YOU'RE ONLY AS GOOD AS YOUR LAST FUNERAL

Good grief, can I not leave you people alone for FIVE BLOODY MINUTES without having everything go straight to Hell in a Birkin?



There I was, undergoing some much needed therapy at the Musso and Frank Spa -



- located in the heart of Hollywood, when I received a frantic call from my desert paradise home. It was my houseboy Panton-



-who, bless his well developed abs, was barely able to sputter into the telephone “The King is no more! The King is no more!!” before collapsing into great whacking sobs and abruptly hanging up.

Now granted, Panton’s mastery of the English language is rivaled in its ineptitude only by that of noted classical guitarist Charo-



- but given the fact that he has been instructed never to interrupt me during one of my deep cleansing vodka treatments-



- especially not the ones administered by my qualified “spiritual masseur” Manny The Bartender-



- I knew THIS was an emergency.

And sure enough, after a phone call to an old friend of mine on the Los Angeles Police Department – the rather aptly named Officer Wang -



- a very well-armed young man whom I met several years ago whilst suffering the after-effects of a sudden rear-ending on La Cienega Boulevard in West Hollywood – it was determined that yes, indeed, the unthinkable had happened. It was the end of an era. .

It seemed impossible to believe, but there it was, in black and white.



Christian Lacroix had gone bankrupt.

For the fashion illiterate amongst my readership – not to be judgmental, but with the size of my audience, it is safe to assume that there are a few dear souls out there for whom Old Navy is le ne plus ultra – M. Lacroix was simply a visionary. He instinctively knew what women wanted – which is to say, he knew what women thought men wanted them to look like.

Prostitutes.



And not the expensive kind, either…

As the first fashion designer of the late 20th century to ignore the rigid boundaries of taste, style or elegance, he somehow managed to convince an entire segment of, to be charitable, “evolutionarily-challenged” women that the only thing standing between them and the highest peaks of beauty and glamour was an inflatable spandex puffy dress and four hundred pounds of sequins.



This is the ultimate reason for fashion to exist, of course.

It enables the hideous first wives of Arab Oil Sheiks and International Sports Stars to - upon discovering that their wealthy husbands have been cheating on them with any number of models, actresses or recently Russian-abducted “white slaves” - blackmail same into spending several hundred thousand euros on designer clothing which they will wear once and then discard like so much used facial wax.



It is, finally, the only thing that separates us from the animals.



But even though Lacroix has folded his paisley and mylar tents and vanished from the world fashion stage for now, I suspect we will see him surface again sometime soon, like the Designer of the Living Dead, selling cheap knockoffs of his original designs on the Home Shopping Channel. I predict he will make millions, because to misquote Mr. Barnum, nobody ever went broke underestimating the taste of the American public, and if what I’ve seen being worn on the streets lately is any indication, the women in this country don’t just want to “look” like hookers – they want to BE hookers.



This was brought clearly into focus for me the other evening while watching Sam Raimi’s film “DRAG ME TO HELL”, billed as the director’s “return to horror”.



I had unfortunately missed the private screening at the Director’s Guild of America and was forced to attend a public show at the local Cinemark “second run” theater.



I expected problems, of course; paying $2.00 to see a movie certainly doesn’t come without its tortures. But while the film has its scary moments to be sure, nothing onscreen matched the terrors I encountered in the theater audience.

Besides the constant and mindless chatter DURING THE FILM – apparently these Neanderthals were so dulled by the various drugs their parents must have scarfed down during the 80’s, they had no idea that they were actually IN a theater and not at home slumped across their imitation leather couches beneath the neon Budweiser signs and framed posters of Al Pacino as “Scarface” in their living rooms – I have not heard so much noisy chewing, slurping and swallowing since I spent a somewhat scandalous evening at a rather louche sex club in Berlin several years back.



(Strictly research, of course darlings.)

But all of this paled in comparison to the behavior of the two zaftig young women, who had barely squeezed into ill-fitting halter tops, shorts and – by extension – the theater seats directly in front of me.



