I say nice things about Republicans

It’s a measure of President Obama’s humility that he won’t reveal the healing role he played during his visit to Gabby Giffords.

And being a partisan Democrat, I can’t help but wonder what miracles would stem from a Bill Clinton visit.

If Obama can restore vision to traumatic head shot victims (well, sort of), then certainly the sight of Clinton sauntering into intensive care would cause the ladies to spring out of their hospital beds to start applying party make-up.

Say what you want about his politics, but the man’s got charisma.

It’s been five days since the tree of liberty was refreshed by the blood of patriots. Anyone feeling better about it yet?

I have to think that’s one gem Thomas Jefferson wishes he could take back. I can’t imagine he meant the bloodletting to apply to someone like Giffords.

Could she be a more becoming patriot? No fair-minded observer would describe her as tyrannical (the full Jefferson quote applying to blood from both patriots and tyrants).

She is beloved for being collegial, intelligent and even-handed about difficult issues. Sure, she may have favored prudent health care reform, but she was married to an astronaut. That’s so cool.

Is she the kind of patriot to whom Jefferson was referring?

Was 9-year-old Christina Green?

If I may be so bold, I’d like to edit Jefferson to something more in tune with common sensibilities.

It should read: “The tree of liberty is magnificent to behold in all seasons, but it looks best when patriots of all political persuasions come together to nurture it and hang red, white & blue bird feeders from its majestic boughs.”

There! Now, isn’t that better?

Being a liberal I’m, of course, politically correct. Words matter. 

They matter when you’re talking about patriotic bloodlettings, Second Amendment solutions, and emphasizing the need to re-load rather than retreat.

And I hope the ones that matter most are the eloquent ones President Obama spoke in Tucson.

Our 10-year-old daughter had heard vague details about the shootings over the PA system at school. That pleased me. In football terms, the principal there called an audible. He decided on the fly the event was relevant enough to turn into a mini-civics lesson.

Bravo.

I didn’t want her to see the footage of the mayhem, or the demonic pictures of the madman. I didn’t see that doing her any good.

But I wanted her to see how we grieved.

“America suffered a tragedy on Saturday,” I said. “I want you to watch how America heals.”

It couldn’t have been more moving.

From the native American invocation and the steely poise of intern Daniel Hernandez to Obama’s stirring speech, it’s something I’ll never forget.

Of course, it means nothing if we don’t act on his admonition to care more for one another, to civilize our rhetoric and elevate the political discourse.

Let it begin with me.

I’m going to say a bunch of nice things about prominent Republicans I used to blast for knee-jerk reasons.

Because I’m so new at this, please forgive me if some of it sounds sarcastic.

Here goes:

• George W. Bush! -- He was the right man for the right time on 9/11. I felt exactly the way I do now about Obama’s speech in Tucson as I did when Bush spoke after 9/11. The people who know him best all love him. He’s raised two beautiful and vivacious daughters. He loves baseball. He presided over the presidency during extraordinarily difficult times and he didn’t let it defeat himself or the country he loves. He enjoys a good laugh and isn’t one of those childish sorts who can’t laugh at himself. He doesn’t hold petty grudges. His post-presidential years will be dignified and free of taint. He’s at peace with his actions and is deserving of the happy respite he so enjoys in the Texas he loves.

• Dan Quayle! -- In 2003, I wrote a book called “Hole in One! The Complete Book of Fact, Legend and Lore of Golf’s Luckiest Shot.” The New York Times cited it in 2009 as the Bible on the topic. If The Times says my book is The Bible about holes-in-one, then I can rightly declare I’ve written a holey book. I interviewed dozens of celebrities about their golfing perfection. Quayle was one of the nicest. We talked for about 45 minutes and he couldn’t have been friendlier. He was such a good sport he didn’t even mind when I asked him about his wife Marilyn’s saucy response when someone asked her about reports he’d had an affair while on a golf trip (“Anyone who knows Dan knows he’s much more interested in golfing than sex.”) He just laughed and said she was mad when she said it. He’d had two aces though 2003 and I hope he gets a bunch more.

