.
[*This Blog Bit is dedicated to BR’ER MARC, his wife JENNIFER, and their little baby, PARKER, whom I know God Loves very much.*]
As is so often the case in my many other interests as well, when it comes to music, I tend to go through phases: I’ll play one artist almost exclusively until I have thoroughly worn him, her or them out, and then I’ll move on to a different musician, but eventually I’ll come back again full circle in time. I once went on a Western movie kick that lasted over two years – I viewed almost nothing but Westerns until I had seen almost everything that was then available on VHS. This may sound a bit insane, but reflect on the notion that saturation really teaches well and drives home a subject, and consider that when you go to see the general practitioner, it might cost you about $15. but when you go to see a specialist, that gets doubled to $30. (that is if you happen to have medical insurance). What I’m saying is that lots of people know a little bit about a lot of things, but the person who knows a lot about one thing is usually more famous and more well-paid.
This trait of mine is even evident in my eating habits. You know how little kids often eat one thing on their plate entirely before moving on to the next item? Side dishes, of course, are meant to complement the entree and are intended to be enjoyed intermittently with it. Well, I never quite got the hang of that and I still tend to exhaust one dish before moving on. Oh sure, if you go to dinner with me you’ll see that I take a bite of the rice and then a forkful of the refried beans at first, just to give you the impression that I too am a real grownup person (I wouldn’t want you to get the idea that I’m weird or anything), but watch closely and before long you’ll notice that I’ve moved on to the cheese enchiladas and consumed them fully before revisiting those side dishes. I still eat like a little kid. A psychologist might label this as obsessive-compulsive, but I prefer to think I have great “focus.” My slogan is: “I have such powerful focus that it’s almost a mental illness.”
[*Cough!-Cough!*]
[An aside: If you think this is bad, you should have seen my brother Napoleon eat when he was a kid! He ate the way he did everything else: like the Tasmanian Devil after gulping down a case and a half of Red Bull energy drinks! When Ma told him, “Wipe your face!” he did it literally - he’d pass the napkin over his entire face several times in a circular motion. You’d think that would pretty well cover it, wouldn’t you? Well, it still didn’t address the bits of corn, hot dog bun and mashed potatoes clinging to his hair! She should have told him, “Wipe your face and hair!”]
Anyway, my most recent musical phase has me playing MAHALIA JACKSON tunes over and over again (and over again – Man, do I have great focus!) Mahalia Jackson, if you don’t know, reigned as the very aptly nicknamed “Queen Of Gospel Music” in the 1950s and ‘60s. Will Friedwald tells us that into the ‘50s, Mahalia “was perceived as a rebellious upstart by the more conservative Black churches”, but now, so many prominent singers of the day in Popular, Jazz, Urban Contemporary, Rock and Country music utilize so many of the techniques employed by Mahalia, that she has stylistically influenced hundreds of artists (Aretha Franklin among them) and she is recognized by many as having been the world’s greatest Gospel singer. I’m not one to argue with that assessment. (And no, contrary to popular belief, Jackson Browne is not related to Mahalia Jackson.)
I discovered Mahalia Jackson’s music shortly after coming to Christ - or after He came and got me, I should say: While I was alone in an apartment in a somewhat run-down Los Angeles neighborhood on the afternoon of April 6th, 1994, Jesus - to my great surprise - Baptized me with The Holy Spirit, using my own tears for the water. (It’s a long and soggy story, so I’ll spare you the details.) Like most people when they first encounter the reality of Christ and their “Salvation”, I was on fire for quite awhile, and I began filling my mind and my surroundings with reminders of my new spiritual vision. Therefore, I sought out some of that old-time Gospel music that I already knew I liked. (I mean, heck, “Down By The Riverside” had always been my favorite song in Disneyland’s America Sings attraction. Henrietta Hen – or whatever her name was – really belted out that Gospel number, and The Frog Five – or whatever their name was – laid down the deepest, croakingest bass I’d ever heard!)
In a small Christian gift shop in Westwood Village, I bought my first Mahalia albums: two two-disc sets titled “Gospels, Spirituals, & Hymns” Volumes 1 and 2. I dug her immediately; this was exactly the sort of music I was seeking. But the first Mahalia recording that I absolutely flipped over was “ELIJAH ROCK” (it’s a lot like “Jingle Bell Rock” except it’s sung by a Black woman instead of a White man, it has nothing whatsoever to do with jingling bells or Christmas, it has an entirely different pace, rhythm, and instrumentation, and it sounds completely different from “Jingle Bell Rock.” Otherwise, it’s the same song.)
“ELIJAH ROCK” with its tremendously powerful piano vamp played throughout by Mildred Falls in her very unique style just floored me. God, was Mildred great! Listen to what she does on Mahalia’s “I’M GOING TO LIVE THE LIFE I SING ABOUT IN MY SONG.” (And no, I wasn’t using God’s Name in vain just now: I was REALLY celebrating the gift He gave her.) Back in ’94, I would listen to “ELIJAH ROCK” through headphones cranked up to “eleven” (yeah, my headphones went up to eleven!) and I’d just groove along!
“Satan is a liar and a conjurer too; If you don’t mind out, he’ll conjure you! … You can call my Rock in the morning; call Him late at night; He’s always with me and all my battles He fights. When I’m in trouble, I can call Him on the line; He put a telephone in my heart and I can call God anytime!”
Man, that’s great stuffs!
I used to think about how much fun it would be to own a radio station and to dictate the playlist. I told myself that the first song my station (KSTM) would spin to inaugurate our place in the airwaves would be Mahalia’s “ELIJAH ROCK” – Oh, but wouldn’t that send the message that THIS radio station was going to do things its own way! (How wonderful would it be to have a radio station that might play Mahalia Jackson, followed by The Beach Boys, followed by Howlin’ Wolf, followed by Waylon Jennings, then Louis Prima, Tom Petty, Astrud Gilberto, and the theme from the Pink Panther movies, with a few early Bill Cosby skits thrown in every once in awhile just for laughs? Maybe we’d even spin a few Benny Hill songs if we can slip ‘em past the F.C.C. Don’t tell me KSTM wouldn’t be programmed into your radio’s preset buttons! Heck, we might even do an occasional Dr. Seuss reading.)
Another Mahalia song that burrowed deep into my heart in those early days was “KEEP YOUR HAND ON THE PLOW.” This fast-paced exhortation to keep on keepin’ on even through the dark nights of the soul often strengthened me during some of the tougher times, and it served to admonish me when I sometimes slipped in my spiritual walk. I just love the way Mahalia sings “Heard the voice of Jesus say, Come unto Me, I am the way.”
Hold on! Hold on!
Keep your hand on the plow. Hold on!
Heard the voice of Jesus say,
“Come unto Me, I am the way.”
Keep your hand on the plow. Hold on!
When my way get dark as night,
Know The Lord will be my light.
Keep your hand on the plow. Hold on!
You can talk about me as much as you please;
The more you talk, I’m gonna stay on my knees.
Keep your hand on the plow. Hold on!
When I get to Heaven, gonna sing and shout;
Be nobody there to put me out.
Keep your hand on the plow. Hold on!
Know my robe gonna fit me well;
Tried it on at the gates of hell.
Keep your hand on the plow. Hold on!
Hold on! Hold on!
Keep your hand on the plow. Hold on!
Hokie-Smokes! Listen to the way Bunny Shawker slaps them drums around at the end. That’s one funky bunny! If this song doesn’t fill you with spiritual determination, nothing will.
Where does one begin when writing about Mahalia’s music? I have to make mention of the way she rhythmically warns us that “Everybody talkin’ ‘bout Heaven ain’t goin’ there” in “WALK OVER GOD’S HEAVEN.” (That’s a Biblical fact – you should look it up.) Check out the range and tones she displays in “A SATISFIED MIND.” And how about Mahalia’s unrestrained enthusiasm in “GREAT GETTIN’ UP MORNING”? Or the old-time Gospel arrangement of “WALK IN JERUSALEM” with The Frog Five (or whoever that is) laying down that grooving vocal bass line during the chorus. Love it, man, love it! And you gotta recognize Mahalia’s signature tune “I WILL MOVE ON UP A LITTLE HIGHER” as the great stuffs it surely is. Oh, sheesh! There are simply too many tremendous Mahalia songs and too much too say about them, but that’s what we would expect from the woman who, according to Dr. Horace Clarence Boyer, “became the first and still greatest superstar of the music that has come to be known as Gospel.” Dr. Boyer also informs us that Mahalia sang “TAKE MY HAND, PRECIOUS LORD” at Martin Luther King Junior’s funeral. And hers was a truly heartfelt rendition of “I FOUND THE ANSWER.”
I found the answer: I like to pray
With faith to guide me, I found my Way…
I was weak and weary, and I had gone astray
Walkin’ in the darkness, I could not find the Way
But then a Light came shining…
Keep your Bible with you; Read it every day
Always count your blessings; always stop and pray.
In “SEARCH ME, LORD” Mahalia sang: “While I’m singing, I’m holy.” Amen, Sister. You surely were!
On an internet discussion board related to female Jazz vocalists, a woman asked me on October 3, 2006, “Do you have a favorite Mahalia number?” And I replied: Yes, I most certainly do. It's “HOW I GOT OVER.”
In my opinion, “HOW I GOT OVER” is the very pinnacle of Mahalia’s art and probably the most remarkable vocal performance ever recorded! As I listen carefully to the way that piece builds in intensity until it reaches that emotional peak, and the sporadic handclaps that seem almost involuntary to me, it strikes me that The Holy Spirit is animating Mahalia. Interestingly, she does not clap in time with the song, as if the Spirit inspiring her to clap follows Divine musical charts that we mere mortals are not privy to. And as the handclaps become more frequent and The Spirit moves her, it’s as though Mahalia the human being has mostly disappeared into the song and Mahalia is no longer singing the song but The Holy Spirit is singing Mahalia!
“You know, all night long, God kept His angels watching over me. And early this morning, early this morning, God told His angels, God said ‘Touch her in My Name.’ God said ‘Touch her in My Name.’ I rose this morning, I rose this morning. I feel like shouting, I feel like shouting, I feel like SHOUTING!”
And when Mahalia sings “I feel like SHOUTING!” it almost makes my throat feel raw! And then comes that rousing conclusion, by which time Mahalia has all but disappeared in order to make room for The Holy Spirit:
“I just got to thank God, I just got to thank Him. Thank God for being soooOOOoooo goooOOOOOoood – God’s been good to me, yeah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!”
This is simply nothing less than the apex of Joy and Gratitude in song! [*Just typing this while hearing Mahalia only in my mind, I still get goose bumps.*]
I’ll level with you, even this rock-hearted, Old School “Old Testament Guy” has felt the eyes get watery more than once while listening intently to this extraordinary Mahalia performance. And on one occasion (circa 1996), while listening to “HOW I GOT OVER” on a Walkman, I felt The Holy Spirit moving so powerfully through me that – I kid you not! – I sincerely believe that I could have laid hands on any wheelchair-bound person in the world at that very moment and they would have walked away. It was one of the most startling spiritual experiences of my young...
[*Cough!-Cough!*]
...life!
Van Morrison is only one of many musical performers who have publicly cited Mahalia Jackson as being one of the major influences on them. In his great song “GIVE ME MY RAPTURE”, he sings “Let me sing all day and never get tired” – a line he undoubtedly first heard sung by Mahalia in “HOW I GOT OVER.”
My friend “The Great L.C.” owns 8,000 compact discs (and that doesn’t count his vinyl L.P. collection which is growing again weekly). But the man of 8,000 CDs, has one favorite musical performer in particular: Todd Rundgren. And of Rundgren’s many albums, The Great L.C.’s favorite is “Nearly Human” which concludes with a long Gospel flavored number titled “I LOVE MY LIFE.” At the very end of that song, if you listen closely, you can hear one woman from that rafter-shaking Gospel choir (which oddly includes Clarence Clemons of Springsteen’s E Street Band fame) yell out, “Gettin’ Over!” Obviously, her participation in this high-energy Gospel shout reminded her of Jackson’s version of “HOW I GOT OVER” and she was inspired to pay tribute to The Queen!
And heck, it’s not just musicians and bloggers who have been mesmerized by The Queen Of Gospel: BO KNOWS MAHALIA, too. (If you’re younger than about 30, that last sentence didn’t make a lick of sense to you.)
Back in 1995 and 1996, I used to attend Sunday services and group classes at a particular spiritual center here in Phoenix. That’s where I acquired the nickname “The Old Testament Guy” because I didn’t go in for all of that feel-good, New Age, namby-pamby, handholding rub-a-dub-dub. At one point, while a regular at this center, I made a cassette compilation tape of spiritual music that I especially enjoyed for a woman I had become friendly with in our Tuesday night Search For God study group. The tape included, of course, Mahalia’s “HOW I GOT OVER.” My friend later reported back to me that she enjoyed every tune on the tape “except for that one with the woman shouting.” What the--! My jaw fell open, the sky in my mind grew dark, “lightnings, thunderings and voices”, and fearing for her soul, I benevolently warned her that she’d better repent immediately and get right with God or I’d see her in hell! Uhm… well… that didn’t come out quite right… but you know what I mean.
Despite the fact that I’ve been listening to Mahalia Jackson for nearly a decade and a half, strangely, it wasn’t until this most recent OWDQ (Obsession Wid Da Queen) that I suddenly realized two of my most treasured Mahalia songs, “ELIJAH ROCK” and “HOW I GOT OVER”, were recorded live before the same Stockholm, Sweden audience on April 14, 1961. This presents two outrageously delicious possibilities to consider: 1) If these two tracks are any indication, this might well have been the greatest live performance ever given. 2) Since these two tracks exist, it’s quite possible (even quite likely) that the entire show was recorded. Perhaps then the tape of this full concert is lying forgotten in a Columbia Records music vault somewhere and is just waiting to be discovered and released to the world. What a mother lode of riches THAT find would be: the greatest live Gospel performance in history now available for the first time in its entirety! Color me “preordering!”
Meanwhile, I’m trying hard to be a “good boy” because I’d like to go to Heaven if for no other reason than to have the opportunity to hear Mahalia live and in person singing and never getting tired: “Ladies and gentlemen, The Cloud Nine Last Supper Club now proudly presents… Mahalia Jackson, Mildred Falls and The Frog Five!” [*Standing ovation on a dangerously shaking cumulus.*]
I think the coolest liner notes I’ve ever found in a music album were penned by researcher/writer David Ritz for the collection titled “MAHALIA JACKSON: 16 MOST REQUESTED SONGS.” Here’s some of what he has to say:
The evening still haunts my imagination. I still smell the humid summer breeze, still see the enormous Texas sky turning shocking pink. The sun sets in a theatrical blaze as I sit in this minor league baseball park across the river from downtown Dallas. It is 1959 and I’m 16, a recent transplant from New York, here to see Mahalia Jackson. I’m curious. The roadhouse Texas blues has challenged my singular view of jazz – especially the hard bop of Monk and Miles – as the world’s only worthwhile music. But I’m still somewhat skeptical. I’m not looking or a revival meeting; I’m simply hungry for emotional music that sticks to the ribs. I watch the crowd file in. Three or four thousand people are dressed in church-going outfits, the men in flashy suits, the women in technicolor dresses, many in fancy hats of felt and straw. In a city where segregation still rules, there is no separate seating tonight. Except for myself and a handful of others, the audience is black. What to expect?
She is wearing white. Her dress is a mass of cascading white ruffles and white lace; the high white hat upon her beehive hairdo looks like a crown. She has a regal bearing about her. She stands in the center of the infield in the very spot where the pitcher’s mound has been removed. Seated at a grand piano placed next to Mahalia is a woman whose name, I’d later learn, is Mildred Falls. “Been singing all over the world,” says Mahalia. “Been singing in fancy concert halls where even kings and queens have come to hear what all the shoutin’ is about. I like that, but I like this more. This is like being home, this is singing to the folks who knew me way back when.” The crowd loves the shared loyalty. They’re on their feet, waving and applauding wildly, even before she sings a note. When Mildred strikes the first chord, anticipation is high; I lean forward in my seat. When Mahalia opens her mouth to sing, there’s an explosion of spirit that has me tingling, when suddenly an ugly electric buzz breaks the mood and kills the sound. Mahalia is miffed. She strikes the microphone with the palm of her hand. Nothing. She strikes it again. Still no sound. I’m uneasy. Will the concert be cancelled?
For a moment, she stands there, hands on her ample hips. She shakes her head and then smiles, shouting for all to hear, “They had singin’ way before electricity. And they gonna have singin’ after all the electricity in the world blows itself up. And we gonna have singin’ tonight, oh yes we are!” And with that she throws down the microphone and the microphone stand to the ground. She claps her hands, Mildred strikes another mighty chord, and Mahalia raises her head to the open sky, her voice coming through with such thunderous determination and exquisite clarity that the excited crowd will not be seated, will not stop waving and cheering as she sings “How I Got Over” and “Come On Children, Let’s Sing” and “Gonna Live The Life I Sing About In My Song.” As the excitement builds, Mahalia lifts her long dress an inch or two above her ankles and does a happy dance, skipping like a little girl; she waves her hand back to the celebrants waving at her; she declares “We’re having church tonight!”; she rocks to Mildred’s rhythms, rocks the ball park so hard the old wooden seats seem to sing; on slow hymns she extends her notes so long the earth stops turning, the star-filled sky twinking in appreciation. There is no doubt – not in my mind or the minds of Mahalia or Mildred or the jubilant congregation – that the God who has created the miracle of music is moving through this ballpark. As the strength of her voice grows, the fire of her conviction spreads and burns, even when the performance has ended, even as I write these words some forty years later.
Mahalia is mythic. … Her technique is surely astonishing, but it is her emotional directness – her eagerness to give all she’s got, to infuse her song with so much of herself until every melody is somehow Mahaliaized – that insures her immortality. From her biographers, memoirists and own autobiography (“Moving On Up”), we sense her personality was as dynamic and unpredictable as her singing style. … She was a childless mother who adored children and her role as matriarch of the family of gospel music. She could be difficult and distant, salty and sweet, volatile, gracious, unreasonable and strongwilled. Author Jules Schewerin quotes her telling off a producer, “How come, mister, you think you can tell me about that old song, when it was born in my mouth?” …
The old songs in this collection are magnificent. The range of material and settings give us a good glimpse into the depth of her life-affirming artistry. Covering 1954 to 1967, five years before her passing, these are shining samples from the period when Mahalia reigned supreme. There’s a generous offering of the rock-steady yet sensitive accompaniment of the great Mildred Falls. I especially love how they interact on “How I Got Over,” how Mahalia gives thanks for “old time religion” and “for giving me vision”, how she carries on, barely able to contain the thrill of gratitude and the force of righteous syncopation. … There’s a consistency about Mahalia – she’s consistently surprising – that makes me love her more with every listening.