Beyond their incessant talking, using the sort of dialogue normally reserved for an episode of “The Jerry Springer Show” (who knew that “respect” was such an issue for the lower classes?), and the continuous tossing of the hair extensions they wore which were so long past their "due dates" they had the consistency of raw wheat, I was utterly astonished to watch this pair of escapees from the spires of Notre Dame proceed to use their cellular phones NON-STOP during the film!

As if the bright light from their iPhones wasn’t enough of a distraction (and as a gentleman, one doesn’t want to venture as to exactly how many trips to the local truck stop were required for these two dolts to afford the things in the first place…), the constant “tap tap” of their “Lee Press-Ons” across the keyboard was enough to drive even the sanest among us to pull the loose armrest from our seat and beat the little darlings to death with it.

But as a civilized fellow, I simply leaned forward and politely enquired: “Pardon me, but will you be texting during the entire film?”

The one on the left turned to me as if I’d just shot her dog.

“What did you say? What?”

Startled by this somewhat aggressive reply – one expects an “I’m sorry”, perhaps, or an “I beg your pardon?” – I tried to continue.

“Well, it’s rather distracting and I was hoping to be able to watch the film…”

The one on the right cut me off.

“What if it’s an important call, huh? Maybe it’s an emergency?”

“Well,” I replied, “perhaps you should take your phone out to the lobby. I’m sure your friend at the other end of the line would prefer to speak with you in person about whatever has gone horribly wrong with her manicure.”

They turned back to the movie, and their texting. Miss Right murmured: “It’s not bothering anybody.”

But I wasn’t giving in. These were the kinds of girls whose mothers had obviously told them, between swigs of their Thunderbird wine coolers, "don't you take no shit from The Man!" And I was obviously "The Man" in question.

“Well, actually darling, it’s bothering me. Now please, if it’s not too much trouble—“

Finally, they both turned to me, flashing the kind of look they probably reserved for their parole officer when he insists they leave their guns in the car.

“We paid to be here!”

I pulled four dollars from my pocket and presented it to them.

“Here’s your money back. Perhaps you could spend it on etiquette lessons?”

At which point they both snorted – something they had clearly been raised to do – got up and stormed out of the theater. The patrons around me applauded and we settled down to watch the remainder of the film.

And then the Usher arrived. A squeaky little fellow with more flashlight than nerve, he sidled up to my seat, kneeled down and said:

“Sir, I’ve just had two young women say that you assaulted them, the manager would like to speak with you.”

Fortunately, the half dozen or so people around me who had witnessed the entire thing spoke up, told him what had happened, and said they would gladly speak to the Manager themselves. The Usher left, we all returned to the movie and that was the last we heard of it.

Of course I kept my eyes open on the walk to the car afterwards; those rat-tail combs can put your eye out.

But as I considered the situation later, while Panton poured me a much needed, nerve-calming martini, I realized that perhaps I’d been a bit hard on those poor creatures. They were, after all, probably still reeling from the death of that Pop Singer, the one with the Glittery White Glove and the Comeback Tour That Never Was.



I hardly need mention his name, and at this point I certainly have nothing to add to the endless commentary elsewhere in the world media, other than to suggest that with the recent spate of celebrity deaths – The Blonde Hairdo Icon, The Guffawing Sidekick, The Faux Martial Arts Master, The Soap Salesman – we’ve also seen a “Perfect Storm” of the ultimate PR Event.



While each of these deaths is tragic in and of itself, taken all together they have become a sort of endless Black Carpet walk of B and C list celebrities -



- each of whom have somehow managed, through their grief, to stop in front of a large poster “honoring” the deceased long enough to promote their latest album/movie/business venture.



I suspect, dear reader, we shall be seeing an endless photo-montage of black suits and dresses for the rest of the foreseeable Hollywood “future” – ie: six months - as every magazine on earth runs their very own “In Memoriam” issue, guaranteed to sell out.



