Midweek Mad Geniuses: Syd Barrett

The following took place at a Pink Floyd Band Meeting in early 1967, just prior to the release of their debut album Piper at the Gates of Dawn.

Rick Wright walked into the room with a tray of tea and scones, placed them on the rickety coffee table Roger Waters had bought for a fiver at the Camden market, and took a seat next to Syd Barrett. Nick Mason, who had brought along a batch of his mum's homemade hedgehog, was lazing in a beanbag near the heater, tapping his foot in time with its regular clicks. Waters was idly picking his nails with a plectrum, tightly pursing his lips, while Barrett was eating buttered kippers while standing on his head.

Waters: Thanks Rick.

Wright: So where are we with the album title?

Waters: Oh! Syd has a great one. Really nice suggestion. Where did it come from, Syd?

Silence.

Mason: Syd?

Wright: Syd!

Barrett: For God's sake, Syd!

Mason: Mate, you're Syd!

Barrett: I'm Roger!

Waters: No, I'm Roger.

Barrett: You sure?

Waters: Positive.

Barrett: Cos I'm pretty sure I'm Roger.

Wright: No, you're Syd. Roger's Roger. I'm Rick and that's Nick.

Barrett: Well then where's Daryl?

Wright: There is no Daryl.

Barrett: I'm sure there's always been a Daryl.

Barrett's pants fall off. He is wearing no underpants. There's an awkward silence. Mason coughs.

Waters: So, ah, where did the title come from?

Barrett: Sausages.

Waters: What?

Barrett: Schmoozlepop.

Waters: What the hell are you talking about?

Mason: Syd told me the title was from Wind in the Willows.

Barrett: Yeah, that's it!

Wright: Oh groovy. I love that book.

Barrett: Especially when the zombies rise up from the mud and fuck mole in the arsehole.

Wright: That never happened!

Barrett: And then they ate Ratty's balls and beat up that fucking fat cunt, Toad.

Wright: There aren't any zombies in Wind of the Willows!

Barrett: How's this for an opening line for a song about bikes: "I've got a bike, you can ride it if you like..."

Waters: Do you want to have a lie down?

Barrett: I'm feeling fine. And I still reckon I'm Roger.

Mason (whispering to Waters): You know my mate Dave? He's a great guitar player and a handy singer.

Waters: (whispering back): Syd founded this band, man! We can't kick him out, no matter how weird he gets.

Mason: Maybe we should just pencil in Dave for the second album.

Waters: I always get this feeling of impending doom when I meet Dave.

Mason: He's alright.

Barrett: Are you talking about Copernicus?

Waters: Um, yes.

Barrett: Copernicus fixed my bike. Listen to this: "It's got a basket and bell and rings and things to make it look good..."

Waters: Nick?

Mason: Yeah?

Waters: Call Dave.

Weekend Food Wrap

Friday Night:

Hungry Jacks. I had to pick my sister up from the airport at about 10pm, and she had warned me that she demanded a 'Melbourne Pizza' before arriving at Mum and Dad's (she lives in Townsville). I ate a light snack at tea-time, saving space for this pizza. Thing is though, her flight was delayed by more than an hour and the pizza was thusly cancelled. I had no food of substance in the house, and all the restaurants were closed, so I had to get something on the way to the airport. Whopper with cheese and regular fries was my selection. I get US food-chain take-away probably once or twice a year, and even then it is only Hungry Jacks (haven't had food at Maccas since 1989). Jesus it's awful food, and almost impossible to eat whilst driving. Oh there was special sauce on my shirt. There's something in the burger that is ice-cold, something lukewarm, and something piping hot, and all of it tastes like pre-packed and ill-conceived 'generic burger taste'. What is it? Salt? MSG? How can a beef patty with salad, cheese and bread taste so... I dunno, unlike the sum of its parts? Why do people like this food?

Saturday Night

Dad's 70th birthday. It was fun and odd at the same time. We went to a Posh Restaurant and there was mum, dad, me and my two older sisters. We worked out it was the first time since the late 70's that the five of us, the family unit, were fully together and alone (without spouses, grandkids etc.). We even all went in the car with dad driving and us three 'kids' (39, 47, 49) in the backseat fighting. Anyway, minus the drinks, dinner for five at the Posh was $450 and for that we got, well, you know, food. Dad and Crazy Sister had snails. I had oysters, some spring rolls and some roast lamb with 'herb filling' (which I think was breadcrumbs with rosemary, chives and salt). Mum had a shepherd's pie. We had cake for dessert. The food was okay, but $80 a head? Meh. I guess what you pay for is the ambience. The maitre'd, the waitress who tells you her name, the decadence of looking at a menu with no prices, the 'antique' pictures (awful paintings of knights and ballet dancers) and fuck-awful pastel walls. You get better food for $10 in Chinatown, and a superior ambience. I'm a snob, but not a food snob. I don't get paying $80 for dinner.