Years ago, I was listening to a famous interpreter of African American music. “For all its glory,” he said, “gospel music is basically sublimated sexuality.” The idea stuck with me – and also disturbed me. It took me decades to realize that the very opposite may be true, that rhythm-and-blues may be basically sublimated spirituality. Personally, I don’t believe Mahalia Jackson was sublimated anything. She turned the feeling of earthly blues into heavenly song. She flipped over the coin that once read despair and now reads hope. I read her literally. I believe her totally. I receive her in the same spirit that washed over me as a teenager in Dallas. I may have come to scoff, but I stayed to pray.”
-- David Ritz; Los Angeles, 1996.
If either of my Blog readers are interested in acquiring some prime Gospel music, they will do no better than The Queen Of Gospel herself, Mahalia Jackson. Along with The Queen, you’ll be getting the distinctive piano stylings of her friend and musical sidekick, Mildred Falls. Mahalia and Mildred: Sistahs got some serious soul! This ain’t that wimpy, whiny, feminized white bread crying crap that passes for Gospel music these days; this is the real stuffs: rip-yer-heart-out and hand-it-to-ya musical praise. If you dig The King Of Rock ‘N’ Roll’s Gospel recordings, then Mahalia might be too real, too raw, and too macho for you. If you think Bono, Mick, and Madonna really get on down with their bad selves, then you’d better stick with them skinny White folks soz you don’t get yer soul dislocated by The Queen. But if you ain’t a-skeered of real deep, muscular music that goes the full twelve rounds In The Name Of God and pulls no punches ‘til the final bell rings, then (whether you’re a he or a she) you just might have the stones for Mahalia.
Do I dig Mahalia? Hail “Yeah!” Does a bear bolero in the woods? … Does a fox foxtrot in the forest? … Does a piglet polka in a mud pit? Does a snake samba through the sage? Does a whale waltz in the water? Does a roe rumba on the range? Does a doe do-si-do in the— OH, ALRIGHT! Sheesh, I was only havin’ a little fun. Kill-joys! … Crummy kill-joys.
~ Stephen T. McCarthy
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Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Thursday, June 5, 2008
THROWN BY A BIG BROWN HORSE (Or, MIGHTY CASEY WAS ON STEROIDS)
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It was probably 1990 or ’91 when the Countess (my then-girlfriend) and I found ourselves snaking up a steep and excessively winding road carved into the side of a craggy Utah mountain. It was just two skinny lanes, one for each direction, and I was at the wheel, stuck behind some old goat in a truck pulling his horse in a trailer behind him. We probably hadn’t topped 10 miles an hour over the last two trillion kilometers, but attempting to pass the truck and horse trailer on that grade would have been like playing Russian roulette against your overly polite Russian captor in a gulag using a fully loaded revolver: “After you, my American comrade. I insist!”
After several dangerous and ultimately aborted attempts to pass the trailer on that mountanside, my patience finally wore down and my frustration bubbled up as I blurted out, “Damn! I gotta get around this horse’s ass!”
I only told you that little story because it is in keeping with the equine theme of this Blog Bit and because it’s probably one of the funnier impromptu lines I ever came up with.
The Blog Bit I originally intended to post here was going to begin with what you read above. (Well, come to think of it, THIS Blog Bit begins with it also!) I had already composed all but the final few paragraphs of my intended Blog installment about the race horse BIG BROWN and his quest (now only a couple of days away from fulfillment) of being the first thoroughbred in 30 years to win horse racing’s nearly impossible Triple Crown. My Blog Bit was going to be titled “THE WORLD’S GREATEST ATHLETE IS A HORSE” and it was meant to be this heartwarming tale of how my Pa and I bonded at the horse races from the time I was just an 11 year old boy, and from there it segued into my enthusiasm over the exploits of this remarkable superhorse, Big Brown, and the incredible achievement that he is about to realize: Triple Crown victory. My Blog installment included a reference to this tearjerking story about Big Brown’s jockey, Kent Desormeaux, and Desormeaux’s young son who is quickly going blind but will fortunately see his Dad win the first Triple Crown in three decades.
After several dangerous and ultimately aborted attempts to pass the trailer on that mountanside, my patience finally wore down and my frustration bubbled up as I blurted out, “Damn! I gotta get around this horse’s ass!”
I only told you that little story because it is in keeping with the equine theme of this Blog Bit and because it’s probably one of the funnier impromptu lines I ever came up with.
The Blog Bit I originally intended to post here was going to begin with what you read above. (Well, come to think of it, THIS Blog Bit begins with it also!) I had already composed all but the final few paragraphs of my intended Blog installment about the race horse BIG BROWN and his quest (now only a couple of days away from fulfillment) of being the first thoroughbred in 30 years to win horse racing’s nearly impossible Triple Crown. My Blog Bit was going to be titled “THE WORLD’S GREATEST ATHLETE IS A HORSE” and it was meant to be this heartwarming tale of how my Pa and I bonded at the horse races from the time I was just an 11 year old boy, and from there it segued into my enthusiasm over the exploits of this remarkable superhorse, Big Brown, and the incredible achievement that he is about to realize: Triple Crown victory. My Blog installment included a reference to this tearjerking story about Big Brown’s jockey, Kent Desormeaux, and Desormeaux’s young son who is quickly going blind but will fortunately see his Dad win the first Triple Crown in three decades.
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And the Blog Bit was also loaded with (hopefully humorous) reminiscences like this:
After quitting my commercial sign designing job in 1984, and mentally armed with all my Pa had taught me about the horses, I attempted to make my living at “The Sport Of Kings.” Each night, I would handicap the next day’s races at Hollywood Park, and in the morning, I’d drive to the race track and place that day’s bets. Then my friend Pooh (who worked afternoons and evenings) and I would go to Azteca restaurant for lunch and to take advantage of their 10 A.M. to 1 P.M. One Dollar Margarita special. Well, by 1 P.M., when the Margarita Dollar Deal was done, Pooh would invariably be too drunk to go to work… so I’d have to drive him there.
My horse racing career lasted about 3 weeks before I traded my Daily Racing Form for the Classified Ads section and found myself scouring it for a job offer: “Needed – penniless, former margarita-guzzling horseplayer/chauffeur to flip burgers at The Minimum Wage Burger Palace.”
For sentimental reasons, this nearly completed Blog Bit I’d composed was already one of my own favorite pieces of writing I’ve ever done. I even had a bunch of superstar athletes lined up to make guest appearances, including Tiger Woods, Roger Federer, Kobe Bryant, and the entire defensive line of the New York Giants! Unfortunately, I had to scrap the whole thing when, in the process of researching a few facts with which to close the piece, I discovered to my great disappointment that the superhorse Big Brown is regularly administered steroids – a practice that is legal in 28 of the 38 states where horse racing occurs. The steroid of choice for Big Brown’s trainer, Rick Dutrow Jr., is Winstrol, also known as Stanozolol. This is the same performance-enhancing steroid that runner Ben Johnson and baseball player Rafael Palmeiro got caught using, and which the meat-faced, buttheaded pitcher, Roger Clemens, is accused of taking in the butt.
If Winstrol enhances a human being’s athletic performances but at the cost of unhealthy side effects, I can’t imagine that it’s any different for a thoroughbred horse.
After quitting my commercial sign designing job in 1984, and mentally armed with all my Pa had taught me about the horses, I attempted to make my living at “The Sport Of Kings.” Each night, I would handicap the next day’s races at Hollywood Park, and in the morning, I’d drive to the race track and place that day’s bets. Then my friend Pooh (who worked afternoons and evenings) and I would go to Azteca restaurant for lunch and to take advantage of their 10 A.M. to 1 P.M. One Dollar Margarita special. Well, by 1 P.M., when the Margarita Dollar Deal was done, Pooh would invariably be too drunk to go to work… so I’d have to drive him there.
My horse racing career lasted about 3 weeks before I traded my Daily Racing Form for the Classified Ads section and found myself scouring it for a job offer: “Needed – penniless, former margarita-guzzling horseplayer/chauffeur to flip burgers at The Minimum Wage Burger Palace.”
For sentimental reasons, this nearly completed Blog Bit I’d composed was already one of my own favorite pieces of writing I’ve ever done. I even had a bunch of superstar athletes lined up to make guest appearances, including Tiger Woods, Roger Federer, Kobe Bryant, and the entire defensive line of the New York Giants! Unfortunately, I had to scrap the whole thing when, in the process of researching a few facts with which to close the piece, I discovered to my great disappointment that the superhorse Big Brown is regularly administered steroids – a practice that is legal in 28 of the 38 states where horse racing occurs. The steroid of choice for Big Brown’s trainer, Rick Dutrow Jr., is Winstrol, also known as Stanozolol. This is the same performance-enhancing steroid that runner Ben Johnson and baseball player Rafael Palmeiro got caught using, and which the meat-faced, buttheaded pitcher, Roger Clemens, is accused of taking in the butt.
If Winstrol enhances a human being’s athletic performances but at the cost of unhealthy side effects, I can’t imagine that it’s any different for a thoroughbred horse.
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No doubt, Big Brown is a tremendously gifted athlete, and without question, this chemical asssistance is also being supplied to many of the horses he lines up against, but regardless, learning of his performance-enhanced condition immediately killed the thrill I had been experiencing in watching Big Brown blow the tails off of his competition and it instantaneously threw me into a deep funk! (I swear, I felt like listening to Pink Floyd’s “The Wall” through headphones while smoking a fifth of Jim Beam and drinking a kilo of weed. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but yeah, it was bad! Faster than I could say “Oh, sh#t!” my mood ring had turned an excrement brown.) Quite simply, we will never really know how Big Brown stacks up against the great thoroughbreds of the pre-steroid past; it would be like trying to compare apples and orangutans.
Before reading any further, be forewarned that a plate of Brussels sprouts, spinach and liver would go down easier than the rest of what I’m going to write here. Hang on to yer sense of humor - you’ll need it later. Despite all of the jocularity, I’m probably the most sadistic person— uhm, I meant PESSIMISTIC person – you’d never want to meet. Heck, I’m enough to drive the ever-optimistic Richard Simmons into a Haagen-Dazs binge and a lesbian love affair! If you think you like me, then you just don’t know me, do you? Well, do ya, punk?
Anyway, this sudden funk that I fell into was about much more than the disappointment of learning that my new Big Brown hero was a fraud; it brought back to mind all of the frauds of recent times: how one of my boyhood heroes, Pete Rose, had broken one of baseball’s cardinal rules by betting on the game – and worse yet, lied about it for years and years; how The Asterisk* (The Asterisk* is Barry Bonds) broke baseball’s greatest record (lifetime home runs) while utilizing performance-enhancing chemicals; how the entire world of professional sports is filthy with chemical cheats, from Jason Giambi and Mark McGwire to Marion Jones and damn near every other athlete you could name. Until a reliable test is developed to sniff out hGH, every single athlete in every single sport is suspect. I’ve got “big” news for ya: a woman cannot acquire a man’s physique and a man cannot acquire The Incredible Hulk’s physique without chemical assistance. (If you believe that Serena Williams comes by that Cassius Clay body naturally, I’ve got the Brooklyn Bridge, the Golden Gate Bridge, and a musical bridge that I can let you have for a song! Anyone wanna place any bets on whether or not that rumor about Lance Armstrong and “artificial assistance” might have a chemically-enhanced leg to stand on?)
But my “performance-enhanced funk” quickly spiraled into depression about the condition of “this world” altogether, which The Holy Bible clearly states is ruled by the devil himself: “The ruler of this world is coming, and he has nothing in Me. … My Kingdom is not of this world.” --Jesus; from John 14:30 & 18:36. [Also see Luke 4:5,6 and 1st John 5:19] It was brought back to my mind for the umpteenth time how even the simplest pleasures in life can be stolen by the wicked hand operating in this fraudulant world. “This world” is just a sad, distorted and inauthentic mocking of God’s spiritual Kingdom. I got to dwelling on how this country has fallen from Grace, and yet being on the cusp of a genuine economic depression, the politically retarded American People are about to elect yet another Socialist/Corporatist to lead the Executive Branch of our once-proud Republic. Hell, the American People wouldn’t recognize a Constitutional Principle if it got naked and sang “Yankee Doodle Dandy” on American Idol with a lit sparkler in its heinie. Oh, but Statism is “The Survivor” they vote to keep on the island.
Once again, I found myself focusing on the appalling intellectual dishonesty found in every politically correct Liberal, all of whom protect the new postmodern Socialism which has ruined our way of life and reduced us to a wholly immoral and unethical existence. With the inescapable MTV (mind control television) blaring 24/7, most Americans can’t begin to discern the difference between American and Un-American concepts. Republicans mistakenly believe that they are conservatives and Democrats mistakenly think that they are something else entirely (I’ll trade you one Neocon for a Liberal and we’ll call it “even”).
But I find it particularly distressing when even some of the people close to me seem to be utterly clueless: When one of my own former Reagan-voting relatives told me two years ago that she could envision herself voting for Hellary Clinton, I insinuated that perhaps she should consider herself politically conflicted. But truthfully, it was more severe than that: she was simply dangerously ignorant about Truth, Justice and The “American” Way (although a regular church-going Catholic she was).
I was recently contacted by a woman whom I had a rather debilitating case of “the hots” for 23 years ago, only to find now in 2008 that she is a self-proclaimed “feminist” “Democrat” who says, “I would never ever have an abortion although I am conflicted about telling other women what to do with their bodies.” (Gee, like I’ve never encountered THAT weak-kneed backdoor excuse for supporting abortion before!) She’s also a big Bruce Springsteen fan. In other words, she’s checked every item on the “Socialist’s Laundry List.” (Now, I’ll admit to having been a Springsteen fan myself in the early ‘80s, but hell, at least I got better; at least I came to recognize that a numbskull with a guitar is still just a numbskull.) Whaddaya wanna bet that this old friend of mine still believes in that CONVENIENT UNTRUTH about man-made global warming? That’s my guess, seeing as how independent research and objective analysis just doesn’t appear to be her cup of pinkie-raising rose hips and Swedish salt-glow aromatherapy double latte. Considering that this Ms.Lib is the same person who long ago introduced me to Ayn Rand’s ideas, it’s a mystery to me how she can now fall for every bit of the Socialistic “propagandogma.” I’m left scratching my head and wondering: Wha’ Hoppened? (Actually, I think WHA’ HOPPENED?” is commonly referred to as A COLLEGE EDUCATION.)
Of course, by stressing the faults of my fellow Americans, I’m certainly not implying that I myself am perfect… but only relatively so. ;o) Well, at any rate, I was at Trader Vic’s last night and MY HAIR was perfect.
The sports world is an artificial scam, but so is nearly everything else. There is no integrity to be found in our culture any longer: the men just want more, and higher, bigger, faster and flashier; bling, baby, bling! And the women, well, they just want to be men. (I find a John Deere tractor to be more feminine than most late Twentieth Century/early Twenty-First Century women.) We live in a world that is sexually perverted and obsessed with violence. Channel surf the TV for one hour and see if We The People (both men AND women) aren’t lusting for and entertained by casual sex, ultraviolent gore in the form of slasher movies, and extreme violence, with America’s bizarre and depraved cravings being satisfied by reality cage fights and martial arts productions up the yinyang. (American movies and television: if it ain’t about screwing brains out, it’s about knocking teeth out. But why settle for just one when we can have it all? Give The People what they want: a channel with nonstop programming of “The Ultimate Fighting And F###ing Championship.”) And while the American zombie sits transfixed by his/her boob tube, our Liberal social engineers have deliberately manipulated minds and disfigured God’s natural order, twisting it beyond all recognition in an attempt to remake “this world” in satan’s sick likeness.
Forget learning the truth about Santa Claus, I was once fond of saying that childhood came to an abrupt end for a California kid on the day he or she first noticed the strings attached to the “swimming” fish on Disneyland’s submarine ride. Innocence made those blatant strings invisible to children, but one day, innocence disappears and the strings take its place. Similarly, I recognized the very moment that America’s collective innocence had totally disappeared: it was when mannequin manufacturers began forming nipples on the breasts of female mannequins so that women could get an idea of what their busts would look like if they chose to go braless underneath that silk blouse with the plunging neckline. (Oh, but heaven help the poor male chauvinist pig who gets caught looking and mistakenly thinking of that “natural woman” as a sex object. Women! Sheesh! They’re phonier than McGwire, Clemens, Palmeiro, The Asterisk*, Jose Canseco, Ms. Jones and Big Brown all put together!)
Yes, the first time I noticed nipples on a mannequin, I intuitively knew that America was surely going down that long and winding road to an immoral, soul-sickening cesspool of satanic sensuality. And that was my “the glass is half full” assessment. The years have only proven that my sixth sense is number one.
There is virtually no place to go for extended relief: the pollution is thrust upon us at every turn by entertainers, by athletes, by artists, by musicians, by writers. Nothing can be trusted nor relied upon. We can believe no one of “this world”, not politicians, not college professors, not journalists, not policemen, not priests and ministers. Hell, the corruption is rampant and the dishonesty even extends to a couple of lawyers and judges!
As the years go by, I find myself increasingly able to relate to Saint Paul’s psychically painful predicament: “For Christ is my life, and to die is gain. Even if in this life of the flesh my labors bear fruits, I do not know what to choose. For I am torn between two desires, the one to depart, that I may be with Christ, which is far better; nevertheless, for me to remain in the flesh is more needful for you.”
One reason that Saint Paul’s quandary strikes me in such a profound manner is the fact that I generally feel that I have only one foot in “this world” and the other in “the other” - that is, Christ’s Kingdom, which is not of “this world.”
I realize that this rant is beginning to sound more like a suicide note than a Blog Bit, but if it were so, rather than titling this “Thrown By A Big Brown Horse”, I would have called it “Goodbye, Cruel World.” And as much as I would like to climb into my truck with a bottle of good Cabernet Sauvignon, crank the engine over and let it run in my enclosed garage until I’ve asphyxiated myself to death, I simply can’t afford enough gasoline to get the job done.
Oh, I’ll be the first person to proclaim that God has blessed me beyond exceedingly and Christ has protected me: Jesus has interacted with me in ways that, if I were to elaborate on them, it would “knock yer head clean off” (as Br’er Bear would say) and leave you incredulous. But that doesn’t change the fact that the Bible tells me that our social engineers working for satan will cause conditions to become worse still, and there is no guarantee that the promised joyful Curtain Call of Christ will occur in my own lifetime.
In “this world” of false idols, it’s all about fame, sex, brutality, and “Show me the money”, when it should be about Love, Truth, forgiveness and “The peace of God, which passeth all understanding.”
