Please Read These Words

Teh.  Teh heh.  Teh heh heh.  The worst day of your life might never happen.  Mark Twain wrote that most of his troubles in life never came true.  How true that is.  We’re always waiting for the other shoe to drop.  Waiting for the branches to snap and come crashing through the window.  Why?  Who the hell cares why.  Asking why too many times is part of this whole problem we’ve got going on.  So and so asks why, and then whatchamacallit thinks he has an answer, and then what’s his name comes up with something different that so and so likes more…  Now we have a problem.  What’s his name is now winning some race to no where, and whatchamacallit is jealous of something, based on nothing, that got no where way before the race began.  The first thing to remember is that being clever with language is perhaps the biggest copout ever.  The next thing to remember is to not care what people think, and say it anyway.  You were meant to; otherwise your lips wouldn’t have moved, or your fingers would have fallen off long ago.  Long before the ice age, bronze age, and that favored time of Disney–feudalism.  Serfdom and maidens.  Coned hats with lace flowing from their apex, leaning from the stone tower window, above the moat containinig a dragon.  Then the eighties arrived and the dragon was defeated by a Transformer driving a monster truck.  Boy George was singing Karma Chameleon,  Prince licked Purple raindrops off himself, Judd Nelson and Molly Ringwold had careers, and we passed the time buying cigarettes from vending machines in diners at the tender age of thirteen.

Hakadaka.  The first cut is sometimes the deepest, and sometimes you don’t even scratch the surface.  Charlie came back into our lives that summer and just about blew it out of the water.  He tripped and fell over every chain draped across his path.  He ate so much cheese, and threw up so much alcohol, that it was a miracle he ever woke up most mornings.  The birthday party was a mess.  Chocolate cake everywhere.  Jack Daniels wrappers all over the place.  Charlie’s girlfriend was collecting the wrappers and had a pretty big pile assembled until the neighbors’ wolfhound came in and shredded all her hard work.  The neighbors.  Now there was something to scream about.  Shelly and Frank Cellini were the real deal.  Caddy in the brick driveway, not one, but four wolfhounds protecting the premises along with state of the art fencing and silent alarm systems.  If only they could remember to shut the fucking gate during gin and tonic long island iced tea afternoon patio time.  How the hell were Charlie and his girl Denise gonna write any goddamn hits again if these 150 pound smelly mutts didn’t stop barging in on their brainstorming parties?  They were gathering material.  They had Shaun in the corner nodding out…  Nancy was cleaning furiously and when the stuff finally wore off she would realize once again that Bob and Shit Brains Dennis make a mess faster than she and a 1000 strong cleaning crew–all on meth like Nancy–could ever keep up with.  Jesus.  Shit Brains Dennis.  Charlie was so close to finishing that refrain, and Dennis had to start in again with the “whoa is me speech” involving–you guessed it–Natalie Portman…  and how she’ll never see eye to eye with his plans.  Her star power, even after standing face-to-face with Luke Skywalker as the writers completely destroyed the Star Wars series with four words…  “but… I…  I love You!”–was utterly beyond Shit Brains Dennis’s belief.  He got winded talking about her.  Her small breasts.  Her frail yet wirey “I’ll fuck you up” frame–further confirmed by her rap performance on Saturday Night Live…  Her caustic sense of humor was something guys like Shit Brains Dennis just eat the fuck up.  The guy had a pretty loose grip–or an extra tight one depending on how you see it– and he needed a brilliant movie star with severe bone structure, and those dark, mysterious softly psychotic–but definitely psychotic eyes.  He needed a victim for his obsession.

I don’t wanna scare you.  No.  I would surely give you the time of day anytime.  You keep telling me all you need is love…  To be listened to closely.  To be held in my arms all night.  Well I’ll tell ya something…  If there’s anything worth a smile in this world, it’s you.  I’ll give you a chance again.  I’ll give you a pepperoni pizza carafe of burgandy moment if you need it.  We’ll sit at the red and white checked candlelight and talk in whispers.  We’ll ride the trolley up the hill and I’ll hang off the side with arm outstretched waving a hat at the crowd–showtunes blaring in our ears.  Or maybe Motown.  Something with blaring horns.  Some music of enthusiastic optimism and a more hopeful blues riff.  I wanna hear  that  music of youth, rebirth, the frontier spirit.  Yes.  I’ll show you a good time if you’ll let me in that heart of yours.