• Tom DeLay! -- The man’s got balls. Even while under indictment for the crime of which he was just convicted and sentenced to three years, he still went on “Dancing With The Stars” and whooped it up. And before he went into politics, I hear he was a fine exterminator.

• Newt Gingrich! -- He has a true and abiding love for animals, zoos and history. He’s a thrice-married man who still has the buoyant audacity to court family values voters. Did you know he’s a Pennsylvania native? Go Keystone State!

• Rush Limbaugh! -- He loves golf and smoke cigars. He’s indifferent to what people think about him. He had Elton John sing at his recent fourth wedding. When National Enquirer busted him for drug addiction in 2003, he didn’t weasel out and call them a bunch of liars. He said, yup, you got me, thus another monumental victory for tabloid journalism.

• Dick Cheney! -- Now, this is getting tough. Okay. When he shot that guy -- anniversary alert! -- five years ago February 11, he didn’t let his instincts get the better of him and just go finish the poor bastard off.

• Sarah Palin! -- Uh, Sarah Palin! . . . Sarah Palin? . . . Hmmm . . . Okay . . . Sarah Palin is wonderfully childlike in her approach to complicated problems!

That’s enough for now.

President Obama said we needed to start being nicer to one another.

He didn’t say it was always going to be easy.

Imagining a planet at peace

First of all, there’d be no more talk radio. Everyone would have to raise their hands and be recognized before they spoke.

We’d all make eye contact with one another as we strolled down the sidewalks. We’d give little, “Hey, you hang in there” nods of encouragement to everyone we came across to let each other know we’re all in this together.

If we saw someone driving like a maniac, instead of getting enraged at the reckless incivility, we’d all pull over assuming the driver was on the way to the hospital to help deliver triplets.

And that’s exactly what he’d be doing.

Baseball would be more popular.

I woke up today with an impulse to join the shrill fray and give my redundant opinions on who’s to blame, what should be done, and how anyone with any sense saw this tragedy coming.

But the thought fatigues. Like everyone else who opines -- and there’ll be a lot less opining on a peaceful planet -- I’ve already done plenty of that.

I’ve written about the problems with solutions ranging from the silly to the serious.

So I just wondered when any of us is ever going to get a break and just what that would be like.

The only ones who felt obliged to work more than seven months a year would be the ones running all the ice cream stands.

There’d be a lot more hammocks and time to enjoy them.

We’d all play a lot more golf on courses that never got too crowded and never cost more than $29. And when we were done we’d sit and laugh and joke for hours on pleasant porches and still make it home in time for dinner with families that never fight.

We’d read more and instead of talking about politics, we’d talk about the books we enjoyed.

TVs would still be big and hi-def, but there’d only about 40 channels.

Being liked and respected by the dozens of people who really know you would mean more than being famous to millions who don’t.

We’d play more games involving processed wood than games involving batteries and LED screens. All the best games -- chess, checkers, Jenga, Scrabble, blocks -- never need recharging.

We’d be more tolerant of the harmless eccentrics and we’d all agree it’s best that the real crazies shouldn’t be allowed to purchase deadly weapons with fewer restrictions than sane people face purchasing a keg of beer.

And little 9-year-old girls born on days renown for tragedy would grow up to do things so heroic and magnificent we’d all sit around and wonder at the irony that a girl born on September 11, 2001, was part of a generation that ushered in an era of peace on a planet that had been forever riven by violence.

I saw John Green, father of Christina Green, today talking about the death of his daughter. He spoke of his devastation and then surprised me by saying, “It shouldn’t happen in this country or anywhere else, but in a free society, we are going to be subjected to people like this. I prefer this to the alternative.”

It’s a stunning, oh, well, reaction to a loss from which he’ll likely never recover.