Speaking of the persecution that will follow for those who attempt to represent Him and His Principles on Earth, Jesus Christ promised: “And you will be hated by all on account of My name, but it is the one who has endured to the end who will be saved.” [Matt.10:23]
Certainly I want to endure to the end and be saved, and yet surely, I can’t be the only person who finds “this world” to be almost as unbearable as Big Brown is unbeatable. Well, I’ll conclude this rant with this Biblical question which I send straight to my Savior from the core of my heart and the heart of my soul:
“Return, O Lord! How long?”
Before reading any further, be forewarned that a plate of Brussels sprouts, spinach and liver would go down easier than the rest of what I’m going to write here. Hang on to yer sense of humor - you’ll need it later. Despite all of the jocularity, I’m probably the most sadistic person— uhm, I meant PESSIMISTIC person – you’d never want to meet. Heck, I’m enough to drive the ever-optimistic Richard Simmons into a Haagen-Dazs binge and a lesbian love affair! If you think you like me, then you just don’t know me, do you? Well, do ya, punk?
Anyway, this sudden funk that I fell into was about much more than the disappointment of learning that my new Big Brown hero was a fraud; it brought back to mind all of the frauds of recent times: how one of my boyhood heroes, Pete Rose, had broken one of baseball’s cardinal rules by betting on the game – and worse yet, lied about it for years and years; how The Asterisk* (The Asterisk* is Barry Bonds) broke baseball’s greatest record (lifetime home runs) while utilizing performance-enhancing chemicals; how the entire world of professional sports is filthy with chemical cheats, from Jason Giambi and Mark McGwire to Marion Jones and damn near every other athlete you could name. Until a reliable test is developed to sniff out hGH, every single athlete in every single sport is suspect. I’ve got “big” news for ya: a woman cannot acquire a man’s physique and a man cannot acquire The Incredible Hulk’s physique without chemical assistance. (If you believe that Serena Williams comes by that Cassius Clay body naturally, I’ve got the Brooklyn Bridge, the Golden Gate Bridge, and a musical bridge that I can let you have for a song! Anyone wanna place any bets on whether or not that rumor about Lance Armstrong and “artificial assistance” might have a chemically-enhanced leg to stand on?)
But my “performance-enhanced funk” quickly spiraled into depression about the condition of “this world” altogether, which The Holy Bible clearly states is ruled by the devil himself: “The ruler of this world is coming, and he has nothing in Me. … My Kingdom is not of this world.” --Jesus; from John 14:30 & 18:36. [Also see Luke 4:5,6 and 1st John 5:19] It was brought back to my mind for the umpteenth time how even the simplest pleasures in life can be stolen by the wicked hand operating in this fraudulant world. “This world” is just a sad, distorted and inauthentic mocking of God’s spiritual Kingdom. I got to dwelling on how this country has fallen from Grace, and yet being on the cusp of a genuine economic depression, the politically retarded American People are about to elect yet another Socialist/Corporatist to lead the Executive Branch of our once-proud Republic. Hell, the American People wouldn’t recognize a Constitutional Principle if it got naked and sang “Yankee Doodle Dandy” on American Idol with a lit sparkler in its heinie. Oh, but Statism is “The Survivor” they vote to keep on the island.
Once again, I found myself focusing on the appalling intellectual dishonesty found in every politically correct Liberal, all of whom protect the new postmodern Socialism which has ruined our way of life and reduced us to a wholly immoral and unethical existence. With the inescapable MTV (mind control television) blaring 24/7, most Americans can’t begin to discern the difference between American and Un-American concepts. Republicans mistakenly believe that they are conservatives and Democrats mistakenly think that they are something else entirely (I’ll trade you one Neocon for a Liberal and we’ll call it “even”).
But I find it particularly distressing when even some of the people close to me seem to be utterly clueless: When one of my own former Reagan-voting relatives told me two years ago that she could envision herself voting for Hellary Clinton, I insinuated that perhaps she should consider herself politically conflicted. But truthfully, it was more severe than that: she was simply dangerously ignorant about Truth, Justice and The “American” Way (although a regular church-going Catholic she was).
I was recently contacted by a woman whom I had a rather debilitating case of “the hots” for 23 years ago, only to find now in 2008 that she is a self-proclaimed “feminist” “Democrat” who says, “I would never ever have an abortion although I am conflicted about telling other women what to do with their bodies.” (Gee, like I’ve never encountered THAT weak-kneed backdoor excuse for supporting abortion before!) She’s also a big Bruce Springsteen fan. In other words, she’s checked every item on the “Socialist’s Laundry List.” (Now, I’ll admit to having been a Springsteen fan myself in the early ‘80s, but hell, at least I got better; at least I came to recognize that a numbskull with a guitar is still just a numbskull.) Whaddaya wanna bet that this old friend of mine still believes in that CONVENIENT UNTRUTH about man-made global warming? That’s my guess, seeing as how independent research and objective analysis just doesn’t appear to be her cup of pinkie-raising rose hips and Swedish salt-glow aromatherapy double latte. Considering that this Ms.Lib is the same person who long ago introduced me to Ayn Rand’s ideas, it’s a mystery to me how she can now fall for every bit of the Socialistic “propagandogma.” I’m left scratching my head and wondering: Wha’ Hoppened? (Actually, I think WHA’ HOPPENED?” is commonly referred to as A COLLEGE EDUCATION.)
Of course, by stressing the faults of my fellow Americans, I’m certainly not implying that I myself am perfect… but only relatively so. ;o) Well, at any rate, I was at Trader Vic’s last night and MY HAIR was perfect.
The sports world is an artificial scam, but so is nearly everything else. There is no integrity to be found in our culture any longer: the men just want more, and higher, bigger, faster and flashier; bling, baby, bling! And the women, well, they just want to be men. (I find a John Deere tractor to be more feminine than most late Twentieth Century/early Twenty-First Century women.) We live in a world that is sexually perverted and obsessed with violence. Channel surf the TV for one hour and see if We The People (both men AND women) aren’t lusting for and entertained by casual sex, ultraviolent gore in the form of slasher movies, and extreme violence, with America’s bizarre and depraved cravings being satisfied by reality cage fights and martial arts productions up the yinyang. (American movies and television: if it ain’t about screwing brains out, it’s about knocking teeth out. But why settle for just one when we can have it all? Give The People what they want: a channel with nonstop programming of “The Ultimate Fighting And F###ing Championship.”) And while the American zombie sits transfixed by his/her boob tube, our Liberal social engineers have deliberately manipulated minds and disfigured God’s natural order, twisting it beyond all recognition in an attempt to remake “this world” in satan’s sick likeness.
Forget learning the truth about Santa Claus, I was once fond of saying that childhood came to an abrupt end for a California kid on the day he or she first noticed the strings attached to the “swimming” fish on Disneyland’s submarine ride. Innocence made those blatant strings invisible to children, but one day, innocence disappears and the strings take its place. Similarly, I recognized the very moment that America’s collective innocence had totally disappeared: it was when mannequin manufacturers began forming nipples on the breasts of female mannequins so that women could get an idea of what their busts would look like if they chose to go braless underneath that silk blouse with the plunging neckline. (Oh, but heaven help the poor male chauvinist pig who gets caught looking and mistakenly thinking of that “natural woman” as a sex object. Women! Sheesh! They’re phonier than McGwire, Clemens, Palmeiro, The Asterisk*, Jose Canseco, Ms. Jones and Big Brown all put together!)
Yes, the first time I noticed nipples on a mannequin, I intuitively knew that America was surely going down that long and winding road to an immoral, soul-sickening cesspool of satanic sensuality. And that was my “the glass is half full” assessment. The years have only proven that my sixth sense is number one.
There is virtually no place to go for extended relief: the pollution is thrust upon us at every turn by entertainers, by athletes, by artists, by musicians, by writers. Nothing can be trusted nor relied upon. We can believe no one of “this world”, not politicians, not college professors, not journalists, not policemen, not priests and ministers. Hell, the corruption is rampant and the dishonesty even extends to a couple of lawyers and judges!
As the years go by, I find myself increasingly able to relate to Saint Paul’s psychically painful predicament: “For Christ is my life, and to die is gain. Even if in this life of the flesh my labors bear fruits, I do not know what to choose. For I am torn between two desires, the one to depart, that I may be with Christ, which is far better; nevertheless, for me to remain in the flesh is more needful for you.”
One reason that Saint Paul’s quandary strikes me in such a profound manner is the fact that I generally feel that I have only one foot in “this world” and the other in “the other” - that is, Christ’s Kingdom, which is not of “this world.”
I realize that this rant is beginning to sound more like a suicide note than a Blog Bit, but if it were so, rather than titling this “Thrown By A Big Brown Horse”, I would have called it “Goodbye, Cruel World.” And as much as I would like to climb into my truck with a bottle of good Cabernet Sauvignon, crank the engine over and let it run in my enclosed garage until I’ve asphyxiated myself to death, I simply can’t afford enough gasoline to get the job done.
Oh, I’ll be the first person to proclaim that God has blessed me beyond exceedingly and Christ has protected me: Jesus has interacted with me in ways that, if I were to elaborate on them, it would “knock yer head clean off” (as Br’er Bear would say) and leave you incredulous. But that doesn’t change the fact that the Bible tells me that our social engineers working for satan will cause conditions to become worse still, and there is no guarantee that the promised joyful Curtain Call of Christ will occur in my own lifetime.
In “this world” of false idols, it’s all about fame, sex, brutality, and “Show me the money”, when it should be about Love, Truth, forgiveness and “The peace of God, which passeth all understanding.”
Speaking of the persecution that will follow for those who attempt to represent Him and His Principles on Earth, Jesus Christ promised: “And you will be hated by all on account of My name, but it is the one who has endured to the end who will be saved.” [Matt.10:23]
Certainly I want to endure to the end and be saved, and yet surely, I can’t be the only person who finds “this world” to be almost as unbearable as Big Brown is unbeatable. Well, I’ll conclude this rant with this Biblical question which I send straight to my Savior from the core of my heart and the heart of my soul:
“Return, O Lord! How long?”
[Ps.90:13]
“This world” is a sick ‘n’ sad fraud, it is a disappointment, a Love killer. “This world” is a called third strike on the outside corner with two outs in the bottom of the ninth inning of game seven. Well, that’s it for the home team, sports fans. WAIT ‘TIL NEXT YEAR . . . . . in Jerusalem.
“This world” is a sick ‘n’ sad fraud, it is a disappointment, a Love killer. “This world” is a called third strike on the outside corner with two outs in the bottom of the ninth inning of game seven. Well, that’s it for the home team, sports fans. WAIT ‘TIL NEXT YEAR . . . . . in Jerusalem.
.
~ Stephen T. McCarthy
.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
HIGHWAY ZIMMERMAN REVISITED
[*From the STMcC Archive: 2008, March.*]
My friend at work, The Great L.C., owns 8,000 compact discs (really!). For the last year or two, he has left on his desk whatever albums I’ve requested so I can hear them on Saturdays when it’s just the building, the ghost and I.
Recently I created a new Listmania List for Amazon.com titled “MUSIC FOR YOUR DRINKING PLEASURE (80 Proof Tunes 4 Boozin’ 2)”
This lighthearted list features many records I used to drink to and contemplate in the late ‘70s and early ‘80s. One of those albums was Bob Dylan’s BRINGING IT ALL BACK HOME, but not having heard it for 25 years, I asked The Great L.C. to leave it for me just over a week ago. In two words, I was “Blown Away!” Yes, it was my favorite Dylan record back then, but I had forgotten most of it. I had forgotten that the countless times through the decades when I said, “It’s life and life only”, it was Dylan’s song “IT’S ALRIGHT, MA (I’m Only Bleeding)” that I was quoting from. If someone - knowing that I still owned the albums BLOOD ON THE TRACKS and SLOW TRAIN COMING - had asked me a month ago what I thought of Dylan, I would have said, “He was fairly good, but he didn’t have much impact on me.”
So, imagine my surprise to find a huge portion of myself being sung back to me while I was listening to BRINGING IT ALL BACK HOME. It felt like I had stepped back in time and come face to face with my youthful self as it was unconsciously developing its own writing “voice.” I always knew that I had picked up some of Steinbeck’s empathy and Twain’s cynicism, humor, and sense of irony. But I never realized before that I had learned how to manipulate words, how to PLAY with concepts, and learned how to swing wide the mind’s gate encouraging the ingression of ideas, by listening to Bob Dylan all those many years back. Only now do I realize that my “voice” is a combination of Twain, Steinbeck, Dylan, and the most lonesome and homesick shade of the color Goldenshadow that we can live with. (If only I had one tenth the talent of any of these three aforementioned artists, I would be rich and famous, and you’d have to pay $ to read what I write… which would be much better than THIS!)
I use the word “genius” very judiciously. Even so, I now openly acknowledge that Bob Dylan was/is a true genius, and that it took me this long to realize that fact only proves that a genius I am not. Just over a week ago, I was suddenly astounded by his wordplay and the unbelievable imagination dam burst and creative cataract that is BRINGING IT ALL BACK HOME. It is a veritable embarrassment of wild riches; like finding a magic pot full of inspiring ideas at the end of the rainbow! And I find it mind-boggling when I remember that this album was recorded in 1965, just 9 years after Elvis sang “You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog!” Nine years? Goodness! I hear nine lives and nine galaxies between them.
BRINGING IT ALL BACK HOME is an aural treasure chest of social commentary, well-placed authoritarian rebellion, wonderful wordsmithing, and periodic hammering on “the part of the elbow where the ulnar nerve passes by the internal condyle of the humerus.” I like his sinuous, whiplash rhythms and how he occasionally forces the beat to conform to the lyric, rather than the other way around. And that contagious LAUGHTER at the false start of “BOB DYLAN’S 115th DREAM” … Dang! Being able to hear that laugh again and again, anytime one chooses, is worth the entire price of the album all by itself! (If you’ve never laughed that hard, you’ve missed out on the very best that life has to offer!)
It is only now, at age 48 in 2008, that I fully understand what caused all the Dylan adulation back in the ‘60s. That these sounds still seem so special, so exciting, and still pull the listener into Zimmyland 43 years after they were recorded, is the real evidence proving that BRINGING IT ALL BACK HOME is a genuine musical masterpiece. Here it was a major influence on my own writing unbeknownst to me; I was assimilating it for years without being aware of the internal activity taking place within my mind. However, it was unexpectedly ALL BROUGHT BACK HOME and revealed to me these 25 years later. Why did I not “see” what I was hearing in the late ‘70s and very early ‘80s? I guess I just needed to experience more “life” before I could really experience what Mr. Zimmerman had produced. And I have to believe that some of my deafness was related to my lust for loud, fast music: roaring guitars and tough posturing.
That’s not to say I didn’t like Dylan -- I did, obviously, but he was “just another musician” whom I enjoyed listening to; nothing really special; not a genius, not a writing teacher or an instructor in the creative process. Or so I thought. Beyond these explanations, my only excuse is the timeworn but ever reliable: “Uhp! I’m an idiot!”
Now that I’ve confessed to my former ignorance, I’ll close this Blog installment with a word-for-word copy of a love letter (?!) that I wrote to a girl I liked back in June of 1983; hopefully you will find this half as amusing as I do. Terrill was an American friend who was raised in Holland but was living in Greece at the time that I wrote to her (eat your heart out George Thorogood!) I have always kept a photograph of Terrill inside my compact disc case of Dylan’s BLOOD ON THE TRACKS album because, coincidentally, that collection of songs has always reminded me of her in so very many ways. The letter is loaded with seemingly random, fleeting thoughts and has such a double-jointed stream-of-consciousness style about it that it struck me as being “Dylanesque” even as I was writing it, and I actually commented on that fact in the letter itself. It is loony like Daffy Duck, but it does exhibit my youthful personality (read: “insanity”).
[*NOTE: As mentioned in my letter, I did go to see a movie that evening. It was "Koyaanisqatsi: Life Out Of Balance" and to this day, it remains my all-time favorite film!]
~ Stephen T. McCarthy
LOVE LETTER TO TERRILL; June, 1983 :
Wow, I am SO hungover.
Doug and MD are in Palm Springs. Last night, Twinkie and me and Lynth went out and got so drunk. I feel OK except I keep getting these fast bizarre thoughts. I have nothing to do so I thought I’d write, right? (Write, Right…that’s almost like Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman or New York, New York.) I’m at the corner of Ocean Ave. and Linnie Ave. in Venice. It’s about 4 or 5 blocks from the beach. I’m sitting in the bed of my truck with my 500 pound non-portable typewriter. I am so hungover. I don’t know why I’m doing this. I got drunk last night. It’s something I’m good at. I’ll bet I’m…I’ll bet I can get drunk better than you. Terrill, I’m worried about your drinking! I like Southern Calif. Out here, you can type in your truck by the beach ‘cause you feel like it and nobody cares. Now if I tried to take my typewriter down to the beach in say, a state like Texas, I’d probably get arrested for disturbing the peace.
I’m not drunk, just hungover. In fact, I haven’t had a drink since last night. Everytime I wake up with a hangover, it seems that I had been drinking the night before. Amazing! I’m beginning to think that it’s not just a coincidence!
Uh, when I woke up this morning (Hey, did you like the way I started this sentence with the word “Uh”? It makes it seem like I’m talking instead of writing. I think that’s neat. I’m going to have to try using that a little bit later in this letter and see if it works just as well a second time. “Uh”, that’s a good word; I wonder who made that one up.) When I woke up this morning I went into Mark’s room and slipped into bed with him. At first he started to complain about it but I said, “Hey, relax, it’s all we’ve got.” But we just talked about our hangovers for a while and then…and then, whatever. But I mean we’re not like people in San Francisco, if that’s what you’re thinking.
Uh, this morning Mark went fishing in Malibu. (Notice I used “Uh” again. It worked as well as it did before…don’t you think?) I don’t like fishing because I don’t like to hurt things, and you know I think fish are probably “things” and when they get that hook through their mouths it probably hurts. I don’t really care about fish all that much but I still wouldn’t want to hurt them! I’ve seen more fish than you, nyahhh, nyahhh, nyahhh!
This is a beautiful day; last night was fuzzy. If you, Terrill, were here right now you know what we’d do? We’d probably be walking along the beach, here in Venice, and you know how people sell their art here? Well, we’d be going by and I’d look at some painting and (it would be a good sized one) I would say to you, “Hey, Terrill…look at this, do you like this painting?” And you would say, “Not especially, do you?” And I’d say, “Oh, it’s OK…kind of interesting, I think.” But we wouldn’t buy it ‘cause we couldn’t afford it. So then we’d go to one of those cafes on the beach and get a beer and watch the waves and the dogs and the Frisbees.
I’m not going to drink today. I’m getting tired of drinking; I think I’ll find something else to start doing.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say that I was Bob Dylan.
So what are you going to do tonight? I might see a movie. I saw one once before and I thought it was pretty good.
