Blog from the Future Past

It's 1977, and the bloodied tail end of the boomer generation crank up their amps to 11 and turn their manners and morals down to less than zero. Energy abounds... The Sex Pistols, Clash, Ramones, Iggy Pop and Patti Smith pull rock music onto a dark, wild ride of speedball-fueled mania dressed in heroin chic.

Dead Meat in Concert watch us die on stage if bad smack fails to kill us, the din no doubt will

The Sex Pistols and Sid Vicious' twisted snarl paved the way for Billy Idol's "White Wedding" to become the most-frequently requested song at U.S. wedding receptions and Bar-Mitzvahs (source:WIKIPEDIA).

Senator Larry Craig claims that following a complex signaling protocol customarily used by men seeking gay sex partners at a Minneapolis Airport restroom was, "a bizarre accident or coincidence", and his actions were totally misconstrued by an arresting undercover officer. "I was tapping out a Christian anti-gay message in Morse code with my foot," Craig stated, during the 6th press conference since news of his arrest and subsequent guilty plea came to public light last week. Allred Floria, the senator's attorney, later hinted at the defense strategy, "We've petitioned to supoena the personnel records of the arresting officer, to prove he's never been trained in Morse Code."

Conservative GOP Senator Larry Craig playing head tag in the Men's Room at the Minneapolis/St. Paul International Airport (dramatization). Senator Craig claims he was on the lookout for abortionists and "swarthy middle-east types", and was misunderstood by the buff undercover officer in the next stall.

I just don't get it with these guys; with Mark Foley and Ted Haggard, this is the third Christian Conservative 'leader' caught smokin' pole in recent months. Is it as simple as self-hate? Why reach out from the closet to strangle yourself... or those like you? How many of our politicians and appointed public officials lead these secret, sordid lives, and is the percentage higher than that of Catholic priests?

Inquiring minds want to know, since we might not want to be represented by someone who plays skin-flute with total strangers in airport restroom stalls. For instance, do you think any of his constituents up in Idaho care to admit Craig shook their hand or kissed their baby?

An old friend, a true kindred spirit I haven't seen for five years, comes into town from the west coast on a business trip. It's midnight, after a late dinner well-soaked with Bombay Sapphire martinis; he's flat on his back on the floor of our screened-in porch, moaning, "I don't know where I am. Where am I?"

What could I do, except light up the bowl and pass it to him.

Sometimes it's good not to know where you are.

Or, who you are, for that matter.