I’ve been meaning to write about this for a long time, but I guess I wasn’t mad enough.

John Travolta should have been outed, and not for being gay. His insistence that his son Jett, now dead at 16, wasn’t autistic has bothered me for years. Travolta has denied all talk of autism, even refusing to attend the premiere of his brother Joey’s film about autism.

Scientology does not accept autism as a legitimate condition. Instead, Travolta and his wife Kelly have militantly insisted that their son was afflicted with Kawasaki disease, a rare illness that usually lasts a few days and can be treated quite easily once it is diagnosed. It is rarely fatal and is not associated with any developmental disorder.

John Travolta has kept his son hidden from the public as best as he could, but his lovely and healthy daughter Ella has been photographed often, even at red-carpet events. When rumors of Jett’s autism hit the internet, Travolta’s wife arranged with a national magazine to have photos of her and Jett frolicking together at a beach. A nice PR move that only made it more obvious to people familiar with  autism that the kid was autistic. See a recent video here, until it is mysteriously removed from the internet.

Why does this matter? Here’s why:

1. Jett Travolta was not allowed any services or intervention that could have made his life better. At 16, he remained non-verbal and was isolated from his peers. Neighbors of the Travoltas reported that Jett was left to watch videos all day and was not allowed to join the rest of the family at meals. He could barely hold a crayon.

2. Jett Travolta apparently had seizures, which can afflict up to 50% of autistic children. He should not have been left alone to take a bath. He had two caretakers with him in the Bahamas, and yet he died in a bathtub. At first, the police reported that Jett had last been seen the night before he was discovered dead at 10: AM. The story has since changed.

The real story of Jett Travolta will be covered up. Scientology is a force stronger than most investigative reporters. I am heartbroken for the loss of this boy, but his life for the last 16 years should have been better, and we don’t need an autopsy to know his death could have been prevented with more diligent attention from his caretakers.

Read a frighteningly prophetic mention of Jett Travolta here.

Tonight, an observant teenage visitor pointed out that we have a lot of crackers. There are six boxes of crackers on top of the fridge, and two more behind that you can’t see in this photo.

This is clearly a problem. Why does a small family need so many boxes of crackers? Is it because we fear a cracker shortage? Are we stocking up for a famine? Or does someone in the house just like to amass crackers?

I personally am not in charge of procuring crackers. We can’t blame me for this one. But I’ve just done an inventory of my nail polish and counted 35 bottles.

Hoarding leads to clutter, and clutter leads to chaos. If you take your hoarded clutter and relocate it, stacking it or piling it but not reducing it, you are just “churning,” in the language of hoarding studies. I keep trying to get the crap off the coffee table, but mostly I end up organizing it into neat groupings of crap.

I am thinking of getting a book called “Buried in Treasures: Help for Compulsive Acquiring, Saving, and Hoarding.“  It sounds great. I like the title of the third chapter, “How did this happen?”

How indeed? My house looks more and more like a thrift shop. It’s a place of female hoarding and male hoarding. Meaning, tons of CDs and electronics, and tons of guitar magazines, along with tons of girlie shit. Tons of pop culture memorabilia. I can see from where I sit the vast collection of Little Golden Books that I read to my firstborn, 30 years ago. But they’re so cute! So full of tender memories!

I wouldnt dream of making a resolution or even a pledge. I just want to get this crap under control. Then I’ll feel better about acquiring some new crap.

I know I am not alone in this cycle of buying, hoarding, churning, and paralysis. It would be nice to know where “collecting” ends and “Hoarding” begins. Are they the same?

I will be praying for deliverance to Saint Marie, the new patron saint of Hoarding Crap. You can pray to her here. But don’t tell her that I just ordered a new pair of ankle boots to not wear with my leather dress. In fact, don’t tell anybody.

Cat Dancers is the name of a documentary now playing on HBO. It’s also the name of a show biz act consisting of Ron and Joy Holiday and their younger partner, Chuck Lizza. The three of them trained and worked with wild tigers in their act, which pre-dated Seigfried and Roy.

It is a mesmerizing documentary that challenges all sorts of assumptions. The director creates a bittersweet, surreal atmosphere as Ron recalls the excitement of his years on stage with his beloved wife and their exotic pets. When they meet Chuck, a lost young man who ran away to join the circus, he becomes their favorite pet, in a sense. Chuck becomes their lover, forming a romantic triangle that lasted harmoniously for 14 years.

In some respects, Cat Dancers recalls Grizzly Man in its portrait of well-meaning humans who refuse to believe in the boundary between them and the wild animals they love so deeply.

It’s a tragic story that lingers with you like a strange and vivid dream. I’m glad I saw it; It felt like a trip to Mars… a hallmark of a great documentary.