Sunday Night

Back home late and feeling lazy, I cooked an eye fillet under the grill, doused it with salt, picked it up in my hands and ate it like a savage. I lightly steamed five brussel sprouts and ate them like lollies, also with my hands. Then I had vegemite and cheese on biscuits while watching an SBS film, along with a mandarin and a bowl of muesli (yes, at 10pm). Posh restaurants and US food-chains be damned. I like making it up as I go along.

What did you eat?

Dogma My Arse

Lars von Trier is at it again. His latest film, ‘Anti-Christ’ has premiered at Cannes.

“Charlotte Gainsbourg drills a hole through Willem Dafoe's leg and sticks a stave through it after smashing in his testicles with a piece of firewood. But it is the moment when she apparently cuts off her clitoris with a pair of scissors that has become the succes de scandale of the great French film festival.”

Is there a more over-rated artist in the world than this fuckhead?

“Oh, but he has something to say...” his fans implore. But what? What does he have to say? All these people who protect him don’t know what it is he’s saying, just that he ‘says something’. So let us go to the man himself. When asked by a disgusted journalist to defend his film, Lars said, “...it's a good starting point for a discussion, the fact that you feel something about the film."

A ‘starting point’? What the fuck? Shouldn’t the ‘starting point’ be the reason for the film in the first place, or its story, as opposed to the revulsion felt by the audience? Fuck me – even he doesn’t know what his film is about!

“Oh, but his films are confronting...” say the Dogma groupies.

Fuck off. Anyone can be confronting. I could drug a nun, smear dog shit over her tits whilst masturbating into a tub of lard and that’s criminal and foul, but if I call myself an ‘artist’ first, suddenly I'm 'confronting'.

Just because something is confronting, doesn’t mean it has artistic value, or meaning, or is entertaining, or is any good at all.

It is so easy to be ‘arty’. All you need is no talent, no direction and some money. But to create something of artistic worth? Now that takes some talent. Ay, there’s the rub.

Lasr von Trier is the pinup boy of this mass confusion as to what art has become. Call me old fashioned, but a central feature of great artists no matter what their field, is great proficiency at their art. You may not like Warhol, but he knew what he was doing. There was a meaning behind it. Lars lacks this. All he has is his stupid fucked up ‘Dogma’ which is a set of rules and agreements as to how a film should be made, and because he has stuck to these agreements, he earns the respect of movie fans around the world. But it’s just a mass stupidity as far as I can tell, a mass delusion of sorts, where because one person said, "Oh, he has integrity," his reputation spread like swine-flu.

“He makes films that adhere to his own artistic ethos...” So what? Just because he has a production ethos, does it mean he’s any good?

I can do that!

Perseus Q’s POGMA

*Only make films in black and white
*All films to be shot in real time
*Only one-take.
*Use different actors to overdub all voices
*Only use actors from broken homes
*Real dog shit must be smeared over a nun’s tits in every movie

There. If I make ten films like this with no coherent story purpose, no technical ability, no meaning, no direction, but rigidly stick to these rules, will I go down in history as an artist with integrity? Probably. But did I entertain people? Probably not.

I'd confront them though. Oh I'd be confronting alright. I'd confront them with inane 'shock value', just like Uncle Lars.

It is very difficult to create something that both entertains and enriches, and what we ask of artists is that they do one or the other, or even better, both. Britney Spears at least does one of these things – she entertains millions of kids, and for that, I have more respect for her singing and dancing talent than I do for the entire body of work created by Lars von Trier.

'Shock value' can exist in art. 'Guernica' by Picasso. 'A Clockwork Orange' by Burgess. 'Suicide In An Airplane' by Ornstein. 'Pulp Fiction' by Tarantino even. But what Tarantino, Ornstein, Burgess and Picasso have that Lars lacks is simple - artistry.

