American Fez

Project Green Light

He appeared early one Saturday morning wearing a ludicrous beard and a multi-colored polyester cardigan, wild-eyed and spit-drenched with enthusiasm, on my parent's television set. His name might have been "Roger" or "Ken", I really can't remember. The reason for his appearance, apparently, was to demonstrate for the benefit of teenage boys and bored housewifes the mechanics of making a short animated film. He was the Bob Ross of cinema. "Anyone can do it." he claimed. "All you need is a Super-8mm camera with single frame advance, a lump of clay, some pipe-cleaners and a roll of tin-foil." And once the neophyte had assembled this short list of equipment and created a human figure from his lump of clay, then the shooting could begin in earnest: move your clay figure's left leg forward, click off a frame; move your figure's right leg forward, click off a frame - and hey presto! - three years later you have completed a five second film of a grotesquely deformed clay man hobbling across your bedroom floor. Great!
"Dad has his old home movie kit in the attic" my mother informed me, and added - rather pushily in my opinion - "Why don't you make a film?"
I suppose I could have done. But I decided not to. After all, I asked my mother, how many films of clay men rolling themselves up into little balls does the world need?
If only Hollywood would show the same restraint as I did in my teenage years.

Yoga

I have just taken my first yoga class, and I have to say it is the worst martial art that I have ever practised. At the beginning of the class I went into my famous attacking "ha-cha" posture, but everybody else just sat cross-legged on the floor.
I thought it was some kind of deceptive defensive tactic to lull me into a false sense of security. So I circled them warily in silence for about fifteen minutes, ready to strike at any moment, sizing up the opposition and attempting to catch their eyes while they pretended to ignore me.
Clever, clever, I thought, but not clever enough for me.
And then, with all the stealth and fury of a Bengal tiger, suddenly I attacked.
It took me roughly sixty seconds to kick all their faces in. They could do nothing to protect themselves because they had tied themselves up in these weird knot poses and were breathing in this really bizarre way. I was even able to knock the so-called "expert" unconcious with two simple chops to her neck.
I used to think aikido was a crap way of fighting, but yoga takes the biscuit.
Meanwhile ...
After the last M.C. Escher fiasco, I needed to find another interior designer to redecorate my house - and fast.
So. Scanning the classifieds section of the local paper, I saw an ad for de Chirico and Co. and decided to call them up. What the hell, I thought, they can't do any worse than the optical illusion I am living in at the moment.
Giorgio de Chirico himself came over with some sketches and unrolled them on the kitchen table. "These are my ideas." he said with a particularly strange Italian accent and a faraway look in his eyes.
"Basically," he told me, "I am thinking of going for the open-plan and no roof look with a Perpetual Night theme. Lots of deep shadows complemented by a palette of melancholy colors and alabaster. A sprinkling of statues would be chic, perhaps an Ariadne or two, you know, on a nice plinth. And why not be devils and scatter a few busts of Julius Caesar here and there. I'm also thinking we should knock down all these walls and replace them with some tasteful Doric columns, and, you know, a few Greek arches and tunnels that lead nowhere, very fall of Ancient Rome. And all the surfaces should slope at weird angles to one another. That's very important. A very lovely effect."
"That's all very well Mr. de Chirico." I said. "But what about this enormous dead fish thing you've got going on?"
"It's a dead haddock." he replied. "Very in right now with the whole Town and Country crowd. Very New York loft space. If you aske me, dead haddock is the new dead poodle. The smell will disappear in a few weeks. No need to worry about that."
"Well, couldn't we make it a dead flat fish, like a plaice or something, that way I could use it as a throw rug or something. I mean, at the moment it's blocking the entire kitchen."
"A plaice! A plaice!" de Chirico shrieked. "Don't be ridiculous! What a philistine!" And then he picked up his plans and stormed out.
Of course, this rather left me back at square one. However, there is this guy called Rene Magritte who did some very nice window treatments for my friend's apartment. Maybe I will give him a call.