Sure.  Go ahead and make me sonny boy.  I bet you can’t shoot an ounce of piss for what it’s all worth.  You’re thinkin you know it all.  You and your college friends.  You and your smarty pants neighbors Bob and Barbara.  I tell ya you’re nothin.  NOTHIN!  Without me and my yelling at all hours of the night and day.  The wearing of the pajamas in the front yard, down the driveway, walking my Shitzu, going down the block for some coffee at the QuikEmart.  Just get out of my way.  I went through three wars, and THEN I married Karen.  Jesus.  Don’t tell me to shut up.  I can hit an empty can of Bud at five hundred yards, skin a camel, build a cabin out of matches, and still make it home for chicken dinner.  Go the hell back to Cleveland Sharky!  I said we don’t want your kind around here.  Those were the days I tell ya.  Climbin’ on the back of the turnip truck just in time for last call.  Go ahead I said.  Just try me.

My mother once told me that spelling Christmas “Xmas” was not appropriate.  I see it everywhere.  We live in an “inappropriate” world.  We are so fucking crass most of the time, how in the hell can Jesus live with us?  Spelling the name of his birthday Xmas is the least of our problems.  First of all, he died simply hoping his teachings of loving one another would live on.  He did not ask for holidays in his name.  And if he did, what most people do to celebrate the importance of  loving family, friends, and neighbors seems to miss the mark.

I hereby declare everyday is Xmas and Easter.  I’m not trying to alienate other faiths, but as a person raised Roman Catholic; these two holidays are like the Super Bowl and World Series of Christianity.  From what I know about Jesus, he was no fair weather good guy.  He was on people’s team sun up to sun down.  If we are to believe that he  suffered even half as much as Mel Gibson wanted him to suffer, let’s make some effort to expand the spirit of these holidays into everyday living. 

Jesus said to forgive.   He was the ultimate hippy in a time of great unrest, violence, and hypocricy among the supposedly pious and powerful.  Sound famaliar?  History just keeps on repeating itself.  We just keep on getting the signals mixed up.  IT IS WRITTEN  that the kingdom is in YOU.  There is a savior for you right where you sit, stand, and resides right in your shoes while you walk.  The biggest trick of modern times is getting people to believe that they are helpless without “Christ” in their heart.  Jesus–as in the man, the philosopher, the hippy, the rebel–passed words down in ways no different than other sages over time.  He was like any other person born with a desire to ask questions and search out the answers.  He would never claim to be the only person born advocating, and strategizing for greater peace among human beings.  The words written about Jesus describe a man who would never exploit another person’s ability to make choices.  Telling people “do this and believe this, or you will not be saved” is absolutely fucked.  If Jesus did talk about “The Father” or “God” he is only expressing what we all yearn for…  comfort, safety, someone to tell us where we came from, and that it will be O.K.  So if this notion can save you, great.  Jesus would never put that on me.  

Jesus knows there is so much more to know, and that the human paradise we are blessed to have is full of mystery.  The greatest mystery is that of choice.  We never fully know what will become of our choices.  We guess, project, consult, chart, experiment, etc.–and the human condition laughs at us in our fumbling attempts to explain trillions of molecules working together with a three letter word:  g-o-d…  What a crock.  I love Xmas, Easter Bunnies, rituals that celebrate goodness and harmony with all things mysterious and alive.  I even love god, or God, or anything that can bring people together without bringing in a planning committee that pits god vs. another god or gods.  I love the rock band King Missile.  I love that they sang a song about Jesus.  They simply wrote:  Jesus was way cool. 

 Merry Xmas.  Happy New Year.

Nevermind the voice in your head.  Scatterbrain it.  If you find yourself thinking about jumping in front of the oncoming 9:40 Amtrack, nevermind.  “You are not your thoughts,” said the wise woman with the long dark locks.  You are flesh and blood.  Important to no one, and everything to all of us.  Go back to the beginning and untangle the disappointments that were never your fault, but seem to feel that way.  Go back to the start and start over.  Rewrite it because you can.  History happens now.  The history of then does not exist unless you let it sit in your bones for too long–riding that couch with potato chips and too many sleep till 1pm days.  We know how we can do it better.  Everyone has plenty of feedback.  Isn’t it funny that “feedback” is also used to describe the horrible sound of an amplifier not in proper alignment with the instrument hooked to it?  Sure, it’s ironic that these words are yet another voice  echoing in the wilderness, but it’s a voice telling you to let go.  Don’t take yourself too seriously.  Don’t worry about whether or not the government is gonna take away your gun.  People will always sell guns.  Be sovereign.  But be connected too.  Take the risk to trust your neighbors.  They may not steal from you if you bring them some pie.  Join the human race that is only about living as long as you can, and not getting anywhere first.  After all, why would you want to get somewhere first when you really don’t know where we’re all going?

