GraceDavis is evil. There, I said it. It’s out there now and I’m not taking it back: GraceDavis is evil.

First she does the whole giving Dr. Laura nightmares thing. Uncool, truly. Then she does the whole donate to Beth’s cancer walk by trolling trolls for comments and giving a dollar for each comment trolled thing. Devilish. And shall we talk about the whole I have a cute snuggly little Jack Russell Terrier puppy named Malcolm and I post endless pictures of him and blog endlessly about him and make Beth want one too thing? Since it’s evil incarnate, yes, I think I should.

So, yeah, Malcolm. All the time with the Malcolm. MalcolmMalcolmMalcolm! And the pictures. PicturesPicturesPictures! Of MalcolmMalcolmMalcolm! And the comments, both in her own blog and in Beth’s, about how Beth should get a Jack Russell puppy too, and that I’m a bastard for not allowing it. She’s been relentless about it and believe me, we have felt the pressure in Casa Atkins over it, what with Beth and Zoe going to bed in tears each night and me being all hot and sweaty and worn out from beating them with my steel-tipped cat-o-nine tails while I roar “No! No more fucking animals in this house! No, not even a cute snuggly little Jack Russell Terrier puppy like the one evil GraceDavis has!!! I am lord and master and I say NOOOOO!!!!”

Well. I’m not made of stone. I have a heart, flinty and small though it may be. I can be nice. Sometimes.

So Beth and I have our 10th wedding anniversary coming up in about week. And I thought about it and decided that bowing to the Jack Russell Terrier fever would be something that would make Beth very happy, and I thought that making her very happy would be a nice anniversary gift. So I went out looking for a Jack Russell Terrier today so I could give it to Beth for our anniversary. Besides, all the anniversary gift tables say Jack Russell Terrier is the appropriate gift for the 10th anniversary. Sure, you just have to read between the “tin/aluminum” traditional gift and “diamond jewelry” modern gift lines.

But. No way in hell am I paying breeder prices for a dog Beth plans to carry around in her purse. Hell no. Those things go for $400 or $500. (And that’s just her purses!) Heeeellllll no. So I went looking for one at the pound. And look who I found:

Meet Mimi. She’s 8 months old, wee, cute, and she came up available for adoption today (Friday) — sort of.

She’s at the Burbank Animal Shelter right now where, like most animal shelters, they have a policy of holding animals for about a week before putting them up for adoption in order to give owners who lost them time to find them and take them back home. If nobody claims them during that time, then they’re fair game for anyone who wants them. The Burbank shelter takes that policy a step further and gives the original “finder” of the animal — whoever brought the animal in — first dibs on the day that week is up, if they want it. This dog’s finder wanted first dibs, which meant they had to show up today to take her. But they never showed up. So tomorrow she goes up for whoever wants her: us.

And about 40 other people, too, apparently.

This little pup is very popular, the pound people tell me. People have been asking after her by the dozens every day she’s been in, and people were calling them today to make sure the finder hadn’t shown up and that she was still available. So whoever’s there first thing tomorrow, when they open at 10 am, those people will have a shot at adopting her. They’re expecting quite a crowd, they said. If that happens, they’re going to basically draw names out of a hat for her. If you’re there at 10 your name goes in the hat, and then whoever’s name comes out gets to take the pup home.

So I’ll be there in the morning, along with the rest of this little pup’s fan club. And in a pup-sized measure of irony I, the guy who has been vehemently fighting against getting a Jack Russell Terrier puppy, I’ll be hoping I get lucky and win the dog I said I didn’t want.

Stop laughing, Grace.

Former Republican senator from Missouri John C. Danforth, on today’s New York Times Op/Ed page, put the smack-down on conservative Christian extremists and their push to legislate our world their way:

Moderate Christians are less certain about when and how our beliefs can be translated into statutory form, not because of a lack of faith in God but because of a healthy acknowledgement of the limitations of human beings. Like conservative Christians, we attend church, read the Bible and say our prayers.

But for us, the only absolute standard of behavior is the commandment to love our neighbors as ourselves. Repeatedly in the Gospels, we find that the Love Commandment takes precedence when it conflicts with laws. We struggle to follow that commandment as we face the realities of everyday living, and we do not agree that our responsibility to live as Christians can be codified by legislators.

When, on television, we see a person in a persistent vegetative state, one who will never recover, we believe that allowing the natural and merciful end to her ordeal is more loving than imposing government power to keep her hooked up to a feeding tube.

