Notes From A Burning House

The strange death of "Crocodile Hunter" Steve Irwin yesterday may not be good P.R. for the Stingray Benevolent Society, yet marine experts have been quick to remind us that stingray attacks are rare, and that usually these stings are not lethal.  (Just very, very painful.)  Irwin’s death was as likely as a lightning strike.  The barb found its way between his rib and pierced his heart.

On the other hand, stingray tours are continuing as scheduled and the operators continue to feed the creatures by hand. As one of them says, "They come in and play with us because we’re offering them free food. … They consider people to be another set of legs with a possible squid at the end, and they’re very happy to see us."  I feel reassured that manta rays will still be accessible at Sea World. 

You see, I have a very fond memory involving a manta ray and my mother. 

Manta rays are filter feeders and they have no stingers.  At the age of nine or so, my parents accompanied me on a trip to SeaWorld in Orlando.  We had just arrived for our day-long family expedition, and my father and grandparents left my mother and me to find a bathroom and find some confusing maps.   

My mother and I found ourselves near a large white basin that came up about waist-level.  Looking inside, we were treated to the sight of a large manta ray.  We both exclaimed over how beautiful it was, and laughed at the way it swam right over to us.  The little attention whore! 

Our family raised Russian wolfhounds for many years and my mother is very comfortable around animals.  She is no Steve Irwin, yet she has a quiet, brave affinity for creatures great and small.  Something about the manta ray was communicating to her.  What my mother said was, "He’s acting an awful lot like a puppy." 

Indeed, the manta ray was swimming back and forth, pulling back, and doing a roll in the water, then lapping right up at the edge nearest us and breaking the surface of the water. 

My mother pursed her lips and looked around the park to see if anyone wearing a badge was around.  "You know what, I wonder…"  She put her hand in the water, and the manta ray approached.  "Do you think they like to be pet?"  She pulled her hand out. She knew that manta rays don’t really have teeth to speak of, and can’t sting.  In any case, this one’s behavior was not threatening in any way.  What could it do?  Shove you?  My mother looked around again, shrugged, and stuck her hand back in.

Within seconds, she was scratching the belly of a very happy manta ray.  It had no face, but it roiled about her hand and shivered.  My mother laughed with delight.  "It IS a puppy!" 

We enjoyed this for a few more minutes before the rest of the family returned and my father saw his wife with her hand in a tank at SeaWorld.  Naturally, he asked her what she was doing.

My mother withdrew her hand and very innocently replied, "Nothing."

After Ukie got his new strings, we stopped for coffee at a Starbucks in Claremont Village.  As always, I ordered a "tall in a grande cup," which is my way of getting them to leave me plenty of room for milk. 

As always again, they filled the cup plenty full anyway, and I was obliged to do something I hate: pouring off a little bit of coffee into the trash.  Oh, I hate that.  That little O-shaped opening in the counter with the sugar packets and the napkins and wooden coffee stirrers, the pitchers of milk and half-and-half, clearly meant for paper trash only yet inevitably customers pour out their coffee into the trash. 

Making a face and silently apologizing to whatever employee would have to take out the trash, I poured just a bit of hot coffee into the trash, then set the cup down and reached for a sugar packet.   

"Ow."

This voice stopped my arm dead in its tracks if a reaching arm were to leave tracks, that is. 

The voice came from the O-shaped opening.  From the trash.  It was distinctly a voice.  A slightly pettish voice.  It had said, "Ow." 

To test this, not thinking very clearly, I slowly positioned my cup in the air and dribbled a little more hot coffee into the trash.

"Stop it." 

That was confirmation. 

Losing my reflexive timidity, I leaned down and looked into the trash. 

Napkins and empty sugar packets and tons of little stirring sticks.  The trash seemed to arrange itself roughly into the features of a jowly face with sunken eyes.  Could this be? 

"Yes, thats right, I spoke."  The trash spoke with a mouth animated by discarded napkins.  For someone who was just learning that he was insane, I felt rather calm. 

