Killing the White Man

Everyday I work at killing the White Man. It’s not easy, and he still refuses to die, but everyday I work at it.

I didn’t notice when he grew there. I wasn’t born with him. He wasn’t genetically encoded by my European ancestors. No, he was a virus. When society began to form my mind…began to pull and prod and twist my thoughts in its different soulless directions, that was when the virus was planted and the White Man grew.

He came from movies, T.V. shows, wisps of adult conversations, and even kids’ cartoons. He came when, in grade one, Sandy Dingleberry told a story of the horrible things that could happen when a ‘black’ man marries a ‘white’ woman. I learned quickly that Sandy was a liar, but the disease had already touched me in her words. Disease is like that.

He came when someone at sometime taught me “Eenie meenie minie mo” and that word came out of my mouth before I knew what it was. When I discovered the meaning, it was too late. That word had already crossed my tongue. Never saying it again could not change the fact that it was said. In finding a way to grow, the White Man will use all sorts of trickery.

It was my mother who helped save me somewhat from the White Man. She said, “I am a Negro; I am an Indian.” She was deep in White Man territory, and the people around her didn’t like what she said, but she would not be silenced. She kept saying “I am a Negro; I am an Indian” regardless of how they treated her.

Unfortunately, she could not completely kill the White Man that had infected me, but she crippled him. She left him without legs or arms or a voice, but I still hear him breathe, and everyday I try to kill him.

I see him everywhere. Not just on the inside. I see him on the outside too. The White Man is in everyone. That’s what a virus is. It doesn’t discriminate. It just invades. The symptoms may vary according to a person’s situation, but that’s him…that’s the defiling White Man…defiling humanity every chance he gets.

In some the White Man is strong. You can tell by the way they defend him…protect him…embrace him. In others he is a wasted mess, clinging to life, but if you don’t admit he’s there, you can’t kill him, and he’ll keep on breathing his diseased breath into your mind. You have to see him to destroy him completely.

I have a dream that one day, I will finally get him. I will at last hit him in just the right spot, and he will be dead…gone…obliterated from my mind. After that, I will then become the antidote. Every breath I expel out into this world will be filled with White Man antibodies, and then as the wind carries these antibodies to every corner of this planet, eventually everyone in the world will breathe them in. When that happens, he will finally be destroyed, and we will all learn how glorious and wonderful it is to be alive and free at last of the White Man’s tyranny.

Mom

Mom

The Devil Speaks in Tongues

At the time, I didn’t ask myself why she invited me. I was young, wanted to make friends and was open to new experiences. But now I know. I know now why she invited me. She decided that she would ‘save’ me. I was the project she was hoping to get an A+ on—an A+ that would open wide the gates of Heaven. Why, one day old Saint Peter himself would greet her and exclaim, “Way to go (I forget her name)! The best gold harp for you!” That’s the way she must have imagined it. She wanted me to be, not her friend, but her pre-paid ticket to Heaven.

I can’t remember what exactly she said, when she invited me, but she did use the term Charismatic Catholic. Whatever! Sure, I’ll check it out. Why not?

The meeting was in a school, (must have been a Catholic school), on the second floor. We sat around in a circle, and people talked. What they talked about, I don’t recall, so it couldn’t have been that interesting. If it were interesting, I would not have forgotten it.

There was a stout little priest who was quiet and docile, and always seemed to be battling something within his own mind. There was a blind guy they doted on because blind guys feature big in Christianity. And there was a very outspoken middle aged woman who ran the show. At least, I think she was middle aged…when you’re that young everyone over 25 looks middle aged.  Those are the only ones I can remember.

So I went maybe 2 or 3 times to sit in a circle and listen to these people. They were a little weird, but I’d been in a Pentecostal Church before, so I knew about weird. Weird didn’t particularly weird me out.

Then it happened…

There we were sitting in the circle when suddenly the outspoken woman who ran the show started ‘speaking in tongues.’  Okay, whatever! Go with the flow.

