Hillary, you're pissing me off...and why Scientologists are stupid.

Ya know, I don't want to hate you, Hillary. I would love to throw my hat in the ring with what could be the first female president. But I swear to God woman, you make it really fucking hard.

I was watching the news last night....well, actually I was reading a book and the news was on, but I caught the important stuff. I was half listening to a feature about my man B's new campaign commercials. Ya'll bitches know I love Obama, and I respect his consistent push for bipartisanship. It's vital that Democrats and Republicans stop thinking their job is to act like bickering toddlers and do some fucking work already. Anyhoo, Barack's new commercial features some prominent Republican dude not getting smeared, but actually endorsing Obama.

[Yes, I grant that my detailing of this case could be better, but this page isn't about politics. You want some proper politics, just sweep your eyes over to the right side of the page and click on Bridget's blog. All the politics you can handle. Hell, you can call her up and talk about politics for hours, I'll give you her number. She's very pretty and single too, I may be able to convince her to take you to Taco Bell...]

So I hear this bit on the news and I'm all "Good for you, B! Way to build bridges and play nice with others. You truly are a shining example of all that's good in this world." The news broadcast cuts back to the reporter who is providing Hillary Clinton's take on the new ads:

"Republicans will do anything to avoid running against Hillary Clinton in 2008"

WHAT? DID I HEAR THAT CORRECTLY? OH MY GOD! Hillary, seriously, you're killing me. I might have even been tempted to support you over Obama (unlikely, but possible), and you go and act like an arrogant shithead. Really. And don't even get me started on your choosing Celine Dion for your campaign song. That bitch is Canadian! You may as well have just picked some Ravi Shankar, to truly appeal to your demographic: middle-aged white former hippies who like to think of themselves as progressives but have come to the realization that they still don't like black people much. A hurtful assertion? Yes, but Hillary, your attitude needs some serious fixing.

On to other obnoxious things...




Let's play a game. Pretend, if you will, that the whole theory of evolution and basically every other scientific principle is out the window. Humans were transplanted and grown on this planet by aliens. Oh yes, you heard me correctly. If you take a rewired Easy-Bake Oven and attach some electrodes to it, you can measure your alien vibrations. Tom Cruise is an adherent. Does all of this sound completely nuts to you? Of course it does, because it is completely nuts.


Scientology is really stupid. I could go to the effort of putting together a smart and cogent attack on this "religion", but it's so unnecessary. These bitches do all the work for me. How about a list? Here you go...


Why Scientology is Stupid


1.) The Evil Lord Xenu

"Um, so your 'god' is an ancient alien named Xenu? Who's going to return and take you all away on his intergalactic space bus? Uuuuuuuuuuh, alright."
How could anyone take anything called fucking Xenu seriously? And alien worshipers are crazy.


2.) L. Ron Hubbard

Christian: "My faith was started by a man named Jesus, around 2000 years ago. People say he did miracles and was the true son of god. The book his buddies wrote about him is the most published and translated book in the world."

Jew: "My faith is very ancient as well, begun by the prophet Moses in accordance with god's law. The Torah is pretty damn popular too. Have I mentioned we're The Chosen People?"

Muslim: "Muhhamed is a true prophet of Allah, and that cat Jesus was also god's prophet. A whole shit load of people are real real into Islam, it's the fastest growing religion in the world."

Scientologist: "My religion was started in the 1950's by a science-fiction writer with more than a few screws loose. Our god is an alien named Xenu."


3.) Scientologists hate gays

I was at the Pride Parade this weekend, and I defy anyone to hate a 9ft drag queen with the tenacity to sport a full length ball gown and a huge feathered headdress in 90 degree weather. Not possible.


4.) Scientologists hate science

You would think a cult (yeah, I said it) with 'science' in it's name would be into, you know, science. Alas, no. Modern medicine? Phooey! Where's my Easy-Bake Oven? That can cure anything with it's super alien love rays. Psychiatric drugs? those just make you kill people. Autism? never heard of it, my kid is just shy. I got some news for you freaks: the only way your wacky devices are going to cure anything is if you turn them on high and stick them under the sofa until you all die in a fiery inferno. Honestly, shit like this makes Creationists look reasonable.