I’ll have to Xerox a copy of this letter ‘cause otherwise I won’t believe I wrote it ten years from now. Everytime I just get going, this stupid bell rings and I gotta (see, there it happened again) start a new line.
Some tourists just walked by and stared at me. They probably thought I was some weirdo from California. Oh, if they only knew.
Hey, I hope this letter isn’t scaring you. Is it? It’s not meant to. Sometimes I scare MYSELF. But this is just something fun to do. You know how it is. I’m really not crazy…just mentally disturbed. But seeing as how Father’s Day is coming up soon, I just thought I’d write.
You don’t have to reply to this letter (a boat just went by) ‘cause I’m going to write another one in about a week. A real one. Right now my mind is just in the ozone layer. I think it’s because of the hangover because I don’t usually write letters like this to you. At least I haven’t before.
Hey.
So, anyway, uh, do you think you’re wunderbar? Stupid word. So is groovy and glad and stupid, stupid words. I have to drive because I’m too hungover to walk.
You know what I was just thinking? That if you wrote me a letter all in Dutch I wouldn’t understand any of it. Not only can I not read Dutch but I can’t even speak it. It’s all Greek to me! Get it? Greek. Hey, do all Greek men really have hairy chests and do they all really wear gold chains? I’ll bet a Molson they do!
Some girl smiled at me. She was probably a weirdo tho. You know how these Venice types are!
I’m really something. You probably think this is all real romantic, don’t you? You probably think you’re real cute, sitting there on some street in your truck, typing a letter, don’t you? Think you’re real creative or unique or something, right? Well, you’re not. Anybody can do that. That doesn’t make you a real artist. It proves only your stupidity. Dumb girl.
My leg fell asleep.
I hope this letter doesn’t scare you. You like it, don’t you? I hope so…I’m writing it specially for you. I’ll be back to normal tomorrow. Normal…how boring!
Think of this letter as a post card, OK?
Oh wow.
Hey, I’m going to write you another letter later. Letter later. And I’m going to send a couple pictures, also. Neat, huh? Isn’t the postal service neat? Neat is another stupid word.
Well, listen…I’m gonna go now. I mean, sh#t, you think I got nothing better to do than write you a post card? Hell, I’m a busy guy. Sh#t and hell…two cuss words in one paragraph. Pretty good, huh? Think you can do that?
Don’t cuss. I don’t like it when you cuss. Well, OK, you can cuss but just a little bit. Nothing too vulgar, though. Just like, whatever…sh#t, hell, damn, potty, etc. You know, just ladylike cuss words.
Well, I gotta go. You’ll get a real letter from me in a little while and then…well, whatever…you can read it and stuff like that.
‘Bye. Be good. Nice, whatever. (Wow, I am SO hungover.)
-- Bob Dylan
.
My friend at work, The Great L.C., owns 8,000 compact discs (really!). For the last year or two, he has left on his desk whatever albums I’ve requested so I can hear them on Saturdays when it’s just the building, the ghost and I.
Recently I created a new Listmania List for Amazon.com titled “MUSIC FOR YOUR DRINKING PLEASURE (80 Proof Tunes 4 Boozin’ 2)”
This lighthearted list features many records I used to drink to and contemplate in the late ‘70s and early ‘80s. One of those albums was Bob Dylan’s BRINGING IT ALL BACK HOME, but not having heard it for 25 years, I asked The Great L.C. to leave it for me just over a week ago. In two words, I was “Blown Away!” Yes, it was my favorite Dylan record back then, but I had forgotten most of it. I had forgotten that the countless times through the decades when I said, “It’s life and life only”, it was Dylan’s song “IT’S ALRIGHT, MA (I’m Only Bleeding)” that I was quoting from. If someone - knowing that I still owned the albums BLOOD ON THE TRACKS and SLOW TRAIN COMING - had asked me a month ago what I thought of Dylan, I would have said, “He was fairly good, but he didn’t have much impact on me.”
So, imagine my surprise to find a huge portion of myself being sung back to me while I was listening to BRINGING IT ALL BACK HOME. It felt like I had stepped back in time and come face to face with my youthful self as it was unconsciously developing its own writing “voice.” I always knew that I had picked up some of Steinbeck’s empathy and Twain’s cynicism, humor, and sense of irony. But I never realized before that I had learned how to manipulate words, how to PLAY with concepts, and learned how to swing wide the mind’s gate encouraging the ingression of ideas, by listening to Bob Dylan all those many years back. Only now do I realize that my “voice” is a combination of Twain, Steinbeck, Dylan, and the most lonesome and homesick shade of the color Goldenshadow that we can live with. (If only I had one tenth the talent of any of these three aforementioned artists, I would be rich and famous, and you’d have to pay $ to read what I write… which would be much better than THIS!)
I use the word “genius” very judiciously. Even so, I now openly acknowledge that Bob Dylan was/is a true genius, and that it took me this long to realize that fact only proves that a genius I am not. Just over a week ago, I was suddenly astounded by his wordplay and the unbelievable imagination dam burst and creative cataract that is BRINGING IT ALL BACK HOME. It is a veritable embarrassment of wild riches; like finding a magic pot full of inspiring ideas at the end of the rainbow! And I find it mind-boggling when I remember that this album was recorded in 1965, just 9 years after Elvis sang “You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog!” Nine years? Goodness! I hear nine lives and nine galaxies between them.
BRINGING IT ALL BACK HOME is an aural treasure chest of social commentary, well-placed authoritarian rebellion, wonderful wordsmithing, and periodic hammering on “the part of the elbow where the ulnar nerve passes by the internal condyle of the humerus.” I like his sinuous, whiplash rhythms and how he occasionally forces the beat to conform to the lyric, rather than the other way around. And that contagious LAUGHTER at the false start of “BOB DYLAN’S 115th DREAM” … Dang! Being able to hear that laugh again and again, anytime one chooses, is worth the entire price of the album all by itself! (If you’ve never laughed that hard, you’ve missed out on the very best that life has to offer!)
It is only now, at age 48 in 2008, that I fully understand what caused all the Dylan adulation back in the ‘60s. That these sounds still seem so special, so exciting, and still pull the listener into Zimmyland 43 years after they were recorded, is the real evidence proving that BRINGING IT ALL BACK HOME is a genuine musical masterpiece. Here it was a major influence on my own writing unbeknownst to me; I was assimilating it for years without being aware of the internal activity taking place within my mind. However, it was unexpectedly ALL BROUGHT BACK HOME and revealed to me these 25 years later. Why did I not “see” what I was hearing in the late ‘70s and very early ‘80s? I guess I just needed to experience more “life” before I could really experience what Mr. Zimmerman had produced. And I have to believe that some of my deafness was related to my lust for loud, fast music: roaring guitars and tough posturing.
That’s not to say I didn’t like Dylan -- I did, obviously, but he was “just another musician” whom I enjoyed listening to; nothing really special; not a genius, not a writing teacher or an instructor in the creative process. Or so I thought. Beyond these explanations, my only excuse is the timeworn but ever reliable: “Uhp! I’m an idiot!”
Now that I’ve confessed to my former ignorance, I’ll close this Blog installment with a word-for-word copy of a love letter (?!) that I wrote to a girl I liked back in June of 1983; hopefully you will find this half as amusing as I do. Terrill was an American friend who was raised in Holland but was living in Greece at the time that I wrote to her (eat your heart out George Thorogood!) I have always kept a photograph of Terrill inside my compact disc case of Dylan’s BLOOD ON THE TRACKS album because, coincidentally, that collection of songs has always reminded me of her in so very many ways. The letter is loaded with seemingly random, fleeting thoughts and has such a double-jointed stream-of-consciousness style about it that it struck me as being “Dylanesque” even as I was writing it, and I actually commented on that fact in the letter itself. It is loony like Daffy Duck, but it does exhibit my youthful personality (read: “insanity”).
[*NOTE: As mentioned in my letter, I did go to see a movie that evening. It was "Koyaanisqatsi: Life Out Of Balance" and to this day, it remains my all-time favorite film!]
~ Stephen T. McCarthy
LOVE LETTER TO TERRILL; June, 1983 :
Wow, I am SO hungover.
Doug and MD are in Palm Springs. Last night, Twinkie and me and Lynth went out and got so drunk. I feel OK except I keep getting these fast bizarre thoughts. I have nothing to do so I thought I’d write, right? (Write, Right…that’s almost like Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman or New York, New York.) I’m at the corner of Ocean Ave. and Linnie Ave. in Venice. It’s about 4 or 5 blocks from the beach. I’m sitting in the bed of my truck with my 500 pound non-portable typewriter. I am so hungover. I don’t know why I’m doing this. I got drunk last night. It’s something I’m good at. I’ll bet I’m…I’ll bet I can get drunk better than you. Terrill, I’m worried about your drinking! I like Southern Calif. Out here, you can type in your truck by the beach ‘cause you feel like it and nobody cares. Now if I tried to take my typewriter down to the beach in say, a state like Texas, I’d probably get arrested for disturbing the peace.
I’m not drunk, just hungover. In fact, I haven’t had a drink since last night. Everytime I wake up with a hangover, it seems that I had been drinking the night before. Amazing! I’m beginning to think that it’s not just a coincidence!
Uh, when I woke up this morning (Hey, did you like the way I started this sentence with the word “Uh”? It makes it seem like I’m talking instead of writing. I think that’s neat. I’m going to have to try using that a little bit later in this letter and see if it works just as well a second time. “Uh”, that’s a good word; I wonder who made that one up.) When I woke up this morning I went into Mark’s room and slipped into bed with him. At first he started to complain about it but I said, “Hey, relax, it’s all we’ve got.” But we just talked about our hangovers for a while and then…and then, whatever. But I mean we’re not like people in San Francisco, if that’s what you’re thinking.
Uh, this morning Mark went fishing in Malibu. (Notice I used “Uh” again. It worked as well as it did before…don’t you think?) I don’t like fishing because I don’t like to hurt things, and you know I think fish are probably “things” and when they get that hook through their mouths it probably hurts. I don’t really care about fish all that much but I still wouldn’t want to hurt them! I’ve seen more fish than you, nyahhh, nyahhh, nyahhh!
This is a beautiful day; last night was fuzzy. If you, Terrill, were here right now you know what we’d do? We’d probably be walking along the beach, here in Venice, and you know how people sell their art here? Well, we’d be going by and I’d look at some painting and (it would be a good sized one) I would say to you, “Hey, Terrill…look at this, do you like this painting?” And you would say, “Not especially, do you?” And I’d say, “Oh, it’s OK…kind of interesting, I think.” But we wouldn’t buy it ‘cause we couldn’t afford it. So then we’d go to one of those cafes on the beach and get a beer and watch the waves and the dogs and the Frisbees.
I’m not going to drink today. I’m getting tired of drinking; I think I’ll find something else to start doing.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say that I was Bob Dylan.
So what are you going to do tonight? I might see a movie. I saw one once before and I thought it was pretty good.
I’ll have to Xerox a copy of this letter ‘cause otherwise I won’t believe I wrote it ten years from now. Everytime I just get going, this stupid bell rings and I gotta (see, there it happened again) start a new line.
Some tourists just walked by and stared at me. They probably thought I was some weirdo from California. Oh, if they only knew.
Hey, I hope this letter isn’t scaring you. Is it? It’s not meant to. Sometimes I scare MYSELF. But this is just something fun to do. You know how it is. I’m really not crazy…just mentally disturbed. But seeing as how Father’s Day is coming up soon, I just thought I’d write.
You don’t have to reply to this letter (a boat just went by) ‘cause I’m going to write another one in about a week. A real one. Right now my mind is just in the ozone layer. I think it’s because of the hangover because I don’t usually write letters like this to you. At least I haven’t before.
Hey.
So, anyway, uh, do you think you’re wunderbar? Stupid word. So is groovy and glad and stupid, stupid words. I have to drive because I’m too hungover to walk.
You know what I was just thinking? That if you wrote me a letter all in Dutch I wouldn’t understand any of it. Not only can I not read Dutch but I can’t even speak it. It’s all Greek to me! Get it? Greek. Hey, do all Greek men really have hairy chests and do they all really wear gold chains? I’ll bet a Molson they do!
Some girl smiled at me. She was probably a weirdo tho. You know how these Venice types are!
I’m really something. You probably think this is all real romantic, don’t you? You probably think you’re real cute, sitting there on some street in your truck, typing a letter, don’t you? Think you’re real creative or unique or something, right? Well, you’re not. Anybody can do that. That doesn’t make you a real artist. It proves only your stupidity. Dumb girl.
My leg fell asleep.
I hope this letter doesn’t scare you. You like it, don’t you? I hope so…I’m writing it specially for you. I’ll be back to normal tomorrow. Normal…how boring!
Think of this letter as a post card, OK?
Oh wow.
Hey, I’m going to write you another letter later. Letter later. And I’m going to send a couple pictures, also. Neat, huh? Isn’t the postal service neat? Neat is another stupid word.
Well, listen…I’m gonna go now. I mean, sh#t, you think I got nothing better to do than write you a post card? Hell, I’m a busy guy. Sh#t and hell…two cuss words in one paragraph. Pretty good, huh? Think you can do that?
Don’t cuss. I don’t like it when you cuss. Well, OK, you can cuss but just a little bit. Nothing too vulgar, though. Just like, whatever…sh#t, hell, damn, potty, etc. You know, just ladylike cuss words.
Well, I gotta go. You’ll get a real letter from me in a little while and then…well, whatever…you can read it and stuff like that.
‘Bye. Be good. Nice, whatever. (Wow, I am SO hungover.)
-- Bob Dylan
.
"STUFFS" HAPPENS
[*From the STMcC Archive: 2008, Feb.]
Recently I was describing my religious viewpoint which is an amalgamation that entails a belief in and/or acceptance of 58.33% Christianity; Bad Dreams; two and a half buckets full of Buddhism things; foundational Winnie-The-Poohism…with strings; an old, lonely dog’s howl at the moon; a mellow Karen Carpenter tune; a baker’s dozen of Bobs Watson’s tears; and six cold Sierra Nevada beers. [*Crimony! Is anyone still reading this drivel? GET A LIFE!*]
Put it all together and what have you got? I dunno, but I’ll bet that 666,000 fools would drop money in it if I passed the collection plate, and would follow me in if I jumped in a lake. Bah-Bah-Bad Sheep, have you any brains? “No, Pastor Stephen, dey’s washed out by da rains!” Oh, Man! Brothers and Sisters, you’re probably wondering why I called you here: I have a dream… that one day I’ll wake up to find myself living in a Beverly Hills mansion, sharing my bed with a gorgeous European sports car, and with a collection of restored, classic supermodels parked in my football stadium-sized garage just waiting for me to take them for a ride. Will you pay for my dream? Say “Amen”, Brothers and Sisters! Can I get a “Hallelujah!”? Dig deep my faithful flock, while Sister Bertrille passes the plate and Brother Bojangles plays ‘Give Me That New Age Self-Glorification’ on his holy kazoo!
Sorry. I got carried away. [*It’s that dead debarred lawyer’s spirit which possesses the dead used car salesman’s spirit which possesses Stephen, who sometimes gets the best of both of them. If that made sense to you, then you’ll want to make an appointment with Stephen’s shrink… or his exorcists.*]
I purchased this cheap cardboard sign in Virginia City, Nevada, back about… uhm… well, back when I bought it. I don’t know who came up with these definitions for various religions, as they are uncredited. I therefore suspect that the writer is that famous Greek philosopher, Anonymous – who seems to have written more good stuffs than any other single literary giant, including that brilliant but alcoholic English pub hound, Shakyspear. I altered one of the following descriptions (“altered” = improved) and even added a couple more (“added” = invented), and I will put an “stm” (my initials) behind the ones that I had something to do with, so as not to misrepresent Anonymous. [*Yeah, and so he can squeeze every little bit of personal credit possible out of this strictly nonprofessional pseudo-entertainment.*] Without further ado, here is…..
THE SHORT GUIDE TO COMPARATIVE RELIGION:
TAOISM:
Sh#t Happens.
JEHOVAH’S WITNESSES:
Knock!-Knock! Sh#t Happens.
CATHOLICISM:
Sh#t Happens because you’re bad.
PROTESTANTISM:
Sh#t Happens because you don’t work hard enough.
ISLAM:
If Sh#t Happens, it’s the will of allah.
AGNOSTICISM:
Maybe Sh#t Happens, maybe it doesn’t.
ATHEISM:
No Sh#t!
JUDAISM:
Why does this Sh#t always Happen to us?
MORMONISM:
Sh#t Happens, but my wives and I are prepared for it. (stm)
BUDDHISM:
If Sh#t really Happens, it’s not really sh#t.
HARE KRISHNA:
Meatless Sh#t Happens. (stm)
HINDUISM:
This Sh#t Happened before.
CHRISTIAN SCIENCE:
The Sh#t only Happens in your mind.
MYSTICISM:
I am one with the Sh#t that Happens. (stm)
HEDONISM:
There’s nothing like a good Sh#t Happening.
EXISTENTIALISM:
What is this Sh#t anyway?
STOICISM:
This Sh#t doesn’t bother me.
T.V. EVANGELISM:
Send more Sh#t.
RASTAFARIANISM:
Let’s smoke this Sh#t.
I sincerely hope that I didn’t offend anyone with this comparative religion guide; I certainly didn’t mean to. [*That’s a crock of “Stuff” that “Happens”! He not only meant to offend everyone, but he DID IT, too!*]
OK, but seriously, folks, despite the fact that I don’t fully accept all of the tenets of any organized religion, I myself am – honestly! – quite religious. [*Yeah. He worships Jim Beam and he buys that brand of bourbon religiously!*] Jesus Christ is my personal Savior and the President of my world; He’s my principal Advisor and my Bodyguard. You want to mess with me, you gotta get past Jesus first, and nobody but NOBODY gets past Him: Jesus Saves. [*He’d make a great goalie!*] Heck, Jesus has even managed to save me from marriage, making him my Best Man for REAL and the aptly nicknamed “Prince of Peace.” [*Sure, but think about the terrific bachelor party and the many food processors you never got!*]
A lot of people don’t realize that Jesus actually does exist and that one can choose to have a true friendship with Him. I find that Jesus walks in my shoes with me [*And that’s why Stephen’s feet are forever hurting him!*] and the person who accuses me of being a “Jesus Freak” has in fact “nailed it.”
I think that one of the best things ever said about Jesus was not said at all, but was actually sung. In his song “WHY?” (available on the album “JOY IN THE JOURNEY: 10 YEARS OF GREATEST HITS”), Christian wordsmith Michael Card sang:
WHY DID IT HAVE TO BE A HEAVY CROSS HE WAS MADE TO BEAR?