I watched as her male ‘attendants’ would bring someone to her. She’d babble something then thrust her hand forward, making that person fall backwards. The attendants would then dutifully catch the fallen in their arms. From there, the person would be laid out on the floor like a freshly slain body. I assumed the idea was that they were so filled with the Holy Spirit that they were rendered paralyzed. Soon the floor was covered in people.

Well, didn’t someone just come over to me and grab me by the arm. I didn’t want to go, but what could I say? I was young and just wanted people to like me. And they were so gung-ho about this speaking in tongues and people all over the floor thing. So I went.

If I remember right, the outspoken and now tongues-speaking woman was about eye level with me, but she didn’t look at me. Instead, she was looking upwards as if she could see more than just the ugly classroom ceiling. From there, it all happened so fast. She was saying something that didn’t sound much like anything at all, when suddenly WHAP! she hit me in the forehead! I couldn’t believe it! She hit me HARD! right in the forehead! I didn’t get it. Wasn’t it supposed to be the Holy Spirit who knocked you down, and not some bare fleshy undeniably corporeal hand?

The hit caused me to stumble backwards, but I quickly regained my footing and stared her right in the eye. She stared back at me and that was when I saw it…the hatred…the anger…the ‘how dare you not fall to my authority like the others.’ I tell you, if I’d never seen the devil before, I saw him that night in her eyes. What a situation I was in!

Thinking to myself, that if I didn’t fall back she might keep hitting me until I did, the next time she hit me, I fell back. They put me on the floor with the others and I covered my face with my hands. The others did not cover their faces, but for some reason I felt I couldn’t leave my face exposed in this room. So there I was, on the floor, praying to God and saying, “This is ridiculous. What do I do now?”

Anyway, I stayed there and played along for while, getting more and more frustrated with the entire silly situation. I kept wondering just how long one was required to be ‘overcome.’ Finally, I peeked through my fingers to see if the others were off the floor and many of them were, so I decided that it was okay to get up.

In keeping with the show, I then got up, walked over and hugged the blind guy. That seemed to confuse the heck out of him, but it also seemed an appropriate ending scene to this crazy play.

The next week I went back. I don’t know why. I guess like so many lonely teenagers, I would overlook a lot in pursuit of friends. So I went back, but they were gone. The school was locked and there was no light on the second floor.

Later in the school hallway, I would sometimes pass the girl who invited me. But we never really spoke again, and I never asked her about the group or what happened to them. I suppose it just seemed fitting that it should end that way.

 

In my quest for wisdom, I have turned to old books

From:

Webster’s Encyclopedia of Useful Information and World’s Atlas

Published: Chicago Illinois by Ogilvie and Gillett Company 1890

From chapter entitled: Multum in Parvo

Subtitle: Finger Nails As An Indication of Character

“A white mark on the nail bespeaks of misfortune.

Pale or lead-colored nails indicate melancholy people.

Broad nails indicate a gentle, timid, and bashful nature.

Lovers of knowledge and liberal sentiments have round nails.

People with narrow nails are ambitious and quarrelsome.

Small nails indicate littleness of mind, obstinacy and conceit.

Choleric, martial men, delighting in war, have red and spotted nails.

Nails growing into the flesh at the points or sides indicate luxurious tastes.

People with very pale nails are subject to much infirmity of the flesh and persecution by neighbors and friends.”

The next chapter, “How to be Handsome.”

The Horrible Things They Still Do To Jesus

Of course, it must have all started near the beginning, but where exactly? I suppose, at first, it was only in small ways—Peter using selective memories of Jesus to ease his immense guilt, and then after him, Paul, a reformed torturer/murderer using Jesus to try and purify himself.  Certainly, it gained real momentum when the new political machine they called the Catholic Church was born, and the crucified man became the mascot. It was genius marketing really—playing on such deep fears, deep shame, and deep perversions. A man unclothed, broken, beaten, and permanently staked up for public display. Oh, the emotions such an image could evoke!

Sometimes I think of what it takes to physically manufacture such a thing. These days, a slave-worker in Asian likely makes most of them, hammering the little nails into the crucified man statue—day after day—tap, tap, tap—thousands of nails into thousands of hands and thousands of feet. I wonder if she’ll ever realize that the nails should actually go into the wrists, and not the hands.