5.) The Celebrity Factor

I would think that if you're famous and also crazy, you might want to keep it under wraps that you do insane shit like worshiping aliens. Or, at least, your publicist would want to keep that under wraps so as not to frighten every single person anywhere you go. But my, those Scientologists love to buck convention. Tom Cruise anyone? Bitch hasn't made a good movie in years and years, instead relegating his entertainment career to showing the public how he's quickly becoming completely unhinged.
John Travolta? Oh, evil lord Xenu, will you please keep that man from opening his mouth? And, also, could you possibly keep him from going in public ever as well? I know that seems harsh and a bit oppressive, but I think you'll understand that he's not helping your cause. I know he's high profile, but he does look like this when he's doing photo calls for big-budget movies he is in...






















Yes, my friends, that is a wig. A bad wig, in fact, with very obvious lace showing. There really is no excuse.



In other wacky Scientology news, Tom Cruise is slated to star in some movie about the guy that tried to assassinate Hitler. However, Germany (the entire country of Germany) won't allow them to film there because Tom Cruise is a Scientologist and those bitches are batshit crazy. No, really, that was their reason. Who wants to move to Germany?




Where I come from, they call me....
Jalien

I made a tomato!

I have a long and illustrious history of murdering houseplants. I imagine it was some sort of curse or hex that I hadn't been able to shake until recently. Yes, indeed, I have successfully kept numerous plants alive for almost 2 months. My tiny windowsill farm has actually been thriving. Meet the players...

The Farm
My completely made up and unsubstantiated philosophy about raising flora is that they should be treated like pets. So I give them names, talk to them, and take them outside sometimes. In order of their arrival...
Lando Calrissian
-Lando is a sweet basil that I just couldn't resist buying at the little nursery on California that I walk by all the time. It's not that I don't like plants, I like them very much. I just couldn't seem to keep them alive for any reason. I figured I could go ahead and drop the $2.50 on Lando and, if it looked like he was going downhill, I could just eat him. Seems harsh, but that's natural selection for ya. Shockingly, Lando didn't die immediately, and I've been enjoying fresh basil on everything for 2 months. My deal with myself was that if I could keep one plant alive for 2 weeks, I could get some more. So I did...
Iphigenia
-Iphigenia is a small rosemary plant. She still looks reasonably healthy, but I took a few big sprigs off to make rosemary foccacia and she hasn't grown them back at all. Whatever, atleast she's not dead.
Orestes
-Yes, there is a theme here for you astute, well read folks. I had major concerns when I acquired Iphigenia and Orestes that the plants would still kick it pretty quickly. So as not to get my hopes up, I named these two after the doomed children of Agamemnon, for I feared they would lead tragic lives. [If you're unfamiliar with the reference, go look it up. And pay more attention in school.] Anyhoo, Orestes is a small tomato plant. I don't know the exact variety, but it's short and squat and produces 3-4 ounce fruit. When I picked him up, he already had a few tiny green tomatoes growing. Now there are at least a dozen fruits, 3 of which have already turned orangey and one that is nearly ripe! I expect it will be ready to harvest in a few days, and I've named it Baby Jesus because this is a goddamn miracle.
Hydra
- True to it's name, Hydra is a sprawling, many-headed chive plant. Seems to be doing quite well and, frankly, chopped chives are tasty on nearly everything. Not holding up as well is...
Medusa
- Medusa looked like a very hardy and somewhat overgrown oregano. Terrific addition to the farm, I thought. Eh, not so much. Medusa lasted about a week. The first truly hot day we got, over 90, Medusa just dried up where she sat. Or turned to stone, hahahahahaha! Okay, that wasn't even funny and I was a bit hurt by Medusa's untimely demise.
Jengo Fett
- To ease my heartbreak from Medusa's passing, I went and got another plant. Lando was looking a bit sparse because of all the trimmings I was taking off, so I figured I would bolster my basil supply by getting another plant. I'm crazy, and Lando and Jengo are both basils, so I concluded they are brothers and named them accordingly. Lando and Jengo, sounds cute right? Maybe that's what I'll name my kids.


I'm thinking about getting a whole slew of tomato plants, considering my success with Orestes. I love tomatoes, I eat several a day. If I had another 15 tomato plants, I may even be able to maintain my own supply of that delicious fruit. I'll just have to keep their names straight.


E I E I O,
Farmer Jillian

Dammit, I can't find my rainbow glitter hotpants anywhere!

Pride.





The Gay Pride Parade, if you're unfamiliar, is the most insane event of the year in Chicago. I just adore crazy shit so, naturally, I'm a regular attendee. I'm still not gay (sorry ladies), but I sympathize with my little pansy brothers and sisters and they sure do know how to throw a party. And get dressed for said party. And rainbows are pretty.