Still under the spell of Cat Dancers, I heard from my friend Romeo that he’d been on a wild pig hunt while visiting his family in Texas. I think it’s okay to kill a wild pig, but I’m not sure if the pig thinks so. Probably not, I’m guessing. Romeo’s email message brought forth a bunch of ads for Wild Boar Hunting. I clicked on one, a big mistake if you’re not turned on by images of fat guys grinning next to huge dead boars.

Then, I was intrigued by an ad for “ethical trophy hunting” in Namibia and Mozambique. Here, you can plan your “safari” where you are guaranteed to get the “trophies” (i.e. dead animals) you want, but by “fair chase only!”

Here is some bastard with his Ethical Trophy!

If Romeo wants a dead pig, by god he deserves it. He just got through a stint in the US Military Forces, protecting us from terrorists. That guy in the photo above, though, is not worth fighting for. Fuck that punk. It’s almost, but not quite, enough to put me off wearing fur.

As you all know by now, Bristol Palin has “delivered” a healthy baby boy named Tripp. What you may not know is that I am a highly regarded journalist in my spare time, and here are the facts:

On December 23, a life-size Baby Jesus was stolen from the manger display at the Clover Pass Community Church in Ketchikan, Alaska. The hand-carved figurine had been chained to the church’s nativity scene, but “someone” managed to undo the chain.

DO THE MATH, PEOPLE!

As Bristol’s due date drew near, Mrs. Palin had to have Levi’s mom arrested in order to get the boy’s attention. He had been refusing to visit Bristol in her dungeon bedroom at the Palin compound in Wasilla. The drug bust succeeded in prompting young Levi to take a leave of absence from his meth lab job. He reluctantly stayed at Bristol’s side until Todd gave him the signal on December 23.

Todd and Levi managed to sneak the Baby Jesus into the Wasilla Hospital, while the nurses were busy counting bottles of Oxycontin and arguing about how to divide them fairly among the staff.

Bristol was rushed to the hospital by Piper, who is allowed to drive the snowmobile on special occasions.

It was easy to fool the doctor on duty, who was tweaking and texting madly on his Blackberry to Levi’s mom, unaware that she had changed her phone number at the advice of her attorney.

Thus, little Tripp was welcomed into the world, looking a little stiff but just as cute as his brother Trig, if not cuter.

I have been craving a pair of sequin leggings ever since I saw some on the glorious Queen Michelle. But every pair I’ve seen online were either much too expensive or too shoddy looking. Then I saw these, on sale at Express for $59, minus another twenty per cent.

I started to order them, and even got to the penultimate step, where you review your order before clicking the click that completes the purchase. And here it came to me like a religious epiphany: I have nowhere to wear those sequin leggings, and I wouldn’t wear them even if I did!

The cold reality of that truth was impossible to refute. It would be a complete waste of money. I removed the leggings from my cart and left the website. It was the first time I’ve backed out of an online purchase. It was a fucking miracle.

If you knew me better, you’d know how many unworn shoes I have, not to mention the dresses and skirts I will never wear, because I’m just not comfortable in dresses and skirts. The fact that I’ll never wear them has not stopped me from my appointed rounds, however. My craving was all that mattered. As Vogue magazine used to put it years ago, things were there “to own and collect.” Shoes, sweaters, jackets, whatever.

The impulse to Own and Collect has cost me a fucking fortune. Some of it, I don’t regret. But there comes a point where you know you have six leather jackets…maybe you don’t, but I do. At least I wear most of them, unlike the $650 cashmere dress that I bought because it was marked down to $99.

Knowing that I can live without owning those sequin leggings is a revolutionary idea for me. It’s also a little sad, because it means I’m acknowledging that I’m just too old for some fashions. Nobody wants to see a 55 year old women in leggings. I certainly don’t.

Today, I was wearing jeans, a t-shirt, and a black wool motorcycle jacket when I took my sons out for lunch. I looked pretty good, I think. I checked out the senior menu, but it was all crap. I ordered regular food, and I didn’t think about age again until I smashed my head getting into the car.

I hope I can continue to not shop, It’s a very empowering feeling. It means I’m in control of something, for a change. And it means more sequins left for the rest of you!

On Christmas Eve, I felt blessed to be surrounded by friends and family, all of us hardcore fans of Pulp Fiction. Unbeknownst to my husband, the entire 4-set collection of Pulp Fiction Action Figures was wrapped and waiting for him under the tree. The plan was to watch the movie and shout out our favorite lines of dialogue.

If you don’t care about Pulp Fiction, this is a good time for you to stop reading.

If you do: Achtung!