Boeing Boeing Gone.

Boston's Logan International Airport is a fun-filled Disneyland for the adult traveler, particularly Terminal B, which has a tremendous carnival atmosphere. The lines for the rides are extremely long and you may never actually get on the ride of your choice, but the seemingly endless wait is absolutely worth it. A true rollercoater ride of despair and anxiety. For sheer spine-chilling thrills, nothing beats Logan Airport Mardi Gras.
There is a Bearded Lady behind the check-in counter and then the World's Smallest Man collects tickets at the gate until the Boy with the Monkey Face comes and tells you the gate number and time of departure have been changed.
What is the new time of departure? Why not ask Mystic Meg in the fortune telling tent - because nobody else knows. Meanwhile, the rest of the freak show cavorts gaily around you as you stand in line for hours and hours.
Best of all, the baggage carousel is exactly like a real fairground carousel: your suitcases arrive desperately clinging to a rickety pole stuck in the back of a plastic dolphin weaving up and down in a whirl of colored flashing lights and barrel organ music. And they just keep going around and around forever and ever. It would be nice if the airport authorities provided one of those tobacco-chewing, multi-tattooed, greasy assistants to make sure all the bags have a good time and none of them falls of. But that would probably be asking too much.
Actually, they lost my bag. I haven't see it for days. Perhaps it has run off to join the circus. Who knows? I don't.

Duddla duddla duddla da. Ner ner ner. No more heroes anymooooore

I never thought of myself as a being who possessed heroes. But I suppose I am. At any rate, there are certainly a number of individuals, iconoclasts, and supermen who have shaped "my thinking".
Naturally, all these people are long dead, alas. And although their flesh has shrivelled from these heroic bones and disintegrated back into the Earth from whence it came, or been consumed as if on Viking Pyre by the devouring flames of the crematorium, let one last Oratorio ring out for ...get on with it, Baldwin
Yes, well, anyway. In no particular order, my heroes are:

Anthony Powell: Surely the greatest English novelist, memoirist and diarist of the twentieth century. Mr Outer Life may have collected an entire Alexandrian library's worth of distinguished tomes during his inner life, but did he ever own a copy of Iron Aspidistra by Mark Members?
No, of course not. But I do. And it wasn't even written by Powell.

Auberon Waugh: Surely the greatest English novelist, memoirist and diarist of the twentieth century. Enoch Soames may disagree and claim the title for Auberon's father, Evelyn. But that's a girl's name and consequently, by the laws of gender, cannot correctly be called a hero. QED.

Peter Cook: Surely the greatest English comedian, magazine publisher, and talk show interviewee of the twentieth century. "I hope you've brought a toothbrush", etc. Read

Vivian Stanshall: Surely the greatest English Sir Henry Rawlinson, Ginger Geezer, and lead singer of the Bonzo Dog Band of the twentieth century. Owner of the world's fruitiest voice. Lived on a boat. Read

Fairfield Porter: Surely the greatest American painter of the twentieth century. If only because I borrowed the picture which illustrates this page from him. No doubt James Panero would argue against my conclusion, but I prefer Porter's pictures to those of any other artist. Even Homer and Hopper's.

The Earl of Sandwich: Surely the greatest English earl and innovative bread thinker of the ... whenever he was alive. The controversial dietician Stefan Beck may disagree, but personally I like a nice vegetarian sandwich.

S.J Perelman: Surely the greatest American wit and ... sorry, I mean Robert Benchley ... surely the greatest American wit, etc.

Field Marshall Lord Alanbrooke: Surely the greatest English CIGS and diarist of the twentieth century. Read

Benjamin Disraeli: Surely the greatest novelist of the nineteenth century. Did a spot of political work too. Read

Dwight D. Eisenhower: Surely the greatest American President of the twentieth century. Especially since I am beginning to look like him in my old age. Read. I imagine the the crack young staff of the hatemonger's quarterly believe that I have stumbled into the wrong bronze bust in the wrong wing of The White House. But I must admit, like Ike.