And then there was a little Polish boy I babysat as a teen. One day he pointed to the crucifix on the wall, giggled devilishly, and declared, “The Lord is barren.” At first, I couldn’t figure out what he was talking about in his less than perfect understanding of the English language, but then I realized he meant that the little crucified man was without clothes. The crucifix was a bit of naughty pornography for this boy. Out of the mouths of babes, eh? Suffering-pornography. That’s why I never will watch The Passion of the Christ. It’s suffering-pornography.

And then all because of a fluke generated by politics and the marriage problems of elite inbreds, the Church split, and Protestants were created. Eventually that little switcheroo caused branches to form in all directions…and oh, what directions…directions that, henceforth, resulted in my Sunday school teacher excitedly waving the ‘miracle photo.’ It seems she had gone to a special presentation organized by the church. The key-note speaker was a woman who had been privy to a stupendous, incredible, marvelous miracle! What started out as just an ordinary photo being taken of her and her husband turned into so much more. For when that ordinary photo was developed, POOF! Jesus appeared in the picture next to them!  The Sunday school teacher let us all have a good look at the evidence. Sure enough there was a man, a woman and a guy in a Jesus costume. I was just a kid, but even I knew that was not Jesus. What does it take to perpetrate such a crime? Thinking up the scheme, dressing up as Jesus, setting a price for the photo, going on a preaching circuit, turning Jesus into a bold faced lie—it’s horrible! And this was sanctioned by the church.

And that brings us to the Jews, oy vey! Being part Jewish myself, I really hate to have to have to say this but…added to all the horrible things being done to Jesus is a group of right-wing Jews trying to bake Him into a flavourless bit of unleavened bread. Paper Jesus, (no way as fun as Paper Mario)—a flat two-dimensional Jesus who was a good kosher boy, who wanted to FIGHT! the Romans, who was not particularly amazing in any way except in that he was a Jew. These people even claim that Jews had nothing whatsoever to do with the crucifixion. Well, that’s not true. Some Jews were obviously involved in the crucifixion, but not because they were Jews, but because they were assholes, and assholism knows no cultural nor ethnic boundaries. In nature, God created assholes at the bottom, but in man’s topsy-turvy world, assholes are usually at the top, and it was assholes at the top who were responsible for the crucifixion.

So why would these right-wing Jews have such an interest in Jesus? As it appears to me, it’s a narrative specifically designed to further galvanize the support of the right-wing Christians, who already do their own horrible things to Jesus. It’s meant to correlate and control all of the horrible things done to Jesus in the name of politics, power, money and racism.

Oh, Jesus H. Christ! Isn’t it about time You put an end to this nonsense?

…but praying aside for now, Jesus is so incredibly complicated that it’s very difficult to explain just what He is. So instead let me explain what He is not.

Jesus is nobody’s:

  • self-serving idol
  • political pawn
  • money machine
  • plasticine man
  • security blanket
  • excuse
  • medallion
  • camouflage
  • costume
  • justification
  • surety
  • mascot
  • collateral
  • military uniform
  • ‘get out of jail free’ card
  • influence peddler
  • suffering-pornography
  • a simple easy to swallow sugary elixir
  • free pre-paid ticket to Heaven
  • name-dropping name
  • fraternity or sorority pin
  • self-serving lie

…and to try and recreate Him into any of these things is just plain horrible!

Jesus said to them, “Truly I tell you, the tax collectors and the prostitutes are entering the kingdom of God ahead of you. For John came to you to show you the way of righteousness, and you did not believe him, but the tax collectors and the prostitutes did. And even after you saw this, you did not repent and believe him.

Matthew 21:28-31

A Really Short Story Inspired by the Song “I Will Survive” (by Gloria Gaynor and later a rather biting rendition by the band Cake)

Oh, it’s you.

Just stop right there, and don’t even think about crossing over my threshold. You’re not welcome here anymore.

And now I can’t believe you are giving me that look…that look like you can’t understand why…as if you have no idea what you’ve done…that ‘who me?’ look because you’re just as pure as the driven snow. Right?