"Sorry."

There was no reply to that.  Feeling somehow a bit embarrassed - it was my first time being reprimanded by trash - I mixed sugar into my coffee and stirred.  Just as I was about to drop my stirring stick into the trash, I hesitated. 

It spoke right up.  "Go ahead, Im ready."  I dropped the stick in.  "Please forgive me," said the trash.  "I usually don’t complain.  Today I’m just in a bad mood." 

"Not at all," I assumed it.  "If you don’t mind my saying, you sound remarkably cultured are you from around here?"

"Lots of places," said the trash.  "Consider where these napkins are printed.  Between the coffee cups and the lids and the napkins and the sticks alone, you have several states represented here.  You couldn’t guess the variety of items customers drop in.  You could say I come from everywhere."

I couldn’t help but ask the next question.  Somehow it seemed particularly relevant when trash was talking.  "Where does your ‘I’ come from?"  I asked.

"This is why I don’t pipe up often," said the trash with a weary tone augmented by the rattling of plastic lids at the bottom of the can.  "People hear trash talk to them and they jump right up into their minds, trying to figure it out.

"You use your mind to look at things.  If you don’t use your mind to look at things, that’s awareness."

Somehow I could not dispute what the trash said.  The only problem I had with the situation was in my mind.  Part of my mind was telling itself that what it was observing wasnt true.  The trash didn’t have a problem; I had a problem. 

One doesn’t engage trash in public conversation.  It is considered strange.  Still, I lingered.  This trash seemed to understand a thing or two about the Way but I wanted to see.  So I asked it one more question.

"Bodhidharma said Buddha has three bodies.  He called them the transformation body, the reward body, and the real body.  I wonder, which of these bodies are you?"

Like a shot, with the popping sound of a tiny explosion, a plastic fork shot from the trash and caught me right in the forehead.  I rubbed the spot while laughing.  The trash, on the other hand, was having none of my nonsense.

"Bodhidharma said something else, you know."  The trash did not pause for me to respond.  "He said that someone who hears the teaching of a sage IS a sage, and someone who hears the teaching of a mortal is a mortal.  Do you know what that makes you?"

"Excuse me, sir."

I turned and there was an employee, Starbucks smock and hat, ready to take out the trash.  I was moved to protest, yet something kept me from interfering.  She rolled the counter out, and within seconds, she had the bag of trash out and was tying it shut.  My new teacher-friend kept talking, albeit the voice was muffled through the sealed bag. 

"Don’t lose your time, little man!  True sages are not in faraway places!"

Now we were outside.  I followed the employee towards the dumpster while the trash kept speaking, its face gazing at me intently through the opaque plastic.

"Appearances are not appearances, dipshit! Stop seeking your prize within time and space!  That way madness lies!"

And there ended his teaching, for the employee had hoisted him over her shoulder and flung him into the dumpster.  She gave me a polite smile as she turned and made her way back to the store.

"Excuse me," I said to her.  She looked at me as she might look if Lee Harvey Oswald had shown up to order a chai latte.  "What did you think of all that?  Were you listening?"

She blinked at me several times and said, "I don’t know what you mean.  I didn’t hear a thing."

That was it.  She walked back into Starbucks and I decided not to gild the lily.  I sipped my coffee, patted my ukulele, and walked towards the car. 

Today the ukulele made its first trip to the vet.  I was worried how it would go.  One might not think of ukuleles as being temperamental creatures, for they sound so affable and easygoing, but you never know. 

Today, it was time.  The rainbow-colored strings that came with the instrument were old and whiny even when they were in tune.  It was time to make a trip to the Folk Music Center and get new strings, maybe pick up another songbook. 

Gathering up the uke’s carrying case, I spoke soothingly to the instrument so as not to arouse its suspicions.  As I slid it into the carrying case, it could tell something was up.  In the car, ukulele was intensely curious.  Ukuleles travel well, in general, and this one is no exception. 

