Thanks to Satori for the link to write your own comic strip.
Let’s start a war, start a nuclear war
As far as I could tell, it was a thoroughly normal wedding. People dabbed tears from the corners of their eyes as the couple walked down the aisle. The brother-in-law made an off-color toast. Family photos were taken in the garden. The icing on the wedding cake was buttercream. Yours truly played the processional and recessional, on guitar: Embraceable You, East of the Sun, At Last and You Are the Sunshine Of My Life.
Stacey Camillo and Alex (Cynthia) Alexander were married on August 14, 2005 in a quiet ceremony in Ogunquit, Maine. Stacy and Alex are, of course, women — although some of us referred to them both as brides, they themselves preferred to be called the gride and the broom.
History is not kind to bigots. A hundred and twenty years ago, Richard H. Colfax and George Fitzhugh wrote ornate, collegiate-sounding essays on the unfitness of the black man to own himself. Rep. Seaborn Roddenberry proposed a Constitutional amendment in 1912 prohibiting the marriage of white people to black people. Roddenberry liked expensive words: his amendment would “exterminate now this debasing, ultrademoralizing, un-American and inhuman leprosy.”
Ultimately, these impressive-sounding men died of natural causes, and society improved.
Within a generation, the political push to “protect marriage” will be backshelved. Every day the conservative rhetoric gets a little softer. Every day the Establishment gets a little older and grayer.
Tell me honestly: do you know anyone under 25 who wants to ban gay marriage?
Tell me honestly: which side of history do you want to be on?
Time is on our side. Literally and figuratively, the movement to delegitimize same-sex marriage is dying, and it’s dying of natural causes. Within a generation, the spirit of humanity will prevail over bigotry and fear.
Here’s to the day when a gay wedding is no longer a political act.
A side note: I had the door held open for me at the Maine Street Bar in downtown Ogunquit. The fellows there are generally polite, except for the guy who demanded to kiss me.
‘Cause I can play this here guitar
“The American musical is dead,” claims Michael John laChiusa. While you and I may not agree, his taxonomy of faux, parody, real, and jukebox musicals is useful to us writer types.
Why don’t they just let me live?
Rumor has it that there have been a number of complaints about John Byrd. He’s insensitive, he’s uncommunicative, he doesn’t know his boundaries, he doesn’t know how to color coordinate or share his feelings or ride a moped. That sort of thing.
Interestingly, none of these complaints have been directed to John Byrd. They have been directed to other people who know John Byrd, but not to John Byrd himself.
John Byrd would like to take this opportunity to point out that John Byrd is solely responsible for John Byrd’s behavior. Ergo, if you have a problem with John Byrd, John Byrd strongly recommends that you discuss the concern directly with John Byrd rather than with John Byrd’s friends or relatives or in-laws or co-workers or drinking buddies or the guy who lets his cat take a dump on John Byrd’s lawn every 6:30 in the a.m. All these other people (here I include the cat as a member of the human race, even though it is not) have no particular authority or claim on John Byrd.
John Byrd welcomes and encourages all forms of commentary and advice on improving John Byrd’s relationship(s) with you, your friends, your relatives, your in-laws, your co-workers, your drinking buddies, and all other members of the human race. (Here I include the cat as a member of the human race, even though it is not.) If you provide John Byrd with said commentary and/or advice, John Byrd promises to work diligently to become a better friend, servant and companion to you and the people most significant to you in your life.
The rest of you assholes can go fuck yourselves.
You’re gonna go to the record store
Dave Kellum wants to sell you a bunch of movie tchotchkes. If you buy something, please buy something with the NorMat 4 logo on it. No, I won’t get any money from it. It would just make me feel good.
Well the FCC won’t let me be
INT. THEATER - DAY
Four high-school kids -- Chuck, Sarah, Bill and Eddie --
shuffle about in togas on stage. They are surrounded with
fake bushes, and a double door hangs from the back wall. One
hand on his chest, Chuck declaims.
CHUCK
For worse than Philomel you us'd my
daughter,
And worse than... Progne... I will
be reveng'd...