He’s saying we are all consigned to live in a violent world overrun by the senseless slaughter of innocents. It’s been that way since just after Eden and that’s the way it’ll always be.

But it won’t be that way in a peaceful world. There won’t be traffic, bedbugs, hunger, despair, loneliness or madmen bent on murder. There won’t be evil, there won’t be heartache and there won’t be tears.

So I guess in a truly peaceful world the biggest difference is there won’t be people.

Of course, the grief-stricken father’s correct. It’s never going to get any better.

We just have to hope it does.

Warning: My first adult content post!

It’s about 12-degrees out right now and I’m thinking about having sex on the sunny beaches of Cebu in the Philippines.

Not right now.

I’m thinking about 500 years ago.

Regular readers of this blog know how fond I am of accounts of the godforsaken sailors of the age of discovery.

It’s almost unimaginable the hardships these brave souls endured. They took to rinky-dink sailboats in the 16th century to explore a world as distant and unknowing to them as the planet Pluto is to us.

They dealt with utter isolation, disease, and brutal death at the hands of tyrannical captains, violent storms, predatory sea creatures, war-like natives and even shipmates so overwrought with hunger that eating one another was always an option.

Why these grim histories so appeal to me, I do not know.

Perhaps it’s because, as a lonely blogger, I feel a sort of kinship.

I’m all alone in this tiny office for six hours. If it wasn’t for this cellphone, sketchy internet connection and a nearby bar full of convivial inebriates, the isolation would likely drive me insane.

Sometimes I console myself by thinking, hey, at least you’re not on board the Essex, a ship that in 1819 was destroyed by an enraged sperm whale leaving 20 men in three lifeboats where, one by one, they began to consume the next weakest boat mate. Only eight survived.

It puts it all in perspective, not to mention makes me happy I don’t have a cannibalistic office mate blocking my escape to the Happy Hour.

So now I’m reading Laurence Bergreen’s outstanding 2003 book, “Over the Edge of the World: Magellan’s Terrifying Circumnavigation of the Globe.”

And the book delivers. Magellan’s coming across as a messianic despot who from 1519-1521 tortured mutineers, slaughtered perfectly inoffensive natives for petty reasons and drove many of his scurvy-racked crew to death in his quest for spices, riches and new lands to be claimed in the name of Spain’s rapacious King Charles.

Why, besides often illusory riches, would men volunteer for this kind of duty?

Well, one reason is what I used to hear some straying men call “strange.”

Strange in this case were the natives on the tropical paradise of Cebu in the Philippines.

And what was going on with these natives is as strange a sexual practice as I’ve ever heard.

Now, I’m no kid. I’ve been having sex for as long and as often as willing women have let me. I’ve written about deviates for deviates at both Maxim and Playboy magazines. I’ve fathered two children so I know what goes where. And I still enjoy what’s best called meat and potatoes sex with my comely wife.

And meat and potatoes in this case isn’t a metaphor for carnal relations atop the dining room table. It just means basic sex.

It’s good for me and I know it’s good for my wife. She never fails to express her satisfaction by saying, “There, NOW will you re-tile the bathroom floor?”

Still, I’m forever curious about how others get their jollies so I never prudishly turn away. On the contrary, I often press my nose right up against the glass until the steam from my heavy breathing obscures the view.

Then I close my eyes and listen.

What I just read in Bergreen’s book is something I could never imagine and will now never forget.

Anyone ever heard of “palang?”

Don’t worry. I’ll get to it.

First, like any good romance novelist, let me set the scene.

Magellan and his sea-weakened and love-starved men (excepting the many situational homosexuals) rejoiced to land on the palm-lined sandy beaches of Cebu.

A key to the story is just how devoutly religious Magellan and his men were. Part of their mission included converting the many heathens they came across to Christianity.

So when the local natives emerged from the palms, Magellen must have been delighted to see scores of obvious heathens.

