The new Batmobile.

'Nuff Said.

If I believed in the gods, I might think He, They or It was sending a message here:

A suit seeking to overturn Arkansas' ban on gays from becoming foster parents has been put on hold after the state's only expert witness was killed in a car crash.

Dr. Charles Gist was to testify that there is a correlation between homosexuality and pedophilia.Dr. Gist, a child psychiatrist from Little Rock, was killed in a two-car accident Wednesday night while returning from Louisiana to testify.

I am large, I contain multitudes.

My script Paris was just named one of the top 1000 scripts of Project Greenlight Screenplay Contest. (Basically it made First Cut.)

Now I just have to wait and see if I make the Top 100 of the contest. They announce those on April 20th.

Is it April 20th yet? No.

Is it April 20th now? No.

Is it now? No.

Is it now? No.

Hey, Gentle Readers. I'm looking for people who've been in the Ex-Gay movement, especially young people in the late high school / early college age.

No, I'm not thinking of joining. Who ever said that can go to the principal's office right now.

I'm actually writing an article for a young mens' magazine about the "Ex-Gay Movement" and would love to be able to talk to a few people who've run through the program.

Drop me a note at Jodyw1 at attbi dot com.

Thanks.

And yet somehow they continue on, their society repleate with less sex, violence and abuse than ours:

All eyes are on an upcoming episode of Degrassi: The Next Generation, airing Monday, March 15 at 8:30 p.m. ET. In the episode entitled "It's Raining Men, teens Marco and Dylan go on their first date, heightening a storyline that has been developing all season. When the two exchange a tender kiss, another barrier will have fallen for the franchise as Marco and Dylan share the series first teen-on-teen, gay kiss.

The Degrassi franchise is no stranger to breaking down stereotypes and exploring sensitive storylines. Ever since the Degrassi franchise debuted more than 20 years ago, it has tackled real-life challenges that confront kids; from drugs and sex, to teen pregnancy, abuse, suicide and rape.

The show airs stateside on Nick's Noggin Network.

Good Sci-Fi author but also seriously, totally deluded on history, sexuality and marriage.

Ah well. Can't all be as perfect as me.

So the Tennessee County that wants to ban all homosexuals from its midst is also the same county that hosted the Scopes Monkey Trial.

Why is that level of continuing stupidity not surprising?

Josh let's us know that one of our own Bloggers has been killed in Iraq. Very sad. Our best wishes for his family.

Now there's something you don't see every day.

And probably don't want to.

(Especially not at work.)

Probably one of the worst choices for a church name out there.

I'm just sayin'...

And then the world.

Bah-ha-ha-ha!

Our plan is complete!

Biology behind homosexuality in sheep, study confirms

Researchers in the Oregon Health & Science University School of Medicine have confirmed that a male sheep's preference for same-sex partners has biological underpinnings.

A study published in the February issue of the journal Endocrinology demonstrates that not only are certain groups of cells different between genders in a part of the sheep brain controlling sexual behavior, but brain anatomy and hormone production may determine whether adult rams prefer other rams over ewes.

"This particular study, along with others, strongly suggests that sexual preference is biologically determined in animals, and possibly in humans," said the study's lead author, Charles E. Roselli, Ph.D., professor in the Department of Physiology and Pharmacology, OHSU School of Medicine. "The hope is that the study of these brain differences will provide clues to the processes involved in the development and regulation of heterosexual, as well as homosexual, behavior."

The results lend credence to previous studies in humans that described anatomical differences between the brains of heterosexual men and homosexual men, as well as sexually unique versions of the same cluster of brain cells in males and females....

(Shhhhhhh. Don't tell Mel.)

That it's 85 degrees here in the middle of winter, I'm in shirt sleeves and the top is down on my car?

No?

Heh, heh.