Michael Powell: Surely the greatest English film maker of the twentieth century. Read

Emeric Pressburger: Surely the greatest Hungarian film maker of the twentieth century. Read

Preston Sturges: Surely the greatest American film maker of the twentieth century. Read

Ernst Lubitsch: Surely the greatest German film maker of the twentieth century. Read

brand new randomness

Educated at the Sorbonne? Yeah. I suppose you could say that. She was into playing Chopin on this hammered dulcimer we found up North: greasy bum always shifting around on that wooden stool as she struck the keys with those Gitanes stained fingers of hers. She never could keep still when I was turning the pages. And that's how I like to remember her. Certainly knew a bit more than most about the treatment of testicular tightening with an application of Provencal prune juice and a quick re-framing of the old Van Dongen. There was a room in Vermont where she used to practice. Ma Blue-Stockings Boarding House for Young Ladies, if I remember right. Place was a bit like a girls-only motel: air conditioning; color TV; hammered dulcimer; no guests after 11pm. Later I heard she'd been doing a spot of bell ringing at St. Chad's, hand jobs mostly because she never learnt the ropes. Of course, they've closed that place down now.

telling it like it is

The sun comes out, temperatures rise, and the slovenly, disheveled masses cast several hundred years of enlightened civilization to the winds: yes, I'm talking about people wearing flip-flops.
Personally, I never leave the house without a tie, even on those days when you can fry up breakfast for six on the hood of a car. But then I never take my coat off until after the third date either. Presentable and cautious - it's just the way I like to live my life.
Should men wear flip-flops in public places? The answer is clearly "absolutely not!" Certainly, flip flops have their place, but that place is obviously somewhere hidden away, dark and embarrassing.
Why do people assume it is permissible to slouch around in a slovenly manner just because the summer months have arrived? So it happens to be ninety-five degrees outside - that is no reason to attire yourself as though you were spending a day at the beach, when in fact you are actually attending a top-level briefing on something extremely important to me.
How would the Gettysburg Address be remembered today, if the person delivering that great speech had worn flip-flops, crumpled shorts, and a grubby tee shirt? If it were remembered at all, it would be remembered as the Gettysburg Hey Dude How's It Hanging' Slack-Jawed Mumble.
Not the same thing at all.
Gentlemen should be adequately shod at all times, and flip flops are wholly inadequate. The visible, hairy toe and it's deformed toenail should remain strangers to the Public Gaze.
The first days of warm weather always remind me that Jamaica is the last place on Earth I would wish to visit. That terrible music that sounds like someone's made a cheap harmonica by folding old rolling papers over a toothless comb and stolen his mother's saucepan to bang on; dumb drinks that look like someone poured the contents of a dirty fish tank into a marguerita glass and then stuck a rancid broccoli spear in. And then there is the childishly painted, hand-carved wooden flute example of nasty smoking paraphernalia - perfect for the awful dysfunctional "pot" experience that comes as part of your package tour.
"Would you like to buy my pretty shells?"
"No thanks."
"This shell is also a massive bong."
"Go away."
Jamaica is to me what kryptonite is to Superman.
My idea of a great vacation is traveling to Venice and hiring a speedboat with a really loud klaxon - creating enormous waves as I motor towards the Lido, tie fluttering over my shoulder.
"Get out of my way!"
Now that's what I call civilization.