The Schedule:
The actual Parade is Sunday afternoon, starting around 1:00pm, but there is plenty more to attend to in the days prior. The big stand out event this year (for me anyway) is an LGBT fundraiser at Sidetrack on Friday for the one and only B-Man. Those of you who aren't his BFF may know him as Barack Obama, antichrist and proponent of truth and justice. It's a $20 for entry and 2 drinks as well as appetizers, which is a pretty solid deal and it's an excellent cause. So you better fucking show up. Additionally, I have one lunatic friend who likes to take me to Sidetrack, auspiciously for the alcoholic slurpies they feature (uh huh). And they are quite delicious, I recommend 'purple'. The event is 6:00 - 8:00pm, Happy Hour!

Other activities are still getting worked out, but the Chicago Gay Men's Chorus is playing the fest stage at 1:20pm on Saturday and...fuck it, I'll just post the schedule. You can tell me how helpful I am when we're doing shots in the afternoon:

Main Stage
5 p.m.: Kathy "Sister" Sledge

Community Stage
noon: Clark Street Band
1 p.m.: Gay Shakespeare
1:20 p.m.: Chicago Gay Men's Chorus
2 p.m.: Chicago Spirit Parade
2:30 p.m.: Naked Boys Singing
3:20 p.m: ROTC
3:45 p.m.: Shamelessboyz
6:30 p.m.: Devin and the Straights
8 p.m.: Kimi Hayes


Jun. 23: 11 a.m. - 9 p.m.

Price: $5 donation benefits the Northalsted Area Merchants Association

Phone: 773-868-3010


IN OTHER NEWS...

I went to the Cubs game last Friday. It was awful.

Not much more really needs to be said about it, but I give you what you want here. And what I imagine you want is a list of reasons why you should never go to a Cubs game. Seriously, if I was being held at gunpoint, I'd just take the damn bullet and hope for the best.

1.) Wrigley Field is a revolting cesspool
Listen, I know I'm a bit of a primadonna. I hate camping, I'm not super wild about getting dirty, but I certainly don't think dirt will kill me and I try not to complain. Hell, I've waded through ankle-deep garbage on Bourbon St. during Mardi Gras and had a great time. Wrigley Field, on game day, is easily as bad as Bourbon St. during Mardi Gras. However, I had the forewarning and presence of mind to not to wear sandals to the French Quarter. I was getting harassed by my two lovely companions (Brooke and Cortney) because I wouldn't just throw my garbage on the ground and wandered around for 10 minutes looking for a garbage can. And you know what? I didn't fucking find one. Perhaps this is why there is garbage everywhere, like snowdrifts against the sides of the bleachers. NASTY. Nasty nasty nasty nasty. When we left the bleachers, my toes were sticky and a peanut shell was stuck between two of them. Ew.

2.) Baseball is boring
I know I don't like baseball, but someone must have slipped me something wacky when I gleefully accepted the invitation to go to the game. No bother, it doesn't hurt to try something new, right? Granted, I did spend a good portion of the time we were there doing a crossword puzzle, to the unnecessary dismay of an old woman sitting behind us (bitch, mind your own business. Would you rather I were trying to break your hip instead of sitting quietly? Didn't think so.). I thought I knew at least a little about the game, but it seemed every time I opened my mouth, something amazingly stupid would come out. Apparently, baseball does not have a halftime. Nor are the points called "points", they are called "runs". And if you think there is a gaggle of policemen on the field, they are not policemen. They are referees. Brooke and Cortney mocked me mercilessly and got people in surrounding seats to laugh at me too. I didn't mind being the butt of jokes, as watching the game progress is akin to watching the grass on the field grow.

3.) It was hot and really really sunny
I can take the heat, but my pale shit bursts into flames in the sun. Not a huge problem, I just slather on many coats of spf 50 and huddle in the shade somewhere. The problem with heat and sun is other people. Specifically, male people who remove their shirts to expose a plethora of horrors. Rolls of fat, back hair (!), or the dreaded hairy chest/pierced nipples combination. I understand that MTV and globalization have conspired to bring fringe fashion to the sweaty, Wrigley field attending masses - and I don't much care. Punk died ages ago, and there is plenty of weird yet to be innovated. My only issue on this topic is that this new slew of weirdo wannabes does such a shit job of interpreting the punky fads. For chrissakes, I have never gone into a bondage club and seen men with pierced nipples who didn't also do the world a fucking favor and shave their damn chests. A furry forest with a few shiny rings poking through is not a good look. Shit, people, work with me here. Help me help you.