Greg Popcak, always a wellspring of deep, insightful thought recently wrote about Gay Marriage:

When it comes right down to it, the quality or the appearance of the relationship is not what makes the heterosexual relationship sacred (heaven knows).  Rather, it is the degree to which a relationship is open to the fullness of the unitive, procreative, and personalistic ends of marriage.  Even at its most depraved and worst, heterosexual marriage (or heterosexual coupling at all) offers a greater potential to express more of these three ends of sexuality than homosexual unions.  In fact, the reason that a relationship--be it heterosexual or homosexual--may be considered to be depraved is that it fails to live up to its unitive, procreative, or personalistic potential.

Considering that even at their best, homosexual unions have no potential to be any of those things they cannot be sacred at all.  While the worst heterosexual relationship at least retains the potential to exhibit these three qualities.

Greg, buddy, why so many words? All you had to say was straight relationships, no matter how fucked up, are better than gay relationships, because they always hold the potential for adding one more innocent to the mess.

Or even simpler: Fags bad. Straights good. Four words there. Pretty simple.

Next kid I encounter, born positive for drugs, molested, beaten or even killed by their sanctified heterosexual parents -- married or not -- is going to get a big: "Hey, it could have been worse. Your parents could have been gay" from you, through me. That'll provide them with tons of support in their dark hours of grief, pain and suffering, I'm sure.

Binky's Balls.

I'm no fantastic photographer, but these are some of my better shots that I've captured over the years. Enjoy.

You'll have to excuse the lack of postings. I've been a little preoccupied. You see, I got shot the other day.

Last Tuesday, I responded to an emergency call: Kids in danger. Domestic violence. One parent threatened to kill the other parent and the kids. Social worker --me-- to evaluate the safety of the kids. (It's always fun when the referral come across my desk emblazoned with "DANGER! SOCIAL WORKERS TO RESPOND WITH POLICE ESCORT. FATHER THREATENED TO KILL CHILDREN" emblazoned on it in an 18 point bold face font.)

So I motor into a not particularly nice part of Los Angeles, sheriff's deputies in tow. I've got a new worker with me -- The Rookie -- his second day in Emergency Response, his first time responding to one of these nifty, gotta see 'em now calls. We've already chatted about the insanity of working for the County, the nonsensical paperwork and how cute cops are in their pressed uniforms and their spit shined shoes reflecting the winter rays of the beautiful California sun. (Hey, it's always nice to find another 'Mo on the job. Mind you, it's not particularly hard as about half the guys in the office read the same books I do, but we don't always get partnered up on emergency calls.) He's asking me what to expect on this call and I'm trying to tell him that I have no clue -- but do it in a very authoritative, resounding, impressive way that bespeaks to my ability to hide my lack of prescience in matters such as this.

We hit the front door to the rather nice little Craftsman, cute Latino deputies leading the way. They're decked out in khaki outfits, badges knight sticks and bullet proof vests. I'm in jeans and tennis shoes, sporting a little plastic ID card put together by an office secretary on a paper cutter with super-glue an Exacto knife and a Polaroid picture snapped when I was still a wide-eyed and eager pup out to save the world.

The deputies' finger itches toward the bell...his partner is off to the side covering him... the neighbor grabs her kid and closes a big white door with a rolling clap... Me and the New Guy watching as the cop puts one hand on the butt of his pistol...

And my phone rings.

Nice melodious symphonic number -- free with my Samsung -- that sends air into our lungs and attention towards the little chirping flip phone on my belt. It's the Mother, calling me back from her office, wanting to know why we're bothering her. Stating over and over again that the whole thing has been blown out of proportion, that there really isn't a problem and that we're just going to get her husband really, really, angry if we keep at this and besides, her kids aren't even there and--

I spring into action, being threatening, therapeutic, understanding and probing all at the same time. (Try it sometime. It's a lot like running, standing still and doing mid air somersaults simultaneously -- damn near impossible, very noisy in the attempt, but ultimately quite beautiful.) Eventually, after she stops crying, after she realizes how serious all of this is, after she understands that I just am not going away, she discloses that her children are at their grandparents house in yet another, even less desirable part of Los Angeles, and her husband is at work. I tell her to meet me at the grandparent's home as soon as she can.

