Dr. J.H. Christ, SOG

One of the ways I spend some time with my 90-year old mother is to take her to church on Sunday mornings. It’s a little Episcopal church whose original congregation has now dwindled down to about 25-30 folks my mother’s age. The church has been taken over by an Hispanic group who, although still Episcopalian, are closer to Pentecostals, complete with karaoke electronic music, hand waving, dancing girls and salsa arrangements of the mother church’s sacred hymnal. All of this to the great dismay of the blue hair set.

Now the Hispanics are wonderful people and in a show of respect for my mom’s generation they have two Sunday services, an earlier, more traditional one in English for the old folks and a full blown Spanish language hootenanny a little later on. The same, Hispanic, preacher serves both congregations and there’s enough spill-over of the music and hand waving to make the whole scene entertaining. Combined with some good preaching, it’s a Sunday morning well spent.

Which brings me to the subject of this tome; Dr. Jesus H. Christ, SOG (Son Of God) the healer. At today's service, a part of the Gospel went like this:

And a large crowd followed him and pressed in on him. Now there was a woman who had been suffering from hemorrhages for twelve years. She had endured much under many physicians, and had spent all that she had; and she was no better, but rather grew worse. She heard about Jesus, and came up behind him in the crowd and touched his cloak, for she sad, “If I but touch his clothes, I will be made well.” Immediately her hemorrhage stopped; and she felt in her body that she was healed of her disease.

Immediately aware that power had gone forth from him, Jesus turned about in the crowd and said, “Who touched my clothes?”…

Now it goes on from there into another statement from Jesus, the one that spawned faith healing, “Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace; and be healed of your disease.” But that’s not where I want to go tonight. I want to explore the first element, where Jesus was aware that power had gone forth from him.

Back in the old days, when I was in college, I read something about Jesus the physician that explained many of his medical miracles as good doctoring. The story at the time was ( I have no idea of the truthfulness of this.) that there were three letters from one of the apostles that dealt with all of Jesus’ miracles and that two of the letters were locked up in the Vatican, but the other surfaced in Constantinople and bits and pieces of it have been leaked over the centuries.

I can only remember one example, but it goes something like this:

There was a village where many of its citizens were beset by the devil. The devil dwelled inside of them and was making them ill. Jesus came to town and ordered everyone to fast for x days. When everyone was on the verge of starving, he ordered bowls of goats milk placed in the sun so by the end of the day it was fermented to high heaven. He ordered the afflicted to get down on their hands and knees and inhale the aroma from the milk. Do not drink it. Inhale it only.

It was reported that after a time, the devil began to emerge from the mouths of the afflicted and Jesus grabbed the devil by his head and bashed it against a rock killing him. He would then pull the devil out of the victims body and cast it away.

The interpretation is that the people had tape worms, and by starving the worms they could be enticed by the smell of the milk to abandon their hosts and thusly, be pulled out and killed.

Now there’s an entirely different vision of Jesus the healer, the one alluded to in the story above.

At some point I became interested in Theosophy. Theosophy is a “religious” philosophy created by the Rosicrucian Society (which is a whole other story). It is heavily influenced by Hindu. Theosophists look at Jesus as a "Regulator", one of several who have walked the earth. The Buddha, Muhammad, Gandhi, etc.

Regulators come to earth to straighten things out. Some do it simply by the example of their being. Some have the ability to actually rearrange bodily molecules by the power of their energy. A Regulator has so much positive energy that it is palpable and you can feel it in their presence. People can generate this energy too, but not nearly on the scale of a Regulator.

If a Regulator touches you, all of your systems, all the little molecules that make up your body, they would assume their proper place and function and whatever your ailments and afflictions are, they would be gone. You would be healed.

Now, I might think this was all a bunch of hooey if I hadn’t myself experienced such energy, albeit on a much lower level. But still, it was palpable energy.

I was once invited into an inner prayer circle at a Buddhist monastery. There were several monks and the guru. There was no mistaking the positive energy in that room. I don’t think I have ever been more at peace. Without a sound, the energy of the Monks immediately brought me to a serene calmness and clarity. It was a “cosmic” harmony. A harmony with “being.”

If one can imagine that everything we know of is nothing more than density of energy… from air, to water, to rock, to us… simply different densities of enery (it may help to think of gas instead of energy)… then you can imagine how those little vibrating molecules can be moved around like a magnet moves around the tiny metal shavings in an Etch-A-Sketch. If you can imagine that, then it’s not too difficult to take the next step and imagine a healer. A Regulator. Someone, or something, that can literally move around the little electrically charged particles that make up your body so that every one of them is in its proper place and function. Sort of a super tune-up.

Now, let’s take one more step. If you can imagine this all encompassing, permeating energy, then you have the basis of String Theory.

If you have the basis of String Theory then you have the basis for cosmic order and… you have the basis of a "Prime Mover", or… Intelligent Design.

The Devil Made Me Do It

My first encounter with real lust was in high school. She was beautiful. She was perfect. I longed to be hers. But before I could muster up the courage some Neanderthal scooped her up, screwed her, and dumped her.