AND WHY DID THEY NAIL HIS FEET AND HANDS
WHEN HIS LOVE WOULD HAVE HELD HIM THERE?
If a person doesn’t comprehend why that verse which Michael Card sings in “WHY?” is Truth of the Highest Order, then that individual has not the slightest understanding of why Jesus was hanging around down here. But you see, the thing of it is: LOVE Happened!
May you Bless And Be Blessed.
~ Stephen T. McCarthy
[*Who can only hope that he’s been “forgiven” for his sinful Sense O’Humor.*]
Recently I was describing my religious viewpoint which is an amalgamation that entails a belief in and/or acceptance of 58.33% Christianity; Bad Dreams; two and a half buckets full of Buddhism things; foundational Winnie-The-Poohism…with strings; an old, lonely dog’s howl at the moon; a mellow Karen Carpenter tune; a baker’s dozen of Bobs Watson’s tears; and six cold Sierra Nevada beers. [*Crimony! Is anyone still reading this drivel? GET A LIFE!*]
Put it all together and what have you got? I dunno, but I’ll bet that 666,000 fools would drop money in it if I passed the collection plate, and would follow me in if I jumped in a lake. Bah-Bah-Bad Sheep, have you any brains? “No, Pastor Stephen, dey’s washed out by da rains!” Oh, Man! Brothers and Sisters, you’re probably wondering why I called you here: I have a dream… that one day I’ll wake up to find myself living in a Beverly Hills mansion, sharing my bed with a gorgeous European sports car, and with a collection of restored, classic supermodels parked in my football stadium-sized garage just waiting for me to take them for a ride. Will you pay for my dream? Say “Amen”, Brothers and Sisters! Can I get a “Hallelujah!”? Dig deep my faithful flock, while Sister Bertrille passes the plate and Brother Bojangles plays ‘Give Me That New Age Self-Glorification’ on his holy kazoo!
Sorry. I got carried away. [*It’s that dead debarred lawyer’s spirit which possesses the dead used car salesman’s spirit which possesses Stephen, who sometimes gets the best of both of them. If that made sense to you, then you’ll want to make an appointment with Stephen’s shrink… or his exorcists.*]
I purchased this cheap cardboard sign in Virginia City, Nevada, back about… uhm… well, back when I bought it. I don’t know who came up with these definitions for various religions, as they are uncredited. I therefore suspect that the writer is that famous Greek philosopher, Anonymous – who seems to have written more good stuffs than any other single literary giant, including that brilliant but alcoholic English pub hound, Shakyspear. I altered one of the following descriptions (“altered” = improved) and even added a couple more (“added” = invented), and I will put an “stm” (my initials) behind the ones that I had something to do with, so as not to misrepresent Anonymous. [*Yeah, and so he can squeeze every little bit of personal credit possible out of this strictly nonprofessional pseudo-entertainment.*] Without further ado, here is…..
THE SHORT GUIDE TO COMPARATIVE RELIGION:
TAOISM:
Sh#t Happens.
JEHOVAH’S WITNESSES:
Knock!-Knock! Sh#t Happens.
CATHOLICISM:
Sh#t Happens because you’re bad.
PROTESTANTISM:
Sh#t Happens because you don’t work hard enough.
ISLAM:
If Sh#t Happens, it’s the will of allah.
AGNOSTICISM:
Maybe Sh#t Happens, maybe it doesn’t.
ATHEISM:
No Sh#t!
JUDAISM:
Why does this Sh#t always Happen to us?
MORMONISM:
Sh#t Happens, but my wives and I are prepared for it. (stm)
BUDDHISM:
If Sh#t really Happens, it’s not really sh#t.
HARE KRISHNA:
Meatless Sh#t Happens. (stm)
HINDUISM:
This Sh#t Happened before.
CHRISTIAN SCIENCE:
The Sh#t only Happens in your mind.
MYSTICISM:
I am one with the Sh#t that Happens. (stm)
HEDONISM:
There’s nothing like a good Sh#t Happening.
EXISTENTIALISM:
What is this Sh#t anyway?
STOICISM:
This Sh#t doesn’t bother me.
T.V. EVANGELISM:
Send more Sh#t.
RASTAFARIANISM:
Let’s smoke this Sh#t.
I sincerely hope that I didn’t offend anyone with this comparative religion guide; I certainly didn’t mean to. [*That’s a crock of “Stuff” that “Happens”! He not only meant to offend everyone, but he DID IT, too!*]
OK, but seriously, folks, despite the fact that I don’t fully accept all of the tenets of any organized religion, I myself am – honestly! – quite religious. [*Yeah. He worships Jim Beam and he buys that brand of bourbon religiously!*] Jesus Christ is my personal Savior and the President of my world; He’s my principal Advisor and my Bodyguard. You want to mess with me, you gotta get past Jesus first, and nobody but NOBODY gets past Him: Jesus Saves. [*He’d make a great goalie!*] Heck, Jesus has even managed to save me from marriage, making him my Best Man for REAL and the aptly nicknamed “Prince of Peace.” [*Sure, but think about the terrific bachelor party and the many food processors you never got!*]
A lot of people don’t realize that Jesus actually does exist and that one can choose to have a true friendship with Him. I find that Jesus walks in my shoes with me [*And that’s why Stephen’s feet are forever hurting him!*] and the person who accuses me of being a “Jesus Freak” has in fact “nailed it.”
I think that one of the best things ever said about Jesus was not said at all, but was actually sung. In his song “WHY?” (available on the album “JOY IN THE JOURNEY: 10 YEARS OF GREATEST HITS”), Christian wordsmith Michael Card sang:
WHY DID IT HAVE TO BE A HEAVY CROSS HE WAS MADE TO BEAR?
AND WHY DID THEY NAIL HIS FEET AND HANDS
WHEN HIS LOVE WOULD HAVE HELD HIM THERE?
If a person doesn’t comprehend why that verse which Michael Card sings in “WHY?” is Truth of the Highest Order, then that individual has not the slightest understanding of why Jesus was hanging around down here. But you see, the thing of it is: LOVE Happened!
May you Bless And Be Blessed.
~ Stephen T. McCarthy
[*Who can only hope that he’s been “forgiven” for his sinful Sense O’Humor.*]
Saturday, May 24, 2008
FLOATIE FOR VICE PRESIDENT IN 2008
[*From the STMcC Archive: 2008, Jan. 1st.]
Last October, my brother Napoleon and I held an estate sale in preparation for putting our house on the market with the hope of selling it and getting the hell out of Hell (A.K.A. Airheadzona). Our real estate agent put us in contact with a nice woman named Kathy who conducted the estate sale for us (last name withheld as I’m sure she wouldn’t want the world to know that she knows us). Enclosed with our check from Kathy was a sale recap which included the comments: “You guys have been the most entertaining clients I have had to date. It has been a pleasure to meet and work for you.” [FYI: My Brother and I are also available to perform at birthday parties, bar mitzvahs, wedding receptions, bachelor parties and wet T-shirt contests (be sure to ask about our senior citizens discount). Yes, you too can hire and be personally entertained by the renowned Brothers McCarthy who over the years have thrilled countless visiting circus freaks and carny folks!]
I was pleasantly surprised when we received a homemade computer-generated Christmas card from Kathy, the back of which read, “Printed with lead-based ink in China (just kidding!)” Now you understand how this woman can appreciate foul balls like Nappy and me. The card had the names of all of the family members printed in it, along with their dogs (2) and cats (7), and mentioned last was “FLOATIE (Frog. Yes, he’s still alive!)”
I hopped right on an E-mail thanking Kathy for the card, and I wrote: “I was very relieved to learn that FLOATIE is still with us. (Even though I didn't even know there was a Floatie until your card arrived.) Ya know, I've always been a sucker for a tough toad. And that Floatie... well, I guess they just don't come any tougher than he is. That frog may be the last amphibian standing. (I hope he remembers to turn out the lights after he's eaten the last fly standing.)”
I came to learn that FLOATIE is a water frog that Kathy gave to her Son for Christmas when he was 7 years old. That was 18 years ago; Floatie was just a tadpole then, and Kathy’s Son was only a tadlad. Floatie (who was only expected to live 2-5 years) became a frog, while Kathy’s Son became a man. Floatie Frog is now only two years away from breaking the record. Someday, some filmmaker is going to make a documentary about fantastic Floatie titled ’THE FROG THAT WOULDN’T CROAK.’
Naturally, this story made me think of DR. RON PAUL who is running for president in 2008. So strongly do I believe that if this current Congressman was leading the Executive branch of our government it would be a healthy tonic and healing balm for the USA, that on December 27th, I made the ultimate sacrifice for him. No, I didn’t lay down my life –- something much more drastic and depressing than that: I reregistered as a Republican. I have been an Independent for many years, but Airheadzona recently changed its voting procedures, making Independents ineligible to vote in the primary elections. Only by becoming a “Repugnantcan” am I able to cast my vote for RON PAUL in Airheadzona’s Primary. I hope to be living in another state soon anyway, so I will revert to an Independent after I leave here and the state of Airheadzona returns my grey matter to me. (When you arrive here, they confiscate your brain at the border but give you a claim check in the event that you should ever recognize your mistake and move back: “Brains? We don’t need no stinking brains! Bienvenidos a Arizona. Marque el numero dos para continuar su vida en espanol.”)
But what of DR. RON PAUL? Despite the old adage (“Never trust a man with two first names”), Doctor Paul has proven himself to be a trustworthy American Patriot by remaining faithful to the U.S. Constitution during his many years as a Texas Congressman. Never once has he robbed Ron to pay Paul. So many times has he voted against legislation which clearly usurped the Constitution’s authority and transgressed its articulated limitations on Federal power that in the Legislative branch of our government, he has the nickname “DOCTOR NO.” I have been following RON PAUL’s Congressional career for years and I’ve often said that RON PAUL is probably the only real American patriot in Washington D.C. That sentiment is seconded by the former Treasury Secretary William Simon, who has said that Ron Paul is the “ONE EXCEPTION TO THE GANG OF 535” on Capitol Hill.
Shortly after he announced his candidacy, DOCTOR PAUL was interviewed by Stephen Colbert on TV’s The Colbert Report. I think this exchange really summed it all up.
COLBERT: “I’m not sure how to feel about you. … You voted against The Patriot Act, you voted against the Iraq war, but you also hate taxes and you hate gun control. … Are you a Republican or are you not a Republican?”
DR. PAUL: “Now you’re confused because I’m a Constitutionalist and you haven’t met one in a long time. And it’s not that unusual to put those together if you believe in The Rule Of Law, and you believe in The American Tradition, and believe in Limited Government, and believe in Liberty.”
Having donated money to a politician’s political campaign for the first time in my life, I have received E-mail updates from RON PAUL. One of them included the following:
“I want you to know how much I owe you, and everyone dedicated to the real America. You and I know our real country - the America of the Constitution and the Bill of Rights, of economic, civil, and personal liberty, of strong families and communities, of great businesses and professions, of strong peace and low taxes and sound money - all of which are under assault by the politicians who occupy our nation's capital.
“With your help -- and I can't do anything without your help -- I want to change all that. Together, we can restore our constitutional republic, and oust the mountebanks who violate the ideals of the Founders with income taxes, Federal Reserve inflation, deficit spending, preemptive wars, torture, secret prisons, and abolition of habeas corpus.”
On December 3rd, RON PAUL sent an E-mail that nearly inspired me to go outside and fly my Betsy Ross American Revolutionary flag:
“There were two moments I especially enjoyed at the CNN/YouTube debate -- despite my frustration at some of the questions, and the maldistribution of time.
“First, I was pleased at John McCain's attack … mainstream politicians NEVER attack an opponent they think is far behind. The McCain campaign, we've heard, is worried sick about New Hampshire, and they thought a slam at me would help. Ha! Of course, it only strengthened our forces.
"Then, after the debate, Rudy Giuliani walked up to me and said, "Oooh, you sure have a LOT of supporters." It's only the beginning, I told him.
“Indeed, he could have told that by the crowd outside after the debate. Mitt Romney had a few people, but no one else did. We, on the other hand, had about 500 enthusiastic revolutionaries, plus a boat, a trolley, and two planes towing lighted signs. As I looked out at the crowd, I thought: the establishment has no idea of what they are facing. We have an army of freedom, prosperity, and peace. As the L.A. Times political blog noted the other day, the British also thought they had no problem with the Americans -- until Yorktown.”
I would love to see RON PAUL win the Republican nomination and then name FLOATIE FROG as his running mate. Just like Floatie, the enduring American Ideals of Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of a Free Lunch will NEVER DIE!
I am posting website addresses below and I urge you all to explore them well and consider them deeply before casting any vote for America’s next president. The first is RON PAUL’s official presidential campaign website detailing his voting pattern and what he continues to stand for. The second is an article he wrote titled “The End Of Dollar Hegemony” and for many people it will be an absolutely shocking piece which examines the house of cards we call our “economy” and explains why our servicemen have been dying (and will continue to die) in the Middle East.
Bear in mind that RON PAUL is the only presidential candidate from either party who has vowed to end the Iraq War immediately if elected. He may also be the only presidential candidate from either party who does not have ties to the Council on Foreign Relations (I’m not sure if Duncan Hunter does). If that statement holds no meaning for you, then run – don’t walk! – to my Amazon.com ’So You’d Like To’ guide titled “STOP BEING A USEFUL IDIOT.”
The Ron Paul Website:
http://www.ronpaul2008.com/
The American Economy And The War In Iraq:
http://www.lewrockwell.com/paul/paul303.html
Ron Paul’s latest books for sale are titled:
'The Revolution: A Manifesto' [*Published 2008, April]
'A Foreign Policy Of Freedom: Peace, Commerce, And Honest Friendship'
Please check out the websites above.
If not for your country and not for me,
Then do it for FLOATIE,
So he’ll live forever in the Land of the Free.
Let’s put RON PAUL in the White House so that Hellary, Obama, Rudy, Romney, and Old Man McCain will learn firsthand that “It Ain’t Easy Bein’ Green” with envy. FLOATIE would approve -- after all, RON PAUL has already been endorsed by The American Frog Federation (AFF), and we all know that traditionally when a presidential candidate endorsed by the AFF is elected, it means that there will not be four more years of “Winter” in the USA.
Sincerely, Your Friend And Mine…
~ Stephen T. McCarthy
(Whose greatest dream is to become so wealthy that he can afford to get drunk in an airport bar.)
.
Last October, my brother Napoleon and I held an estate sale in preparation for putting our house on the market with the hope of selling it and getting the hell out of Hell (A.K.A. Airheadzona). Our real estate agent put us in contact with a nice woman named Kathy who conducted the estate sale for us (last name withheld as I’m sure she wouldn’t want the world to know that she knows us). Enclosed with our check from Kathy was a sale recap which included the comments: “You guys have been the most entertaining clients I have had to date. It has been a pleasure to meet and work for you.” [FYI: My Brother and I are also available to perform at birthday parties, bar mitzvahs, wedding receptions, bachelor parties and wet T-shirt contests (be sure to ask about our senior citizens discount). Yes, you too can hire and be personally entertained by the renowned Brothers McCarthy who over the years have thrilled countless visiting circus freaks and carny folks!]
I was pleasantly surprised when we received a homemade computer-generated Christmas card from Kathy, the back of which read, “Printed with lead-based ink in China (just kidding!)” Now you understand how this woman can appreciate foul balls like Nappy and me. The card had the names of all of the family members printed in it, along with their dogs (2) and cats (7), and mentioned last was “FLOATIE (Frog. Yes, he’s still alive!)”
I hopped right on an E-mail thanking Kathy for the card, and I wrote: “I was very relieved to learn that FLOATIE is still with us. (Even though I didn't even know there was a Floatie until your card arrived.) Ya know, I've always been a sucker for a tough toad. And that Floatie... well, I guess they just don't come any tougher than he is. That frog may be the last amphibian standing. (I hope he remembers to turn out the lights after he's eaten the last fly standing.)”
I came to learn that FLOATIE is a water frog that Kathy gave to her Son for Christmas when he was 7 years old. That was 18 years ago; Floatie was just a tadpole then, and Kathy’s Son was only a tadlad. Floatie (who was only expected to live 2-5 years) became a frog, while Kathy’s Son became a man. Floatie Frog is now only two years away from breaking the record. Someday, some filmmaker is going to make a documentary about fantastic Floatie titled ’THE FROG THAT WOULDN’T CROAK.’
Naturally, this story made me think of DR. RON PAUL who is running for president in 2008. So strongly do I believe that if this current Congressman was leading the Executive branch of our government it would be a healthy tonic and healing balm for the USA, that on December 27th, I made the ultimate sacrifice for him. No, I didn’t lay down my life –- something much more drastic and depressing than that: I reregistered as a Republican. I have been an Independent for many years, but Airheadzona recently changed its voting procedures, making Independents ineligible to vote in the primary elections. Only by becoming a “Repugnantcan” am I able to cast my vote for RON PAUL in Airheadzona’s Primary. I hope to be living in another state soon anyway, so I will revert to an Independent after I leave here and the state of Airheadzona returns my grey matter to me. (When you arrive here, they confiscate your brain at the border but give you a claim check in the event that you should ever recognize your mistake and move back: “Brains? We don’t need no stinking brains! Bienvenidos a Arizona. Marque el numero dos para continuar su vida en espanol.”)
But what of DR. RON PAUL? Despite the old adage (“Never trust a man with two first names”), Doctor Paul has proven himself to be a trustworthy American Patriot by remaining faithful to the U.S. Constitution during his many years as a Texas Congressman. Never once has he robbed Ron to pay Paul. So many times has he voted against legislation which clearly usurped the Constitution’s authority and transgressed its articulated limitations on Federal power that in the Legislative branch of our government, he has the nickname “DOCTOR NO.” I have been following RON PAUL’s Congressional career for years and I’ve often said that RON PAUL is probably the only real American patriot in Washington D.C. That sentiment is seconded by the former Treasury Secretary William Simon, who has said that Ron Paul is the “ONE EXCEPTION TO THE GANG OF 535” on Capitol Hill.
Shortly after he announced his candidacy, DOCTOR PAUL was interviewed by Stephen Colbert on TV’s The Colbert Report. I think this exchange really summed it all up.
COLBERT: “I’m not sure how to feel about you. … You voted against The Patriot Act, you voted against the Iraq war, but you also hate taxes and you hate gun control. … Are you a Republican or are you not a Republican?”
DR. PAUL: “Now you’re confused because I’m a Constitutionalist and you haven’t met one in a long time. And it’s not that unusual to put those together if you believe in The Rule Of Law, and you believe in The American Tradition, and believe in Limited Government, and believe in Liberty.”