random

He was a big bastard called Norman who ate with his hands. Could have been court jester at the court of Alphonse IX if he played his cards right. No such luck. But his blood was medieval, plowman's blood, and it flowed through a stained-glass heart with a picture of Pontius Pilate At His Breakfast on it. I hated him. They said his brother was Norwegian, but I could smell the Balinese all over him. It stank in his hair like an imported tropical gel. Very greasy, very, very slippery. "No, not today, thank you," I told him. "We don't accept Balinesian coinage in this establishment. Not from the likes of you at any rate."
He tried to sell me a sledgehammer with a bit of the handle missing. No takers. It was solid oak, though, you could feel the quality, feel the width.
"I've got to get a bus to Omaha." he said.
So I slammed the fucking door in his face.
I heard later he took part in human pyramid scheme somewhere out in the desert. He was on the bottom as usual and didn't get a drink for fifteen days. That's his skeleton hanging up in the corner. We went round the medical college with it but couldn't give it away: too bleached, they told us, been out in the sun too long.
That's always the way. Bloody Norman. Useless to the last drop.
Meanwhile.
Attended a Satanic ritual last night. Here is what happened.
The moon was low, and a creeping mist enshrouded the hollow hill. Somewhere an enormous crow farted, then ruffled his own feathers and flew off into the ink black night. As usual, the Bretheren met in the sacred circle by the abandoned church. All were hooded except Brother Bartholomew, since he has a massive afro and cannot fit his hood over his head. The secret chant was chanted and the sacrificial calf was led into the center of the circle by a golden rope. Satan was summoned, the calf's throat was slit, blood flowed into the magical goblet and - Hey Presto! - the sacrificial calf was turned into instant roast beef with baked potato,
asparagus, and pearl onions! Hallelujah in reverse. All hail Satan - the Lord of Sunday lunch on Monday night.
But wait.... no gravy? This must be why Satan is known as the Evil One. Yet again we had been tricked by His diabolical sense of humor and His poor knowledge of sauces and appropriate garnish.

the sinister blog of fu manchu

It seems that our friends in the Outer Life Family - Mr Outer Life, Teen Outer Life, Grampa Outer Life, and Bertie Outer Life the Outer Life Family Pet Poodle - have been reading a good deal of detective fiction. At any rate, the Outer Life musings are much funnier than anything I've read by Dorothy Sayers of late (and for reasons best known to myself, I have reading a LOT of Dorothy Sayers recently).
All I can say is, The Stephenhead died of natural causes brought on by a sharp scimitar thrust to the lower left buttock area: "an unpleasant way to die" they said at the Inquest. But suspicious cicumstances were ruled out by the coroner, Dr. Lets Getthisthingoverwith, even though a man described as "the murderous looking Stephenesque, until recently of no-fixed-abode" started screaming: "I killed it. It was me. I did it."
And where is the harm in that?
Enoch Soames, meanwhile, has been watching too much Wizard of Oz .... as usual. Although I cannot see how he can relate to the character of The Scarecrow, nor find him a sympatheric figure at all.

Souvenirs of Stephenhead

I have at least five pairs of shoes in desperate need of repair. Last night I placed all five pairs on my fireplace next to a bottle of diet Pepsi, two blueberry muffins and a handful of chocolate covered peanuts. Unbelievably, I awoke this morning to discover that my shoes were still in desperate need of repair! Even the appetizing repast I had left out remained untouched.
What, I demand to know, were all the friendly elves and goblins who live in the walls doing all night? Probably drunk stupid on toadstool wine, I'll wager: lazy, good-for-nothing little people.
It was the same story when I wanted the couch moved from one room to another. Six walnuts, a can of ginger ale, half a snickers bar, and the bloody couch didn't move an inch! Where, I ask you, are all the brawny ogres who don't mind a bit of heavy lifting? Prowling around at the fairyland disco with a jug of dandelion ale trying to pick up woodland nymphs, I'll be bound!
It is a disgrace that in this day and age you cannot find a single make-believe character to do a fair days work for a fair days pile of junk food.
What is the world coming to? Next thing you know, the witch who lives down the road will have to build a house out of crack cocaine if she wants to attract any plump little children.