When we see an opportunity to save our neighbors’ lives through stem cell research, we believe that it is our duty to pursue that research, and to oppose legislation that would impede us from doing so.

We think that efforts to haul references of God into the public square, into schools and courthouses, are far more apt to divide Americans than to advance faith.

Following a Lord who reached out in compassion to all human beings, we oppose amending the Constitution in a way that would humiliate homosexuals.

For us, living the Love Commandment may be at odds with efforts to encapsulate Christianity in a political agenda. We strongly support the separation of church and state, both because that principle is essential to holding together a diverse country, and because the policies of the state always fall short of the demands of faith. Aware that even our most passionate ventures into politics are efforts to carry the treasure of religion in the earthen vessel of government, we proceed in a spirit of humility lacking in our conservative colleagues.

Holy crap, a Republican with a brain, a sense of perspective, and the morality and courage to use (and speak out on) both. I’ll take this as proof positive that all Republicans aren’t all bad.

Senator Dick Durbin (D-IL) spoke out against Guantanamo Bay on the Senate floor the other day, phrasing the outrage there in such stark terms that I don’t see how anyone can refute it. And yet BushCo’s loving zombies do, in fact they love it — check out the I Heart Gitmo line the boobs at Powerline are flogging.

So I’m opening up the comments to my right-wing brethren out there (I’m looking at you, Don, among others): What do you have to say about this? Can you — dare you? — defend it?

When you read some of the graphic descriptions of what has occurred here — I almost hesitate to put them in the record, and yet they have to be added to this debate. Let me read to you what one FBI agent saw. And I quote from his report:

“On a couple of occasions, I entered interview rooms to find a detainee chained hand and foot in a fetal position to the floor, with no chair, food or water. Most times they urinated or defecated on themselves, and had been left there for 18-24 hours or more. On one occasion, the air conditioning had been turned down so far and the temperature was so cold in the room, that the barefooted detainee was shaking with cold….On another occasion, the [air conditioner] had been turned off, making the temperature in the unventilated room well over 100 degrees. The detainee was almost unconscious on the floor, with a pile of hair next to him. He had apparently been literally pulling his hair out throughout the night. On another occasion, not only was the temperature unbearably hot, but extremely loud rap music was being played in the room, and had been since the day before, with the detainee chained hand and foot in the fetal position on the tile floor.”

If I read this to you and did not tell you that it was an FBI agent describing what Americans had done to prisoners in their control, you would most certainly believe this must have been done by Nazis, Soviets in their gulags, or some mad regime — Pol Pot or others — that had no concern for human beings. Sadly, that is not the case. This was the action of Americans in the treatment of their prisoners.

Looks like Congress is growing a pair, finally: House Votes to Limit Patriot Act Rules – Yahoo! News

WASHINGTON – In a slap at President Bush, lawmakers voted Wednesday to block the Justice Department and the FBI from using the Patriot Act to peek at library records and bookstore sales slips.

The House voted 238-187 despite a veto threat from Bush to block the part of the anti-terrorism law that allows the government to investigate the reading habits of terror suspects.

They’re still getting ready to extend the rest of the Patriot Act and further BushCo’s dream of eviscerating every single one of our civil liberties, but at least now the FBI won’t be snooping through your reading list to see how many times you’ve checked out Catcher In The Rye.

It’s too bad they’re not drawing the line until library books — a hotbed of terrorist activity, it’s true — but at least they’re drawing a line.

Coming over the radio airwaves even as I type: a Tsunami Warning — here, in Los Angeles.

Uh… Wha-fuck?

Apparently there was an offshore earthquake near Eureka (insert obligatory Eureka! joke here), California up north, prompting the tsunami warning down here. Go figure.

We live a good 15 miles inland behind the Santa Monica mountains, so we’re good here at Casa Atkins even if a monster wave hits. But even on the coast down in Malibu I wouldn’t expect to see the kind of destruction here that we saw last year in Phuket — pretty much everyone here either has their own internal dual silicone flotation system or is banging someone who does.

Zoe vehemently stakes her claim to her doggy bag — with her heart on her sleeve.

Zoe’s food from Don Cuco.
I (heart) my parents.
P.S. and Dylan
Don’t touch
or else

At the movies this weekend, one of the previews was for RENT. I didn’t know they were making it into a movie, but now that I do I’m there.

I’ve seen it onstage twice. The first time was on Broadway with the original cast, and I loved it. When they took it on the road later and came through L.A., Beth and I went to see it again. I loved it again. For all its flaws, I think it’s a powerful, moving musical.