Having donated money to a politician’s political campaign for the first time in my life, I have received E-mail updates from RON PAUL. One of them included the following:
“I want you to know how much I owe you, and everyone dedicated to the real America. You and I know our real country - the America of the Constitution and the Bill of Rights, of economic, civil, and personal liberty, of strong families and communities, of great businesses and professions, of strong peace and low taxes and sound money - all of which are under assault by the politicians who occupy our nation's capital.
“With your help -- and I can't do anything without your help -- I want to change all that. Together, we can restore our constitutional republic, and oust the mountebanks who violate the ideals of the Founders with income taxes, Federal Reserve inflation, deficit spending, preemptive wars, torture, secret prisons, and abolition of habeas corpus.”
On December 3rd, RON PAUL sent an E-mail that nearly inspired me to go outside and fly my Betsy Ross American Revolutionary flag:
“There were two moments I especially enjoyed at the CNN/YouTube debate -- despite my frustration at some of the questions, and the maldistribution of time.
“First, I was pleased at John McCain's attack … mainstream politicians NEVER attack an opponent they think is far behind. The McCain campaign, we've heard, is worried sick about New Hampshire, and they thought a slam at me would help. Ha! Of course, it only strengthened our forces.
"Then, after the debate, Rudy Giuliani walked up to me and said, "Oooh, you sure have a LOT of supporters." It's only the beginning, I told him.
“Indeed, he could have told that by the crowd outside after the debate. Mitt Romney had a few people, but no one else did. We, on the other hand, had about 500 enthusiastic revolutionaries, plus a boat, a trolley, and two planes towing lighted signs. As I looked out at the crowd, I thought: the establishment has no idea of what they are facing. We have an army of freedom, prosperity, and peace. As the L.A. Times political blog noted the other day, the British also thought they had no problem with the Americans -- until Yorktown.”
I would love to see RON PAUL win the Republican nomination and then name FLOATIE FROG as his running mate. Just like Floatie, the enduring American Ideals of Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of a Free Lunch will NEVER DIE!
I am posting website addresses below and I urge you all to explore them well and consider them deeply before casting any vote for America’s next president. The first is RON PAUL’s official presidential campaign website detailing his voting pattern and what he continues to stand for. The second is an article he wrote titled “The End Of Dollar Hegemony” and for many people it will be an absolutely shocking piece which examines the house of cards we call our “economy” and explains why our servicemen have been dying (and will continue to die) in the Middle East.
Bear in mind that RON PAUL is the only presidential candidate from either party who has vowed to end the Iraq War immediately if elected. He may also be the only presidential candidate from either party who does not have ties to the Council on Foreign Relations (I’m not sure if Duncan Hunter does). If that statement holds no meaning for you, then run – don’t walk! – to my Amazon.com ’So You’d Like To’ guide titled “STOP BEING A USEFUL IDIOT.”
The Ron Paul Website:
http://www.ronpaul2008.com/
The American Economy And The War In Iraq:
http://www.lewrockwell.com/paul/paul303.html
Ron Paul’s latest books for sale are titled:
'The Revolution: A Manifesto' [*Published 2008, April]
'A Foreign Policy Of Freedom: Peace, Commerce, And Honest Friendship'
Please check out the websites above.
If not for your country and not for me,
Then do it for FLOATIE,
So he’ll live forever in the Land of the Free.
Let’s put RON PAUL in the White House so that Hellary, Obama, Rudy, Romney, and Old Man McCain will learn firsthand that “It Ain’t Easy Bein’ Green” with envy. FLOATIE would approve -- after all, RON PAUL has already been endorsed by The American Frog Federation (AFF), and we all know that traditionally when a presidential candidate endorsed by the AFF is elected, it means that there will not be four more years of “Winter” in the USA.
Sincerely, Your Friend And Mine…
~ Stephen T. McCarthy
(Whose greatest dream is to become so wealthy that he can afford to get drunk in an airport bar.)
.
Friday, May 23, 2008
THE 15 DAYS OF CHRISTMAS (A Communist China Tradition)
[*From the STMcC Archive: 2007, Nov.]
For most of us, Christmas is a time of giving, feasting, visiting, and recalling joyful memories while getting falling DOWN liquored UP. Who isn’t reminded of that special gift? The first bicycle perhaps, or an electric train, a puppy dog, a urinating baby doll that cries “Change me”, or a Charlie McCarthy ventriloquist’s dummy. (That last one was MY favorite childhood present. My least favorite gift was a children’s Bible from my Aunt; it made me cry. But “Blessed are those who mourn,” Jesus said, “for they shall be comforted.” And I was indeed comforted when I saw what my Brother received from my Aunt: one-piece, pink bunny pajamas.
“Fa-ra-ra-ra-Ra / ra-ra-ra-Ra!”)
Ordinarily I prefer to post lighthearted “stuffs” on my Blog because life is just darned serious enough already. But this time I want to take the opportunity to remind us all of the realities that we often tend to lose sight of after that eighth mug of hot buttered rum. Not everyone is celebrating Christ’s birth as pleasantly as we are. The following true story of Christian persecution comes from the book “JESUS FREAKS; VOLUME II” by dc Talk and the Voice of the Martyrs, copyright 2002 by Bethany House Publishers:
Pastor Li De Xian speaks about suffering from experience. The man who said “I will preach until I die” has stuck to his word. Despite continued pressure from the Public Security Bureau (PSB), Pastor Li refuses to miss a service unless he is in prison, or change his message of salvation through Jesus Christ. During the period of October 2000 to May 2001, he was arrested fifteen times for preaching in his unregistered house church in Guangzhou. He has been arrested so many times during the past two years that he has lost count. During one recent detention, jailers tied his arms and legs together and chained his arms and legs to a bedpost for three days. When they finally released him from this torture, he was forced to work on an assembly line in the prison factory PUTTING BULBS INTO STRINGS OF CHRISTMAS LIGHTS TO SEND TO AMERICA! He and the others had a quota of between 4 and 5 thousand bulbs a day. … Li has seen imprisoned Christians tortured so badly that their buttocks bled through their clothing. He spent 15 DAYS in prison on this particular occasion.
Yet rather than this experience teaching him to be afraid, it has taught him to be prepared. He travels at all times with a small black duffel bag that he keeps packed with a blanket and a change of clothes – the things he will need for prison whenever he is arrested next. “Arrests will come at any time, but we are not afraid, as we have prepared ourselves, and we have not done any crimes.” Whenever possible he will spend his time in prison reading THE BIBLE, something he manages to smuggle in with amazing regularity.
His wife, Zhao Xia, strongly supports him in this and refuses to worry. “God will take care of him,” she says, “so there is no need to worry.”
“Don’t feel sorry for us,” Zhao Xia says of their lifestyle. “At least we are constantly reminded that we are in a spiritual war. We know for whom we are fighting. We know who the enemy is. And we are fighting. Perhaps we should pray for you Christians outside of China. In your leisure, in your affluence, in your freedom, sometimes you no longer realize that you are in spiritual warfare.”
This Christmastime, as we shop for gifts that express our love to others, let’s keep in mind that China embraces Communism - a failed economic/social system responsible for murdering approximately 100 million human beings worldwide, and torturing and starving many millions more. Perhaps we shouldn’t monetarily support nations like China (and others) that deny basic human rights to their citizens.
Now before I ruin Christmas for everyone, pour yourself another eggnog (not you, Rudolph! You’ve clearly had enough nose paint already!) and let me attempt to lighten the atmosphere with a few genuine responses that boys ’n’ girls gave to Art Linkletter on his 1950s TV show House Party. These come from the book “KIDS SAY THE DARNDEST THINGS”:
Q: Where did you get that scratched nose? Have an accident?
A: It was nothing much. I fell out of the Christmas tree.
Q: Have you written Santa Claus?
A: I’d better whisper in your ear or I’m going to spoil Christmas for these other kids.
Q: Did you see Santa this year?
A: See him? I fixed him a bourbon and water.
OK, last and least, if you’re interested, feel free to visit my Ghost Of Christmas Reviews Past at Amazon.com by clicking the links below. These are some Yuletide reviews I previously wrote which prove I haven’t always been an Ebenezer Grinch.
My review for the compact disc
The Christmas Music of Johnny Mathis: A Personal Collection
is titled: "Attention! This E-Mail Just In From THE NORTH POLE."
My review for the classical compact disc
The Best of Leroy Anderson: Sleigh Ride
is titled: "BARKING DOGS, WALTZING CATS, AND A RIDE WITH ROCCO!"
My review for the book
It's a Wonderful Christmas: The Best of the Holidays 1940-1965
is titled: "Take McQUARTHY'S QUIZMAS QUIZ..." (Do take the test and learn how little you really know about the Christmas holiday!)
Well, Merry Christmas, Fruitcakes!
Have you been naughty or nice?
Nice is alright but lacks some of the spice.
Naughty’s heavy on spice but comes at a price.
The price of naughty can be a lot of thrown rice.
Might ah suggest you should maybe— ah say,
You should maybe think twice.
~ Stephen T. McCarthy
POSTSCRIPT: A nice Pal wrote the following:
"Please don't forget to include that WONDERFUL holiday story you sent as a Christmas card to me last year. It was about the correspondence you received from your incarcerated pen pal. That was such an amazing, lump in the throat tale."
So, by special request, here it is:
My Amazon.com 'So You'd Like To' guide titled, See IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE Come To Life! (A Xmas Miracle)
.
For most of us, Christmas is a time of giving, feasting, visiting, and recalling joyful memories while getting falling DOWN liquored UP. Who isn’t reminded of that special gift? The first bicycle perhaps, or an electric train, a puppy dog, a urinating baby doll that cries “Change me”, or a Charlie McCarthy ventriloquist’s dummy. (That last one was MY favorite childhood present. My least favorite gift was a children’s Bible from my Aunt; it made me cry. But “Blessed are those who mourn,” Jesus said, “for they shall be comforted.” And I was indeed comforted when I saw what my Brother received from my Aunt: one-piece, pink bunny pajamas.
“Fa-ra-ra-ra-Ra / ra-ra-ra-Ra!”)
Ordinarily I prefer to post lighthearted “stuffs” on my Blog because life is just darned serious enough already. But this time I want to take the opportunity to remind us all of the realities that we often tend to lose sight of after that eighth mug of hot buttered rum. Not everyone is celebrating Christ’s birth as pleasantly as we are. The following true story of Christian persecution comes from the book “JESUS FREAKS; VOLUME II” by dc Talk and the Voice of the Martyrs, copyright 2002 by Bethany House Publishers:
Pastor Li De Xian speaks about suffering from experience. The man who said “I will preach until I die” has stuck to his word. Despite continued pressure from the Public Security Bureau (PSB), Pastor Li refuses to miss a service unless he is in prison, or change his message of salvation through Jesus Christ. During the period of October 2000 to May 2001, he was arrested fifteen times for preaching in his unregistered house church in Guangzhou. He has been arrested so many times during the past two years that he has lost count. During one recent detention, jailers tied his arms and legs together and chained his arms and legs to a bedpost for three days. When they finally released him from this torture, he was forced to work on an assembly line in the prison factory PUTTING BULBS INTO STRINGS OF CHRISTMAS LIGHTS TO SEND TO AMERICA! He and the others had a quota of between 4 and 5 thousand bulbs a day. … Li has seen imprisoned Christians tortured so badly that their buttocks bled through their clothing. He spent 15 DAYS in prison on this particular occasion.
Yet rather than this experience teaching him to be afraid, it has taught him to be prepared. He travels at all times with a small black duffel bag that he keeps packed with a blanket and a change of clothes – the things he will need for prison whenever he is arrested next. “Arrests will come at any time, but we are not afraid, as we have prepared ourselves, and we have not done any crimes.” Whenever possible he will spend his time in prison reading THE BIBLE, something he manages to smuggle in with amazing regularity.
His wife, Zhao Xia, strongly supports him in this and refuses to worry. “God will take care of him,” she says, “so there is no need to worry.”
“Don’t feel sorry for us,” Zhao Xia says of their lifestyle. “At least we are constantly reminded that we are in a spiritual war. We know for whom we are fighting. We know who the enemy is. And we are fighting. Perhaps we should pray for you Christians outside of China. In your leisure, in your affluence, in your freedom, sometimes you no longer realize that you are in spiritual warfare.”
This Christmastime, as we shop for gifts that express our love to others, let’s keep in mind that China embraces Communism - a failed economic/social system responsible for murdering approximately 100 million human beings worldwide, and torturing and starving many millions more. Perhaps we shouldn’t monetarily support nations like China (and others) that deny basic human rights to their citizens.
Now before I ruin Christmas for everyone, pour yourself another eggnog (not you, Rudolph! You’ve clearly had enough nose paint already!) and let me attempt to lighten the atmosphere with a few genuine responses that boys ’n’ girls gave to Art Linkletter on his 1950s TV show House Party. These come from the book “KIDS SAY THE DARNDEST THINGS”:
Q: Where did you get that scratched nose? Have an accident?
A: It was nothing much. I fell out of the Christmas tree.
Q: Have you written Santa Claus?
A: I’d better whisper in your ear or I’m going to spoil Christmas for these other kids.
Q: Did you see Santa this year?
A: See him? I fixed him a bourbon and water.
OK, last and least, if you’re interested, feel free to visit my Ghost Of Christmas Reviews Past at Amazon.com by clicking the links below. These are some Yuletide reviews I previously wrote which prove I haven’t always been an Ebenezer Grinch.
My review for the compact disc
The Christmas Music of Johnny Mathis: A Personal Collection
is titled: "Attention! This E-Mail Just In From THE NORTH POLE."
My review for the classical compact disc
The Best of Leroy Anderson: Sleigh Ride
is titled: "BARKING DOGS, WALTZING CATS, AND A RIDE WITH ROCCO!"
My review for the book
It's a Wonderful Christmas: The Best of the Holidays 1940-1965
is titled: "Take McQUARTHY'S QUIZMAS QUIZ..." (Do take the test and learn how little you really know about the Christmas holiday!)
Well, Merry Christmas, Fruitcakes!
Have you been naughty or nice?
Nice is alright but lacks some of the spice.
Naughty’s heavy on spice but comes at a price.
The price of naughty can be a lot of thrown rice.
Might ah suggest you should maybe— ah say,
You should maybe think twice.
~ Stephen T. McCarthy
POSTSCRIPT: A nice Pal wrote the following:
"Please don't forget to include that WONDERFUL holiday story you sent as a Christmas card to me last year. It was about the correspondence you received from your incarcerated pen pal. That was such an amazing, lump in the throat tale."
So, by special request, here it is:
My Amazon.com 'So You'd Like To' guide titled, See IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE Come To Life! (A Xmas Miracle)
.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
MENSA-DONKEY 101
[*From the STMcC Archive: 2007, Oct.]
Welcome to Mensa-donkey 101, or “So You Want To Be A Smart-Azz.” (Pay attention because there WILL be a test.)
For a few years now, I have used the expression “A Mensa-donkey In Phoenix, Airheadzona” in conjunction with my pseudonym. It seems that this has led to some confusion, with some individuals assuming that I am a member of Mensa. Truth is, I occasionally coin my own words and phrases. For example, “Liquidated” means Dead Drunk. Regarding the local football team, I have said that “The Arizona Cardinals are so bad that they couldn’t even beat the Arizona Cardinals.” (Feel free to borrow the phrase whenever your own sports team is stinking up your taxpayer-funded stadium.)
Thinking that he was putting me in my (egotistical) place, a Liberal once left this remark for me in the Comment section of one of my Amazon.com reviews: “Sorry but I'll never be as dumb as you need me to be. I'm MENSA too but I don't put it at the end of my Amazon moniker.”
Being a proud non-Mensa smart-azz, I responded with this: “Mensa-donkey is my own euphemism for Smart-a##, and I would have expected a Mensa member to ‘get it’ without explanation. I wouldn't know whether or not I qualify for membership because I've never felt a need to have my intelligence evaluated and verified by some preening, egotistical, eggheaded organization.”
You don’t tug on Superman’s cape; you don’t spit into the wind; you don’t pull the mask off the ol’ Lone Ranger; and you don’t mess around with a Mensa-donkey Master.
The idea that anyone would mistake me for a Mensa member is pretty laughable: I was a straight “C” student in high school… although I WAS above average in athletics and in girl-watching at the beach during periods 2, 3, and 4 (I always returned to school after lunch because in my 5th period Public Speaking class I sat next to Jean Gonzalez - a seriously hot babe! Yow!) And I undoubtedly have the lowest SAT scores ever recorded this side of the Special Olympics. (I used to answer the first 5 to 7 questions properly, but then I’d get bored and rebellious and start turning my answer page into pictures: “Let’s see… I’ll make section 2 a Peace Sign, and section 3 a big star, and section 4 will be a Colt .45.” That wouldn’t go over so well today because they now frown on guns in school, even if the gun doesn’t shoot lead but is merely comprised of No. 2 pencil lead on an SAT answer sheet.)
I have no idea what my I.Q. is because I’ve never had it tested; I don’t really believe in the accuracy of I.Q. tests (and that alone probably makes me some kind of a genius).
I don’t know if there are any advantages to being a Mensa member, but I know that there are advantages to being an effective smart-azz. For one thing, people who are aware of your style and smart-azz aptitude don’t mess with you much. A very funny friend of mine recently said to me that he thinks I “sort of do debate martial arts, catching [an opponent’s] line and using it against him in improved form.” (A great compliment which I value more than I would the phony back-patting from 100 card-carrying Mensa eggheads.)
Another surprising benefit of advanced Mensa-donkey martial arts is that it dissuades friends from E-mailing you those silly questionnaires that are supposed to test your personality, or loyalty, or attractiveness to the opposite sex. (You know what I’m talking about here… those quizzes that you never received prior to the invention of E-mail - back when people had to address an envelope and put a first-class stamp on it.)
There are a couple of basic ideas to keep in mind if you want to sharpen your own Mensa-donkey skills and eventually earn your Black Belt:
#1) The acronym N.A.S.A. stands for National Aeronautics and Space Administration, but some observers commenting on that famous spaced-out organization’s notorious tendency to obfuscate issues and evade straightforward questions have charged that the acronym really stands for “Never A Straight Answer.” This is a truly essential acronym for Mensa-donkeys to remember also, as it goes right to the heart of being a smart-azz. Always think NASA: Never A Straight Answer. Nothing infuriates a person like getting twisted responses to basic questions. Someone has asked you a very upfront, forthright question and is expecting a direct and valid answer in response? Never give them a straight answer; take their question and TWIST IT!
#2) Consider words and how they can be wielded. Many words (and phrases) have multiple meanings, or can be given new interpretations with just a little bend - and this can be an effective weapon when an opponent’s own “wordsword” can be bent backwards and used to disembowel him or her. (Ain’t that a cool word? Wordsword: it’s the word “word” twice with the bent letter “s” in the middle. I dunno, I guess I’m just easily entertained.) Example: When a Liberal said to me, “You're quite full of yourself, aren't you?” I answered his question with, “I would much rather be full of myself than be full of what you are!” Word starts with “W”, and so does “Weapon.” Coincidence? I don’t think so! Always ask yourself: “How can I use his words against him?” And then DO IT!