Having commented to my nephew, Russell, that The Gimp sequence was always hard for me to take, I settled into the action as Butch and Marcellus were trapped by the Racist Hillbillies in the back of the pawnshop. Becca, a beautiful young girl sitting on the floor near the TV, chided me for not knowing more about ball gags.

As Bruce Willis pauses at the door of the pawn shop, splattered with blood and about to escape, he stops and reconsiders. When he heads back into the lunacy of the back room, I am always moved by his heroism. I turned to my nephew and said, for pointless emphasis, “That’s character!”

“No it isn’t,” Russell replied, with a hint of annoyance at my stupidity. “Butch goes back to save his own ass. You can see the wheels turning in his head as he stands by the door! He’s thinking, if he leaves, he will always be a hunted man. Marcellus has given the order to kill him. If he saves Marcellus, the hit could be called off.”

I was astonished by this interpretation. This is one of my favorite Pulp Fiction moments, and Russell was daring to fuck it up.

“No, it’s pure selfless courage!” I insisted. “Butch can’t bear to leave Marcellus to his fate. The idea sickens him! It’s moral outrage! He’s standing right in front of the Confederate flag for Christsake! It represents racism and hillbillies! He even chooses a samurai sword as his weapon!”

Everyone else agreed with Russell, who tried to soften the blow by saying he was touched by my innocent, benevolent interpretation. I scolded him for being a cynic. And for denying that as always, the subject was The Love Between Men (see a post on that elsewhere at godammit.)

I have discussed this controversy with my experts, and the smartest among them supports my argument. He pointed out that the entire movie is about honor. It is brought up constantly, and explicitly. The watch scene; the statement that you don’t scratch another man’s car; Vince’s determination to put loyalty before lust. Even when Jules lets Ringo go, it’s a point of honor as a newly religious man. Hmph!

Okay then. Comments? Arguments? Pulp Fiction scholars and/or critics, please speak up.

Let me just add that it was a lovely Christmas Eve by any standard. Our friend Mishelle gave out lottery tickets and my kid won $70! Plus, my SweetSpot gifts were a big hit, resulting in a delighted scream of: “I LOVE VAGINA WIPES!”

~this is a reprint from 2006, and a true story.~

Tonight, when I told my older son that I’d found a good Baby Jesus to steal, he reminded me of the Lesbian Stick.

A long time ago, in a galaxy right next door, my neighbors moved away to live near their grandchildren, and sold their house to a Lesbian Couple. The husband Lesbian was Nancy Something, a gray-haired hatchet-faced woman who wore severe eyeglasses and identified herself as a “Pain Therapist”. Her wife was a younger, softer Latina named Concha. Nancy’s opening gambit as a new neighbor was to announce her plan to build an 8 foot wooden fence between our houses, for “privacy.”

We objected to the fence project, and asked the Lesbians to reconsider. Phonecalls were exchanged. Tempers were riled, and property lines were debated. Concha called and told us that her husband would no longer speak to us: she needed time to Heal. We named her Doctor Pain

Doctor Pain hired a pair of weathered Lesbian Workmen to erect the fence. One had a crewcut and the other spoke in an awful Scandinavian accent. I befriended the Workmen, since they liked Laurie Anderson, but engaged in bitter combat with Dr. Pain. The fence went up, blocking the light and lending the effect of a prison compound.

Time passed and I tried not to look at Dr. Pain when I saw her outside. Her voice was piercing and nasal, her teeth looked like they wanted to bite you. We smelled incense coming from her backyard, and wondered if she was burning human sacrifices. I turned my anger toward the big gnarled stick on her front porch…..a “staff” of some kind, around seven feet long, perhaps a trophy from a hike somewhere.

I ranted about the stick to everyone. I hatched bizarre plots involving the stick, and asked friends for advice. Someone suggested that I burn the stick, and send little charred pieces of it to Dr. Pain. Someone else told me to kidnap it, and demand a ransom if they ever wanted to see it alive again. Finally, I ran next door and moved the stick from the left side of the porch to the right side. I was dizzy with adrenaline. In the morning, the stick was back on the left.

At Christmas, my son wondered what to get for me. I asked him to get me the stick. When he brought it up to our door, he held it aloft, and I tried to sing the theme from “Rocky.” It was a joyous, shining moment; he is the best son a mother could ask for!

More time passed and it was Christmas again. I was desperate for a piece of typing paper and since Dr. Pain’s car was gone, I went next door to ask Concha for a piece of paper. She led me into the house, which was filled with vintage images of saints. Shit!!!!! I told her that I also collect old Catholic Icons, and we bonded under the gaze of St. Theresa. “Come over to my house some time, and see my stuff,” I gushed. On Christmas Eve, Concha appeared at my door with her parents, who were visiting for the holiday. I invited her in warmly, forgetting until that instant that her stick was on display in my bedroom. My life flashed before my eyes. Somehow, I mumbled that the bedroom was messy, and managed to hide the Lesbian Stick under my bed just before she walked in to see my Saints.