'Breaking The Waves', 'The Idiots', 'Dogville', 'Dancer In The Dark'... I mean seriously, did anyone see these films and say, "Wow, that was really good!"?

To quote TISM: “It’s novel, it’s unique, it’s shithouse.”

*

Rant over. Everyone back to Ramon's poem please.

Inspired by events elsewhere!

The book of my enemy has been remaindered
And I am pleased.
In vast quantities it has been remaindered
Like a van-load of counterfeit that has been seized
And sits in piles in a police warehouse,
My enemy's much-prized effort sits in piles
In the kind of bookshop where remaindering occurs.
Great, square stacks of rejected books and, between them, aisles
One passes down reflecting on life's vanities,
Pausing to remember all those thoughtful reviews
Lavished to no avail upon one's enemy's book --
For behold, here is that book
Among these ranks and banks of duds,
These ponderous and seeminly irreducible cairns
Of complete stiffs.


The book of my enemy has been remaindered
And I rejoice.
It has gone with bowed head like a defeated legion
Beneath the yoke.
What avail him now his awards and prizes,
The praise expended upon his meticulous technique,
His individual new voice?
Knocked into the middle of next week
His brainchild now consorts with the bad buys
The sinker, clinkers, dogs and dregs,
The Edsels of the world of moveable type,
The bummers that no amount of hype could shift,
The unbudgeable turkeys.


Yea, his slim volume with its understated wrapper
Bathes in the blare of the brightly jacketed Hitler's War Machine,
His unmistakably individual new voice
Shares the same scrapyart with a forlorn skyscraper
Of The Kung-Fu Cookbook,
His honesty, proclaimed by himself and believed by others,
His renowned abhorrence of all posturing and pretense,
Is there with Pertwee's Promenades and Pierrots--
One Hundred Years of Seaside Entertainment,
And (oh, this above all) his sensibility,
His sensibility and its hair-like filaments,
His delicate, quivering sensibility is now as one
With Barbara Windsor's Book of Boobs,
A volume graced by the descriptive rubric
"My boobs will give everyone hours of fun".


Soon now a book of mine could be remaindered also,
Though not to the monumental extent
In which the chastisement of remaindering has been meted out
To the book of my enemy,
Since in the case of my own book it will be due
To a miscalculated print run, a marketing error--
Nothing to do with merit.
But just supposing that such an event should hold
Some slight element of sadness, it will be offset
By the memory of this sweet moment.
Chill the champagne and polish the crystal goblets!
The book of my enemy has been remaindered
And I am glad.

Armchair Expert

I urge non-cricket-loving TSFKA-ers to get into The Ashes which starts on July 8 this year. As a sporting spectacle, it's just another series of cricket test matches, but as an event, it is a traditional and wonderful chance to smash up whinging poms and get revenge on them for sending us to this god-foresaken desert hell for stealing a loaf of bread.

Also, it will be handy to have even a dilletante's knowledge so when me, Catlick, Ramon and Bob suddenly say, "Fucking Hussey" you won't think it's a typo-ridden outburst against some trollop in the news. The Ashes is so important, we may even get 'Jamie' back because if I remember rightly, he and Ramon are co-Presidents of the 'Sack that Inbreed as Captain' (S.I.C.) club.

It also about regaining some pride after they beat us last time The Ashes was played in England. Who can forget the English cheer squad singing "You're Only Good At Swimming" and "God Save Your Queen" on the final day of the final test back in 2005? It was only Shane Warne that stood up to them in that whole series, and he had the awful task of bowling the last ball of the lost series (although a slow spin bowler, he bowled a bouncer at Flintoff's head).

Today, the touring team was announced. It is:

Ricky Ponting, captain
Michael Clarke, vice-captain
Stuart Clark
Brad Haddin
Nathan Hauritz
Ben Hilfenhaus
Phillip Hughes
Michael Hussey
Mitchell Johnson
Simon Katich
Brett Lee
Graham Manou
Andrew McDonald
Marcus North
Peter Siddle
Shane Watson

...and already the bogans are screaming for blood because of the exclusion of Andrew 'Roy' Symonds. But ignore this. In the last two years he has struggled to even bowl at all, he can hardly hit, looks too unfit to run and has been plagued with injury and behavioural problems*. At his peak he was fucking exciting and brilliant to watch, but his peak was a long time ago. The reason the bogans are having a sook is because Symonds is Bogan Pinup-God.