#3) Alliteration. Is this just a natural God-given gift? Whether or not alliteration can actually be taught and mastered as other skills can be is still a hotly contested point in Mensa-donkey dojos the world over, but the bottom line is this: Alliteration is an effective device which strikes hard and makes a blow more memorable. The “Morning After Alliteration Sting” (MAAS) has been recognized and hailed as the premier "junkyard dog bite" of Mensa-donkeyness by the Master smart-azzes throughout history. If you’ve got the gift, USE IT!
Are you ready to test your new Mensa-donkey skills? Sometime back I received one of those silly E-mail questionnaires from a friend with too much time on his hands. Well, I applied my Master Mensa-donkey techniques in answering it, and then returned it as requested. Needless to say, my friend hasn’t sent me an E-mail quiz since, and that’s a good thing. (He’s still a friend, and that’s a good thing, too.)
Following are the same 49 questions that my Buddy sent to me. Get your old No. 2 pencil and a piece of paper, and answer them, keeping in mind the Mensa-donkey principles we discussed earlier. After completing the test, check your answers against mine (below) and see how you compare to a certified Master in Mensa-donkey martial arts.
1. Full name?
2. Were you named after anyone?
3. Do you wish on stars?
4. When did you last cry?
5. Do you like your handwriting?
6. What is your favorite lunch meat?
7. How many kids?
8. Names and ages of kids?
9. If you were another person, would you be friends with you?
10. Do you have a journal?
11. Do you use sarcasm a lot?
12. Would you bungee jump?
13. What is your favorite cereal?
14. Do you think you are strong emotionally and physically?
15. What is your favorite ice cream flavor?
16. Shoe size?
17. Red or Pink?
18. What is your least favorite thing about yourself?
19. Who do you miss most?
20. Do you want everyone you send this to, to send it back?
21. What color pants and shoes are you wearing?
22. Last thing you ate?
23. What are you listening to right now?
24. If you were a crayon, what color would you be?
25. Favorite smells?
26. Last person you talked to on the phone?
27. The first thing you notice about the opposite sex?
28. Do you like the person who sent this to you?
29. Favorite Drink?
30. Favorite Sport to watch?
31. Hair Color?
32. Eye Color?
33. Do you wear contacts?
34. Favorite food?
35. Scary movie or Happy ending?
36. Last Movie you watched?
37. Favorite Day of the Year?
38. Summer or Winter?
39. Who do you hate in life?
40. Favorite Dessert?
41. Who is most likely to respond?
42. Least likely to respond?
43. What books are you reading?
44. What's on your mouse pad?
45. What did you watch last night on TV?
46. Rolling Stones or Beatles?
47. What's the furthest you've been from home?
48. Do you have a special talent?
49 Favorite Quote?
Now compare your answers to the answers I gave to the same questions:
1. Full name?
Stephen T. McCarthy
2. Were you named after anyone?
No, I was the first born of my siblings.
3. Do you wish on stars?
I wished on Susan Dey once, but she never showed up.
4. When did you last cry?
This afternoon while slicing onions for my Limburger cheese sandwich.
5. Do you like your handwriting?
I'd rather it was lifting a bottle of Budweiser to my lips.
6. What is your favorite lunch meat?
Does Spam count as meat?
7. How many kids?
No more than two, and only if properly cooked.
8. Names and ages of kids?
Oh, I don't care about that as long as they're not underdone.
9. If you were another person, would you be friends with you?
I don't know. Which other person?
10. Do you have a journal?
I forget; let me consult my diary and find out.
11. Do you use sarcasm a lot?
A lot? No, I use it exclusively.
12. Would you bungee jump?
Bungee jumping is for wimps who play it safe; I ride a motorcycle!
13. What is your favorite cereal?
Budweiser.
14. Do you think you are strong emotionally and physically?
Call me a name and see if I don't kick your a**!
15. What is your favorite ice cream flavor?
Can I have a slice of pie instead?
16. Shoe size?
Which foot?
17. Red or Pink?
If it's all the same to you, I'd prefer a Chablis.
18. What is your least favorite thing about yourself?
Well, some people say that I tend to repeat myself. I don't really believe that, but that's what they say, that I tend to repeat myself.
19. Who do you miss most?
The cat; it's pretty quick.
20. Do you want everyone you send this to, to send it back?
If I wanted it back, why would I have sent it in the first place?
21. What color pants and shoes are you wearing?
Shoes again? You have a shoe fetish, don't you? You really should see someone about that.
22. Last thing you ate?
A Limburger and onion sandwich.
23. What are you listening to right now?
The hum of my computer and the clicking of my keyboard.
24. If you were a crayon, what color would you be?
Color me sad.
25. Favorite smells?
I don't know Favorite. Does he?
26. Last person you talked to on the phone?
The secretary of my girlfriend's ex-husband's lawyer.
27. The first thing you notice about the opposite sex?
The size of her… bank account.
28. Do you like the person who sent this to you?
If he's buying the next round I do.
29. Favorite Drink?
A case of Budweiser.
30. Favorite Sport to watch?
Horse racing when my long shot comes into the homestretch with a 15 length lead.
31. Hair Color?
Hair?
32. Eye Color?
Kind of a bloodshot.
33. Do you wear contacts?
No, I usually write or call them.
34. Favorite food?
Budweiser.
35. Scary movie or Happy ending?
What does Happy's ending look like?
36. Last Movie you watched?
The Last Picture Show.
37. Favorite Day of the Year?
Payday.
38. Summer or Winter?
Why are Fall and Spring being ignored? What do you have against Fall and Spring?
39. Who do you hate in life?
No one; they're all dead now.
40. Favorite Dessert?
Budweiser.
41. Who is most likely to respond?
The one who most needs to get a life. (That appears to be me.)
42. Least likely to respond?
Susan Dey
43. What books are you reading?
Thought you'd catch me with a trick question, eh? I'm not reading books... I'm reading an E-mail questionnaire.
44. What's on your mouse pad?
A roof?
[*Note: Whereas “My Mouse” would be a fine answer worthy of any self-professed Mensa-donkey, a real Master such as myself, gives not only the unexpected answer but also reinterprets the word “pad”, too. The technical term for this advanced technique is “Double Whammy.”]
45. What did you watch last night on TV?
The screen.
46. Rolling Stones or Beatles?
The Beach Boys.
47. What's the furthest you've been from home?
You mean today? Fry's market.
48. Do you have a special talent?
Is this a family questionnaire?
49. Favorite Quote?
"The King Of Beers."
Wait a minute here! Where's question #50? Who the hell sends a questionnaire with 49 questions on it? That's like rapping out "Shave And A Haircut" but failing to knock "Two Bits!" I just knew I shouldn't have gotten mixed up in this!
Grasshopper, now that you are graduating toward a Black Belt in the art of Mensa-donkey, let me give you just a couple more pointers to help send you on your way:
*When performing debate martial arts against a Liberal’s Socialistic bovine excrement, always remember to direct your laser-guided verbal barbs at the Liberal’s bleeding heart; never succumb to the temptation to go for the head shot, thinking to obliterate the Lib’s brain - this military tactic just assumes way too much.
*Remember the important acronym NASA: Never A Straight Answer.
*But most of all, don’t ever forget that possessing Mensa-donkey skills is a tremendous responsibility. Never take that responsibility lightly! Don’t be an evil smart-azz (a demon); always be a Mensa-donkey for good (an angel). The demons may get the girls, but the angels get the... The angels get the… Hmmm… Well, hell! Look, just be a “good” Mensa-donkey, will ya? After all, when axed about it, Lizzie Borden said, “Goodness is its own reward.”
~ Stephen T. McCarthy
.
Welcome to Mensa-donkey 101, or “So You Want To Be A Smart-Azz.” (Pay attention because there WILL be a test.)
For a few years now, I have used the expression “A Mensa-donkey In Phoenix, Airheadzona” in conjunction with my pseudonym. It seems that this has led to some confusion, with some individuals assuming that I am a member of Mensa. Truth is, I occasionally coin my own words and phrases. For example, “Liquidated” means Dead Drunk. Regarding the local football team, I have said that “The Arizona Cardinals are so bad that they couldn’t even beat the Arizona Cardinals.” (Feel free to borrow the phrase whenever your own sports team is stinking up your taxpayer-funded stadium.)
Thinking that he was putting me in my (egotistical) place, a Liberal once left this remark for me in the Comment section of one of my Amazon.com reviews: “Sorry but I'll never be as dumb as you need me to be. I'm MENSA too but I don't put it at the end of my Amazon moniker.”
Being a proud non-Mensa smart-azz, I responded with this: “Mensa-donkey is my own euphemism for Smart-a##, and I would have expected a Mensa member to ‘get it’ without explanation. I wouldn't know whether or not I qualify for membership because I've never felt a need to have my intelligence evaluated and verified by some preening, egotistical, eggheaded organization.”
You don’t tug on Superman’s cape; you don’t spit into the wind; you don’t pull the mask off the ol’ Lone Ranger; and you don’t mess around with a Mensa-donkey Master.
The idea that anyone would mistake me for a Mensa member is pretty laughable: I was a straight “C” student in high school… although I WAS above average in athletics and in girl-watching at the beach during periods 2, 3, and 4 (I always returned to school after lunch because in my 5th period Public Speaking class I sat next to Jean Gonzalez - a seriously hot babe! Yow!) And I undoubtedly have the lowest SAT scores ever recorded this side of the Special Olympics. (I used to answer the first 5 to 7 questions properly, but then I’d get bored and rebellious and start turning my answer page into pictures: “Let’s see… I’ll make section 2 a Peace Sign, and section 3 a big star, and section 4 will be a Colt .45.” That wouldn’t go over so well today because they now frown on guns in school, even if the gun doesn’t shoot lead but is merely comprised of No. 2 pencil lead on an SAT answer sheet.)
I have no idea what my I.Q. is because I’ve never had it tested; I don’t really believe in the accuracy of I.Q. tests (and that alone probably makes me some kind of a genius).
I don’t know if there are any advantages to being a Mensa member, but I know that there are advantages to being an effective smart-azz. For one thing, people who are aware of your style and smart-azz aptitude don’t mess with you much. A very funny friend of mine recently said to me that he thinks I “sort of do debate martial arts, catching [an opponent’s] line and using it against him in improved form.” (A great compliment which I value more than I would the phony back-patting from 100 card-carrying Mensa eggheads.)
Another surprising benefit of advanced Mensa-donkey martial arts is that it dissuades friends from E-mailing you those silly questionnaires that are supposed to test your personality, or loyalty, or attractiveness to the opposite sex. (You know what I’m talking about here… those quizzes that you never received prior to the invention of E-mail - back when people had to address an envelope and put a first-class stamp on it.)
There are a couple of basic ideas to keep in mind if you want to sharpen your own Mensa-donkey skills and eventually earn your Black Belt:
#1) The acronym N.A.S.A. stands for National Aeronautics and Space Administration, but some observers commenting on that famous spaced-out organization’s notorious tendency to obfuscate issues and evade straightforward questions have charged that the acronym really stands for “Never A Straight Answer.” This is a truly essential acronym for Mensa-donkeys to remember also, as it goes right to the heart of being a smart-azz. Always think NASA: Never A Straight Answer. Nothing infuriates a person like getting twisted responses to basic questions. Someone has asked you a very upfront, forthright question and is expecting a direct and valid answer in response? Never give them a straight answer; take their question and TWIST IT!
#2) Consider words and how they can be wielded. Many words (and phrases) have multiple meanings, or can be given new interpretations with just a little bend - and this can be an effective weapon when an opponent’s own “wordsword” can be bent backwards and used to disembowel him or her. (Ain’t that a cool word? Wordsword: it’s the word “word” twice with the bent letter “s” in the middle. I dunno, I guess I’m just easily entertained.) Example: When a Liberal said to me, “You're quite full of yourself, aren't you?” I answered his question with, “I would much rather be full of myself than be full of what you are!” Word starts with “W”, and so does “Weapon.” Coincidence? I don’t think so! Always ask yourself: “How can I use his words against him?” And then DO IT!
#3) Alliteration. Is this just a natural God-given gift? Whether or not alliteration can actually be taught and mastered as other skills can be is still a hotly contested point in Mensa-donkey dojos the world over, but the bottom line is this: Alliteration is an effective device which strikes hard and makes a blow more memorable. The “Morning After Alliteration Sting” (MAAS) has been recognized and hailed as the premier "junkyard dog bite" of Mensa-donkeyness by the Master smart-azzes throughout history. If you’ve got the gift, USE IT!
Are you ready to test your new Mensa-donkey skills? Sometime back I received one of those silly E-mail questionnaires from a friend with too much time on his hands. Well, I applied my Master Mensa-donkey techniques in answering it, and then returned it as requested. Needless to say, my friend hasn’t sent me an E-mail quiz since, and that’s a good thing. (He’s still a friend, and that’s a good thing, too.)
Following are the same 49 questions that my Buddy sent to me. Get your old No. 2 pencil and a piece of paper, and answer them, keeping in mind the Mensa-donkey principles we discussed earlier. After completing the test, check your answers against mine (below) and see how you compare to a certified Master in Mensa-donkey martial arts.
1. Full name?
2. Were you named after anyone?
3. Do you wish on stars?
4. When did you last cry?
5. Do you like your handwriting?
6. What is your favorite lunch meat?
7. How many kids?
8. Names and ages of kids?
9. If you were another person, would you be friends with you?
10. Do you have a journal?
11. Do you use sarcasm a lot?
12. Would you bungee jump?
13. What is your favorite cereal?
14. Do you think you are strong emotionally and physically?
15. What is your favorite ice cream flavor?
16. Shoe size?
17. Red or Pink?
18. What is your least favorite thing about yourself?
19. Who do you miss most?
20. Do you want everyone you send this to, to send it back?
21. What color pants and shoes are you wearing?
22. Last thing you ate?
23. What are you listening to right now?
24. If you were a crayon, what color would you be?
25. Favorite smells?
26. Last person you talked to on the phone?
27. The first thing you notice about the opposite sex?
28. Do you like the person who sent this to you?
29. Favorite Drink?
30. Favorite Sport to watch?
31. Hair Color?
32. Eye Color?
33. Do you wear contacts?
34. Favorite food?
35. Scary movie or Happy ending?
36. Last Movie you watched?
37. Favorite Day of the Year?
38. Summer or Winter?
39. Who do you hate in life?
40. Favorite Dessert?
41. Who is most likely to respond?
42. Least likely to respond?
43. What books are you reading?
44. What's on your mouse pad?
45. What did you watch last night on TV?
46. Rolling Stones or Beatles?
47. What's the furthest you've been from home?
48. Do you have a special talent?
49 Favorite Quote?
Now compare your answers to the answers I gave to the same questions:
1. Full name?
Stephen T. McCarthy
2. Were you named after anyone?
No, I was the first born of my siblings.
3. Do you wish on stars?
I wished on Susan Dey once, but she never showed up.
4. When did you last cry?
This afternoon while slicing onions for my Limburger cheese sandwich.
5. Do you like your handwriting?
I'd rather it was lifting a bottle of Budweiser to my lips.
6. What is your favorite lunch meat?
Does Spam count as meat?
7. How many kids?
No more than two, and only if properly cooked.
8. Names and ages of kids?
Oh, I don't care about that as long as they're not underdone.
9. If you were another person, would you be friends with you?
I don't know. Which other person?
10. Do you have a journal?
I forget; let me consult my diary and find out.
11. Do you use sarcasm a lot?
A lot? No, I use it exclusively.
12. Would you bungee jump?
Bungee jumping is for wimps who play it safe; I ride a motorcycle!
13. What is your favorite cereal?
Budweiser.
14. Do you think you are strong emotionally and physically?
Call me a name and see if I don't kick your a**!
15. What is your favorite ice cream flavor?
Can I have a slice of pie instead?
16. Shoe size?
Which foot?
17. Red or Pink?
If it's all the same to you, I'd prefer a Chablis.
18. What is your least favorite thing about yourself?
Well, some people say that I tend to repeat myself. I don't really believe that, but that's what they say, that I tend to repeat myself.
19. Who do you miss most?
The cat; it's pretty quick.
20. Do you want everyone you send this to, to send it back?
If I wanted it back, why would I have sent it in the first place?
21. What color pants and shoes are you wearing?
Shoes again? You have a shoe fetish, don't you? You really should see someone about that.
22. Last thing you ate?
A Limburger and onion sandwich.
23. What are you listening to right now?
The hum of my computer and the clicking of my keyboard.
24. If you were a crayon, what color would you be?
Color me sad.
25. Favorite smells?
I don't know Favorite. Does he?
26. Last person you talked to on the phone?
The secretary of my girlfriend's ex-husband's lawyer.
27. The first thing you notice about the opposite sex?
The size of her… bank account.
28. Do you like the person who sent this to you?
If he's buying the next round I do.
29. Favorite Drink?
A case of Budweiser.
30. Favorite Sport to watch?
Horse racing when my long shot comes into the homestretch with a 15 length lead.
31. Hair Color?
Hair?
32. Eye Color?
Kind of a bloodshot.
33. Do you wear contacts?
No, I usually write or call them.
34. Favorite food?
Budweiser.
35. Scary movie or Happy ending?
What does Happy's ending look like?
36. Last Movie you watched?
The Last Picture Show.
37. Favorite Day of the Year?
Payday.
38. Summer or Winter?
Why are Fall and Spring being ignored? What do you have against Fall and Spring?
39. Who do you hate in life?
No one; they're all dead now.
40. Favorite Dessert?
Budweiser.
41. Who is most likely to respond?
The one who most needs to get a life. (That appears to be me.)
42. Least likely to respond?
Susan Dey
43. What books are you reading?
Thought you'd catch me with a trick question, eh? I'm not reading books... I'm reading an E-mail questionnaire.
44. What's on your mouse pad?
A roof?
[*Note: Whereas “My Mouse” would be a fine answer worthy of any self-professed Mensa-donkey, a real Master such as myself, gives not only the unexpected answer but also reinterprets the word “pad”, too. The technical term for this advanced technique is “Double Whammy.”]
45. What did you watch last night on TV?
The screen.
46. Rolling Stones or Beatles?
The Beach Boys.
47. What's the furthest you've been from home?
You mean today? Fry's market.
48. Do you have a special talent?
Is this a family questionnaire?
49. Favorite Quote?
"The King Of Beers."
Wait a minute here! Where's question #50? Who the hell sends a questionnaire with 49 questions on it? That's like rapping out "Shave And A Haircut" but failing to knock "Two Bits!" I just knew I shouldn't have gotten mixed up in this!