And I’m obviously not the only one who thinks so. The preview was a montage of scenes from the upcoming movie with the song “Seasons of Love” from the play as the soundtrack, and much of the audience — me and Beth included — was singing along quietly. It made me tear up a little bit.

“Seasons of Love”

Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes
Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Moments so dear
Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes
How do you measure– measure a year?
In daylights– in sunsets
In midnights– in cups of coffee
In inches– in miles
In laughter– in strife
In–
Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes
How do you measure a year in the life?
How about love?
How about love?
How about love?
Measure in love
Seasons of love

Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes
Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Journeys to plan
Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes
How do you measure the life
Of a woman or a man?

In truths that she learned
Or times that he cried
In bridges he burned
Or the way that she died

It’s time now– to sing out
Tho’ the story never ends
Let’s celebrate
Remember a year in the life of friends
Remember the love
Remember the love
Remember the love
Measure in love

Measure, measure your life in love
Seasons of love
Seasons of love

In diapers–reportcards
In spoke wheels–in speeding tickets
In contracts–dollars
In funerals–in births

Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes
How do you figure our last year on earth

Just for fun (and cheap content), here’s my answers to a music meme going around.

Put your iTunes library (or other mp3 player) in alphabetical order and list the first song for each letter (removing anything that’s not music). I’m including numbers and symbols too.

‘Round Midnight – Thelonius Monk
#34 – Dave Matthews Band
(Do I Figure) In Your Life – Paul Carrack
…This Town… – Elvis Costello
1-2-8 – The Mighty Mighty Bosstones
2000 Miles – The Pretenders
3×5 – John Mayer
4th of July, Asbury Park (Sandy) – Bruce Springsteen
5 & 1/2 Minute Hallway – Poe
83 – John Mayer
99 Problems – Jay-Z
A – Barenaked Ladies
Baboom Mama Said – The Vaughan Brothers
Cadillac Ranch – Bruce Springsteen
Dad, I’m In Jail – Was (Not Was)
Earth To Dorris – Was (Not Was)
Face Dances Part Two – Pete Townshend
G.O.P. – Beth Hart
Half-Life – Duncan Sheik
I’d Have To Be Crazy – Willie Nelson
J Church – Laughingstock
Kate – Ben Folds Five
L-O-V-E (Love) – Al Green
Mad Mad World – Tom Cochrane
Naima – John Coltrane
Occasionally – Melissa Etheridge
Pads, Paws and Claws – Elvis Costello
Quarter to Three – The Warren Brothers
R.O.C.K. in the U.S.A. – John Mellencamp
Sabotage – Beastie Boys
T.N.T. (Terror ‘n Tinseltown) – Motley Crue
Ultra Violet (Light My Way) – U2
Valentine’s Day – Bruce Springsteen
W.M.A. – Pearl Jam
Y’all Want A Single – Korn
Zombie Zoo – Tom Petty

Huh. Nothing for “X”. Let’s just pretend I put down anything from the 80’s punk band X.

I keep a book in the bathroom for when I need to, uh, sit down in there for awhile. (A Wrinkle in Time is the current one.) As I was wrapping up this morning’s “reading” session, I realized that I have been completely and utterly domesticated.

Why? My bookmark: the disposable adhesive backing from an Always pantiliner.

Sigh…

Tonight is Saturday night. Date Night. Being old, fat and married, you tend to forget about Date Night, but Beth and I ventured out tonight and witnessed the mating dance of the Young Los Angeles Hipster. I had forgotten how awkward that dance was. Oy vey. But seeing all the preening and posturing brought back memories, so I thought I’d share one of my few “Player” dating moments with you.

Setting: Los Angeles, circa late 1980’s. I’m 27-ish, out on a blind date with a co-worker’s daughter.

I had been given all the predictable pre-date propaganda: She has a great personality! She’s really intelligent! She’s funny! She’s really nice! Translation: Dog. But the co-worker also said her daughter was “really cute.” Like, surfer-girl cute. So I calculated: Co-worker isn’t too bad looking herself. Has big boobs. Possible potential for a future mother/daughter three-way thing, which would make a great story even if the daughter did turn out to be a hound. All things added up to “Go,” so I went out with the girl. And knock me over with a feather, she turned out to be hotttttt!!!

But.

Being cute — “like, surfer-girl cute” — was the only thing I’d been told about this girl that was true. As for the rest of it… She did not have a great personality. She was not really intelligent. She was not funny. She was not nice. In fact, she was a vapid, dumb, dull, self-involved, unpleasant little bitch. Cute as she was, I disliked her almost before we had made it from her front door to my car, and things only went downhill from there.