Not to say that we here at 801 haven’t been touched by tragedy as well, but we mourn the old fashioned way – in private and with photographic evidence. Recently, I visited the nearby grave of The Chairman of the Board on the anniversary of his passing on to his eternal appearance at that great “Sands” hotel in the sky.



With only the groundskeeper as company, I placed my traditional shotglass full of Jack Daniels and single orange rose (FS’ favorite color) on the grave -



- and, although filled with grief and sorrow at the loss of a great talent, I still managed to smile for the camera.



Like Corey Feldman, I too understand that it is, after all, “SHOW”-business.



But things aren’t all doom and gloom around these parts. In fact, my terribly handsome BF and I were delighted to attend The Sister’s latest wedding here in our desert paradise and I can safely report that from all indications this third marriage of hers looks as though it may in fact stick.



Certainly this newest Husband, My "Brother-in-Lawlessness" as it were, may have bitten off more than he can chew by joining the Circus of Horrors we call “family” - his “bachelor party” consisted of myself and fellow lush Mr. Glaser barhopping the poor fellow all the way across the Coachella Valley to get him fitted with an appropriate linen suit for his nuptials -


- but I can’t fault his taste in film.



Unlike his blushing bride or my beloved Boyfriend -



- neither of whom share our passion for old, obscure crime pictures - "Hatsy" Bramble joined me at the Arthur Lyons Film Noir Festival - of his own free will, no less! -where we submerged ourselves in three solid days of margaritas, Jack Daniels and the kind of rain-soaked, back-stabbing, double-crossing, murderous-dame-starring movies that Hollywood seems to have forgotten how to make.

The hit of the festival for us, other than my getting a chance to chat with organizer and film noir guru Alan K. Rode -



- was definitely INSIDE JOB -



- a remarkable little “lost” film with the kind of plot which clods like yours truly wouldn’t dare ruin by trying to explain. It was the perfect complement to start our summer “off-season” here in the desert, that marvelous time of year when all of the out-of-town “riff raff” have fled for cooler pastures, leaving only the true desert denizens to soak up the 115 degree temps.



One must be careful, of course, to take the heat in measured doses, chased with a carefully constructed Belvedere martini every day at 5 30 pm.



Failure to follow these rules could be fatal and while I may be an Emmy nominee, whose every public appearance is breathlessly written about in the local press -



- I doubt that my demise would attract quite the same attention as the late King of Pop.

I can think of two nasty girls for whom it would be a dream come true, however. They’re likely sitting in a darkened movie theater somewhere, texting each other about it right now.

APORKALYPSE? WOW!

In our constant quest to stay abreast of all of the cosmopolitan trends and fads in popular culture-

- I am delighted to report that the “Swine Flu” about which all of the news programs have been breathlessly howling for the past several weeks has claimed its first victim here at 801.

Fortunately, the symptoms don’t seem to be fatal; in fact, if one ignores the dark, comb-shaped bruise on the side of his head, my houseboy Panton appears absolutely healthy in every other regard and hardly required the two days paid leave IN BED he insisted he needed to recover from what he calls (with his limited grammatic skills) "piggy cough cough".

Granted, I might have overreacted by hitting him with that garden rake, but dear reader what would YOU do if you saw a swarthy, half-naked savage come charging toward you with a bandana wrapped around his head?

Is it my fault that he decided to protect himself from the possible inhalation of diseased porcine particles in the atmosphere at exactly the same moment that I was watching Anderson Cooper interview one of those similarly masked Somali Pirates?

It was dark, after all, and that silver tray bearing my evening martini did look rather menacing in the dim light; it could have been a rapid fire automatic weapon for goodness’ sake, and given the current trend toward murder/suicides amongst our nation’s unfortunates one simply cannot be too careful. After all, while the protective wall of ficus trees around our Desert Paradise shields us from the various degradations of modern society, this current “Aporkalypse” may well be the end of the world as we know it.