No! Don’t speak! Don’t say a word. It’s no longer your time to say anything. You’ve said all you had to say before, which in the end wasn’t much at all. Empty, thoughtless, stupid words were all you knew…all you know.

You left me here. You left me in this purgatory. I thought I was going mad. What else was I to think? That’s exactly what happens when people go mad…what happened to me. What did you think I knew? You think I was on the inside? I told you I wasn’t. Did you think I knew their secrets…that I was a part of their party? I was alone. You knew that. But it didn’t stop you, did it? It didn’t make you more human and less simian.

I gave you a chance…no, I gave you every chance to prove that you were more…that you were better…that you were evolved. And each time, what happened? You didn’t change your ways. Each time you treated me as if I were your thing…your token in a monopoly game. Which one did you envision me as, the wheel barrow, the thimble, the scottie dog? Never mind. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters anymore.

And before you ask, no, it’s not just about Tootsie O’Toole who showed up at my door one day, waving that ring. The one you know I paid for, because without me you would have been a nobody. Laugh if you like, but you know that’s true even if you don’t have the guts to see it. You know a lot of things you’re not man enough to see.

I never did tell Old Toots the truth. What would be the point? She thinks you’re an American sheriff and those black licorice guns you carry are the real deal, but we know better…don’t we. We both know I’m the only sharp shooter around these parts.

The choices you made about me, didn’t you see them in the headlines? They were written there. You can’t make choices about me and not have them echo throughout this world. Those choices resounded in moments in time…words overhead…things spilling, falling, breaking, dying. Your choices were well recorded everywhere. And even when the Universe threatened to strike you down with, for God’s sake, lightning itself…even when it thundered and crashed right above your head…even with all that, still you held on to your fool’s cap like it was the Word of God. Nothing could shake you from that egotistical dream you made for yourself…that egotistical dream you made of yourself.

And now it’s too late…now that you see what happens when I pull out, it’s too late. And there are no do-overs in this world. You failed the test. That’s it. It’s done with, finished, kaput. The buzzer sounded and you didn’t have the right answer. You lost. Now, go! Go cry your heart out on Tootsie’s shoulder. And if things get real bad, you can always pawn that ring.

A Trip To the Zoo

Did you ever go to the zoo, and as you were staring at one of God’s beautiful magnificent dangerous creatures, SUDDENLY! you see that creature staring back at you…

The Zoo
I pace
In this iron cage
Back and forth
Forth and back
My African paws
Pounding against
The man-poured
Concrete floor

Through the bars
I spot you
Peering at me
Come closer
My dear
You paid your
Two cents for
A peek

Eager trembles
Run through my body
To see you standing there
Looking so
Very very
Delicious…

The Bible

I am enamoured with the Bible.

Please do not think badly of me being enamoured with a book that is so full of sex and violence. I just can’t stop myself from liking it. And you, hypocrite, probably watch The Game of Thrones which is just as bad.

But I do like this book. I like to quote it on Twitter and in my novels. It is just too enticing to stay away from. “Beware, the Lord is about to take firm hold of you and hurl you away, you mighty man,” said the Prophet Isaiah. I mean, how cool is that!

I still have my first Bible. It has a zipper! I was so excited to get it and it was so much fun to clasp the little cross attached to the slider and zip and unzip the book. Zip—unzip—zip—unzip. As a kid it gives you something interesting to do in church, and it also added to the fun of turning those noisy onion skin pages.

My Bible was second hand, (just call me Second-hand Rose LOL), and whoever owned it before me may have been perfectly crazy having underlined a whole lot of stuff in the New Testament using mostly a red pencil crayon. He or she, (but likely he), didn’t seem too interested in the Old Testament. Maybe it was too scary with all its monsters and cannibalism and what-not. Anyway, following with the tradition, I underlined a bunch of stuff too.

The previous owner underlined: “Let a woman learn in silence with all subjection.” Timothy 2:11  So I underlined, “Mary hath chosen that good part, which shall not be taken away from her.” Luke 11:42 Ha! Ha! Jesus wins! Paul sucks! (Did you notice that Paul seemed to have some serious sexual issues?)