The men must have been delighted for other reasons. As described by ship biographer Antonio Pigafetta, the gals were “very beautiful . . . the prince had three quite naked girls dance for us.”

Strict religious principles prevented the men from carnal canoodling with the women, even though the natives practiced what hippies some 447 years later would describe as free love.

Why? No man was allowed to enjoy sex with a non-Christian.

What followed was a series of what could be called drive-thru conversions. Literally, within minutes these beautiful and quite naked women who’d moments before had worshipped things like coconuts were -- hallelujah! -- turned into Christians.

Let the games begin!

But what most fascinated Pigafetta, an Italian who admits to joining in on the fun, wasn’t the babes.

It was the men.

“I very often asked many, both young and old, to see their penis, because I could not credit it,” he wrote.

It was palang or genital stretching.

I’ll let the old Italian describe it:

“The males, large and small, have their penis pierced from one side to the other near the head, with a gold or tin bolt as large as a goose quill. In both ends of the same bolt, some have what resembles a spur, with points upon the ends, others are like the head of a cart nail. In the middle of a bolt is a hole, through which they urinate.”

It reminds me of something I saw in one of those Time-Life videos I once watched for tips on how to repair a leaky sink.

“When the men wish to have communication with their women, the latter themselves take the penis not in the regular way and commence to introduce it into (the female part) with the spur on top first and then the other part. When it is inside, it takes its regular position, and thus the penis always stays inside until it gets soft, for otherwise, it could not be removed.”

Intercourse involving palang lasted as long as a day or even more, Bergreen writes, as the lovers remained locked in an embrace of passion.

I confess I read the above description about five times and still couldn’t exactly wrap my head around what the heck was happening with all that genital hardware.

Pigafetta moralizes that these pleasure-seeking individuals were of a “weak nature,” equating pleasure loving as weakness. Then, of course, he boasts that the women preferred the Spaniards and their unadorned tools.

That may be. He does not, however, report scores of lovesick native woman jumping on board to beg the Europeans lovers take them along. 

How Magellan managed to ever wrangle a crew back on board those stinking and rat-infested ships after this auspicious landing is a testament to his historic  leadership which, incidentally, came to a bloody conclusion just 10 days later when he and 30 of his crew were slaughtered by a nearby “Make War/Not Love” tribe.

So now as the snows pile up outside, I’m left to wonder if the Cebuan natives and their days and days of lusty coupling had it right. Maybe such exotic additions would please my missus.

In fact, I’m going to ask her if she’d like me to undergo, purely for purposes of her pleasure, the painful and exotic steps necessary for us to bang in palang.

I’ll do anything to keep from having to re-tile that bathroom.

A gay news extravaganza

Recent news events reminded me of my favorite stories I’d seen in National Enquirer, one I wish I’d done, back in the 1990s when those swashbuckling duties consumed my days.

The editors had a strapping fellow reporter get all dolled up in a daisy-covered summer dress, wig, hooker make-up and march into a local U.S. Marine recruiting office to join the corps.

I remember reading how the crimson recruiter sputtered that homosexuals were forbidden from serving and how the straight-faced reporter responded in a commanding baritone. “I’m not homosexual. I just like to dress up like a lady.”

Good enough. They shook hands, presented an application and the next week the Enquirer ran the story under the banner headline: “The Marines are Looking for a Few Good Men . . . But They’ll Take Drag Queens!”

The “Don’t Ask/Don’t Tell” repeal brought to mind that delicious mockery.

It’s been a difficult few weeks for people who don’t like to read news about homosexuals, wish homosexuals didn’t exist and think, gee, if these fellows could all just meet the right gals then homosexuality would just go away.

First there was the repeal of DA/DT. Repeal opponents said it would destroy unit cohesion, doom morale and weaken our military, essentially the same things they said in opposing admitting blacks, women, Irish, etc.

All those arguments have been vanquished over the years. There are people of all nationalities and races who are good at killing and I want the best of them out there killing for me.