Grasshopper, now that you are graduating toward a Black Belt in the art of Mensa-donkey, let me give you just a couple more pointers to help send you on your way:
*When performing debate martial arts against a Liberal’s Socialistic bovine excrement, always remember to direct your laser-guided verbal barbs at the Liberal’s bleeding heart; never succumb to the temptation to go for the head shot, thinking to obliterate the Lib’s brain - this military tactic just assumes way too much.
*Remember the important acronym NASA: Never A Straight Answer.
*But most of all, don’t ever forget that possessing Mensa-donkey skills is a tremendous responsibility. Never take that responsibility lightly! Don’t be an evil smart-azz (a demon); always be a Mensa-donkey for good (an angel). The demons may get the girls, but the angels get the... The angels get the… Hmmm… Well, hell! Look, just be a “good” Mensa-donkey, will ya? After all, when axed about it, Lizzie Borden said, “Goodness is its own reward.”
~ Stephen T. McCarthy
.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Time Flies When You're Having LIFE
[*From the STMcC Archive: 2007, Sept.]
Something arrived in the mail very recently that has me distraught. The moment I turned the envelope over and saw what was stamped on its reverse side I was taken aback:
“Santa Monica High School, Class of ’77
30 Year Reunion”
THIRTY YEAR REUNION?! Now, I don’t like liars to begin with (imagine the vexation I experience when thinking about the world of politics), and I especially don’t like liars when they boldly attack me personally with ridiculous charges of Old Age. This Reunion Committee is trying to convince me that I graduated from high school THREE FREAKIN’ DECADES AGO, when I know for a fact that it was just yesterday! Ooh, that gets my dander up.
But then upon further reflection, it occurred to me that, despite the Reunion Committee’s obviously preposterous exaggeration, there ARE signs that perhaps I didn’t really graduate from high school “just yesterday.” Maybe a little time truly has elapsed.
For one thing, I turned on the radio yesterday but didn’t hear STAYIN’ ALIVE by The Bee Gees. I guess it was only unfounded optimism on their part after all. (Don’t feel too badly Bee Gee boys; no one stays alive forever, especially in the world of entertainment.)
And then there are these many scars on my body. There’s the one on my right forefinger where I gashed it open down to the bone when a glass I was washing burst apart while I was in an intoxicated condition. All my drinking buddies were out partying and I had been enjoying some “Drunken ME Time.” When I saw the profuse amount of blood running out of “Drunken ME”, I wrapped my hand, poured another drink to steady my nerves, and called my parents’ house. I explained to my Ma what had happened, just so that if I expired due to loss of blood, there wouldn’t be some big mystery later about how I died. With hindsight, I realize that I probably didn’t really need to make that call: When my body was discovered on the kitchen floor in a massive pool of its own blood, and the blood-splattered broken glass in the sink and my cleaved finger were noticed, the chances are pretty good that the authorities would have had some reasonable suspicion about what had happened to me. Especially in light of the fact that this was a couple of years before the KGB perfected its infamous Finger Cut Assassination Technique. It’s unlikely that an autopsy and investigation into my death would have been necessary.
Then there’s that big scar where I had a cyst removed. They admitted me to the hospital for this one and anesthetized me into unconsciousness – a very peculiar sensation. The doctor said, “I’m going to introduce something into your IV now that will put you to sleep and when you wake up it will be” “All over”, said the nurse peering down at me when my eyes opened in what seemed like the same moment. The phenomenon seems oddly akin to my current situation. It’s as if in the very same moment that the school’s principal was shaking my hand and handing me my diploma, a few blocks away at the post office, the 30 year Reunion Committee was depositing my invitation into the mail slot.
But there are other indications that I didn’t really graduate from high school “just yesterday”: I remember the acting career that I was trying to get off the ground. No sooner was it slightly airborne than it returned to earth like the Hindenburg. And I may have slightly overindulged in adult beverages at some point because I have a vague recollection of a rather severe hangover that I suffered in 1980 through 1986. I do, however, vividly recall experiencing euphoria at Dodger Stadium when I witnessed firsthand one of the most celebrated moments in the history of sports: the injured Kirk Gibson’s amazing ninth inning, two-out, Game 1-winning 1988 World Series home run against the Oakland Athletics. In the parking lot afterwards, passing a ten-year-old boy clutching his dad’s pant leg in one hand and a wilted A’s pennant in the other, I said, “How ‘bout them Dodgers?” The boy nodded mutely and I could clearly see in his eyes that he was completely numb in body, mind, and soul. The two of us combined represented the ultimate illustration of “The thrill of victory and the agony of defeat.”
Of course, it hasn’t all been THAT much fun, and I know that at least a little time has passed since my high school graduation because some of the people I love the most are no longer here with me. Two good friends committed suicide: Andy shot himself, and Ty let the cops do the shooting. And my acting buddy, Marty, was killed instantly when a guy trying to elude the police in a stolen car during a high-speed chase, ran a red light at Arlington Avenue and Washington Boulevard in Los Angeles, while Marty was coming through the intersection on the green.
I held my Pa’s hand while he was slipping out of his earthly life in 1996, and I did the same thing for my Ma nine years later when God decided that He needed her more than I did. (Yeah, I’m an orphan.)
But the fact that my brother, Napoleon, is neither dead or in prison is pretty much all the evidence I need to prove that 30 years CANNOT have passed since my high school graduation. And as if that wasn’t enough proof, I’m asked to believe that 3 decades later, Sylvester Stallone is STILL playing boxer Rocky Balboa? Ha!-Ha! That’s too rich!
But then again, I remember myriad “odd” jobs I’ve had. There was that three week period where I was a telemarketer while looking for “real” work. Then one day I told my boss, “No, I will not solicit donations for Planned Parenthood; no, I will not tell people that every one and a half minutes around-the-clock, fifteen acres of rain forest are being razed; and no, I will not inform gullible Libs that the DNC must raise 3 million dollars in the next week if it is going to have any hope of saving America from fascist space alien Conservatives determined to deflower their daughters and sell their sons to Israel for secret sacrificial rites to Jehovah.”
“Well, why don’t you quit then?” he suggested. And so I took his advice and “hung up” my telemarketing career.
Or the juice delivery route I enjoyed: it entailed driving 100 miles a day through the Phoenix Summer (normal daytime temps of 106 degrees) in an old, beat-up, non-air conditioned, non-refrigerated truck. Factoring in all of the stops I had to make, I sat down to do the math (always a misadventure with me) and concluded that I had to average 101.4 miles per hour if I was to get all of the juice delivered before it spoiled. The Phoenix Police Department was very understanding; not only did the cops not attempt to arrest my progress, but oftentimes when they saw my dilapidated truck approaching in the distance, they would stop traffic for me. The cops knew that I honestly didn’t have time to obey traffic signals.
In ruminating on these dog-eared pages of my own life, it seems to me that our lives are just a series of Ups and Downs, Joys and Pains, Guillotines and Superglue. (Hmmm… “Guillotines And Superglue” -- that might make a good title for the autobiography I have no reason to write and no readers to read.) To paraphrase John Lennon, I’ve found that “Life is what happens to you while you’re busy daydreaming about making love to Laurie Partridge.”
But what about this 30-year reunion invitation? I won’t be attending the reunion because, in the first place, no one would believe that it was really me there. My senior year in the Theater Arts Department, I was voted the incongruous combination of “Best Body”, “Best Legs”, and “Shyest.” (That last one translates to: “The Nonentity Least Likely To Turn Up On The Internet 30 Years Later With A Sense Of Humor And A You-Can-Kiss-My-Keister Attitude.”) Who’s going to believe that the formerly shyest person is now in possession of a Terrell Owens mouth and a Don Rickles personality? I can hear them now: “Alright, who are you REALLY? And what have you done with Stephen T. McWhatzhisname?”
The reunion announcement includes an E-mail address and I recognized the names of 3 of the 4 people on the Committee. There’s a current photograph of Sally D., who looks older than I remembered. The poor girl. I’m sure glad that -- other than the pimples that have disappeared from around my chin area -- I look exactly the same. It was either Sally D. or Sharon D. who did the 80-proof stagger into the ninth grade Student Government class one day, sat down at her desk and then promptly threw up all over it. I’m very tempted to E-mail the Committee to enquire about it, but I’m not sure if that’s an appropriate opening after not having seen nor spoken with a person for (supposedly) 30 years: “Hi, Sally. Was it you who threw up on her desk in Student Government? So, WHAT’S UP these days?”
And then there’s Eve B. Now the funny thing about this is that not long ago I happened to come across my old 6th grade class photo and was very surprised to see that Eve B. was obviously the prettiest girl in the class. So how come I wasn’t skirt-chasing her back then? I never paid the slightest bit of attention to Eve, but instead, I had a crush on a little redheaded girlfriend. (Our relationship ended in 7th grade when she made fun of my braces by calling me “Tinsel Teeth.” I was hurt deeply. I’m more mature and less hypersensitive now. If it happened today, I’d just fire off an immediate retort and that would be the end of it: “Whatever you say, Hennahead.” Like I said, I’m more mature now.)
I can’t for the life of me figure out why I wasn’t following the pretty Eve B. around the playground with my tongue picking up dirt, leaves and discarded chewing gum. Was I not just dumb, but BLIND, too? And since my brother and Eve’s brother, Bruce, were friends, I had plenty of opportunities to get to know Eve. (Obviously her parents had no sense of humor or they would have named her brother Adam.)
I’d like to E-mail the Committee and tell Eve that I now realize that she was the supermodel of the 6th grade, but I’m afraid that it might come off sounding a little like a 30-year retroactive pickup line. Truth is, even if by some slim chance the girl is optically challenged and insane enough to be slightly interested in me, I can’t afford a wife and I’m too tired for a girlfriend. So, should I contact the lovely Eve or not? I dunno. I think maybe I’ll wait for now, and E-mail Eve on the occasion of our 50-year graduating class reunion . . . tomorrow.
~ Stephen T. McCarthy
Something arrived in the mail very recently that has me distraught. The moment I turned the envelope over and saw what was stamped on its reverse side I was taken aback:
“Santa Monica High School, Class of ’77
30 Year Reunion”
THIRTY YEAR REUNION?! Now, I don’t like liars to begin with (imagine the vexation I experience when thinking about the world of politics), and I especially don’t like liars when they boldly attack me personally with ridiculous charges of Old Age. This Reunion Committee is trying to convince me that I graduated from high school THREE FREAKIN’ DECADES AGO, when I know for a fact that it was just yesterday! Ooh, that gets my dander up.
But then upon further reflection, it occurred to me that, despite the Reunion Committee’s obviously preposterous exaggeration, there ARE signs that perhaps I didn’t really graduate from high school “just yesterday.” Maybe a little time truly has elapsed.
For one thing, I turned on the radio yesterday but didn’t hear STAYIN’ ALIVE by The Bee Gees. I guess it was only unfounded optimism on their part after all. (Don’t feel too badly Bee Gee boys; no one stays alive forever, especially in the world of entertainment.)
And then there are these many scars on my body. There’s the one on my right forefinger where I gashed it open down to the bone when a glass I was washing burst apart while I was in an intoxicated condition. All my drinking buddies were out partying and I had been enjoying some “Drunken ME Time.” When I saw the profuse amount of blood running out of “Drunken ME”, I wrapped my hand, poured another drink to steady my nerves, and called my parents’ house. I explained to my Ma what had happened, just so that if I expired due to loss of blood, there wouldn’t be some big mystery later about how I died. With hindsight, I realize that I probably didn’t really need to make that call: When my body was discovered on the kitchen floor in a massive pool of its own blood, and the blood-splattered broken glass in the sink and my cleaved finger were noticed, the chances are pretty good that the authorities would have had some reasonable suspicion about what had happened to me. Especially in light of the fact that this was a couple of years before the KGB perfected its infamous Finger Cut Assassination Technique. It’s unlikely that an autopsy and investigation into my death would have been necessary.
Then there’s that big scar where I had a cyst removed. They admitted me to the hospital for this one and anesthetized me into unconsciousness – a very peculiar sensation. The doctor said, “I’m going to introduce something into your IV now that will put you to sleep and when you wake up it will be” “All over”, said the nurse peering down at me when my eyes opened in what seemed like the same moment. The phenomenon seems oddly akin to my current situation. It’s as if in the very same moment that the school’s principal was shaking my hand and handing me my diploma, a few blocks away at the post office, the 30 year Reunion Committee was depositing my invitation into the mail slot.
But there are other indications that I didn’t really graduate from high school “just yesterday”: I remember the acting career that I was trying to get off the ground. No sooner was it slightly airborne than it returned to earth like the Hindenburg. And I may have slightly overindulged in adult beverages at some point because I have a vague recollection of a rather severe hangover that I suffered in 1980 through 1986. I do, however, vividly recall experiencing euphoria at Dodger Stadium when I witnessed firsthand one of the most celebrated moments in the history of sports: the injured Kirk Gibson’s amazing ninth inning, two-out, Game 1-winning 1988 World Series home run against the Oakland Athletics. In the parking lot afterwards, passing a ten-year-old boy clutching his dad’s pant leg in one hand and a wilted A’s pennant in the other, I said, “How ‘bout them Dodgers?” The boy nodded mutely and I could clearly see in his eyes that he was completely numb in body, mind, and soul. The two of us combined represented the ultimate illustration of “The thrill of victory and the agony of defeat.”
Of course, it hasn’t all been THAT much fun, and I know that at least a little time has passed since my high school graduation because some of the people I love the most are no longer here with me. Two good friends committed suicide: Andy shot himself, and Ty let the cops do the shooting. And my acting buddy, Marty, was killed instantly when a guy trying to elude the police in a stolen car during a high-speed chase, ran a red light at Arlington Avenue and Washington Boulevard in Los Angeles, while Marty was coming through the intersection on the green.
I held my Pa’s hand while he was slipping out of his earthly life in 1996, and I did the same thing for my Ma nine years later when God decided that He needed her more than I did. (Yeah, I’m an orphan.)
But the fact that my brother, Napoleon, is neither dead or in prison is pretty much all the evidence I need to prove that 30 years CANNOT have passed since my high school graduation. And as if that wasn’t enough proof, I’m asked to believe that 3 decades later, Sylvester Stallone is STILL playing boxer Rocky Balboa? Ha!-Ha! That’s too rich!
But then again, I remember myriad “odd” jobs I’ve had. There was that three week period where I was a telemarketer while looking for “real” work. Then one day I told my boss, “No, I will not solicit donations for Planned Parenthood; no, I will not tell people that every one and a half minutes around-the-clock, fifteen acres of rain forest are being razed; and no, I will not inform gullible Libs that the DNC must raise 3 million dollars in the next week if it is going to have any hope of saving America from fascist space alien Conservatives determined to deflower their daughters and sell their sons to Israel for secret sacrificial rites to Jehovah.”
“Well, why don’t you quit then?” he suggested. And so I took his advice and “hung up” my telemarketing career.
Or the juice delivery route I enjoyed: it entailed driving 100 miles a day through the Phoenix Summer (normal daytime temps of 106 degrees) in an old, beat-up, non-air conditioned, non-refrigerated truck. Factoring in all of the stops I had to make, I sat down to do the math (always a misadventure with me) and concluded that I had to average 101.4 miles per hour if I was to get all of the juice delivered before it spoiled. The Phoenix Police Department was very understanding; not only did the cops not attempt to arrest my progress, but oftentimes when they saw my dilapidated truck approaching in the distance, they would stop traffic for me. The cops knew that I honestly didn’t have time to obey traffic signals.
In ruminating on these dog-eared pages of my own life, it seems to me that our lives are just a series of Ups and Downs, Joys and Pains, Guillotines and Superglue. (Hmmm… “Guillotines And Superglue” -- that might make a good title for the autobiography I have no reason to write and no readers to read.) To paraphrase John Lennon, I’ve found that “Life is what happens to you while you’re busy daydreaming about making love to Laurie Partridge.”
But what about this 30-year reunion invitation? I won’t be attending the reunion because, in the first place, no one would believe that it was really me there. My senior year in the Theater Arts Department, I was voted the incongruous combination of “Best Body”, “Best Legs”, and “Shyest.” (That last one translates to: “The Nonentity Least Likely To Turn Up On The Internet 30 Years Later With A Sense Of Humor And A You-Can-Kiss-My-Keister Attitude.”) Who’s going to believe that the formerly shyest person is now in possession of a Terrell Owens mouth and a Don Rickles personality? I can hear them now: “Alright, who are you REALLY? And what have you done with Stephen T. McWhatzhisname?”
The reunion announcement includes an E-mail address and I recognized the names of 3 of the 4 people on the Committee. There’s a current photograph of Sally D., who looks older than I remembered. The poor girl. I’m sure glad that -- other than the pimples that have disappeared from around my chin area -- I look exactly the same. It was either Sally D. or Sharon D. who did the 80-proof stagger into the ninth grade Student Government class one day, sat down at her desk and then promptly threw up all over it. I’m very tempted to E-mail the Committee to enquire about it, but I’m not sure if that’s an appropriate opening after not having seen nor spoken with a person for (supposedly) 30 years: “Hi, Sally. Was it you who threw up on her desk in Student Government? So, WHAT’S UP these days?”
And then there’s Eve B. Now the funny thing about this is that not long ago I happened to come across my old 6th grade class photo and was very surprised to see that Eve B. was obviously the prettiest girl in the class. So how come I wasn’t skirt-chasing her back then? I never paid the slightest bit of attention to Eve, but instead, I had a crush on a little redheaded girlfriend. (Our relationship ended in 7th grade when she made fun of my braces by calling me “Tinsel Teeth.” I was hurt deeply. I’m more mature and less hypersensitive now. If it happened today, I’d just fire off an immediate retort and that would be the end of it: “Whatever you say, Hennahead.” Like I said, I’m more mature now.)
I can’t for the life of me figure out why I wasn’t following the pretty Eve B. around the playground with my tongue picking up dirt, leaves and discarded chewing gum. Was I not just dumb, but BLIND, too? And since my brother and Eve’s brother, Bruce, were friends, I had plenty of opportunities to get to know Eve. (Obviously her parents had no sense of humor or they would have named her brother Adam.)
I’d like to E-mail the Committee and tell Eve that I now realize that she was the supermodel of the 6th grade, but I’m afraid that it might come off sounding a little like a 30-year retroactive pickup line. Truth is, even if by some slim chance the girl is optically challenged and insane enough to be slightly interested in me, I can’t afford a wife and I’m too tired for a girlfriend. So, should I contact the lovely Eve or not? I dunno. I think maybe I’ll wait for now, and E-mail Eve on the occasion of our 50-year graduating class reunion . . . tomorrow.
~ Stephen T. McCarthy
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