He has been replaced as the Number One all-rounder with Andrew 'McRanga' McDonald who as far as I'm concerned is a great choice. His bowling, although not awesome, is tight, very controlled and almost impossible to score off. His batting, once it gets going, is quite awesome. He is also young, enthusiastic and heralds the future of our cricketing team.

But I have other problems with the selections.

Brett 'Binger' Lee? Is he even still playing? Was he ever any good? What the fuck?

Michael 'Mr. Cricket' Hussey? Don't get me wrong, he's wonderful to watch when he's on a roll, but the only roll he's on is a pork roll, and when your batting average starts to resemble your shoe-size, it's time to go.

So I'm already calling for the selector's heads.

Tait should have been picked. Yeah, he has mental illness and when he bowls, the ball can go anywhere between middle-stump and the Gents, but I've seen him smash actual IQ-points out of batsmen's heads he's that fast.

And they should have swapped Michael Hussey for David Hodge, who is just as good a batsman as Hussey, but happens to be able to bowl a bit too.

Meanwhile, Hautitz has been chosen because he's our best specialist spinner. It reminds me of the great line by John Lennon. Given the style of music, he was asked if Ringo was the best drummer for The Beatles, and he replied, "Ringo wasn't even the best drummer in The Beatles." Hauritz may be the best specialist spinner in Australia, but even so, I'd still smash him out of the ground and I'm an utter spac of a batsman. Clarke and Katich are already in the team, and they can bowl good spin. Just use them! And pick another batsman, like Hodge?

From my armchair, I am better that the Australian Selection Committee.

Meanwhile, England are finding form in recent months, and so the battle will be hot.

Can't wait.

* I agree with Leaping Larry L though - when Roy decided to ditch a team 'meeting' for a fishing excusrion, he did what we all feel is morally right. Is there anything more over-rated than a 'meeting'?

Midweek Mad Geniuses: Virginia Woolf

"The fuck did you say?"

"What?" asked Leonard, waking from a deep sleep and rubbing his eyes. He had been dreaming of his mother's chicken soup. He often dreamed of soup after a big night.

"Did you call me a lesbian?"

"No."

"Are you sure? Didn't you just say 'move over dyke'?"

"What? I just woke up. You're hearing voices again."

"You didn't say anything?"

"I was dreaming of my mother's soup."

"Chicken soup?"

"Yes."

"Jew."

"I beg your pardon!"

"You heard me. I don't like Jews. Their voice, their laugh."

"Well, you married me."

"I didn't know you were Jewish."

"I was wearing a Kippah when we met."

"I thought it was a bald patch."

"I read you passages from the The Fifth Book of the Maccabees over dinner at Goldstein's Kosher House!"

"I thought you were listing the specials."

"Bloody hell!"

"God, I should've married some christian from the upper class intelligentsia. Like Rupert Brooke. Or Clive Bell. Virginia Bell certainly has a ring to it!"

"Very funny."

"You never liked my jokes."

"They started to become a little morbid after your third nervous breakdown."

"You could hardly blame me! It followed the fire-bombing of my house by the fucking krauts!"

"Well, whose fault's that? You put a huge bullseye on the roof!"

"It was supposed to be a tribute. I thought I heard my father say that William Tell was coming to dinner."

"What!"

"Turned out it was William Thackery."

"Well, anyway, this new place is ok."

"When are you going to start work on the extension?"

"Again with the extension!"

"A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction."

"That's what you always say."

"I need my own space! I'm working on a new technique called 'stream of consciousness'."

"What are you talking about? Everyone's doing it."

"Name one."

"Dostoyevsky, Proust, Joyce."

"Fucking men!"

"Why don't you do what George Eliot did?"

"What did he do?"

"He's a woman. He pretended to be a man."

"George Eliot's a woman?"

"Yes!"

"I guess that explains his vagina."

"Oy vey!"

"Anyway, I'm not going to hide behind a set of balls. I've started work on a new novel. In fact, I'm heading off this morning to do some research."

"Oh yes?"

"It involves filling my pockets with stones and walking into the middle of the river."

"Make sure you're back for dinner. I'm making matza balls."

Israel is not Nazi Germany

I wasn’t going to write anything about this entire Seven Jewish Children guff because – frankly – who really gives a fat rat’s.

Getting off the train at Parliament station the other day however, I had an encounter with a group calling on the State Government to dump Connex as the metropolitan train operator because its parent company has business links with Israel and “like, Israel is like Nazi Germany”.