Then came news that you’ll now be able to add the title of daddy to Sir Elton John, the flamboyant singer my wife once dubbed the most beloved homosexual on the planet.

She may be correct. Everybody loves Elton. Even family value purist Rush Limbaugh had him sing at his fourth wedding and seemed pleased enough by the performance that he’ll certainly invite him to perform at his fifth and sixth weddings over the next few years.

I’ve loved Elton since I was 10. His “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road” was the first album I ever purchased. It still holds up nearly 40 years later. He’s still so engaging and buoyant and is justly regarded for his devotion to humanitarian causes.

But I dispute Val’s contention on what may be a technicality. There may be a prominent politician or theologian who is homosexual and just shy about sharing the news with the rest of us.

They may have ornamental wives, children and a conservative constituency that would be offended by their lifestyle.

Recent examples are U.S. Senator Larry Craig and the Rev. Ted Haggard, men I like to refer to as “slomosexuals.”

Then there’s the example of U.S.S. Enterprise captain Owen Honors, the Navy skipper who got himself tossed overboard for making a video lampooning what throughout history has been a sea-going tradition.

That would be sailors turning homosexual during long ocean voyages.

Many people of the “get-over-it” bent said it was all in good fun, it was no big deal and gays serving under Captain Honors should just lighten up.

Nonsense. We need leaders who ennoble the best of us, not pander to the 10 percent who’ll use a commander’s jokes as a green-light to bully the already oppressed.

There are nearly 5,000 sailors on that vessel. Guaranteed, there are at least 200 men and women as qualified as Honors, as respected and imbued with an innate understanding that the best leaders do not degrade, they exalt.

So many people still seem to think boys and girls in high school decide, just for kicks, to become homosexual. That’s unsound reasoning because cruel kicks are often what they wind up getting.

These people seem to fear homosexuals will somehow try to “turn” them the way Jehovah’s Witnesses do.

Many of them resemble Larry the Cable Guy, not exactly a homosexual pin-up boy. No one’s out to turn him.

The whole “turn” argument has always struck me as absurd.

I try and imagine what would happen if a really handsome and accomplished man we all believe to be homosexual tried to turn me.

Someone like, say, New England Patriot quarterback Tom Brady.

I wouldn’t think of leaving my wife and my heterosexual proclivities to be with him.

Instead, I’d hope Steeler linebacker James Harrison would emerge from Brady’s blindside and hit him so hard every one of the follicles of his Justin Bieber haircut flew off his stung scalp. 

Not because I hate gays or think Brady’s really gay.

I just hate Tom Brady.

And I hope one day maybe all our hatreds and petty putdowns will be confined to childish partisans of rival sports teams in meaningless realms where none who seek enlightened thought ever dare to venture.

Places like here!

Move nation's capital to central Kansas

In 2005, I launched a movement to, for reasons social and financial, relocate our nation’s capital from Washington, D.C., to Lebanon, Kansas, the exact geographic center of our polarized nation.

Five years later as the 112th Congress convenes, not much has changed. We are still mired in gridlock and my many grand movements are still met with reactions ranging from indifference to ridicule.

But one thing has changed.

Today I can blog about it!

So here’s the story I submitted to various prestigious publications in 2005. No one saw the merits of my genius. In fact, I don’t remember anyone even responding.

Perhaps you’ll appreciate the merits of the suggestion. If so, please feel free to share the story with friends and any influential legislators.

And here’s a tip: you might be wise to start buying real estate in Lebanon while it’s still cheap.

Here’s the story, dated and typically error-ridden as it may be . . .

The Beltway gridlock has the nation mired in another series of seemingly insoluble problems. From saving social security to excessive fuel costs, the politicians we look to for creative leadership appear incapable of divining the answers that will move America forward.

That’s why it’s time to think outside the box or, more precisely, outside the Beltway.

It’s time to relocate the nation’s capital to Lebanon, Kansas, the geographic center of the contiguous United States.