4.) Suburbanites
I have a theory about suburbanites, would you like to hear it? Of course you would! My theory is that certain breeds of suburbanites (ie the ones that only hike into the city for Cubs games or any and all old people) have a particular opinion of city folk. They seem to believe that city folk act like goddamn rude animals because it's the big scary city and they don't spend much time here. So, when in the city, they act like goaddamn rude animals by pushing and shoving everyone everywhere they go and not observing any type of reasonable courtesy. Courtesies like walking on the right side of the sidewalk, and not walking 4 or 5 abreast, effectively blocking the entire sidewalk. Also, not stopping and blocking the path of people on the street, trying to exit or enter barthrooms and bars, and not getting out of the fucking way when people ask nicely for you to do so.
The funny thing is that the suburbanites attempting to blend by acting like assholes only set themselves apart as suburbanite assholes. City people tend to be more courteous than suburbanites. This is because city people have no choice but to interact with a much larger amount of people on a daily basis than those shitbags tooling around the burbs in their SUVs and never spending more time on the sidewalk than it takes to get the morning paper or the mail. City people are more polite because it's necessary for all our collective sanity (or what tenuous grasp we may have on it). In summation, would it kill you to say "excuse me"? No, it won't, but I'll probably kill the next middle aged white man that rudely shoves me out of his way.

5.) I hate white people
That doesn't really require explanation.


Hanging with Brooke and Cortney was good fun, and Cortney's friends were delightful too although I can't remember their names for the life of me). I also like beer, and we had some.


Honorable Mention:
Erin and Jason's housewarming party last Saturday. There were thrills and chills and fun for the whole family, if your family is a bunch of shit-faced twentysomethings. I still can't get my new Latin Kings tattoo off.



Hey man, gay man, pick up the soap,
J-Illin

Public television is letting the terrorists win

You know I tackle the tough subjects here. No topic is too contentious, too provocative for me to shy away from. I won't be frightened away from my journalistic duty.


I'm saddened and dismayed to find out that PBS has turned to the dark side. I have a special place in my heart for PBS and their usually excellent programming. Nova is on the cutting edge of science, Nature is consistently providing novel views into animal behavior, and the cooking shows (albeit noticeably absent is a vegetarian cooking show, what the shit PBS?) are among some of the finest around. Even with the popularity of the Food Network and shrieking gremlins like that Rachel Ray and other "personality chefs", PBS offers us dignified professionals with an international elan and a passion for their craft. And no-one is shouting "Bam!" as he sweats crystal meth into the gumbo.** Such is why I'm so disappointed to report that Andrew Vierstad may have been replaced.

You all know the delectable and charming Mr. Vierstad from his superb program, Scandinavian Cooking. He is by far my favorite TV chef. Andrew's delightfully (and mildly) accented cadence takes us around the world to various obviously frigid locales to prepare local favorites with a sophisticated enthusiasm that's never to precious or overly reliant on cute acronyms (I'm talking about you, Ray). To further highlight the cuisine and environment, Andrew typically prepares his dishes outside while donning designer parkas (hot!). Scandinavia is oftentimes, you know, really really cold but that does not hinder our brave Mr. Vierstad. He copes by taking swigs of whatever alcohol he's using in the ingredients to stay warm, and this merely adds to his charm and understated swagger. Swear to god, I saw him chugging cooking sherry one time.

So imagine my shock when I tune in to Scandinavian Cooking this morning, and there is no Andrew (aka my future husband). Instead, the show is New Scandinavian Cooking, hosted by Claus Meyer. CLAUS MEYER!!??! Who the fuck is that? PBS has decided to camp shit up with this bright plaid shirted clown, who's invective is mere shades away from outright psychotic raving. Enthusiasm is good, lunatic arm flailing and a seeming incapacity to control the volume of one's voice is bad (take note, Rachel). Maybe The Vierstad was just to subtle for PBS, so they decided to go with more vocal accent. The problem with this is that Claus sounds substantially more Germanic than Scandinavian, and it is terribly unnerving. Imagine Arnold Schwarzenegger waiving his arms and shouting "Fish cakes! Don't burn the fish cakes!". It's bad enough that an overzealous Austrian meathead has taken over California, but my beloved Scandinavian Cooking as well? The horror, the horror...

Considering this recent turn of events, I can come to only one reasonable conclusion: Austria is the enemy, and we must do all we can to defeat them. It appears as though Austria has finally thrown their hat in the ring, choosing the side of the Axis of Evil in America's generally fruitless and destructive smackdown in the middle east. I also believe that they have abducted my beloved Andrew Vierstad and are holding him prisoner in an underground compound, torturing him by ripping out his fingernails or playing "The Safety Dance" very loud.