My first gig as a one man David Bowie Rock'n'Roll Chameleon Tribute Band went extremely badly.
Obviously, "being" David Bowie Rock'n'Roll Chameleon on stage demands not only an extensive knowledge of the maestro's highly diverse oeuvre, but also requires almost superhuman talents as a quick-change artiste; and looking back on the show, I think this is where it all went wrong for me.
I began modestly - wearing a long-haired wig with a tight-fitting sailor shirt and bell-bottom trousers, an acoustic guitar slung sullenly around my shoulders. Thus attired, I performed a passable version of Life On Mars.
As the last chord echoed around the auditorium, I rushed backstage, slipped into a pair of diamanté underpants, wedged a wah-wah pedal in my armpit, slapped a streak of red and blue paint on my face, then ran out again and did Ziggy Stardust.
"Ziggy played guitaaaaaaaar!" I wailed, and ran back to the dressing room - desperately out of breath by now with a restless crowd waiting - hustled myself into loud checked shirt and hip huggers, wiped the crap off my face and ran back out again for a Young Americans duet with a voice box: so tired I could barely stand there and croak, never mind sing falsetto.
Somehow I managed to get through it, but then the horrible realization dawned that the next number was a bloody medley!
Rebel Rebel, Golden Years, Boys Keep Swinging, and finally Ashes To Ashes in full clown costume and make-up.
Needless, to say it was a total disaster.
I was still in the middle of singing "hot tramp I love you so" - while playing a synthesizer with one hand, drums with my feet, and strumming with my other hand as I was trying to fit my clown shoes on over my Thin White Duke socks and pulling my novelty Diamond Dogs thong off at the same time - when my mind went blank. I forgot the lyrics to the songs, tripped over my thong, knocked the microphone stand over and fell into the orchestra pit.
Someone yelled "Ground control to Major Tom!" and that was the end of it.

Base camp has already been established on the shores of Lake Tomato Sauce, and tomorrow we make our first ascent of the Hill of Beans.
The Baked Bean section at roughly 5000 feet should be the most arduous part of the climb - difficult, murky terrain with all those weird white chunky bits in it, and we expect to discover the body of the Anne Margaret character from Tommy along the way.
Then we progress to the Green Bean Section (approx 6000 feet), followed by negotiation of treacherously narrow the String Bean Crevasse, followed by the truly breathtaking Mexican Jumping Bean section (variable feet), before our final ascent to the summit of the Hill of Beans and the ceremonial planting of our flag on Humphrey Bogart's nose.
My only hope is that we don't run into the Abominable Beanman.

pickman's model

This morning on the train I took a seat behind a dignified elderly man dressed entirely in shades of gray; clothes chosen, perhaps, to complement his hair, which he wore in tight gray curls; indeed, almost all of him was gray, except for a multi-colored muffler vividly covering his ears.
He clutched several pencils in his left hand, often selecting and exchanging these with the pencil held in his right, with which he sketched his fellow passengers on large, loose sheets of paper balanced upon his knee. These drawings, exclusively faces rendered at frontal elevation and numbering three or four to a page, were arranged in various stages of incompletion, as if the artist's chosen model had sat down opposite him but then unexpectedly departed the train before my gray friend had opportunity to add detail, shading, or even the establishment of principle facial features to his basic outline. I wondered if, like Anthony Powell's Mr. Deacon, he was simply a "collector of heads and necks", since sketching on a cramped subway train must surely provide the mobile artist with many alternative and varied subjects to find inspiration in: a conflux of wedged bodies forming interesting lines and shapes, for instance; or a still life of crumpled knees and pinched feet viewed from an unusual angle; perhaps, even, a single, gracefully curved arm hanging from a steel balustrade, descending into an ocean of hunched shoulders from which the tips of the backs of bowed heads emerge like dangerous rocks to shipwreck the unwary.
I don't know. Personally, I just prefer to stare out from the train windows at the passing walls of dark tunnels.