The Folk Music Center is where I adopted this critter, and upon entering the store the uke seemed to recognize the place and feel happy.  Soon we got the business and this was where I worried.

Fortunately, my ukulele is not highly strung.

Unzipping the carrying case, there was an initial hiss and a bit of a growl, but once we got to the business it cooperated.  Laying there as we took off its strings it may have whimpered a bit, yet this was barely audible.  He kept a brave face.  The Center let me do the stringing myself, and I think this helped Ukie feel more at ease.

A general inspection suggests Ukie is doing quite well indeed.  A cheerful and sprightly instrument.  Our companionship is just over two months old.  Next week, a nice fella by the name of Steve Ross, over at McCabe’s Guitar Shop in Santa Monica, will start working with us.  We are already making beautiful music together but Steve is gonna help us take it to a new level, I know it. 

Already I am wondering whether Ukie needs a friend.  Besides me, of course.  Another instrument, a playmate for when I’m not around to play with him.  Right now, I can’t handle another one, but maybe in the future.  We’ll see how things go with Ukie.

Recently, on that other social-networking website, I got tagged with a silly blog assignment:  choose several words beginning with the letter G.  And blog about them.

As sometimes happens, the words took over and what appeared was an amusing and provocative little story in which every single word starts with the letter G.

Not exactly what I was asked to do, but I hope you enjoy.  Oh, and this story is NOT G-rated.

*     *     *

Grover Gatsby greases golden gewgaws.  Genie grows.  Grover gasps!  Gewgaws gestate genies!  Genie goes, "Got gripes?"

Grover goes, "Golly!"  Girds Grover’s guts - getting guts grossly great, good gosh!  Grover goes, "Got gams?"

Genie goes, "Grover gay?"

Grover goes, "Guys?  Gross!!  Got girls??"

Genie goes, "Geisha?  Gymnast?"

Grover goes, "Glamour gal!"

Genie gestures: gal grows.  Groovy gait, gossamer gericurls, glamorous gloves.

Genie goes, "Got game?"

Grover gasps.  Grover goggles.  Girl giggles.

Genie gestures.  Game grows.  Grover gussies, gauges girl.  Girl gone gloomy.  Grover grabs genie.  "Gad!!  Girl gloomy!  Got gin?"

Genie gesticulates, gets gin.  Girl grins.  Grover grins.  Girl gyrates.  Grover guesses, "Gal gotten?"  Grover-Girl gibber-jabber goes, goes, goes.  Grover glows.  Girl gleams.  Guy-girl gladness glows. Great golly!

Grover gropes, girl grinds, Grover-girl grunt grunt grunt.  G-spot grazed, glans glad-handed.  Go!  Go!  Go!  Grover gasps!  Girl gasps!  Grover-girl gloopy goo glistens.

Girl glad, Grover glad, Genie goes.  Gimcrack guardian goes, gewgaw gestation grows. 

Goodness.

    Look at them.

They got married Saturday evening, on a vineyard in Malibu with horses running around.  They swore vows that they wrote together (with a little bit of coaching from their officiant), exchanging rings in the shade of a giant willow tree.  As I write these words they are honeymooning in Mexico. 

They are a wonderful couple who have been together some time already, know some of the territory, and are off to a very good start.  Their happiness is not a giddy thing; their joy does not contain air bubbles waiting to burst and poison their hopes.  They know what they are doing.  They have a lot of support and love around them.  They even wrote a vow about how they will raise children.  They understand they have embarked on a big job, they have discussed it, and they are up to it. 

There has been so much talk in our public life lately about who should get married and who should not.  Maybe this is a useful conversation for us.  It won’t be meaningful, if you ask me, unless we start with why we get married.  It strikes me as very curious that those who speak of "protecting" marriage usually are not talking about the high divorce rate.  They are concerned about preventing Bruce and Steve from getting married, yet they exhibit no curiosity as to why so many "proper" marriages fail. 