This is a sad turn of events, my friends. Please aid my in my campaign to bring democracy to the world and free Andrew by sending your angry letters to PBS. Don't let Austria prevail. Don't let the terrorists win.


Your partner in freedom,
Jillian




**I'm sure you know who I'm talking about, that fat fuck Emeril Lagasse. Here is a special treat for you all, some celebrity gossip that's not just hurtful lies: Emeril is an obnoxious faker. He is from New Jersey, not New Orleans - the city his entire career capitalizes on. I could take that, but he takes it too far. Aside from demanding that employees in his restaurants be New Orleans natives, he forces them to watch training videos about what it means to be from New Orleans. And he's from Jersey. Asshole. [Info provided from someone who underwent said torture]. Also, I went to one of his restaurants in New Orleans with 4 other people, and everyone hated their food.

Oprah, Dr Phil, still gay

Hello, my young friends! I hope you are all in fine health and spirits today, and you're feeling the divine love of Jesus.






Just kidding, Jesus is stupid.


I know I haven't posted in a while, but I'm extremely popular and it's hard to find the time to regale you with my exploits between the summer parties and events. The life of a socialite is not an easy one, not to mention that I think I'm allergic to the rose petals everyone has been throwing at my feet. But I don't let such adversity stop me! I take a Claritin and soldier on!

So, what have I been up to? I'll give you a hint: it starts with a 'd' and ends with 'rinking'. Let's just work back from the present, for as much as I can remember.

LAST NIGHT: YOU WILL NOT BELIEVE WHO I SAW AT A GAY CRUISING SPOT!
I went to Sidetrack last night with a friend of mine and, unbeknownst to us, it happened to be the club's 25th anniversary party. Yes indeed, 25 years of clumsy drunk hand jobs between strangers in the men's room deserves a gala event serving alcoholic slurpies in a rainbow (ahem) of colors. Purple was my favorite, although red and orange were not without merit. It was a star-studded event to be sure, let's look at the roster:
-- Rog from Good Times has gotten very gay and apparently is hurting for cash, as he was bartending on the second level in some precious khaki shorts and shaking his thang to Carrie Underwood.
-- Every man who has ever touched Paris Hilton's genitalia was there as, unsurprisingly, they are now all homosexual.
-- George Clooney was on the roof top patio, looking smug and debonair at first but dissolving into tears after none of the guys were interested in taking him up on his offers for a rim job. I bet he was kicking himself for not putting a little makeup on that nasty lip sore.
-- Someone I was indifferent to last night, but officially dislike now, showed up: Chicago's own Pete Wentz from Fall Out Boy. My date reported, after he returned from the restroom, that Pete had set up a deli-style ticket dispenser in one of the stalls to handle the volume of his gentleman callers. Amusing, all of his 'dates' looked like your dad and Pete was actually paying them.
-- Oprah, who never misses an opportunity to swing her penis around in public, was doing just that in the first floor video lounge. Patrons could hear her publicist shouting "Dammit, Orson, there are still people in this city that believe you're a woman! Can you put that thing away, please!". Dr. Phil accompanied "her", naturally, and was appalled by this display. He could be heard to comment "That bitch! I'm not going to get any cock now that Oprah is showing off her giant trouser snake! I just can't compete. Oh no, Phil, that's not the right kind of attitude. Tough love, tough love! [dumb hick motivational cliche], [dumb hick motivational cliche], [dumb hick motivational cliche]! Gay men will like me just as much, time to get suckin!". You keep that positive attitude, Phil. I've heard plenty of twinks go for doughy and ignorant.



I also hit up The Tonys last week. In a move everyone seemed to expect, I was given every single award, including Ensemble Cast for my multiple personalities. I've taken my name out of contention for next year, as early critiques of my one-woman production of The Sound of Music are even more complimentary than my hugely popular production of Hair: The Musical where I play every part. The word was that the show's producers found my rendering of Twyla Tharp's choreography "transcendent, absolutely earth-shattering". I wouldn't want a repeat of the same scene next year, spread the love a little, you know. And for the record: Hugh Jackman, I will not accept your petition to be my new cabana boy. I'm holding out for Taye Diggs or Steve, no substitutions allowed.


Alrighty, my cats and kittens, I've got much work to attend to and I'll have to end the narrative here. My comrades and I are going to catch an outdoor movie screening this evening and I have to find a picnic blanket and make finger sandwiches.

Ta for now,
J