She was heartbroken. Sobbing tears in the hallway consoled by her friends. I thought, this was my chance. But I’ll be damned if the same thing didn’t happen again. The last time I saw her she was fat, haggard, and dragging around four or five rugrats. Sweet revenge. Even if I had nothing to do with it.

As hard as trying to figure out what makes women go after men they know are going to hurt them is men's behavior in a feeding frenzy.

I was once a member of the Jaycees in a small Alabama town. Each year the Jaycees sponsored a carnival as a fundraiser. We all took our turns at the gate selling tickets and some concessions. This was back in the day when carnivals still had deformed babies in jars, a freak show, and a “Gentlemen Only” tent.

At the end of the last night of the carnival, we all gathered at the Gentlemen Only tent for a private show. The air was electric with excitement. Thirty or so young men ready to party, and a party they got. A good buddy of mine, a local attorney, long and tall with a giant handlebar mustache, had a pint of Black Jack and, being a veteran of these things, situated us at the back of the tent were we could watch the proceedings from a safe distance. He cautioned me that, “ We don’t want to be too close to the stage.”

In short order the girls came out. A loud cheer arose from the gathered horneys. I believe there were three of them. Butt fucking ugly. (Now you have to understand dear reader that during the day, these young men were the future pillars of the community. Bankers, accountants, attorneys, businessmen. Most of them married with children.)

Well, the music started and so did the girls. Dressed in the cheesiest outfits imaginable, they gyrated and rotated and grinned and taunted the testosterone crazed crowd pressed against the stage. One of the girls, dressed only in her G-string, got right down in front of a chubby boy whom I had worked with that night, grinding her pelvis inches from his face. She took off his glasses and rubbed them up into her crotch and seductively placed them back on his face. They were so covered with glop that it must have been impossible to see through them. But he was loving it. Then, to my compete disbelief, she pulled aside her panties, spread her legs, and he thrust his face right into the quagmire.

Having by now consumed most of the pint, my buddy and I were bowled over with laughter. But the best was yet to come.

The girls got together and taunted the boys, challenging one of them to come up on stage. Even as crazed as they were, none of them took the dare. Finally, the crowd selected one of their own to be a volunteer and they grabbed him up and threw him onto the stage. Before the girls could get hold of him, he scrambled to his feet and leaped head first back into the crowd. Kicking and struggling, he was again hoisted back onto the stage. This time the girls got him.

Two of them held him down as the third one undressed him. She began fondling him until he finally got an erection and squirted his essence into the air. The crowd roared with laughter. Totally humiliated, the boy grabbed his clothes and ran from the tent buck naked.

When I got home that night, the smell of sweet magnolias filled the soft summer air. Fireflies flitted about the yard. I knew it was a night to remember.

Time to pause and reflect

The passing of an icon like Michael Jackson always stirs memories of faces past in me. How many faces have passed through your life, bad or good? One of the not-so-good things about growing older is that the list of faces grows longer and many of them are out of place. It's OK for someone older than you to pass, because it seems natural. But when the faces start becoming younger than you, well... When I think of the celebrity icons throughout my lifetime that have passed... Paul Newman, Buddy Holly, Luciano Pavarotti, Leonard Bernstein, Elvis, John Wayne, Jimmy Hendrix, Henry Fonda, Marilyn Monroe, Ray Charles, John Kennedy, Martin Luther King... you know, the list goes on an on. Then there are the faces you're glad to be rid of... Nixon, Mao, Kruschev, Reagan And the faces you'd like to be rid of... Rush Lumbaugh, Newt Gingrich, Regis Philbin, Barbara Wa Wa, Sarah Palin... It might be an interesting study to actually list the 5 or 10 faces (non family) that you miss most and those that are good riddance. Probably learn something about yourself in the process. If you have a few, leave a comment and let's compare notes. But for now, so long Michael. No one can ever accuse you of being boring.

Don't eat meat and I'll fuck you like a rabbit

Having failed in their first attempt to reach the godless carnivores that lurk about these web pages, PETA has taken a different tact. As my grandma always said, "You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar." I never quite understood that last part, but the gist is clear. Fluffy little bunnies seem far more attractive than hard-tit, I mean, hard-tip bullets. When asked doesn't this seem a little extreme a PETA spokesperson responded, "You have to understand what we're up against. There are people out there... I mean, there are vile vermin in this world who hate buttercups!" "Can you imagine," she continued. "How could anyone hate a buttercup? Yet just the other day I saw the crotchety old man who lives across the street from me spraying their beautiful uplifted little faces with Roundup!" The world is a cruel place indeed.

Sin: Eat meat and I'll blow your dick off

Tired of screwing around, PETA has decided it's time to get tough. They've hired Lydia Guevara (Che's granddaughter) to lead the charge. And just in case you hard-tails ain't paying attention, she'll take all her clothes off. I don't know about you, but I'm throwing away all my leather goods (except for the black stuff in the back of the closet) and enlisting.