One of the less convenient aspects of Los Angeles is that that the Sheriff's department manages some sections of the city, local police other parts, and city wide LAPD other sections still. It's a patch work of jurisdictions, overlaps and boundaries, where no two police organizations co-exist and we social workers are forced to figure out who claims what zip code as theirs. Same thing can't be said for we social workers. We go everywhere, do everything and see everyone, no matter the hour. It's all our bloody jurisdiction.

The Cute Latino Deputies say they can't follow to the new address. It's LAPD territory Besides, they've got a 211 in progress to respond to. I still don't know what a 211 is, but it's must be pretty important given how fast they blazed away, lights spinning and siren blaring.

I wasn't expecting the grandparents home to be so messy. It was pile on pile of garbage. Gradients of decay, with bottles on top of paper on top of older bottles on top of discarded cartons of half eaten KFC. A treasure trove for future archeologists I'm sure, but currently a breeding ground for several small, wiggly things that I didn't know existed outside of the Cantina scene in the original -Star Wars.-

Grandma knew we were coming, her daughter probably called her the moment she hung up with me. Grandma's hands seemed to be full dealing with her own husband, a man teetering precariously with each step, gravity drawing him down, his slurred speach, blunt affect and glazy eyes giving some clue as to the causes of the decay. The Rookie mouthed the usual variation of "Jesus Christ," his previous stint in the Adoptions Division not preparing him for the strange decorating tastes of many of the Southland's residents. I made the sign for Binky's Balls to ward off the evil trash monsters and proceeded into the morass of mess to interview the kids.

With the kids -- two over active twin 10 year old boys and an adorable 8 year old girl with braided ebony locks -- the information just started pouring out. Usually I'm pulling teeth or doing a simpler variation of my running fast while standing still routine, but these kids were giving up the details before I could pull the cap off of my pen with my teeth. Dad pushes mommy down the stairs, one of the boys says. Mom knows about dad's affair, the other imparts. Mommy told us to go upstairs and lock the doors while she and daddy threw things at each other, the daughter related in the same tone used for the detached play by play for what she learned at school.

By the time the mother arrived I had a fair idea of how everything was transpiring. Fights, abuse, violence, yelling, screaming -- the usual, bad situation where the woman was the victim of a horrendous amount of pain and suffering. She was also the perpatator too. By keeping her children there with her, in a situation where there was a strong chance of violence and perhaps even death, she was victimizing her kids all over again. Binky forbid that she be killed, but it would be about a thousand times worse were it to happen in front of the twins and their sister.

And death -- or years more of abuse -- was what was likely to happen, given the first words out of the mother's mouth after I discussed my interviews with her kids was "They're lying." Every incident, happening, push, shove, scream or shout I relayed was met with some spin, some comeback, some justification that tried to pass the whole thing off as one big mistake, as just another day in the life of their happy neo-Brady family.

Yes, it's always possible things can get blown out of proportion, that little details become big incidents when the Eye of the State peers through, looking for trouble. I've seen those little things grow quite quickly, kiboshed only after a good deal of work and effort. But that is the rare case. Mostly these things are true, the stories turn out to be the most easily remembered incident of a much larger and more pervasive case. One blow, pop in the eye, push down the stair or clobber over the head turns out -- with further interviews, conversations with knowing parties and a simple review of previous social worker visits -- to be the most recent, most noticed unacceptable event in a long line of equally unacceptable happenings.

That left me with two options, one involved the mother taking the kids out of the house and heading for a shelter and the other involved mom choosing to stay in the house and the kids coming with me. And I would have explained all of this to the mother in some degree of detail, along with a fair amount of cajoling, sympathy and encoragement towards taking the first of the two options, thus saving me from opening a court case and giving her more leeway in conducting her treatment, but for a rather untimely and unwarranted arrival.

Dad walked in the door.

And Dad was just a bit peeved.

And Dad had a gun.