If marriage is a vehicle, where does it lead?  What is it for?  Beyond the legal rights and obligations, what does marriage provide for a community?  If we aren’t clear about this, what are we doing getting married? Do we choose it freely or are we pressured to enter a bargain we do not understand or desire? 

Maybe our country should have that conversation first.  Then we can talk about who is suitable for the task. 

At any rate, these two people are ready for it.  After chanting an homage to the three jewels (Buddha, Dharma, and Sangha), I explained to the gathering that they were the officiants and I was there to assist them: they, the family and friends to whom the couple have turned throughout their lives, would be marrying this couple. 

Being for the most part non-Buddhists, they weren’t familiar with the three jewels.  Buddha, I defined as complete attention; Dharma, the teachings and life experience that had brought each of them to this place; and Sangha, their family, community, colleagues, their neighborhood, their country.  (And I snuck something in there about all sentient beings.)  Now these young people, while they continue to mature, will become a resource for others.  Their home and their family will provide fruit and shade for their ancestors and those who have not arrived yet.

Then, while I looked on, the gathering ordained these two people as Married Persons a lifelong vocation in which they immerse themselves completely.  They each took turns making promises and receiving promises from another, letting each other know that they accept the other’s promise. 

At their request, the signing of the marriage certificate was part of the ceremony.  So we witnessed the moment of their legal marriage, too.  Two weeping moms witnessed the certificate.  A few more words, a kiss, and jubilant applause. 

As people moved along to photographs and the chicken dinners that would soon be served, the officiant in grey Zen robes looked around and indulged himself alone:

walking barefoot in the rose petals.

Aaah.  This is how I feel in my heart and my mind when two people swear their love and I believe them.

Barefoot in rose petals-

Hot grass. 

Leading me to the fence and a beautiful horsey that was grazing.  Out loud, I asked the horse: "Can I be useful here?"  The horse looked at me, gently butted my hand with his head, and stepped sideways so I could pat him on the side.   

Thank you. 

(This letter to the man in the moon first appeared at The Blue Doodle on August 12.)

*     *     *

Dear Moon,

You blow like a clear chord on a bamboo rod, full of sweet and sour lonesome like a scripture on a foggy day yet you are fragrant as incense and the laughter of a wise old woman.

Maybe you know what it’s like, when you open your fingers and take a breath and the song comes, or when you put the nib of your pen on paper and the ink spills out leaving lyric everywhere. 

That feeling of landing where you belong and breathing pure inspiration - this is everyone’s birthright.   The empty backdrop of our mind is all possibility.  Form emerges from possibility and returns, coming from zero and then back again, back where the tune goes when you stop singing.   

Every line rhymes with silence.  Then we look at you, Uncle Moon, and you seem to confirm all of this; you remind us of what we are, so we presume on your presence and call you “muse.” 

Let me blow some chords here in tribute to you.  Words are just so many fingers dancing on the neck of my bass.  Let’s take a trip together and reunite music and ear.   We’ll make everybody’s head nod with the pulse, and inwardly they may hope we never come back from the moon, yet you know and I know:

You’re always around. 

Your son,

Mingle-dingle

with apologies to Jim Henson and his family…

*     *     *

(The episode opens with a knock on a dressing room door. It opens, and SCOOTER pokes his head in.)

SCOOTER: Ten seconds to curtain, Mr. Vice-President.

There is the sound of a gun shot. SCOOTER’s face is blasted with buckshot. He yelps and trembles, his face smoking.

SCOOTER: Um. Whenever. You’re ready. Of course. Sorry.

(CUT TO: the "O" in the "Muppet Show" marquee. KERMIT makes the opening announcement, accompanied by timpani.)

KERMIT: It’s the Muppet Show !! With our very special guest star, Vice-President Dick Cheney! Yaaaaaay!!!