Termites: The Promised Land

You know I never was too much for country Told my daddy that hoe don't fit my hand Got nothin' to show for breakin' my back I want bright lights, girls, and Cadillacs Gimme heaven on earth can't wait for the Promised Land Now dad just shook his head in silent wonder Said, son I ain't always worked this land He said, nothin' in this life is free It ain't easy son, just let it be But if you gotta go to take these words with me... You can marry it, you can inherit it, or you can steal it That's the only way you'll become a wealthy man Well now, daddy lives in a single-wide There's a mighty mad woman wants to skin my hide And I'm stuck here doin' time in Birmingham

Sin - Bearing False Witness

I am constantly amazed at the stuff that people believe. There's enough right wing garbage out there to fill a book in that regard but the other day I ran across something so absurd that I could only stand in slack-jawed amazement that anyone would believe it, much less my sibling, who earnestly reported, with as much disgust as a "Christian" could muster, that that Islamic bastard Obama ordered Not re Dame University to drape every crucifix on campus before he would speak. Jesus H. Christ!! First the guy (my sibling) left a church of which he had been a member for decades because they had ordained a gay bishop, now the sand niggers and Jews have taken over the White House (not too far from the truth actually)(I mean that in a positive sense). The man (Obama) and his family exhibit all of the traits that loving Christians supposedly espouse but they hate the guy with a passion. It's clear to me why Christ won't come back to earth. He would have even less chance than he had before. Glory be. NASA had better get it together and find someplace we can all go to pretty soon or it's all over but the shouting.

Hugh Hefner fucked us up

This blog will endeavor to explore Sins of the flesh and soul as well as Non-Sinse, or the omission of sin, which in itself can still be sinful. An example of Non-Sinse would be reality television, something that isn't a sin in the vernacular but is certainly a sinful waste of time and space. I was trapped into watching part of some sort of a celebrity survival thing the other night that was the most shameless piece of shit I’ve ever seen on television. Worse than Judge Judy.

However today, I'm going to discuss something truly Sinful. Or rather, someone. How Hugh Hefner fucked us up.

Somehow, in some perverted way, Hugh Hefner has made all men believe that they have to be great, not just good, but great lovers (as if there really were such a thing). Somehow, he persuaded us that the reason we were put on this earth was to bring pleasure to women. And not just one, but several. The Playboy image: suave, debonair, smoking jacket, pipe and martini was the way to go boy. You ain’t nothing if you ain’t that. I know men well into their 60’s who still cling to the hallucination that some young chick simply can’t resist their suave persona. Or, guys in their Hummers and pickups who hang balls from their trailer hitch. Redneck Hefner-ites.

To make matters worse, women too have bought into this crap. The average, and I mean average, American Princess expects, no, demands a male partner devoted to her every need and whim. Add the phony baloney Hollywood image of the perfect American family (re: June Cleaver) to the mix and it’s easy to see why we Americans have the worst relationships and highest number of divorces on earth.

Anyone who’s spent any time at all in another culture knows what I’m talking about. In Europe, when you meet a woman you know right away where you stand. None of the coy games American women are so fond of. None of, once you’ve hooked a guy, spending the rest of your life trying to make him fit into the Hollywood mold. None of believing you have to be a sexual Olympian every time you jump in the sack.

I’m not saying that many people don’t find and enjoy mature, rational relationships. But I am complaining about the ration of shit you have to go through to finally get there. All because of totally unrealistic expectations of what "true love" is. What cool is. First fostered on us by Mr. Hefner.

How generations of us let our sexuality be influenced by this pathetic shyster is a mystery to me. But then, so is Judge Judy.

Music is mankind's greatest achievement. It's sustained me throughout my life and I am much the richer for it. Last night I ventured out to the local bistro to hear an old friend, not really a personal friend, but someone I've been listening to for forty-something years now so he seems like an old friend. I don't remember how many times I've seen Gove, but each time I I do I leave feeling like... well, feeling good. Better than any pill. While there I ran into an old acquaintance who, it turns out, used to be Gove's manager back in the good 'ole days when they were traveling with Jimmy and the Coral Reefer Band up and down A1A, hitting every juke joint and honky tonk they could along the way. The whole evening turned into a throw-back as I also visited with an old friend who, for nearly a decade, promoted musical acts into a little pizza parlor/night club in Old San Marco. It was the greatest parade of artists imaginable. He would catch them traveling between gigs in Atlanta and Orlando or Miami so could swing it financially. At that little club I enjoy more acts than I can name, but I'll name a few... Doc Watson, Mose Allison, The Howlin' Wolf, J.J. Cale, Buddy Guy, Matt "Guitar" Murphy, KoKo Taylor, Johnny Winter, Taj Mahal... the list goes on, but on this night, it was Gove Scrivenor. A master musician, great entertainer, and all-around good guy. Some time I'll tell you about Chuck Berry, Ray Charles and John Lee Hooker at The Palms.