Therein ensued a short conversation, which may or may not* ended with me calling the boycott bloke “an ignorant fucking knob-end”.

This inspired me to have a closer look at some of the issues.

First thing. Israel is NOT Nazi Germany. Israel, for all its flaws, is a working Parliamentary democracy. Nazi Germany was not.

Second thing. Israel is not involved in a “genocide” against “the Palestinians”, or it’s one of the most incompetent genocides in history given the fact there are still several hundred thousand Palestinians living cheek-by-jowl with the Jewish state; established 1948. What is this – genocide by “work to rule”?

Third thing. Isn’t it slightly odd that these buffoons whip themselves up into a lather about the “genocide” being conducted by Israel but the situation in Darfur – where the Sudanese Government is actively committing crimes against humanity – gets not a mention?

The boycotters whine about the Australian Government “always supporting Israel”. Call me an old-fashioned lefty, but faced with a choice between a country with a working democracy with a free media, an independent judicial system and robust debate or a pack of theocratic fascists like Hamas – I know which group I’d be lining up behind.

I don’t think all critics of Israeli are anti-Semites. I do think a great many of them are dickheads.

*I suspect I may have used these and other similar expressions.

Weekend Car and RSVP Date Wrap

Saturday

I purchased a new car. I've never owned a new car, only ever used ones. I didn't even really want a new car, my existing one is fine. I have a 1999 Subaru Liberty Wagon (puchased in 2002) and in the seven years I've owned it, I've serviced it once a year, bought some new tyres, and I think I checked the oil level once. I'm not a car person. I drive cars until they break down, but this one has never broken down and purrs like a kitten. I mentioned to a mate last year that if I ever bought a new car it would be another Liberty. He mentioned this to a mate of his who worked at Subaru, and the stalking started. Months later, they made me an offer I couldn't refuse (end of financial year runout, plus economic recession, plus mates' rates, plus turning 40 this year and wanting some retail therapy equals buying a new car).

The negotiations took place on the phone and on email over the course of a few months, but Saturday was the signing of the contracts (the car won't be delivered until July).

I was to meet the salesguy at 10am, and I figured it would take me five minutes. Oh no. Oh no. TWO HOURS. All I wanted to do was sign, but no, we had to have coffee, we had to talk, small talk, car talk, he had to run me through the features, I had to watch a video, I had to meet other people, meet the boss, meet the receptionist, if his mother was there I would have had to meet her too, and they had to teach me about car care and Subaru technology and they even offered me a test-drive of a test-car and were confused as to why I said no.

Some of the conversations were meaningless.

Salesguy: Mate, I've thrown in a free sunroof for you.
Me: Oh, no thanks. I had one on a Mazda years ago and never used it.
Salesguy: But it's a free sunroof!
Me: I had a cancer ripped out of my face last year. I don't want the sun on me, and in the winter, I don't want the wind on me.
Salesguy: Well, you don't have to open it.
Me: Just give me one without a sunroof. It'll save you money.
Salesguy: Oh, not really. See the car we've allocated for you has a sunroof.
Me: So I'm getting it anyway? If I want a car without a sunroof, it will cost me more?
Salesguy: Yeah.

Then, after I signed, he congratulated me! Like, we stood up, he beamed, and patted me on the arm and offered his hand as if I had just been made the President. It's a fucking car! And then some very hot chick came to congratulate me as well, and said, "You have a NEW CAR!" and it sounded like I was on some game show and I was waiting for balloons to drop. She said, "Are you excited?" and I said, "No, I'm in debt, and all I have is a slightly cleaner version of what I already drive. I'm not excited at all. I'm 40." She hated me.

This car better be good.

(PS: They were nice people, and I don't want to come across as hating them personally - just the process bugged me. I'm not a car person.)

Saturday Night

Visited a childhood friend who has just had her third baby, and I was meeting the baby (4 months old). She handed it to me, and left it with me for like an hour. The first five minutes I was thinking, "God, how long do I have to hold this chimp?" and the next 55 minutes I was thinking, "Wow this kid is cute. Look at him, he's smiling and sucking on my buttons! I want one! I want one!"

Oh I'm clucky. I pity my next girlfriend.

Which brings me to...


