see the Dodgers, which shouldn't be tough, since nobody wants them these days, we'll mow your lawn and trim the hedges, we'll get you passes to see Justin Beiber, whatever it takes, just please, please come back and write the strip once again.)

(Please.)

Over the course of our trip we met with four individuals, each of whom is in some way investigating the origins of life as we know it, by researching, from various different scientific approaches, the event that is now referred to as the "Big Bang", which in this case is a reference to the theory of the cataclysmic beginning of our Galaxy, and not the TV show. I hadn't known this at the outset of our trip.

(In the interest of brevity, a consideration I rarely make, I'll direct you to my posts from 8/10, 8/12 and 8/16 for explanations of whom we saw and what we discussed.)

We were barely into our meeting with Dr. Warren Peace at CERN, the European Organization For Nuclear Research, when I figured out why the Bored had such a keen interest in the people they wanted us to see and interview.

Duh, it was all scientists involved in study of the Bang.

So we gathered info and interviewed folks and studied charts and graphs and read reports and went to the 'Net and WikiPedia for more information and explanations and, in general, got REAL conversant with the theory of how our Universe got it's start.

And of course, in the process, we had to consider the subject from the one point of view that mattered above all others: how did we get here?

How did we get here? How did we come to be? Is it an accident of evolution? A Grand Design? Did the building blocks of DNA, our most basic genetic material, come from Out There? Are we alone, or are there more like us, out there somewhere in the far reaches of Space, the final frontier? "What" started it all?

Was it...God?

This was what the Bored wanted investigated, and it's not hard to understand why.

Because someday, oh fellow travelers along the road of life, someday we're going to find all these answers we seek (hey, you didn't really think I was setting you up for the big denouement, when I reveal that I, your Pope Guy, has suddenly unraveled the Great Mystery Of Life?...yeah, right), someday we'll "get it", and when that day comes, yes sir, boys and girls, I'm pretty sure that a WHOLE lot of people are going to step back for a moment, take a long, hard look at things and wonder to themselves...

"...what the hell was I thinking all those years?"

I have no idea how the Bored Of Old Guys at the AJATTWC is going to handle all the information that Harley and I brought back for them from our trip, but I do know this much...

...there were worried looks on their faces, and maybe some fear in their hearts as well.

But for me, in the final analysis, it isn't the destination, it's the journey. I intend to do all I can to enjoy the process of achieving all the answers, and I proceed on the theory that, at the end, I will finally have them all.

The ongoing debate in the interim is stupid, since it can't be proven either way.

"What can be asserted without evidence can also be dismissed without evidence." Christopher Hutchens

("Nova Scotia" is actually French for "We're too small to be on cheap maps, but 29.3% of our populace is of Scottish descent, so put that in your kilt and run it up the flagpole.")

"In the beginning, there was Light, which was supposed to be less filling but have great taste...but it wasn't and it didn't, and the Creator was displeased, and he banished Light from Eden, and cast it out unto the Earth, and TC said to Light, because you aren't and you don't, I will place upon you a Mark, or maybe a William, that will forever brand you tasteless and gruel-like, and I will cause countless, stupid TV commercials be made in your name, so that people will come to curse you, and say you ill. You douche-bag."

You know, being Pope is about as much fun as you can have with your clothes on.

Love and Genesis,

PJTT

copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.