But I should tell you about the pictures. Yes, my Bible has pictures! They are not exactly Leonardo Da Vinci if you know what I mean, but as a child they were better than no pictures. There’s Noah with a dove and rainbow, and Moses, real angry and ready to whip that piece of rock right at those idol worshipers’ heads. And there is also Jesus looking not like you would expect him to look, but instead looking like a blonde catalogue model. Even in one of the best Bible scenes when Jesus is chasing those greedy no-good sons-of-dogs out of the Temple, in the picture, he’s looking like a ridiculous goofball. That’s just not right. I would draw a mustache on those pictures, but he already has one.

Years ago, there was a man I went to listen to a few times who was a bit of a Bible expert. He wrote a book all about the Bible. His name was Northrup (I know how funny is that!) Frye, and the book was called “The Great Code.” It’s an interesting book, and the ending is quite good. Spoiler Alert! Here is the ending:

“Man is constantly building anxiety-structures, like geodesic domes, around his social and religious institutions. If Milton’s view of the Bible as a manifesto of human freedom has anything to be said for it, one would expect it to be written in a language that would smash these structures beyond repair, and let some genuine air and light in. But of course anxiety is very skillful at distorting languages…The normal human reaction to a great cultural achievement like the Bible is to do with it what the Philistines did to Samson: reduce it to impotence, then lock it in a mill to grind our aggressions and prejudices. But perhaps its hair, like Samson’s, could grow again even there.”

…and you got to admit, Samson’s hair was very very sexy!

Please Pardon Me Don McLean

Today I found myself singing American Pie. (And I even know most of the words.) It has always been a song that in its despair and sadness somehow brought me hope and comfort. Sad songs do that. The blues is all about that. A voice in the darkness, pure and without judgement, saying “yes, what you are feeling is real, and no, you are not alone.” That is the magic of sad songs. They lighten the load.

But today, I became a little annoyed with this old friend. I thought, ‘I’ve had enough of singing this sad song that I have sung for so many years.’ So I took it upon myself to change the lyrics. So, please pardon me Don McLean while I revise your very brilliant song American Pie.

American Pie (revised for my own personal pleasure)

A long, long time ago
And I can still remember how that music came to make me smile
And I knew if I had my chance
That I could make those people dance
And maybe they’d be happy a long while

And Springtime came and made me quiver
With every paper I’d deliver
Good news on the doorstep
I took so many steps

I can’t remember if I sighed
When I read about his brand new bride
But something touched me deep inside
The day Margaret Thatcher died

[Chorus]
So hi-hi, Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee, ‘cause the levee is dry
And them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
Singin’ “This’ll be the day that I fly
This’ll be the day that I fly”

Did you write the book of love
And do you have faith in God above
If the Bible tells you so?
Now do you believe in rock and roll
Can music save your mortal soul
And can you teach me how to dance real slow?

Well, I know that you’re in love with me
‘Cause we did go dancin’ in the sea
We both kicked off our shoes
Man, I dig those rhythm and blues

I was a happy teenage broncin’ buck
With a pink carnation and a pickup truck
And I knew I was full of luck
The day Margaret Thatcher died

[Chorus]
So hi-hi, Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee, ‘cause the levee is dry
And them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
Singin’ “This’ll be the day that I fly
This’ll be the day that I fly”

Now for ten years we’ve been on our own
And moss don’t grow on a rollin’ stone
And that’s just how it should be
As the jester sang for the king and queen
In a coat he borrowed from James Dean
And a voice that came from you and me

Oh, and while the king was looking down
The jester stole his phoney crown
The courtroom was adjourned
No verdict was returned

And while Lennon sang a song of love
A quartet practiced with a dove
And we sang of promise from above
The day Margaret Thatcher died

[Chorus]
So hi-hi, Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee, ‘cause the levee is dry
And them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
Singin’ “This’ll be the day that I fly
This’ll be the day that I fly”

Ob-la-da in a Spring thaw
The birds flew off so full of awe
Eight miles high and flying fast
They landed softly on the grass
The players tried for a forward pass
With the jester laughing hard and laughing last

Now the halftime air was sweet perfume
While the sergeants played a marching tune
We all got up to dance
We finally got our chance

When the players tried to take the field
The marching band refused to yield
So everyone just danced with zeal
The day Margaret Thatcher died?