(CUE the MUPPET SHOW theme. "It’s time to play the music" At the end, GONZO appears in the "O" to blow the final note on his trumpet. As he draws breath to play, he is tackled by a SECRET SERVICE AGENT. Cut to commercial.)

(Commercial ends. Onstage, with red curtain drawn. Audience applauds. KERMIT enters and acknowledges applause.)

KERMIT: Welcome back, ladies and gentlemen. Tonight our very special guest is Vice-President of the United States Dick Cheney.

(Applause.)

KERMIT: Because the Vice-President is with us this week, you may notice we have to take some extra securitee measures.

(SECRET SERVICE muppet agents appear in background, in front of red curtain. KERMIT eyes them and returns his attention to the audience.)

KERMIT: Um. So just try to ignore them and we’ll continue with the uh…

(The head of a S.S. AGENT muppet appears from below, near KERMIT, looks around slowly.)

KERMIT: uh, we’ll just continue with the show as normal here. In honor of the Vice-President, we now present our national anthem.

(Applause. The curtain is drawn to reveal FOZZIE BEAR.)

FOZZIE BEAR (removing his hat): Aaaaaaaah, ladies and gentlemen, please rise for the national anthem.

(The Muppet audience is shown standing up by their seats.)

(FOZZIE BEAR sings ‘The Star Spangled Banner.’)

(The MUPPET AUDIENCE, applauding, sits down unleashing a loud chorus of whoopee cushions.)

FOZZIE BEAR: Aaaaaah!! Wacka wacka wacka!!

(CUT TO: Backstage. FOZZIE and musicians are departing from the stage, KERMIT is looking around.)

KERMIT: Well done, Fozzie. Uh, Scooter, would you please go get the Vice-President? He’s due on stage.

(CUT TO: Hallway outside the dressing room. SCOOTER approaches the door to knock, springs a trap that hoists him up by his leg and hangs him upside down.)

SCOOTER: Aaaaaaaauuuggghh!!!!

(CUT TO: Stage. MISS PIGGY enters in a smokin’ form-fitting sequined dress.)

MISS PIGGY: Bon soir, mes amies, bon soir! I have un petit chantoose in honor of Mr. Cheney’s birth-day.

(ROWLF THE DOG starts playing the piano. MISS PIGGY sings, breathlessly.)

MISS PIGGY: Happy.birthday…Mr. Vice-President…. Happy….birthday…

(COMMERCIAL)

(CUT TO: Dressing room. KERMIT knocks on the door.)

KERMIT (from outside): Uh, Mr. Vice-President? (knocks again) Mr. Cheney, can I come in? It’s Kermit! Kermit-deee-Frog here

CHENEY: Step slowly through the metal detector as you come in please.

(KERMIT opens the door, steps through a metal detector that glows and makes spooky laboratory sounds. KERMIT makes his disgruntled face.)

KERMIT: Hey, Mr. Vice-President, we are so very honored to have you on our show.

CHENEY: I’m pleased to be here, Kermit. You represent a very important constituency the future voters of our Republic. Although your show receives its funding from producers in London, we consider Great Britain a good close friend of the United States.

KERMIT: Uh, well, Mr. Cheney, the American networks wouldn’t touch our show so we had to go to the London producer.

CHENEY: Kermit, can you please confirm the identity of this person who seems to have been shadowing me?

(CAMERA moves to SCOOTER, head covered with a black hood. A SECRET SERVICE muppet removes the hood to reveal SCOOTER, looking shell-shocked.)

KERMIT: Awk! That’s Scooter! This is our Stage Manager! Please let him go. We need him!

(CHENEY regards SCOOTER with suspicion. SCOOTER regards him fearfully.)

CHENEY: Okay, boys. I guess he checks out. Get that dog out of here.
(A SECRET SERVICE muppet walks past camera, leading off an enormous MUPPET DOG who barks and growls ferociously. KERMIT makes his disgusted face.)

(CUT TO: Stage. A scary-looking screen and black curtain cordons off some enormous object. The timpani begins to roll, and GONZO enters, wearing a cape.)