What’s going to happen when Kirk Cameron realizes he’s not actually saved anymore than other humans.  I’m saved.  I know it.  I don’t even have to believe anything, to accept anything else into my heart except the blood that already pumps through it without me even thinking about it.  I don’t even have to be grateful for it.  It just happens.  I wake up, I breathe because of the oxygenation process going on between my lungs, heart and autonomic nervous system controlled by the holy hunk of cheese on my shoulders. Presto…  I get to do all kinds of stuff.  I can use oxygen to ride my bike, eat bowtie pasta, figure skate, and take color pictures of flowers, or black and white pictures of dilapidated barns and rusty metal things.  I can write…  Oh no.  Not again I can write.  I can judge and be a smart ass and feel the freedom of infinity through symbol combinations.  Ahh the possibility.  The simultaneous dread and joy of oxygen.  It’s been coming on again, and for the first time in too long, I invite you to join me.  One thing Kirk Cameron and I agree on, is that riding alone is no fun.  He’s got Christ.  I’ve got this keyboard and every other molecule my eyes ears nose tongue and hands have been blessed to grasp with that wholly unappreciated power of  photosynthesis.

It has been way too long.  Forever it seems.  The worst thing that could ever happen to you would be to stop.  Breathe in the air of creation and stomp on the voice of dogma.  Chew that bone up, buddy!  Get a reason to die and do it.  Get a reason to live and give it.  Go ahead and tell me to stop!  I won’t ever.  No way.  You think I’ll break these lines for anyone?  Not Obama, not Jesus, not the talented Tina Fey, not anyone including that way too famous God Almighty of your understanding.  Put out your fire.  Light your ass up with the sounds of the lines Aerosmith sucked up through dirty straws in a dirty 70s tour bus.  Go ahead and dare me to stop.  Go ahead and ask me about 7-11.  Or Felix’s house.  He just went out for another two-year walk, and his kids are wondering where the bread is.  His lady Maxine just got into another car, and she still can’t remember what time she’s supposed to meet the case worker.  How many ham and cheese sandwiches?  I can’t afford that.  How many watermelons?  Yeah.  Right.  Just get yourself to the picnic and Uncle Frank will take you home after.

Another economic downturn has entered the airwaves.  What are we going to do if the car companies don’t get our taxes?  Of course, I feel bad for the workers who have grown attached to their routines, and the knowledge that a pension can pay for food and vacations and grandkids’ birthday presents…  I just don’t really want to think about whether or not it’s fair for all of us to pay for a company’s lack of ingenuity and foresight.  My wife and I want to start a business; if we make a lot of stuff that people don’t want, do we get free money to keep our business doors open?  With corporations begging left and right for help from our communal pot, I wonder if the CEO’s of these places are even considering the irony that fear of socialism was such a sticking point in the recent election. 

I want everything to be free.  I don’t want to work.  I want the government to just print money and give me money so I can feel it in my hand.  I know if no one’s working, stores might close and money will be useless, but I still just want to hold fresh bills.  Have suitcases full of rubber-banded stacks of 100’s.  I want to watch the bills come off the press in sheets, and then get cut right into piles, wrapped in cellophane, and placed in an old Addidas gym bag I have at the back of my closet.  I don’t need fresh vegetables anymore, forget clean water and air.  Give me bags of cash and a high limit platinum card with one of those Fox News blondes on my arm.  I’ll find an abandoned Maserati in the Hollywood Hills after the fire.  The keys will be in it somehow, and the house attached to the Maserati will be untouched by the fire.  The blonde newswoman and I will have urgent sex on million thread count sheets.  Apocalyptic sex.  We’ll notice the house belonged to our favorite TV star from the 80’s and we’ll laugh about the good old days.  Then we’ll watch smoke rise from the burning lots scattering the adjacent hillsides.  The valley below darkening, we’ll suddenly realize the lights aren’t coming on.  The angels of the city have all gone to sleep.