[Chorus]
So hi-hi, Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee, ‘cause the levee is dry
And them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
Singin’ “This’ll be the day that I fly
This’ll be the day that I fly”

Oh, and there we were all in one place
A generation moving in space
Preparing ourselves to start again
So come on, Jack be nimble, Jack be quick
Jack Flash put out that candlestick
‘Cause fire is the devil’s only friend

Oh, and as I watched him on the stage
My hands were clenched in fists of rage
This angel born in Hell
Could break that Satan’s spell

And as the flames climbed high into the night
To light the sacrificial rite
I saw Satan burn to my delight
The day Margaret Thatcher died

[Chorus]
So hi-hi, Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee, ‘cause the levee is dry
And them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
Singin’ “This’ll be the day that I fly
This’ll be the day that I fly”

I met a girl who sang the blues
And I told her I had some happy news
She just smiled and changed her ways
I went down to the sacred store
Where I’d heard the music years before
And the man there said the music was here to stay

And in the streets, the children played
The lovers kissed and the poets swayed
For now the word was spoken
The church bells no longer broken

And the three men I admire most
The Father, Son and the Holy Ghost
Their boat came in upon our coast
The day Margaret Thatcher died

[Chorus]
So hi-hi, Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee, ‘cause the levee is dry
And them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
Singin’ “This’ll be the day that I fly
This’ll be the day that I fly”

[Chorus]
So hi-hi, Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee, ‘cause the levee is dry
And them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
Singin’ “This’ll be the day that I fly”

The VIP Section

VIP tickets to a high-brow charity event. Could be interesting. So, I went to my closet and threw on something dazzling enough to be inconspicuous.

First thing I learned: VIP’s get special parking spots.

It was a brilliant summer day when we walked into that tent. It was crowded and noisy. A grumpy old lady served us an over-priced hot dog. We jostled for a bench to sit on. Around then, the nice man who had given us the tickets had found us. “This isn’t the VIP section.” So we followed him behind the rope.

Behind the rope was a larger tent elaborately decorated according to that year’s chosen theme. It was obvious a lot of charity money went into those fabulously stunning decorations. They spared no expense. Beyond that were tables, (with umbrellas), and chairs, and wide open space. (I liked the space!) There was a food tent where the food was free, and there were no hotdogs. And the people serving it were very polite. So this was VIP.

As I walked through that section in my dazzling enough to be inconspicuous clothes, I spotted a man looking at me. Okay, that still happens. Later I learned that he was the organizer of the event. The king of the VIP section as it were.

So we found a table…the only table left actually. There were three women already there. A mother, a daughter and (I think) a daughter’s friend. I could see right away they were social climbers who had somehow wrangled tickets…all chock full o’ hope of possibly meeting some rich men, or at the very least have the thrill of being noticed by one. I didn’t say hello. There was no point. I had nothing to offer them. So I did the most merciful thing and without a word turned my chair around to face the entertainment provided. It was merciful because that way they may have thought they were sitting at a table with someone so important that she snubbed them entirely. Those people like that sort of thing.

At some point I noticed the king of the VIP section slowly making his way in our direction. ‘Good God,’ I thought, ‘He’s on the pussy prowl…and with his wife in tow.’ Sure enough he made it over to our table and introduced himself, announcing his intentions to sit and eat with us.

His wife, (I forget her name but I’ll call her Lean Mean Jeannie), I could tell she was mean. I don’t know if that was a part of her nature or she’d become mean from a life of nothing but too much exercise, too little food and too much worrying about her pussy huntin’ husband. She may have even been a second wife…a once piece of hunted pussy that was from the ‘right’ family, so he married her. Now she was just a getting older wife trying to hang on to meaning by focusing on toning her arms.