GONZO: Ladies and gentlemen, I THE GREAT GONZO!! will now disarm this WEAPON OF MASS DESTRUCTION that was found by our liberating forces in Baghdad!

(The audience gasps.)

GONZO: Ladies and gentlemen, I must have absolute quiet for this dangerous act. Please.

(The drum roll intensifies. There is a hush. GONZO dramatically approaches the curtain. He pulls it back with a flourish and there is nothing there.)

GONZO: Huh? Wait a minute!!

(CUT TO: The dressing room. MISS PIGGY, CHENEY and KERMIT are here, with SECRET SERVICE muppets in the background.)

MISS PIGGY: A loyalty oath? You’re making me sign a loyalty oath?

CHENEY: If you have nothing to hide, there really is nothing to be upset about.

KERMIT: I’m sorry, Piggy, but the Vice-President has noted that you speak a lot of French.

MISS PIGGY: Moi? I mean, me? No no, that’s just an affectuation. I love my country.

CHENEY: It’s just a precaution. Before I go on stage, and bring the seal of the United States to the stage of your theatre.

MISS PIGGY: Listen, you creepy VeePee, I’m not signing a piece of paper proving I’m a loyal American.

KERMIT: Piggy?

MISS PIGGY: Stuff it, Frog.

CHENEY: Miss Piggy, if you sign this paper, I am in position to send you on a very special mission.

MISS PIGGY: Moi is listening - I mean, what is it?

CHENEY: We have liberators deployed all over the world, Miss Piggy. Good, handsome, strong, American boys all over Arabia. An entertainer like you could, shall we say, perk up their spirits?

MISS PIGGY: Mmmmm. Arabia…princes…treasure… on second thought, Mr. Vice-President, I am proud to sign an oath swearing that moi is a true American!

(CUT TO: SWEDISH CHEF sketch in which he demonstrates how to make "Freedom Fries," or as he puts it "der foodum flies." The sketch ends when he ends up falling into the frier and disappearing.)

(CUT TO: KERMIT on stage.)

KERMIT: Well, we have already reached the end of our show and I am pleased to announce a very special surprise guest ladies and gentlemen, the PRESIDENT of the United States!

(Applause. A podium with the presidential seal is rolled on, and a muppet version of BUSH appears.)

BUSH MUPPET: heh heh heh… Thanks for havin’ me… Nice to be here. My fellow Americans.

KERMIT: Um. Um. Wait a minute. Wait a minute.

BUSH MUPPET: Yes?

KERMIT: This is not the president, this is a puppet!

(CHENEY’s head emerges from below, near the podium.)

CHENEY: Ssssh! This IS the President!

KERMIT: Good grief!

(ENTER MISS PIGGY)

MISS PIGGY (outraged voice): Hold on, Dick. This ticket is for not for Arabia, it’s for Pyongyang! I’m not ending up in anybody’s bulgogi! You double-crossed me! Hiiiiii-YAAH!!!!

(She proceeds to beat up CHENEY. The BUSH PUPPET goes flying. SECRET SERVICE muppets try to intervene and are soon airborne as CHENEY sinks below camera range, trying to defend himself.)

KERMIT: Start the music! Start the music!

MISS PIGGY: You chicken hawk draft dodger!!

(GONZO’S CHICKENS enter, outraged, and start pecking at CHENEY.)

(CUE ending theme and credits. When the music sustains near the end, cut to STATLER and WALDORF in their box.)

STATLER: Isn’t it terrible the way they treat those prisoners at Guantanamo Bay?

WALDORF: Could be worse.

STATLER: How??

WALDORF: They could make them watch this show with us!

STATLER and WALDORF: Waaaaaa ha ha ha ha ha ha.!

(The music finishes. END OF SHOW)

Today, I am a guest blogger on a friend’s MySpace page.  The piece is long but lots of fun, I think: "Dick Cheney Meets The Muppets." Please enjoy it. 

