Things I Learned from 'The DaVinci Code'

Couldn't make it to church this Sunday so I went to see The DaVinci Code at the drive-in last night. Here's just a few of the things I learned.

Jesus drove a real cool-looking car. The Lordmobile.

The Roman Catholic church is actually run by a cult called 'Opus Dei' in which everyone looks exactly like Larry King. Oooh, scary!

Just because you're a hot-shot artist and your name is Leonardo, that doesn't automatically make you a chick magnet.

The head of John the Baptist looks a lot like Clint Howard, the director's usually unemployed actor brother.

Tom Hanks has an even dumber looking haircut than mine.

It's not a good idea to end a car-chase scene through the Vatican with a big Broadway-style song and dance number called Darn That Pope.

He may be the son of God but in other ways He's just like every other man. As Mary Magdalene put it, "Oh sure, He can change water into wine but just try to get him to change his underwear on a daily basis."

Leave it to the French to screw up an already perfectly-good religion.

'Evian' spelled backwards is 'devil.'

Director Ron Howard cherry-picked the cast with all his old friends from Happy Days. Suzi Quatro (a.k.a. 'Leather Tuscadero') as Mary Magdalene; Henry 'The Fonz' Winkler as John - "the cool disciple"; and God's voice done by the guy who played 'Ralph Malph.' ... However, kudoes to Howard for casting his old Mayberry pal Don Knotts as The Holy Ghost.

Buddha was on a first-name basis with that 'Neil' guy who was played by Keanu Reeves in the Matrix movies.

Some of those churches over there in Europe must be what 150, maybe even 200 years old.

Writers, movie-makers and journalists always trash your reputation after you're dead and unable to sue.

Even disguised as a Francescan monk, that Tom Hanks is one bitchin' hunk o' man-flesh.

Until now, Jesus Christ: Superstar was the most authentic Hollywood version of Jesus' life.

That 'Shroud of Turin'? Gotcha!

Where Do They Find These People?

Sometimes you don't know whether to laugh or cry. So you rant.

You know, I've never been one to publicly criticize my hometown newspaper. I happen to actually like The London Free Press. But I gotta tell ya, this daily Ink Blog on the editorial pages in which three regular pundits spout off about all matters inane and mundane has to be about the biggest waste of space and trees ever. Most entries are simplistic jottings in which the writer addresses an issue in 100 words by stating the obvious. They tackle real earth-shaking controversial stuff like - Drunk Driving is Just Wrong or Democracy Working Fine in Canada or It's a Holiday Weekend - Gas Prices are Up!

Overall it's pretty harmless but then you get the occassional gem by teen blogger Melinda 'Britney' Emmerson. Even at Jessica Simpson's most contrived attempts to seem an airhead, she couldn't match poor Melinda. It's hard to say if she's incredibly naive or just doesn't know any better. But that's what editors are for. The people who should really be held accountable are the editors of the Free Press. If one doesn't know any better because of youth, someone older should step in and stop them from publicly embarrassing themselves.

Until today, Melinda's greatest howler was her support for London Knights owner Mark Hunter who thought he was entitled to the right to have Rogers Television fire any hockey-game TV-announcer who wasn't a big enough cheerleader for his team. Melinda thought this to be a good idea. We should all be cheering the Knights - because they're our home-town team. Go Knights go! Irregardless of whatever boneheaded moves they make on the ice. She backed up her support for Hunter with this admission - "I've never watched a London game on television." Simply amazing.

But she's done it again. In today's LFP editorial section, she kicks off her column with this jaw-dropper, "Last year, I began seriously reading the Free Press (Note - she's had this gig for almost a year now.) I've since discovered The Londoner, and channels nine and 13. Perhaps I hadn't really noticed all these local media outlets before because of the perception that local papers and television stations don't have as much to offer as larger, national media outlets."

And this is someone the Free Press has hired to pontificate on the news - from around the corner to around the world. Shame on you, London Free Press.

The answer to the headline of this rant? Apparently when the powers-that-be decide to start a new column, they obviously just open the door and grab the first person they see walking down York Street. Not to end on a negative note but Melinda, please come back in about five years.

Top 10 Things About Being a Night Staff

A lot of you have written in lately, asking what I do for a living. Well, I am the night staff at a group home for young adults with intellectual shortcomings. There are many great things I love about the job - the people I work for (meaning, the people who live there,) my co-workers, late-night radio talk shows about ghosts and U.F.O.'s; 4:00 a.m. infomercials for Girls Gone Wild videos. And of course, left-overs. In short, I have the best job in the world!