Mister Dimples runs on stage, wearing a bow-tie and tapping a
clipboard with a pencil.
MISTER DIMPLES
Cut, cut! Kids, I'm sorry, but I
must stop this play immediately.
SARAH
Is there a problem, sir?
MISTER DIMPLES
I should say so, Sarah. I see that
you have seven bushes on stage
here.
CHUCK
Yes, sir, we made them ourselves --
MISTER DIMPLES
I'm sorry, Chuck, but the Texas
University Interscholastic League
rules are very clear on that point.
Section one-zero-three-three, part
C, clearly states: there are to be
no more than six self-supported
bushes, each not to exceed two feet
wide by three feet high.
SARAH
Oh, jeez, sir, we totally forgot
that rule!
The kids murmur in assent.
MISTER DIMPLES
One of these bushes must be removed
before your play can commence.
CHUCK
No problem, sir --
Bill and Eddie grab a bush and drag it off stage.
SARAH
Okay, sir, if we can just start
again?
MISTER DIMPLES
Tut-tut-tut! I notice that there
is a double door hanging from the
back of your set?
CHUCK
Oh, yes, sir, my dad helped me make
it!
MISTER DIMPLES
Now, Chuck. Section one-zero-three
three rules clearly state that the
basic set includes doors suspended
from standard, single door frames
only.
CHUCK
But, it's our door, sir -- we
worked all night on painting it --
MISTER DIMPLES
Unfortunately, if I let your play
have double doors, then I have to
permit every play to have double
doors. The state of Texas won't
permit that.
The kids grumble softly.
CHUCK
C'mon, guys, it's okay. Can you
two take the door down, please?
Bill and Eddie shove the double door behind one of the wings.
SARAH
Mister Dimples, it seems like there
are so many rules we have to follow
to produce our play.
MISTER DIMPLES
The rules do things like prohibit
profane references to... a deity.
SARAH
You mean G--
MISTER DIMPLES
Shh!
(sotto voce)
Yes!
(normal voice)
The rules are there for your
protection, Sarah. We are financed
by the taxes your parents pay. By
the way, you're not doing a play by
Edward Albee, Samuel Beckett,
Thornton Wilder, Eugene Ionesco,
David Mamet, Eugene O'Neill, Peter
Shaffer, Neil Simon or Peter Weiss,
are you?
SARAH
Well, no, sir --
MISTER DIMPLES
Good, good!
CHUCK
Sir, what's wrong with those
authors?
MISTER DIMPLES
Those authors are universally
banned from the list of approved
plays. If we offend the moral
standards of the community, we
might lose funding. We might have
to cancel the University
Interscholastic League! You
wouldn't want that, would you?
KIDS
No, we wouldn't want that, I didn't
think of it that way, etc.
MISTER DIMPLES
Now, which playwright did you
choose?
SARAH
Oh, we chose Shakespeare, sir!
MISTER DIMPLES
Good, good! All works by
Shakespeare are on the U.I.L. list
of approved plays. Which play are
you doing?
CHUCK
Titus Andronicus.
MISTER DIMPLES
Good, good! That's a very
impressive-sounding play. I
believe you're fully in compliance
then! Whenever you're ready!
Mister Dimples walks off stage.
CHUCK
For worse than Philomel you us'd my
daughter,
And worse than... Progne... I will
be reveng'd,
And now prepare your throats!
Chuck pulls out a huge butcher knife and slices the throats
of Eddie and Bill. They stagger about, gushing gallons of
blood.
CHUCK
Lavinia, come receive the blood!
Sarah catches some of the blood in her bucket.
CHUCK
Let me go grind their bones to
powder small,
And with this hateful liquor temper
it!
Chuck cuts off Eddie's head with the butcher knife.
CHUCK
And in that paste let their vile
heads be bak'd!
Chuck throws the head into the bucket. Mister Dimples runs
on stage.
MISTER DIMPLES
Children, stop, stop!
CHUCK
Sir, we cut the dual rape scene --
MISTER DIMPLES
For the love of all that's holy!
Stop the play!
CHUCK
But, sir, it's Shakespeare!
SARAH
Sir, we're following all the
rules of the Texas University
Interscholastic League...