Meanwhile, in the scarier land of make-believe we call "reality," my body amazes me with the gentle way it has of just doing its thing.  It just takes care of itself.  My body is much wiser than I am. 

Today I have not been feeling terrific.  My "A" game feels like it is submerged in the tank of the toilet.  Could it be some evil egg foo young?  Could it be stress and anger at the DMV and the frustrations that go with trying to set foot on the vanishing ice cap that once was the American middle class?  Could it be sorrow over a lost friend, missing people who are far away, or one cross-town traffic jam too many this week? 

My ego, the Senator from "I-My-Me," demands explanations and accountability.  Who or what is to blame for me not being happy?  Who or what is to blame for my life being other than what it is, for my stomach being upset, for me having doubts and fears about my life?  Oh the injustice of it. 

Meanwhile, my body just does what it needs to do and doesn’t offer any testimony about it.  Some embarrassing noise, perhaps; a vapor; and then sleep.  A good, long sleep.  That’s all. 

My body is my mother.  Whether I’m bleeding or aching or peeling, it tends always to wash me up, give me some unsweet iced tea, and put me down for a nap - just like mama.

Today, there was one additional prescription: having my hair shampooed.  Although I happened to need a haircut anyway, this procedure was more medicinal than cosmetic.  "What you need," my body might say if it felt a need to talk, "Is someone else’s fingers scrubbing your scalp.  Go now." 

*     *     *

To SuperCuts!  To SuperCuts!  A large Armenian woman greeted me and took over where mama leaves off, soaking my head and giving me a good scrub and laughing when I fall asleep right there on the sink. 

Now we’re in the spinning chair that also goes up and down, wearing the purple plastic whole-body bib, listening to another customer flirt with the staff in a voice loud enough to be heard in the supermarket across the street.  "I LOVE ARMENIAN WOMEN!" he says.  "I LOVE THEIR NOSES AND THEIR EYES!"  I wanted to ask him, "How would you dispose of the rest of the cadaver?" but instead I pretended not to listen.  As if I had any choice about it.  "NO, NO PRODUCT IN MY HAIR PLEASE.  I KEEP IT CLEAN ON MY OWN!  WOW, YOU DID SUCH A GOOD JOB.  YOU ARE AMAZING."

Product?  Oh no!  Wait!  Before I can protest, product is being rubbed into my hair: quick-setting hair crap that smells like a urinal cake.  I hate that shit.  I smile and thank her because she is trying to make me look good.  Meanwhile, she has told me about her recent hair dye mishap, explaining why her bleached hair is streaked with bands of green. 

Young Mr. LOUD has left the building, but I still think I can hear him somewhere out on Sunset Boulevard.  My haircutter sighs.  "He’s a really nice guy, but he’s got big problems.  Drugs.  Big drug user.  Trying to get clean.  He goes to a 12-step meeting around here - and people are selling the drugs to him right there at the meeting!"

"Are you kidding me?  Right at the meeting?"

"Sure." 

I take my haircut to go, and leave with it.  I still don’t have registration stickers on my car and drive around feeling like James Bond in the enemy fortress, ready to be apprehended at any time.

"So, Mr. Bond, with all your exploding ball point pens and thermo-nuclear detonating keychains and supermodel nuclear physicists populating your Astin-Martin in between death-defying sortees for the glory of your Queen and democracy and slightly-restrained capitalism, you were just a bit careless, weren’t you?  Forgot about those little stickers on the license plate of your leather-interior turbo hovercraft!  Well, Mr. Bond, every game comes to its end…

"Jaws?  Send our favorite secret agent - to - THE DMV LINE!"

"NO!  NOT THE DMV LINE!" 

"HA ha ha ha ha ha ha ha….!"

*     *      *

And I wake up from another nap, soothing my eyes and running my fingers through my hair - until they get stuck there in a goopy mass of dried product, and I have to saw my hand free with a nail file. 