Now I, for one, don’t particularly fear “la grande finale” as it were; I have lived in Paris -

- I have jumped out of an airplane and I’ve cavorted in the ocean with dolphins, sharks and naked rugby players -

-everything from here on in is simply frosting on the already too-rich cake of my life.

In fact, many is the morning where I awake from my dewy slumber, gaze at the ceiling and cry to - in Cole Porter's words - "the gods above me": “Not another ONE? For the love of all that's decent, what MORE do you want from me?! I've received TWO GLAAD nominations this year alone, have I not given you people ENOUGH?”

(Granted, it could be argued that if one couldn't receive an award nomination from the Gay and Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation for one's gay movie featuring a gay private eye and his gay boyfriend solving a gay crime against gay people, perhaps one had better choose another line of work...)

However, should I suddenly be given my ticket for that last boat ride across the River Styx, I’m afraid the other passengers are going to have to wait around awhile before I’m ready to board. If, as they say, one’s whole life passes before one’s eyes in the moments before expiration, I expect that recounting just the events of the past couple of months are going to take enough time to have even The Grim Reaper himself ducking out back for a cigarette.

Take, for example, My Big Opening.

Some months ago - as the faithful among you will recall - I finished work on my latest epic, a suspense thriller entitled “DEATH AMONG FRIENDS” which eventually became known as “SOMETHING EVIL COMES”.

To my delight, it turned out rather well and, as such, the studio decided to have a proper, old-fashioned “Hollywood Premiere” complete with Red Carpet, Photographers-
and - best of all - free popcorn!

Now to the untrained eye, these kinds of events seem almost magical - how did ALL of these people end up at the theater, and why are they all so impossibly glamorous, and how can I, a mere “mortal” ever hope to achieve the heights of fame and fortune that these people so casually ascend?

The truth is, like much of show business, nothing but smoke and mirrors. For weeks before the “Premiere”, invitations were sent out, emails were traded, favors were called in and threats were made, all in order to fill the 800-odd seats of the beautiful old “Showcase Theater” on La Brea Avenue with enough bodies to make it seem like an actual “event”, instead of just a nice night out at the movies.

In keeping with the “Day of the Locusts” motif prevalent in the Hollywood of today, we had our fair share of “celebrities” -




- “reality” personalities -



- and any number of actors just happy to be indoors for a change -

- but all were outshone by a special surprise guest who arrived at the last moment and completely took the paparazzi by storm.

Some context might be in order here. Many years ago, while I floundered in that No Man’s Land between high school and “what-the-hell-am-I-going-to-do-with-my-life-now?”, a group of friends and myself were utterly addicted to a soap opera called “General Hospital”.

One of the major characters on the show was an International "Superspy" named ROBERT SCORPIO, played by an Australian actor named TRISTAN ROGERS.

His slightly tongue-in-cheek portrayal of a - to use his own words - “KMart James Bond” helped propel the show to the top of the daytime ratings and made it an iconic part of early 1980’s tv.

It also had a huge impact on a young wanna-be filmmaker who, at that time, was trying to figure out just how he could make his way to Hollywood and carve out a career in show business.

Flash forward to a couple of months ago.

The Boyfriend had, through his generous patronage of a local charity, arranged for us to attend a black tie fundraising dinner held here in our Desert Paradise. (He's the benevolent one in the family - I only contribute to whatever The New York Times lists as its "cause of the week" in the perhaps misguided belief that I'll end up with my picture in the newspaper.)



Between the presentation of yet more awards to our neighbor Barry Manilow -



(who actually deserves them - he recently bought an entire truckload of musical instruments for a cash-strapped local school)

- and a rather bleakly scripted series of “comic” dialogues between TV icons Morgan Fairchild, Linda Gray and Donna Mills



(one had the rather disorienting sensation of having wandered onto the final cruise of The Love Boat), there was entertainment by Miss Dianne Carroll -



(whose rather unfortunate makeup job didn’t distract from her marvelous singing voice - much...).

But none of this could keep me from utterly embarrassing myself by plopping down next to my table mate - the aforementioned Tristan Rogers - and spending the better part of the catered dinner gushing about the influence he had on my life.