Mister Dimples thinks.
MISTER DIMPLES
I cannot reconcile this logical
contradiction!
Mister Dimples's chest explodes in a shower of sparks. He
collapses. Sarah and Chuck walk over to him and inspect him.
SARAH
A robot!
CHUCK
I knew it all along.
Exeunt.
But I know what I am and I’m glad I’m a man
INT. THEATER - DAY
A large, empty, dimly lit theater. A director and a staff of
go-fers shuffle papers in the darkness of the seats. John
stands alone on stage and fidgets under a spotlight.
DIRECTOR
John, is it? Let's take the
monologue on page thirteen.
John thumbs through a script.
SUPEREGO (V.O.)
He's asking you to read for the
lead role!
ID (V.O.)
Oh, shit. He wants you to read the
gay sex monologue.
JOHN
Page thirteen, got it.
DIRECTOR
Whenever you're ready.
SUPEREGO (V.O.)
It's only an audition. Relax.
Take a deep breath. Focus.
JOHN
"Oh, I love it when you touch me
like that, Frank --"
SUPEREGO (V.O.)
You found humor in the moment!
Keep going --
ID (V.O.)
You're going to hell for doing this
audition.
SUPEREGO (V.O.)
No! You're doing great --
ID (V.O.)
Dude, the director totally wants to
pork you.
SUPEREGO (V.O.)
Focus!
JOHN
"Oh, yes, baby, service it, service
it --"
ID (V.O.)
You sound like a gas station
commercial.
SUPEREGO (V.O.)
I'm in the moment!
ID (V.O.)
You're in a bad gas station
commercial. A bad gay gas station
commercial.
SUPEREGO (V.O.)
There is no such thing as gay gas!
JOHN
"I work at the sex clubs --"
ID (V.O.)
You change the oil filters?
SUPEREGO (V.O.)
Focus, focus! Positive thoughts!
ID (V.O.)
Gay gas!
SUPEREGO (V.O.)
Gas cannot be gay!
JOHN
"When I was a kid I'd service
myself while the other boys watched
--"
ID (V.O.)
Gay gas porn! Service with a
smile!
SUPEREGO (V.O.)
Art! Human condition! Personal
conflict --
ID (V.O.)
Gay gas porn gay gas porn!
SUPEREGO (V.O.)
In the moment!
ID (V.O.)
Fill 'er up!
SUPEREGO (V.O.)
I'm acting! I'm a character,
dammit!
ID (V.O.)
Welcome to Gay Gas! Check that
oil, mister!
SUPEREGO (V.O.)
Shut up!
DIRECTOR
Thank you --
ID (V.O.)
No, you shut up!
DIRECTOR
Thank you!
JOHN
What?
DIRECTOR
Thank you very much, John. We'll
call if anything comes up. Can you
send in the next one, please?
I’m all decoded now, I think you better go
Jul 1 23:14:50 partygirl sshd[19154]: Accepted password for upload from 64.95.232.90 port 39152 ssh2 Jul 3 07:57:14 partygirl sshd[4373]: Accepted password for upload from 81.18.87.179 port 1859 ssh2 Jul 3 11:30:30 partygirl sshd[5391]: Accepted password for upload from 81.18.87.179 port 4646 ssh2 --
And with that, a skript kiddie in Romania, working from the rdsnet.ro subdomain, broke into johnbyrd.org . He installed a subdomain scanner and ssh brute force tool into a hidden directory called “/tmp/ /.of” and he began dictionary attacks on other machines.
The style of compromise is highly specific.
The attacker at 81.18.87.179 is running Windows Terminal Server 2003. The box is probably being controlled remotely by the attacker.
I’ve nuked the offending account and taken countermeasures, but he’s still knocking at the open ports, trying to get in. If you’re the attacker, give up on this box and move on, or I’m going to hit back.
I will be there just as soon as I can
Nurn, my father-in-law, walks down the corridor of the Assisted Living Center with us. He has prepared us, told us: there’s not a lot of Grammy left to visit. She is frequently disoriented. We walk by a dwarfish, toothless woman spouting random syllables, a thin little asexual bag of a person slumped to one side of a chair, and a nurse with a tray of little cups of pills.