Dr. Pain split up with Concha, who stayed on alone for a while before they sold the house. Before she left, Concha and I hugged. I’m sure she found a better looking Lesbian to share her life with. And the stick is leaning in a corner of my bedroom, along with the smaller sticks that Dr. Pain put out on her porch, in a futile effort to replace the original one.

Merry Christmas!

The Intimate Grooming market seems to be booming, based on the success of a product line known as “SweetSpot.”  I’ve noticed these products at beauty supply shops over the last year, and now they are hard to ignore. My friend Rebekkah and I were fascinated recently by an entire shelf of this crap, and I’m ashamed to admit that we shrieked like ten year old girls hearing the word Tampax for the first time.

Eeeooow! This shit is not only ridiculous, it comes in Basil Grapefruit and Geranium Lavender.  They want you to Celebrate “That time of the month” by wiping, misting and washing your special place, Down There.

Is that celebrating, or is it obliterating?

I really enjoyed the SweetSpot website, with its wacky euphemisms and made-up words like ’sweetification.’ They also throw in ’self-love’ for those women who can hear the word ‘pleasure’ used as a verb without wanting to throw up.

Ladies, do you want your man’s Package to smell like grapefruit and basil? How about oil and vinegar? Let me answer for you: No.

Even though I find the whole idea of feminine grooming to be absurd and insulting, I’m planning to give the On-the-go Wipettes as Christmas gifts, because laughter is the best medicine,  every day of the month!

I’m not happy about Obama’s choice of Rick Warren to deliver the invocation at his inauguration. Why is there an “invocation” anyway, and why does religion have a place in the inauguration? If religion plays a role in this event, why have a big fat Christian evangelist and not a Jewish rabbi or Buddhist priest?

I thought Rick Warren was just kind of harmless until I learned that he is a staunch opponent of gay marriage and an unrepentant homophobe. He was an outspoken supporter of Proposition 8 in California, and he compares gays to pedophiles and pizza.

On the other hand, he defends himself by saying that he’s crazy about Melissa Ethridge and that he’s “eaten in gay homes.” I guess that means he’s even eaten GAY FOOD, too!

What an idiot. Change Melissa Ethridge to Aretha Franklin, and gay homes to Black homes, and you’ve got an idiotic statement from an obvious bigot.

What makes Christians so frightened of gays?! It makes even less sense that the rest of their belief system. Thank goodness we have attorney general Jerry Brown to ask the California Supreme Court to invalidate Prop. 8, saying it “deprives people of the right to marry, an aspect of liberty that the Supreme Court has concluded is guaranteed by the California Constitution.”

I’d like Rick Warren to mind his own business and let the rest of us live our lives as we please, whether Purposeful or Purposeless. He is welcome to Melissa Ethridge though.

Needless to say, I was thrilled to hear that Levi “the Impregnator” Johnston’s mom was busted for drugs in Wasilla. Sherry Johnston has been charged with six felony counts of misconduct involving Oxycontin, a drug commonly known as ‘hillbilly heroin.”

My first reaction was to think, Ha ha, let’s hear anyone try to disassociate Levi from his mom, as if he had no idea that his mom was a dope dealer. Please! One can only assume that Levi loves Oxycontin as much at Track Palin does.

There is obviously nothing to do in Wasilla but do drugs, and have sex. Oh, I forgot guns and church. So basically if you don’t want to pray or shoot anything, you’re stuck with sex and drugs. Who can blame Levi or his mom or Track and Bristol? I’m sure that every other house in Wasilla is a crack den or meth lab, and god bless ‘em.

But now upon learning that Mrs. Palin has “no comment” and “nothing to do with the arrest,” I have to think that she’s behind the whole thing. Maybe, just maybe, Levi thought he could get out of marrying Bristol, now that Mrs. P is only a dumb governor and not the V.P. And maybe Mrs. P decided to let him know what happens to those who don’t cooperate with her agenda.

I can almost hear Mrs. P. barking at Todd, “You call the State Troopers and tell them to arrest that little bastard’s mom, right now! I’ll be god damned if I have to raise one more of Bristol’s babies!”

The poor Johnston family! You don’t fuck with Mrs. P, that’s for sure. And also too, if Bristol doesn’t give birth today on her due date, maybe she can wait until Christmas day and claim Immaculate Conception!  Let us pray.