But for a more detailed list, here are the Top 10 Best Things About Being a Night Staff.

Dedicated to Kim E., Supervisor Extraordinaire.

10. Pillow fights during annual pajama party with clients.

9. Driver from Domino's always gets lost looking for Regal Street - usually get the pizza for free.

8. (number 8 removed at the request of Night Staff Union, Local 143.)

7. Get clients up at 3:00 a.m. to wash floors and clean bathrooms. If they complain, point to job description and tell them, "Hey, I'm a caregiver not a caretaker!"

6. Call 1-900-SEXY Party line. Bill charges to Craig L's credit card. Hope no one notices.

5. Two words - Eddie the dog!

4. No danger of bumping into supervisors or other tee-totaler management types after hopping the fence and sneaking down to Norma Jeans Tavern for last call.

3. When house is closed for Christmas break, rent it out to neighbourhood teenagers for a 'party pad,' just like Tom Cruise in Risky Business.

2. (Number 2 removed at the request of CLL management.)

.... and the Number One Top Best Thing About Being a Night Staff worker -

1. Take night off for Valentines' Day. Show wife true meaning of the term 'night staff.'

Looks Good On Ya, Asshole!

Hear that? Listen hard. It's the sound of 72 virgins up in Paradise celebrating the news that 9-11 Al-Quaida terrorist Zacarius Moussaoui won't be showing up at the Pearly Gates wearing his best after-shave and carrying 72 boxes of chocolate.

Turns out Zach won't become a martyr after all. In the best instance of quoting Auden I've ever heard, the judge told him he will "die with a whimper." Letting the jerk spend the rest of his life sitting in solitary confinement, rotting his mind on reruns of Everybody Loves Raymond and beating off to pictures of Paris Hilton in old copies of People magazine is a far more cruel punishment than execution. God, I love the United States!

Have you noticed that none of his terrorist buddies have said anything since he was found guilty for his role in the 9-11 attacks? Even they hope they never hear from him again. No one is going to take American hostages and risk their own lives demanding that Zacharias be released. Even they know he's strictly looney-tunes. An embarrassment to the cause. Good ol' Zacharias - he's the Wayne Kellestine of Al-Quaida. The only friend he has in the whole terrorist world is that Shoe-Bomber Guy, someone even nuttier and more of an Al-Quaida outcast than he is. And for very good reason. I mean, c'mon - who fights with a shoe? I ask you.

Still, it must have been quite a blow to Zach. The deluded fool actually expected the Great Satan (a.k.a. 'America') to grant his wish and send him into the arms of 72 waiting virgins. And as a reward, no less for the murder of thousands of innocent people.

Geez, how nuts is that? Now before I'm accused of being a racist and intolerant of other religions, let me just say that I'm also perfectly willing to make fun of my own religion. As a Christian, how can I not? There's no shortage of head-scratching things in the Bible. World-wide floods, talking bushes and snakes, virgin births, feeding thousands of people from the fish in one picnic-basket and a loaf of bread. Turning water into wine. And don't even get me started on The Book of Revelations.

I feel free to make fun of people's religions. But not of their faith. As Archie Bunker once said, "Faith is believing in something so preposterous that no one in their right mind would believe it." And if you have it, then all the power to you. And as a Christian, I believe in all that Bible stuff. In God and Jesus and all that. I've experienced my own personal miracle in the past and that's why I believe. When you feel the hand of God on your life, then you lose all doubts.

I also look at it this way - If I can accept the existence of U.F.O.'s and aliens and ghosts and vampires, then what's so hard to believe about a guy dying on a cross, rising from the grave three days later and then going up to Heaven to be with his Dad? Nothin'.

It's all a matter of faith.

And if my Muslim brothers want to believe equally bizarre stuff, I have to respect that faith. But 72 virgins waiting for you up in Paradise? C'mon. All that proves is that the 'Qu' ran' was written by men. Even in the Afterlife, guys want to think that they were the first ones.

Howie: the 'Lost' Idaho Years

We all remember what drove the late Howard ("Howie") Engleman to Idaho in his youth (if not, it can be found in the March archives under Well, That Explains a Lot,) but the reason for his return home was recently discovered through means that I am not at liberty to disclose.