Sound preposterous? The Founding Fathers didn’t think so.

Washington, D.C., became the nation’s capital because its location was a logical compromise for legislators who’d have to ride horses and bone-rattling buggies over terrible roads for long distances. The shores of the Potomac made perfect sense 214 years ago when our infant nation of just 13 states clung to the east coast. But even as manifest destiny pushed our population ever westward, our capital’s location has remained stump stubborn while the country moved farther and farther away from it.

Consider the majority of our illustrious state houses. When given opportunities to settle in more renown marquee cities like St. Louis or Chicago, Missouri and Illinois bestowed capital status on the centralized, if unremarkable burgs of Jefferson City and Springfield. Same goes for capitals in lunch bucket towns like Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, Columbus, Ohio, and Lansing, Michigan.

The move would spark an immediate and enormous savings in congressional travel expenses. Gas prices would plummet. Taxes could be slashed.

Better still, the move would instigate the purification of a political process that seems irrevocably poisoned in swampy old Washington.

When the conservative stalwart Wall Street Journal savaged Republican Majority leader Tom DeLay for a series of alleged ethical lapses, it seemed to imply the fault wasn’t DeLay’s inability to tell right from wrong, but instead stemmed from a foul-smelling infection thriving inside the Beltway incubator.

“In Beltway-speak, what this means is that Mr. DeLay has an ‘odor;’ nothing too incriminating, nothing actually criminal, just an unsavory whiff that could have GOP loyalists reaching for the political Glade if it gets any worse. The Beltway wisdom is right. Mr. DeLay does have odor issues. Increasingly, he smells just like the Beltway itself.”

The Journal makes Washington sound like a fraternity house where prudent guests wipe their feet on the way out.

All of which brings us to bucolic Lebanon, Kansas. For those who think there is no center in our polarized political world, it’s time to consult a map. You’ll find Lebanon, pop. 273, at the exact center. That only 273 out of 308 million Americans can lay claim to true centrality points out the scope of the problem.

No politician in the past 30 years has won high office by boasting of being a Washington-insider. That little conceit will end when we move the capital to Lebanon.

“You can’t get much more outside than Lebanon,” says city clerk Connie Herndon. “We’re 60 miles from the nearest Wal-Mart.”

Yes, utter desolation. Congress will be free from the pesky distractions of Gucci-hooved lobbyists, $700 wine-drenched dinners at The Palms, and the comely hookers, mistresses and interns who’ve reduced so many would-be statesmen into fondling fathers. What does Lebanon offer?

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing,” Herndon says. “It’s a farm community of old farmers who work during the day and stay in at night. The only thing that qualifies as entertainment is a local choral group who gets together and sings patriotic songs.”

Hmmm. Sounds like red meat for a Red State.

“Well, the year before they sang popular songs from the ‘60s.”

Perfect. A bipartisan glee club capable of swinging from The Stones straight to Sousa.

Of course, some things won’t change. Lebanon is the very heart of the heartland. It is farm country and that means manure. Sorry Wall Street Journal. It’ll sometimes stink in Lebanon, too. But at least the fertilizer in Lebanon is used to nurture farm produce and won’t wind up being broadcast on C-Span.

Moving the nation’s capital out of Washington and to farm country will no doubt be dismissed by some as, well, a corny idea. But it’s worth a try. Clearly, the Beltway is broken. It’s time America made a statement that would show we’re going back to the grassroots of our democracy. Goodbye Beltway.

Hello Bib Overallway!

The new capital will start off with one impressive surplus. The farm town will be so awash in fertilizer the local glee club will be performing patriotic ditties above the fruited plain in hip waders.

Devout Christians departing May 21: Yippee!

Looks like anyone who purchased for full price a 2011 calendar paid twice too much. A group of Christians is making news for pinpointing the exact end of days.

Mark your calendars. It’s May 21.

The precision of the date was determined by Christian broadcaster Harold Camping, the 89-year-old leader of the Oakland, California, based Family Radio Network.