When I met that king of the VIP lounge I could see that I had scared him off those ideas fairly quickly. I don’t know if it was my broken nose, chilly, (but polite), demeanour or just that strange presence I have about me, but he was too afraid to sit near. Instead, he sat beside the three women who fawned and flicked their hair. This was an important man, and they were delighted. Those women would have been on their knees to that man behind the food tent if he told them to.

Lean Mean Jeannie sat beside me, and I was sure she was thinking this table is not good enough for us. There are better people to sit with. And I’m also sure she was not too happy about her husband talking to those three flicking, fawning harpies.

Luckily, a few tables over, some privileged man who knew the king and his wife called them over to join him.  Maybe he thought our table was not good enough for the king or maybe he wanted to save Lean Mean Jeannie from having to watch her husband flirt with the three social climbers, but regardless, they left. I was relieved, but I think the harpies were heart-broken. Oh well!

One of the features of the event was the presence of a member of ‘royalty.’ (I’ll not mention the country to protect the nice man who gave us the tickets.) I assume it is meant to give an air of importance to such events…spending all that charity money on hiring those kind of people to show up. So anyway, I was introduced to Mr. Royal. From behind my sunglasses, I looked into his eyes, and shook his hand. ZOMBIE! No kidding! There was nothing to this man. Desolate, stark, vacant, void, empty. Later, I thought this is ‘royalty’… simply a long chain of hollow people, ordering up death and destruction, mating with and/or murdering their own kin, dehumanizing the world, cracking open a hard boiled egg every morning. They are the walking dead. I politely smiled, then turned away.

Later I noticed Mr. Royal’s son running around. He was spoiled, (that was obvious), but lots of children are. What was so disturbing was his butler-nanny. To see a full grown man subservient to a small boy was so incredibly perverse…so unnatural! Then to add to the perversity, I saw this creepy butler-nanny trying to encourage this boy of about 8 or 9 to flirt with full grown women. Was this part of the duty of a butler-nanny? Royalty ewww!

So if you ever wondered what goes on in the VIP section, now you know. For me, it was an experience like any other, but if I was to say one nice thing about it, the open space was very nice.

My One True Love

Oh music! My solace! My love! When did we first meet? It was certainly long before that day the sky thundered, the lightning flashed, the hail pounded and I came screaming into this world, searching for only you…my one true love. And through it all, never have you denied nor deserted me. By your unwavering constancy you made me yours and yours alone…forever.

…and I am certainly not the only one who feels this way. How many times have I seen emotionally charged comments by posters declaring how a song saved them, changed them, gave them strength or comforted them in their darkest hour. It’s irrefutable. Music is something!

So, where did this mystery come from?

Modern American music, undeniably the most powerful music on earth, was born from a broken heart. It was born from the broken heart of a people torn from their homes and denied every basic human right. People dehumanized to the point where their spirits had nothing left but to reach out past the humanity denied them, and towards something far far greater. In their desperation, they cried out for a miracle and received it. It was music. And since that time, their miracle has quickly grown and spread around the world.

Music is blind and makes no judgement. It has no respect for the rules or social restrictions of mankind. Its only mission is to find and fill broken hearts. It doesn’t mind being carried by fools and opportunists, if it can reach its goal. If Jay-Z thinks he controls things by making a triangle with his hands or Madonna thinks she saves the world by showing her bum, it does not matter. Music just laughs and stays the course as it always has. No one can hold music down.

Some of the finest songs that ever inspired me were in misheard lyrics. Certainly, music is the wittiest jester…the prophet-jester who makes us fools…makes us wise…makes us over…makes us lovers. There is no escape from a jester’s court, and who would want to? How else are we to heal the cracks in our weary hearts if not by the magic of laughter and trickery?

So what more can possibly be said about music? Perhaps only, “who put the bomp in the bomp bah bomp bah bomp? Who put the ram in the rama lama ding dong? Who put the bop in the bop shoo bop shoo bop? Who put the dip in the dip da dip da dip? Who was that man? I’d like to shake his hand. He made my baby fall in love with me, yah!!!”