As shameless as that was, and fueled by the seemingly endless bottle of wine in front of me, I then compounded the social infraction by inviting himself, his lovely wife and our mutual friends to the premiere of my new film in Los Angeles, never once expecting them to actually show up.



So imagine my shock - nay, my complete thrill! - at the sudden appearance of Superspy Scorpio behind me on the Red Carpet!



The press photographers went wild, flashbulbs blazing at this genuine “STAR” in our midst; with remarkable ease and grace he smiled for them all, genuinely surprised by the attention. When I finally went up to the front of the theater to make some opening remarks, and thank the audience for attending, he gave me a grin and a wave as I passed by.

It’s been almost 25 years since I sat glued to the set on weekday afternoons, following the absurdly overwritten adventures of the characters on that silly soap opera, and imagining what my life might be.

It has, of course, worked out rather well, the occasional run-in with the help notwithstanding. But sometimes one needs a sign-post, a marker as it were, to remind one just how far along the trail the journey has led.

Certainly the material things help - on those days when the writing isn’t working or the phone isn’t ringing or some dull bastard rears his greasy head from his parents' basement long enough to refer to you as a talentless hack, the only real defense is a chilly martini from a Tiffany glass -



- or a nuzzle from the cold and wet nose of the most recent addition to our household, named CRAWFORD in honor of his arrival on Miss Joan Crawford's birthday -



- but failing those touchstones, I think getting a thumbs up from a Super Spy will do just fine.

VALLEY OF THE DOGS

So I came back from the gym this morning and was puzzled to find my side yard gate barricaded along the bottom by rocks and cement blocks.

This is the kind of thing I normally do when my houseboy Panton is having one of his "episodes", where he decides that the princely wage I pay him isn't enough and he threatens to "giddaway from Boss" back to whatever dusty third world rug market he came from in the first place.



(I think $5.00 a day is quite adequate myself, especially considering his housekeeping chores entirely consist of wearing nothing but a pair of gold lame shorts and bending over to dust under the sofa twice a day...but I digress.)

However, given that Panton is currently out of town, attending some sort of religious retreat in the high desert where he and his brethren are worshipping a "taxidermied" moosehead mounted atop a larger than life plaster statue of Mamie Van Doren they found in a local "vintage" junk shop-



I was understandably confused by the make-shift security measures put in place by persons unknown.

The mystery was solved, however, when I discovered a four footed interloper in the back yard, lurking amongst the tikis. It was, in fact, a dog.



Now, I don't have a dog. Haven't had one since my ex-boyfriend of some years ago left unannounced, taking a good chunk of my self-esteem and our weimaraner, Jack Daniels by name. So i was fairly certain that this tail wagging stranger didn't belong here.

But on closer examination, I noticed he was moving very slowly, as if in tremendous pain, and he looked rather dazed, doubtlessly from drinking out of the salt water pool all night. I know how that feels, having done it myself during one rather inebriated afternoon where I was convinced that the martini glass mosaic at the bottom was, in fact, the real thing, and I could relate to the slightly dopey look in this mutt's eyes.



However when he resolutely refused to eat the garnish i offered him from my morning cocktail - it was, sadly, the only solid food in the house - I realized he was in need of serious medical attention. I mean, what ELSE could possibly cause someone to refuse Jensen's finest blue cheese stuffed olives?

And so, one quick trip to the Animal Doctor and a hundred dollars later, I now have an adorable dog roaming around the property, his discomfort somewhat assuaged by the painkillers he's been taking every six hours, wrapped up in some expensive brie and bacon appetizers (well, when one's Houseboy is indisposed, one must make do with WHATEVER is in the fridge you know!).



In Palm Springs, even the dogs are on "dolls".