His calculations are based on thorough Biblical readings and external factors such as the 1948 founding of Israel.

And you had to figure the Jews would have something to do with it.

“Beyond the shadow of a doubt, May 21 will be the date of the Rapture and the day of judgement,” Camping says.

If Camping is correct then, according to Rapture believers, all the most devout Christians will be magically whisked to heaven while the rest of us face times of deadly upheaval.

Well, good riddance.

Tea Party morons will have lost their greatest constituency, the “God Hates Fags!" crowd won’t be around to torment soldiers’ funerals, and Rush Limbaugh will have so few listeners he’ll be relegated to a static-filled backwater AM channels.

Yes, Rush’s listeners may be going to heaven, but he’s not going anywhere.

I’d love to see how the rest of us could do on solving problems like the spread of AIDS and global warming without having meddling Christians around to tell us things like condoms and compact fluorescent light bulbs are the devil’s playthings.

We could enact some common sense gun laws, build temples devoted to ecumenical peace near Ground Zero and -- who knows? -- maybe even persuade Simon Cowell to return and save “American Idol.”

For me, hating Christians is an act of self-loathing because I’ve always considered myself one.

Yes, I think I’m one of the baptized good guys. I kneel down and pray to God and Jesus every night. I do unto others as I’d have them do unto me. It’s my faith and I revere essential Christian tenets of love and forgiveness. 

But guys like me don’t make the true Christian cut because we entertain the cosmic possibility that just maybe we’re wrong.

We can believe, but we cannot know.

That’s why three of my favorite musings on the subject of religion are firmly secular thoughts from a trio of monumental men.

The first is from Thomas Jefferson who said, “Question with boldness even the existence of God; because if there is one, He must more approve of the homage to reason than that of blindfolded fear.”

Then there’s this from Henry David Thoreau who on his deathbed was asked if he’d made his peace with the Lord. Thoreau’s sublime response: “We’ve never quarreled.”

The third is from my late grandfather who shortly before his death at 98 said he was hoping he’d get to meet God to ask him, “Now, I know you created heaven and earth, but who or what created you?”

A heaven with the Christians who say they can divine things like when God plans to flip the big “off” switch is a heaven I do not wish to attend.

All the people will have the same boring haircuts. They’ll say the same sanctimonious things. They’ll be Dallas Cowboy fans. They’ll still find reasons to think they’re superior to other less pale Christians.

I’ve been to parties like that and they seemed to last an eternity.

I cannot begin to fathom how long an actual eternity like that would seem.

So, go ahead, you true believers, and rise up to your exclusionary stick-up-the-ass heaven, the one that will make lilly white places like Augusta National seem diverse and hip.

I’m staying here with my friends, the ones who like to drink, smoke, swear and screw.

Sure, if Camping and his followers are correct we may be in for some historically tough times.

But we’ll give it hell.

And in many ways, that will seem like a heavenly alternative to what the most devout Christians have always had to offer.

True Grit and no-grit De Niro: A Hollywood two-fer

I just saw one of the most talked about and critically praised movies of the year this week, and am mystified that one of the year’s most critically panned movies did smashing box office business.

Each is worthy of thoughtful commentary.

If that’s what you’re after, please look elsewhere.

This is a holiday week, a time when people with paychecks relax.

But that has nothing to do with blogging, which is sort of like a hobby in that it earns no money and distracts from actual wage-earning endeavors. Combine those factors with someone like me, a blogger who cherishes laziness, and you’re not  going to get something thoughtful or structured.

I’m not going to labor to form tedious transitions, mine wit or seek deeper meaning from popcorn matinees.

Instead, I’m going to take the lazy way out and write about them in two distinct sections.

I don’t think anyone’s going to mind. I apologize if you feel cheated and promise to come back next week with more cerebral stuff and maybe with a new blog motto for 2011:

“Now nearly three years without a price increase!”