go fish

Repeatedly positioning his spherical bowl at various points of the compass within the living room, I attempted to determine an optimum location that might restore equanimity to my goldfish's morose and disordered state of mind. In this manner, as if some eager tourist making excursions to diverse quarters of the globe, my fish embarked on a whirlwind sightseeing expedition; exploring the dark jungle cover provided by a plant decorated table in the corner, then relaxing on tropical beaches created by three bay window sills, also wandering through the bohemian metropolis bordered by several bookcases, and finally, ascending to high, alpine regions atop the mantelpiece.
Perhaps he will write a travel book for others of his kind, should he free up space in his busy calendar, that daily log currently booked solid with all this swimming about, an activity that must be completed before his piscatorial mind can turn itself to other matters.

john ruskin

I am following John Ruskin's dictum that a happy man is a sketchy man .. no, that's wrong .. I mean, of course, that a happy man is a man who sketches. However, I have gone a little further than Ruskin because I now believe that a happy man is actually a man who paints; and I have gone even further still when I say that a happy man is really and truly a man who paints in the manner of James MacNeil Whistler. Unfortunately, since I do not own any painting equipment, I have been forced to write my paintings in words. Here is an example of my happy work:

"Word Picture: Symphony in Red and Black"

I bought a bottle of burgundy and bottle of rosé: $43.00, the strawberry blonde cashier demanded, her pursed and scarlet lips spitting out the sum as though it were some derisory and useless number, a pathetic fraction that had somehow fallen out of favor and was now considered beneath contempt by accountants everywhere; and then, with chipped, red fingernails, she snatched a twenty dollar bill from my hand and slammed it into the cash register draw, fishing around inside for my change, her bloodshot eyes squinted at the amount printed on the receipt causing deep lines to form on her ruddy face, the result of too much blush and rouge apparently applied with rough sandpaper and rusting steel wool, no doubt she hoped - in vain - that the addition of this thick pink mass might disguise the pimply red rash that ran from around her ears to the tip of her already crimson nose. Meanwhile, the sullen boy bagging my groceries behind the counter possessed such a vertical shock of crackly black hair and equally eldritch, seared eyebrows, that, together with his somewhat blistered, swarthy complexion and the circles of steam from a nearby coffee pot that enveloped his head and shoulders, made it seem that he owed his existence not to birth in the normal manner, but to sudden expulsion from a blast furnace at extreme velocity, the arc of this trajectory capriciously depositing him in his present position at the grocery store where he plied his bagging trade between sulfuric puffs on a cigarette he left balanced on the window ledge by the grocery store's front door.

in the park

As I strolled through Boston's Public Gardens last Saturday on my way home, a stubborn early evening mist suffused itself with a particularly eerie twilight, pitching the impressionistic streaks of black tree branches into sharp foreground relief and casting gauzy, rapidly darkening coalescences of fading pinks and oranges across the firmament, as if a bruised peach had been thrown and splattered against the rising moon; warm, dull tones contrasting sharply with the pale, fluorescent green rectangles formed by the windows of surrounding office buildings, and the brilliant white radiating from rigid, evenly spaced street lamps.
Suddenly, as if he had spontaneously emerged from the parkland beside me like a human version of Jack's magic beanstalk, a willowy, ancient, dark-eyed gentleman of sulphuric appearance slithered into view, smoking a cigarette with such precision that he could easily have been mistaken for an itinerant glass-blower practicing his art while on the move. Apparently deciding that he had smoked enough for the time being, with much deliberation and finesse, he snuffed the fire from the burning stub by tapping its tip on a small, rusting metal box he kept hidden in the folds of his enormous black overcoat. Having completed this action to his own satisfaction, he grinned a toothless grin and proudly displayed the extinguished cigarette to me, waving the grubby remnant of tobacco in my face with a flourish, as though he had performed some astounding conjuring trick or astonishing feat of skill for which he should rightly receive some great reward.
"Sorry. I don't smoke." I told him, assuming that his banal theatrics were produced with the aim of procuring a fresh cigarette.
He shrugged sadly, then turned effortlessly on his dilapidated heels and almost seemed to foxtrot himself off into the mist with all the pantomimic dignity of an Italian clown.