I assume that somebody must have hit the poor beast with their car and then, figuring it was my dog and fearing the wrath of a man who has a martini glass flag waving over the front gate, they just heaved him over the fence and locked him in. I shan't bore you, dear reader, by sharing with you my distaste for the sort of people who would do this kind of thing, but suffice it to say I am posting a photograph here in the hope that the lovely little fellow's owner will recognize him and get in touch with me here.

Failing that, we shall have to find a name for him.

If I keep shouting "hey, you mongrel!" when Panton returns from Bible Camp, things could get very confusing around here.

THE PRICE OF LOVE

Long before it was fashionable - let alone a socio-political weapon of mass destruction - I had my very first Gay Marriage.

Of course being that we lived in California, which in 2000 still didn't allow gay couples to do that which Elizabeth Taylor has done countless times -
Britney Spears did overnight in Vegas-- and the lower classes do for money on reality television programs, our event was considered a "Civil Union". But regardless of the nomenclature, we were getting married and, as such, we had to throw ourselves a real, live, honest-to-whoever-you-pray-at WEDDING.

It was held at the glamorous Yamashiro restaurant in Los Angeles, an authentically recreated Japanese mansion perched high above Hollywood Boulevard and in keeping with my belief that if you're going to do something, you might as well do it first class, we pulled out all the proverbial stops.

The best food, open bar, bottles of Veuve Clicquot champagne by the truckload; and in keeping with this theme, we had our wedding rings done by Tiffany's. During the fitting at the renowned jeweller's Beverly Hills store, one of those bleached blonde OC housewife types who have lowered the bar at every high end shop in town smiled patronizingly and said "that's so cute. Too bad it's not a real wedding."

At which point the Tiffany clerk gave her a hard stare and said "of course it is. It's recognized by a higher authority than the government. It's recognized by Tiffany's."

For this reason, I have been a devoted Tiffany customer ever since.

With rings in hand, and guests in tow, we stood before my old friend The Duchess of Milton who had procured an online ordination as a minister for the event - which really just supports my belief that religion is nothing more than a game for hucksters and suckers, not necessarily in that order - and spoke our vows...you know, the usual, "love, honor and cherish" and "til death do us part"...

Most of the attendees swear to this day it was the most beautiful wedding they'd ever seen. I would have to agree.

The MARRIAGE however was a disaster.

I won't bore you with all the gory details, but suffice it to say that two years later, upon returning from an extended work trip to Africa, I discovered my husband had packed up his things and left. Took the dog.

But left his ring behind.



For five long, increasingly ridiculous years, that ring - and my matching one - sat in my dresser drawer, moving from a place of dark honor ("there they are - the symbols of my broken heart...") to simply being an annoyance ("Panton! What kind of a houseboy are you?! Where are my silver cufflinks? I can't find anything in here except these stupid wedding rings!") to the point where I finally decided something HAD to be done.

While shooting a movie several years back, one of the stars advised that I should melt the rings down and turn them into a key for my house. The other star suggested, considering how things had ended, a BULLET might make more sense; given that he was once married to a large and rather loudly unpleasant television star himself, he knew of what he spoke.

But I'd kept the rings for all these years, tucked away neatly in their little blue velvet bag, taunting me like one of those cuts you get on the roof of your mouth. "You failed," they kept saying to me. "You were a loser as a husband and you'll never find love again!"

This of course turned out to be false, as several years ago I eventually met the current Boyfriend, a prominent Palm Springs businessman, and while I refused to let the car wreck of the first marriage make me gun shy about getting into another relationship, having those rings around didn't help. They lurked there in the dark, rattling behind my gold Brooks Brothers collar tabs like Jacob Marley's ghost, their voices reminding me that every love has a price, a piece of your heart taken and never returned...a piece as big as two men's wedding bands.

Now if you, dear reader, found that last line to be as nauseating to read as I did to write, you'll understand exactly why I spent Valentine's Day this year sitting in a conference room at a local hotel, waiting my turn among the retirees and widows to find out just how much cold hard cash those damned rings would get me.

The time had finally come to let go.