“Where is she?” I ask.
“There,” says Nurn, pointing at the person we just passed. “That is my mother. I didn’t recognize her.”
Rabbi Goldberg turned and pointed at the wall behind him. The text of the letters were two stories high, gold plated on the side of the chapel. “And now, let us speak the words that have given comfort for thousands of years.”
“Should we just let her sleep?” my wife asks.
“Perhaps,” says Nurn.
The nurse walks by, sees us gawking. “Rose! Rose Kalikow! You have visitors!” She turns to us, a half smile. “She’s a little hard of hearing.”
“We know,” says Nurn.
Grammy Rose’s milky eyes open. Her hands are thin, twisted leather gloves. One hand is wrapped around a walker. Inside the basket of the walker is a photograph cube covered with baby pictures of her children and grandchildren, faded to pastel shades by decades of light.
The rabbi intoned, “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.”
“Hello, Mother,” says Nurn. He kisses her. My wife and I do the same.
“Oh my, hello. Oh,” she says, grinding slowly awake. “Oh, where are we going?”
“We’re not going anywhere,” says Nurn.
“Oh, it’s lovely to see you, dear,” says Grammy. “And Jodie,” she says, touching my wife’s face. “Jodie, you are here. Oh, my cup runneth over.”
“I’m Mandy,” says my wife.
“Yes,” says Grammy smiling. “Jodie. You are so beautiful. Where are we going?”
“We came here to see you,” says Nurn.
The congregation joined in, quietly. The rabbi spoke, “He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.”
Grammy smiles. “Well. Now. We have to celebrate!”
We all laugh. My wife says, “Yes, I think that’s a great idea.”
Grammy says, “Let’s go out and have some ice cream.”
Nurn says, “You want some ice cream, Mom?”
Grammy pauses.
All the eyes in the room traced the words on the wall. The voices were subdued. “He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.”
Nurn says, “I’ll go get her some ice cream.” My wife goes with him. I see them talking to the hospice nurse.
I hold Grammy’s hand and smile at her. “Oh, hello. My boy. To be visited by my son…” She touches my face. “My cup runneth over. That’s all I can say.”
The rabbi recited, “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”
I say nothing and smile.
Grammy says, “All the people here, let me tell you. At this place. They never get visitors. No one visits them. But to be surrounded with your family. To have your loved ones with you. I have only one thing to say.”
The rabbi said, “Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil.”
Grammy says, “My cup runneth over. That’s all I have to say. Now what are you studying?”
I smile. “The piano,” I say.
Grammy says, “Oh, I love the piano. My children. They are so talented.”
Nurn returns. He has a small styrofoam cup. He yanks off the cardboard top and spoons out some chocolate ice cream. He feeds it to his mother, who smiles. After a few bites she takes the ice cream and feeds herself a few more bites. Then Nurn takes the ice cream and finishes it himself. I take the empty cup and spoon.
Grammy looks up and says, “Let’s have some lobster!”
We laugh. “Yes, let’s!”
The rabbi nodded and said, “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.” I stepped forward, around the pew, to the center aisle.
“I’ll come see you later,” says Nurn. I kiss Grammy again.
“Ah, it’s lovely,” says Grammy. “My cup runneth over. That’s all I can say.”
We walk down the hall. As we enter the elevator, Nurn tells us, “I’ve spoken with the hospice nurse. It will be painless.”
The star of David was on the center of the box. It was unsanded, rough beneath my palm. Five men joined me and placed their hands on the box as well.
As we leave the Assisted Living Center, for some reason I still have the wooden spoon in my hand.
With a bit of the mind flip, you’re into the time slip
From: Shane Ruggieri Sent: Thursday, June 02, 2005 2:32 PM To: John Byrd Subject: Re: Halloween 2003 photos
Hey John,
What a crazy night! I forgot about some of these shots…must have been the 8 or 10 cranberry vodkas…
I do remember that…ouch…
Live well,
Shane
—
Shane Ruggieri
Production * Animation * Post * Print