Sunday

Coffee date with a girl from RSVP.com, to be called E-bird. I reckon I read through 300 profiles, and E-bird was my favourite and so she was the only one I initially contacted and corresponded with, but I subsequently made contact with a standby (Em79 - plucked from Melba's researched list) and we will also be meeting for a coffee next week.

But I was very excited about meeting E-bird. We only had an hour, I was nervous, she was nervous, and here's the rundown.

Pros:

* She's very smart.
* She's well-travelled.
* She's attractive.
* She's very witty.
* She's an ex-smoker (which is good for me - I rarely take advice about smoking from never-smokeders)
* She has a very good job
* She plays netball (I like sporty people)

Cons:

* She's originally from Adelaide, so she's potentially a serial-killer.
* I think she was taller than me, and I'm 6 foot exactly. She was maybe the same height. Is that a problem? No. Yes. No. Tom Cruise didn't seem to mind. Did Nicole Kidman?
* I think she saw me as a scrawny pale 40 year old that lived in the bush and she'll have little more to do with me.

I'm going to ask for a second date, this with time with added alcohol, and I shall keep you all updated.

Another poem about death, yay! Also, a book review

Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.

Also, a review of a book I’ve been reading; God’s War: A new history of the Crusades by Christopher Tyerman.

The Crusades – in hindsight, probably not a good idea.

IDAHO: not just potatoes

I turned on the TV in my room last night and discovered I had BBC World News. At first, I was rather excited that I had another option besides CNN, but that quickly turned to confusion and anger when I watched the first story presented.

A BBC reporter was in Moscow, where the Eurovision final is to be held on Saturday night. A gay rights activist had petitioned the city council for permission to hold a gay pride march, but had been denied (every application since the first in 2006 has been turned down by the mayor, Yuri Luzhkov, who describes the parades as ‘satanic’). However, the council is allowing “hardcore nationalists and religious groups to stage a counter-demonstration on the same day.”

Being gay is apparently not illegal in Russia, but there are many cases of gay and lesbians being the victim of violence from “neo-Nazis, ultra-Nationalists and Christian fundamentalists.” Including British activist Peter Tatchell, who was badly beaten in Moscow two years ago, and Irina Fedotova, one half of the first lesbian couple to seek a marriage certificate in Russia (they were denied), who says she has been beaten twice by extremists. While I was watching the story, she intimated that many gay people in Russia have to hide their sexuality for fear of violence against them, and that anti-gay activists will wait outside gay clubs to bash people leaving them.

Indeed, Mikhail Nalimov, leader of the United Orthodox Youth, has said there will be “a very tough reaction from a lot of [their] activists” and claims gay activists are “spiritual terrorists” and that the “aim of the gay movement is to destabilise the country and society.” Of course, it’s not possible that the aim of the gay movement is simply to allow gay people to have the same basic human rights as everyone else.

I am completely baffled by opinions such as this. I just don’t understand what people have against homosexuality. What does it matter what two consenting adults do in their private life? How on earth does it impact on anyone else? Why do religious people get their knickers in such a twist about it (such as the ‘God Hates Fags’ group in the US)? And not just religious people, but anyone? Why? I’ve heard of some people who are against homosexuality, and in particular same-sex marriage, bring up paedophilia as an argument, and say society makes it their business to prevent that sort of perverse behaviour, and claim that it’s no different to homosexuality. But that’s bullshit. Paedophilia is not between two consenting people, because one of the parties involved is a minor and unable to give consent. There is also the ridiculous argument that if we allow same-sex people to marry, what’s to stop someone from marrying their dog in the future? For the same reason – the dog can’t consent.

While I was watching the report, and listening to Nalimov say the church and his activists will continue to fight against gay activists (and putting aside the very important issues that those who call themselves Christians are hardly acting like Christians when they bash other people and act with such intolerance), I just kept repeating to myself, “But why? Why do you care if these people are gay? How is it affecting you?” Sure, you might think homosexual acts damn the soul and what not, but what does it matter to you if someone else is doing it? I hardly think bashing someone up is going to endear you to god, even if said person is doing something you think god doesn’t approve of. Two wrongs don’t make a right and all of that. Not to mention, Jesus doesn't say anything about homosexuality in the New Testament of the Bible. You’d think if it was really that important, he might have mentioned it once or twice.

I really don’t understand homosexual-hate. Anyone have a clue?

P.S. May 17 is International Day Against Homophobia (IDAHO), so I thought this was a fitting topic.