I'd heard about the "Gold Buy" being run by a group of out-of-state jewelers on the local radio station for several weekends running, but decided to wait until the perfect symbolism of February 14th arrived to make my move. And so, with the Boyfriend beside me - and with visions of the vacation in sunny Mexico that these rings would surely buy us dancing in our heads - we sat down in front of a charmingly overbuilt fellow who weighed both wedding bands, checked his scales and values, viewed the Tiffany markings with a magnifying loop and then finally leaned back and smiled at us.

The rings had originally cost me three thousand dollars. In cash. They had also cost me considerably more in self-worth and hard won life experience, and as such they had come to occupy a huge place in my own personal mythology. I wanted them to be worth every moment I'd felt I'd lost, every single heart ache I'd endured and every last tear I'd shed.

They turned out to be worth two hundred bucks. Flat.

So much for Mexico. That wouldn't buy us a weekend in Banning.

But it did buy the BF and I a couple of great books to read on a rainy day at home, and a bottle of wine and a pizza to enjoy while we do. And frankly, I'd rather have that - and him - than those rings any day.



Even Valentine's Day.

URINE AMERICA NOW!

It appears that last month's somewhat dramatic display of nature's force here in our desert paradise yielded more than just some soggy tourists and a few rather grim looking palm fronds cluttering up the front walk.

When my faithful houseboy Panton did his morning rounds of the house, checking for overturned Tikis, swamped outdoor stereo speakers, or any of those same seven indigents who seem to show up in the regional news from time to time bobbing in the pool, he discovered a delightful little bit of propaganda he felt sure I'd enjoy. Bless Panton - not a word of English bouncing around inside that copper colored head of his and yet he still manages to know exactly what I like.

This particular item, soaked almost beyond recognition, appears to be from the nearby public school. It is a form letter, of the kind one sends home with misbehaving children so their parents can feel even worse about that drunken night in Barstow that begat the little cherubs than they already do.

I myself never received one of these foul notes, having been a perfect student and the light of my mother's eye (she valued me quite highly, naturally - as the illegitimate son of Grace Kelly and George Hamilton -
- I was subsequently lost in a plane crash over the southern Asiatic region, rescued by a kindly group of Tibetan monks and then, eventually, brought back to America by some missionaries where I was adopted by a kindly white trash couple and raised as their own), but I digress...

Entitled "POOR CITIZENSHIP LETTER", it begins "Dear _______", the blank left obviously to be filled in according to each child's situation: "Dear Belabored Grandmother Who Expected Peace In Her Old Age But Instead Ended Up Tending To Her Lazy, Drunk, Good For Nothing Daughter's Brat" comes to mind, but certainly wouldn't fit in the space provided.



In this instance, the salutation is filled with "Mom and Dad" which sounds promising, but it's when we continue through the "form" portion of the missive, a litany of pre-written, shame-inducing sentences including things like "I did not Qualify for Good Citizenship because I did not follow the School Rules" and "the other students who did not break the rules got to do something fun today" that things take a decidedly darker turn.

Further along, in the student's own writing, we find a list he himself has made of his "crimes", the horrendous anti-American activities which have earmarked him as a Communist or, worse yet, a Terrorist-in-Training. These include "I did not raise my hand to speak", "I get out of my seat", "I talk to my friends" and, most damning of all, "I go to the bathroom too much."

I'll admit I'm not necessarily an expert in the field of national defense, but where exactlydoes "incontinence" rank on The Department of Homeland Security's list of "threatening activities"?

Finally, the letter concludes, ominously: "Please have a conversation with me about what I can do to earn Good Citizenship".

"A conversation"?

I suspect that particular "conversation" may have taken place on the business end of a belt, which explains why little "Hassan" - the lad whose paper this was - tossed the damning letter away and let the storm take its course.

Bravo, Hassan. Don't be fooled by these adults and their ridiculous rules!

Freedom of speech is your right, as is the Right to assemble freely. So speak when you have something to say! Visit with your friends!

And for the love of all that is good and just in this world, you urinate whenever you want!

For that, Hassan, is the American Way.