I recall that whenever I would ask how the hell Howie ended up in rural Idaho, he would get quiet and have a sad look on his face. Now I know why. The following is a transcript of those events from three decades ago.

... "Just when was the last time we had a 'Tommy Tucker Day,' anyway Ma?" a young Howard ('Howie') Engelman asked while having a smoke on the front porch of his rooming house in Rosalita, Idaho - a small town some 150 miles from Des Moines. The question was addressed to Gladys Zepplin, who wasn't really his 'Ma' but was the landlady of the boarding house which Howie called 'home' and was a five-minute walk from the canning factory where he worked.

"Well sir, I reckin' it'd be nigh on three years. Yuud just started courtin' Ilsa Braun down to ter the tomater plant 'bout then," recollected 'Ma.' ... Gladys was a big fat jolly 'Grandma'-type who had a big booming laugh and always looked like she had a half a Danish crammed into her mouth. He jolliness was only matched by her wisdom and memory.

"Yep, I reckon you're right," said Howie. "And I reckon it's prit'near time for another," he said. He'd been unaccountedly restless of late.

No one knows or remembers how 'Tommy Tucker Day' got started in Rosalita. Or why it was even named that. There was no one in town with the name of 'Tucker,' - even though Old Man Malcolm was distantly related to the Buffalo 'Tuckers.' But Tommy Tucker Day was a quaint two-hundred-year-old local tradition that seems to have been forgotten during the first and second World Wars - until Howie learned of it and revived it upon arriving in Rosalita in the early 1970s.

A more accurate name for it would be 'Do Whatever You Want That You Would Never Get A Chance to Do Otherwise Within a 24 Hour Period' Day. With the unwritten rule that - do whatever you want - as long as it doesn't hurt anybody.

Howie thought about the last Tommy Tucker Day. As a minimum-wage earning factory worker, he had always dreamed of rolling around in a stack of loose hundred-dollar bills - and the folks at the Rosalita Savings and Loan, upon learning of this had kindly obliged and opened up the vault for him and left him there alone for 15 minutes. As for his new girlfriend, Elsa Braun, she was leery of vaults and underground places without windows but she had always wanted to be Mayor. So the real mayor handed her the official Mayor's Hat and the keys to the City and she was mayor for the day and commenced making proclamations.

As you can see, the whole town got involved with the spirit of Tommy Tucker Day. For those lacking imagination and dreams, there were other spontaneous activities. There were pie-eating contests, parades, three-legged races and soft-ball and picnics of BBQ'd hot dogs, egg-salad sandwiches, watermelons ("Guess the number of seeds inside!" - that was one of the contests and one of Howie's contributions,) free Kentucky Fried Chicken supplied by the local franchise, and apple pie a la mode. All capped off by fireworks at night. In short, it was like the fourth of July but without the political speeches.

But this time around, Howie had another reason for declaring a Tommy Tucker Day (tradition had it that anyone could on-the-spur-of-the-moment proclaim one and the whole town had to observe it.) He and Ilsa had been seeing each other for three years and it was time. If you know what I mean. All day long during the Tommy Tucker festivities, those two kids couldn't take their eyes off each other. And later, while the rest of the town gathered in the ball-park to watch the fireworks, they snuck off on their own to consumate their own personal wishes that are only granted through the grace of the omnipotent Tommy Tucker. Whomever that may be.

They found the pasture in a meadow just outside of town that they both had always gone to on their own whenever they just wanted to be alone and daydream. The one just down from the Johnson's farm, for anyone who may be interested. And there, in a field full of wildflowers and daisies, they lay down a flannel blanket, disrobed and under the stars, with only the cows and fireflies as witnesses, Howard Engleman and Ilsa Braun made hot German potato salad.

It was such an earth-shifting and profoundly beautiful experience that the two instinctively knew that they could never duplicate it again. So from that night on, they remained just very 'close' friends. Soulmates.

Three years later, Ilsa died in a car accident. Hit by a drunk driver while picking up mayonaise and bacon in the Rosalita Valu-Mart. Howie couldn't get over it and decided to come back to London. He muttered something about Purgatory and Hell when I met him at the airport.

He never completely recovered. Never really fell in love again. And he never talked about it. Or at all about that decade in Rosalita. But whenever we were in a grocery store, he would pick up a 10-pound bag of potatoes, smile wistfully and think of Idaho.