My mind is a shambles, but my body is mama.  And mama is patient. 

Rachel Bevilacqua is a minister in the Church of the SubGenius.

As with Buddhism, there is debate - surprisingly heated debate - over whether the Church (identifiable by its familiar pipe-smoking "Bob" icon) is actually a religion or not.  Theologians and performance artists and writers have exercised this debate since the Church appeared around 1979. 

If its a religion, it is a tongue-in-cheek religion ; a performance-art religion; a prank religion.  The "Flying Spaghetti Monster" is just a new kid on the block compared to "Bob."  There "devivals" are irreverent gatherings showcasing performance art, preposterous sermons by preposterous "ministers" of the Church, an uproariously silly theology, an injunction to play pranks and release laughter throughout the world; there is often live music and wacky costumes.  The kind of things you want to photograph. 

At a festival celebrating a SubGenius holiday that takes place in July, Rachel Bevilacqua, aka Rev. Mary Magdalen, was photographed wearing skimpy yet humorous costumes, some of which featured her wearing a fake goat head. 

Judge James P. Punch didn’t find the photographs very funny.  That’s fair enough.  He is reputed to be a very devout Catholic, and he was personally very offended by photos that showed Bevilacqua participating in a spoof of Mel Gibson’s film, The Passion of the Christ.

Unfortunately, Bevilacqua was in the midst of a custody battle when Judge Punch saw the pictures.  In February, when Bevilacqua’s ex-husband presented the photos (which had appeared on the internet), Judge Punch blew a rod and began yelling at her in court.  He called her a "pervert," accused her of participating in "sex orgies," and suggested that she suffered from "severe mental illness." 

Then he ordered her to have no contact with her son, none at all, effective immediately. 

Here is a more detailed history of the case, as told by Bevilacqua.  When the press got hold of this, the asshole judge recused himself, but this woman has still been deprived of custody and now must go through a slow and expensive process of proving herself fit as a mother, begging for donations to her legal fund, even though she is not alleged to have violated any laws nor to have abused or neglected her child. 

It’s really very simple: the court took her kid away from her because of her religion.  Or her performance art, if you like.  Whether this is a story about freedom of religion or freedom of expression, it’s clearly a case of injustice.

 

The G.O.P. complains about "activist judges."  Here is one that needs to be impeached.

Last night I was talking about this turn of events last night on a break during a film shoot.  Incredibly, two citizens of the United States of America listened and then asked me, "What’s the big deal?  Why are you bothered by this?"

When she is not busy touring the world singing pop music while hanging from an enormous cross, Madonna is at work on the problem of nuclear waste.  The solution she and her husband have been urging on the British government is to neutralize it using water that has been mystically charged by chanting and meditation as it is practiced at the Kabbalah Center.  According to witnesses, a frequent practice is for folks to face east and chant, "Chernobyl!!  Chernobyl!!"

Somehow, they’ve gotten pseudo-scientific papers written up about this magically-charged Kabbalah fluid (no jokes about it "not holding water," please), and they have been so persistent that the Department of Trade and Industry and British Nuclear Fuels felt obliged to study their ‘research.’  The latter informed Madonna’s husband that his hypothesis "defied the laws of physics" but he is too much of a positive thinker to let that discourage him.  Chernobyl!!  Chernobyl!!

No wonder actors are often mocked as public figures.

Dear Philip Berg: Could we get rid of the scourge of the Bush Administration by turning towards D.C. and chanting, "The world is round!!  The world is round!!?"  (No doubt, you would suggest we all purchase a rhinestone-studded copy of the Zohar, become members and donate, donate, donate.)

Better still, could we get rid of this opportunistic abuse of ancient wisdom traditions by fakers who twist them up into slick enterprises separating earnest people from their money and distracting them from truly waking up to themselves?  Maybe if we turn towards the Hollywood Kabbalah center and start chanting, "Poppycock!!  Poppycock!!"