I took her to a comedy club, where I don’t think she laughed once. Between sets she would complain about how dumb the comedians were. She was bored. She wanted another drink. Why did I bring her here? I was having such a lousy time with her that one of the comedians onstage made a joke about me looking miserable — and I was. My date with this girl ranks right up there in my Worst Date top 10.

We were seated right up against the stage, and across from us there were two girls seated on the other side. One of them was pretty cute, and she and I started eyeing each other. Aw yeah, she wanted me, boy! Unfortunately, I was on a date with Attend Me Barbie. But then my date went to the ladies room during an intermission between comics. I had my opening! I sauntered over to the girl across the stage and introd–

Wait. Backstory first. I’ve never been a ladies man. Smooth, confident, witty, urbane, etc — none of these are words one would use to describe me where women are concerned. Lame, no game, tongue-tied, shy, nervous, etc — these are the right words. So the fact that I was even thinking of chatting up one girl while on a date with another was so out of character for me that to this day I still wonder if it really happened. And back then, the fact that I was actually doing it… I think I blacked out. Had an out-of-body experience. Was possessed by Rico Suave. Something.

…so I sauntered over to the girl across the stage and introduced myself. I told her I was on the worst date of my life and the only thing keeping me from stabbing myself in the temple with a broken beer bottle was seeing her smile at me from across the stage. I told her I thought I might be able to make it through the night if I knew I’d be taking her out next week. I told her we didn’t have much time because my date would be back any minute– “Next weekend,” I said. “How about it?”

Holy shit. She went for it.

I made it back to my seat with the new girl’s phone number before my Barbie date got back from the ladies room, and I spent the rest of the night locking eyes with my future date across the stage. I felt like a stud.

Still riding that stud vibe, when I took the Barbie date home I decided to fuck with her. She really was a very, very pretty girl. Blonde, surfer-girl cute fer sure-fer sure, nice tight little body — she was a hottie, no question. And because she was a hottie she was used to being an object of desire. I could tell she was expecting me to make a move when I pulled into her driveway. Why she was expecting that, considering how we had had zero chemistry on the date, I don’t know, but it was clear that she did. So I didn’t. And as the minutes ticked by with me making mindless small talk while I waited for her to get the hell out of my car, it started to be clear that she wanted me to make a move.

So I didn’t. Pointedly. I smiled and laughed and made small talk and watched her get more and more uncomfortable that Oh my God, why isn’t this guy trying to kiss me??? I finally cut it off with, “Well, it’s really late, I should get going…” and smiled as she stammered “Yeah, we’ll have to do it again sometime” and looked puzzled that I was just sitting there waiting for her to get out. I was probably the first guy in this girl’s whole life who didn’t try to kiss her goodnight. She was completely flummoxed by it.

A week later I had my date with the across-the-stage girl. I looked forward to it all week long, remembering her smile and her laugh and how cute she was and what a player I was for getting her number while on a date with another girl. I couldn’t wait to see her again.

But here’s the thing about girls you meet in nightclubs: Nightclubs are dark. Really dark. And women you’ve only caught surreptitious glances of from across smokey stages in poorly-lit nightclubs and only talked to in person for a few hurried minutes while casting nervous glances over your shoulder at the ladies room door, well those women don’t tend to hold up well in the harsh, unflattering glare of a well-lighted room. In fact, they sometimes turn out to be, well, pretty damn fugly.

I’m a shallow guy, I’ll admit it. A girl could have a heart of gold, deep down inside might be the perfect girl for me, might be my soulmate if I look deep into her soul — but if I have to look past a chinful of whiskers that makes her look like a fucking billy goat to see it, well, I’m sorry ladies but I just can’t see that far. I don’t have it in me.

So, yeah, I’m shallow: I got hung up on her goatee. It was silky and blonde and glinted prettily in the afternoon sun and looked downy smooth and well-groomed — but there were hairs! On her chin! All over her chin!

That was it for me. I was out, game over, goodnight Irene. I can’t remember anything about the date except those long, long, long billy goat whiskers on her chinny-chin-chin, but I know it was our one and only date. Our romance was over before it began. Looking back, I’m a little ashamed of myself for being so shallow — but only a little. I mean, come on. Hairs? On your chin? Two words, Goat Girl: Twee. Zers.

Sadly, she’s not the only girl I threw over George Costanza-style for an imagined physical deformity. Ask me sometime about the chick with the Aquaman toes that I only noticed after sleeping with her.