museum of food

When in Boston you absolutely must visit the Museum Of Food on fashionable Newbury Street. The naive tourist can easily confuse the building with a regular grocery store because they look so similar, but fortunately, the stench of decomposition should guide you to the right door - "just follow the flies on the fungus trail." as the locals say. Besides rotten meats and vegetables, the museum possesses the world's largest collection of milks from bygone eras, all authentically curdled and encased in leaky cartons that have made a mess of the antique refrigeration unit. Other popular sights include a fine selection of stale breads featuring different gaily-colored molds, rusted cans of soup with the labels missing, and a vintage box of smashed up and unidentifiable crackers from the turn of the century. My personal favorite is the greenish-looking chocolate that has melted out of the package and oozed all over the dusty shelving, and apples so bruised they appear to have been beaten up by a gang of bitter and vicious melons.
Don't complain if the cases in the Deli wing of the museum are occasionally empty, this is due to the chicken and beef exhibits being temporarily removed for repair and restoration work.
The most interesting fact about the Museum Of Food is that their entire collection is apparently available for purchase. It might seem that this adventurous policy would eventually deplete the Museum's stock, but luckily most customers who buy an exhibit usually return it within a few days so others can view it later.

the widow

Since I have nicknamed her "The Widow", the stairwell leading from the apartment of this sour-faced woman to that of my friend Suzanne, naturally enough, has become known as "The Widow's Stairwell" - especially when she ascends the steps to complain about the noise, usually declaring that living below Suzanne is the most wince-making of inconveniences she has ever suffered through.
Whether or not The Widow has actually suffered such bereavement as her nickname implies, I am not sure, but she certainly maintains a heaviness of soul and blackness of dress reasonably to be associated with some sort of great loss or other. A reserved, chilly woman, cloaked with an aura of restless nights and dripping taps, silently gliding through the chalky fluorescent corridors of the converted warehouse she calls home, The Widow seems out of place set amongst the unconventional - often bizarre - artists with irregular habits who also live in the loft spaces. Dressed in simple, unaffected and unprepossessing black, she appears almost a figure from another age; perhaps, even, the phantom spirit of some prim secretary once employed by the Victorian business that occupied the building in years long past, doomed to wander the halls forever, wringing her hands over examples of poor craftsmanship and the prospect of impending bankruptcy.

corpus christi

Walking along the street yesterday evening, an emphatic gentleman clothed in a billboard advertising Eternal Salvation kindly handed me a leaflet featuring a colored illustration of a smiling, haloed Jesus ushering small children into an ivy-clad church: "Thanks", I said.
It was an interesting image, you know, the usual blue-eyed Messianic ideal, which made me want to turn around, waving the leaflet at my benefactor and yelling, "Hey. Wait a minute. This isn't Him! You've got a picture of the wrong guy on this. Jesus doesn't look like this at all!"
Obviously, with the exception of those who have unshakeable faith in the authenticity of the Turin Shroud, nobody really knows what Jesus actually looked like, although it is highly improbable, of course, that he was Caucasian with wavy, golden hair and neatly trimmed beard. He may have been black, olive, brown, tan, sandy yellow, conch red - "Bethlehem beige", even, in Ralph Lauren Speak - but God most certainly did not said His only son to Earth looking like a fresh-faced, shaggy-haired mid-seventies era High School English teacher wearing a dressing gown. One can only imagine the scene occurring in Heaven if Jesus had attempted to descend into the world in such a guise: "You are not going out of the Pearly Gates looking like that. Go back to your room and change into something more Biblical this minute."
I would have disposed of the leaflet in the garbage when I arrived home, but although I am the most vacillatingly undecided of agnostics, I can never bring myself to throw out anything possessing a religious connection, no matter how trivial the object may be or how tenuous the connection. I suppose this makes me superstitious. However, the one thing in this life I am sure of is this: it is better to be safe than sorry.