05 March 2006

Pisser of Light


Hm...Looks like a nice place for a pee

What does painter of pastel cottages Thomas Kinkade do in his spare time?

According to the L.A. Times (registration required, damn them) today, he gets drunk, pisses in elevators and gropes admiring women.

An article today lays out Kinkade's follies for everyone to admire.

Kinkade has leaned pretty hard (by which I mean "pimped like Terrence Howard in "Hustle and Flow") on his Christianity to sell his art but it seems from the article that on many occasions, his behavior has been pretty rotten.

There's this:
In an interview, Sheppard, who often accompanied Kinkade on the road, recounted a trip to Orange County in the late 1990s for the artist's appearance on the "Hour of Power" television show at the Crystal Cathedral in Garden Grove. On the eve of the broadcast, Sheppard said, he and Kinkade returned to the Disneyland Hotel after a night of heavy drinking. As they walked to their rooms, according to Sheppard and another person who was there, Kinkade veered toward a nearby figure of a Disney character.

"Thom wanders over to Winnie the Pooh and decides to 'mark his territory,' " Sheppard told The Times.

In a deposition, the artist alluded to his practice of urinating outdoors, saying he "grew up in the country" where it was common. When pressed about allegedly relieving himself in a hotel elevator in Las Vegas, Kinkade said it might have happened.

"There may have been some ritual territory marking going on, but I don't recall it," he said.

Ritual territory marking? Is that what they are calling drunken urination in public - indoors - these days? I call it "Eeeeeew" but I'm prudish that way.

And you know what is coming next, don't you? In the vein of other fine moralists like Arnold Schwarzenneger and Jerry Falwell, several women claimed he groped them, made inappropriate sexual comments to them and swore at them when they were trying to help him up off the floor after he fell off a barstool.

Kinkade of course has plenty of rationalizations for his behavior, from the Clarence Thomas-esque to the Biblical:
"But you've got to remember," he said, "I'm the idol to these women who are there. They sell my work every day, you know. They're enamored with any attention I would give them. I don't know what kind of flirting they were trying to do with me. I don't recall what was going on that night."

Oh, yes, it wasn't me drunkenly groping the women. It was their fault! Those hoes was flirting with me!

In response to The Times' written questions, Kinkade did not address any specific incident.

"It does disappoint me when people I have tried to help and befriend make crazy allegations about me," he said. "I am a big fan of imagination, but the specific allegations you have described to me are ridiculous and I feel like the victim of a legal stalker."

Again, not my fault. Legal stalking, modern day lynching, that's what it is.

He described himself as "an average, hard-working guy who just happens to be a famous artist" and said he didn't take himself too seriously.

In the recent arbitration case, he also testified that he had never claimed to be perfect.

"Book of Ecclesiastes says enjoy yourself, have a glass of wine, for this is God's will for you," he said. "It's never consistent with God's will that we behave in a sinful way; however, God also loves us and accepts us and understands that at times we have our failings."

Sure, maybe Ecclesiastes says to have a glass of wine. And yes, I too think God loves us and every little sparrow.

But seriously, man, the distance between a glass of wine and drunken pissing at Disneyland is a pretty fur stretch. My advice would be to stop by an AA meeting and talk to the nice folks there. I'm sure they will be able to help you sort out the difference between an adult beverage with dinner and a blackout-style drunken gropefest.

04 March 2006

Second time is a charm

Ok, my dear friend over at Don't Floss With Tinsel pointed me to this site My Heritage that lets you upload a photo to compare your facial features to those of 3,200 famous people and see whom you most resemble.

The results from first photo I uploaded were not encouraging. My facial features were 49 percent like Mark Almond (who?) and 47% like the bearded UnaBomber look-alike Jim Henson.

That struck me as funny because Mr. Stapler's favorite endearment for me is "Muppet Face." Is he onto something?

I tried a different photo, the one shown in my profile and things suddenly got worse, then better.

The fairly hideous but talented Willem DaFoe matches my features 64 percent. The cadaverous David Carradine and the not-so-hot Anthony Quinn were at 52 percent and 51 percent respectively.

I was only saved from leaping off a bridge by my stunning resemblance to Beyonce Knowles (54 percent, and she is quite the Muppet Face herself).

Even better, it says I look like my ambisexual idol, Johnny Depp (53%). Hey, if I am slightly more than half as hot as Johnny Depp, that is quite sufficient for me. And now, if I ever meet Mr. Depp, I have an instant conversation starter just in case he ever decides to dump that French Vanessa chick. Ah, a girl needs dreams.

Thank you for your concern

It appears I may live.

After my leaving the emergency room so abruptly, I called a cardiologist. Two, actually. At the first one my conversation went like this:

Me: "Hi. I'm not a patient of Dr. Heng, but I went to the Urgent Care Center the other day with chest pains and the doctor told me to go to the emergency room and I went but I didn't wait because it was a zoo and I had to leave and I apparently need a stress test and blood work so I need to see a cardiologist I have a PPO can I see the doctor without a referral or do I need a referral?"

Receptionist: "Are you a patient of Dr. Heng?"

Me: (thinking, "Well, duh, you dope, I just spat out my whole life story, are you not listening??") "Uh, no."

Receptionist: "Can I put you on hold?"

Me: "Sure."

And then I hung up.

I figured, hey, if the receptionist is this stupid, I do not want to meet the doctor.

With the next doc, everything went swimmingly. Receptionist paid attention, made an appt for the next day.

I was of course the youngest person in the waiting room by at least 20 years. Everyone else there was major fucked up. By the time I got in the examining room, I had decided that if I had a heart problem, it was suddenly cured, because I just wasn't ready to be that sick yet.

Dr. Qiu was charming, funny ("Why is a beautiful woman like you not married? Are your standards too high? Yes? You're smart. Men are idiots.") and reassuring. He wants to do a stress test but says he is 99 percent sure I am ok and my problems are from coughing too much.

So Tuesday I hop on the treadmill for some fun. I can hardly wait. But I am determined to be well.

01 March 2006

My night off

Here's what I discovered tonight:

You can go to the emergency room with chest pain, fill out the forms, get interviewed, get so sick of waiting for hours that you go home AND NO ONE WILL CALL YOU TO SEE IF YOU DROPPED DEAD ON THE WAY HOME.

Don't you think they should?

I don't think this issue is serious. I went to the doc in the box (again) and they did and EKG and it said I was ok. They just sent me to the ER as a precaution since my chest hurt. I will go to the doc tomorrow, promise.

I met some wonderful nice people and did my spiritual practice, which consisted of a mantra from A Course In Miracles, kind of zen-like:

Nothing real can be threatened.
Nothing unreal exists.
Therein lies the peace of god.

Of course this is denying the reality of the body, but that is ok with me. Why not? It isn't going to last anyway.
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