• “True Grit” is more dud than Dude. The Coen Brothers have done so much marvelous work that herd critics are reluctant to say when they miss the mark, which is becoming more common.

I was disappointed. Worse, I was bored.

As I mentioned, I saw this with five buddies earlier this week. We sat in three different rows, two to a row, spread out with buffer seats between each of us. We were so intent on ensuring no one in the theater mistook us for the chipper gang from the Bravo show “Queer Eye for that Straight Guy” that Ronnie kept saying very loudly, “Gee, when do you think the girls will get here?”

I was really looking forward to this and, as with the last three or four Coen brother movies, I felt let down. It was a decent western and that’s something I always appreciate, but I expected more.

It must be nice making a movie about an obscure book and remaining faithful to its intent. That lets viewers and critics say of flaws, well, it’s just like that in the flawed book. 

C’mon. “True Grit” isn’t heirloom Americana. This isn’t grandpa’s old fire house chili recipe. If the book needs spice, throw in some cumin, dice up a pepper, add some Tabasco. Breath some fire into the old beast.

That’s what they did with the John Wayne version and it was great campy fun.

I just kept waiting for “True Grit” to kick into a higher gear that was never engaged. Jeff Bridges is becoming one of our best actors, and he was as  entertaining as expected. But the role wasn’t broad enough.

Much is being made of the sassy and opinionated 14-year-old star, Hailee Steinfeld, and her mouthy composure.

From what I understand, mouthy sass is something every 14 year-old girl who’s ever tuned into Disney shows like “iCarly” can instinctually summon.

The movie could have used a little literary license from the Coens who made things like “Fargo,” a movie that begins with an on-screen deception proclaiming what viewers are about to see really happened.

Why the lie? Here’s what Joel said.

"We weren't interested in that kind of storytelling fidelity,” he said. “If an audience believes that something's based on a real event, it gives you permission to do things they might otherwise not accept.”

Well, nothing in “True Grit” ever really happened.

And that’s how I felt about the afternoon walking out of the theater.

• What on earth can we as a concerned nation do about Robert De Niro? With the release of “Little Fockers,” I think we’ve reached a crisis situation.

He’s become on of those rarest of actors whose career trajectory has reversed. His best work was 30 years ago and he’s becoming increasingly unwatchable.

How the man who played Jake LaMotta in “Raging Bull,” Travis Bickle in “Taxi Driver,” Michael Vronksy in “The Deer Hunter” and Vito Corleone in two monumental Godfather epics could allow his prestige to be diminished in not one but two Focker sequels is appalling.

It’s as if Paul Newman starred as Butch Cassidy and Cool Hand Luke in his 20s and concluded his career flirting on the Lido Deck with cruise director Julie McCoy on the “Love Boat.”

De Niro, 67, hasn’t made an important movie since “Casino” in 1995. He turned down great roles opposite Clint Eastwood in “In the Line of Fire” (the John Malkovich role) and again in “The Departed” (the role that went to splendid Martin Sheen).

Critics panned the fock out of this version and some even took unkind shots at the original “Meet The Parents,” a movie I find hilarious.

But everyone involved in these sequels has disgraced themselves, none worse than the once-great De Niro.

He’s capable of great comedy, as he’s shown in the uproarious 1988 film “Midnight Run.”

Tom Hanks understands his popularity is based more on his likeability than his acting ability. He’s very wise and selective in the roles he plays and he stays below the radar.

De Niro is ubiquitous for all the wrong reasons. He’s in too many bad movies and seems intent on ridiculing all that made him great (“Analyze This/That,” “Shark Tale” and the “GodFocker” bits in the current nonsense).

Isn’t anybody offering Robert De Niro good roles?

Unless he does something good -- and it better be good and bloody -- he might as well go off and toil in unpaid obscurity doing something he enjoys doing for free.

I’d urge him to consider blogging.

• Happy New Year! Resolve in 2011 to overcome your fear of being lazy.