There was a sublime calm in Bedrock this afternoon, an overwhelming sinister silence, which could not be penetrated. It smelled like aftermath. Like elegance unraveled, Fred Flintstone and Barney Rubble stood beside a lifeless The Great Gazoo. Here’s something you only discover after it’s far too late: a Zetoxian’s green flesh turns to the color of human flesh when viciously deprived of oxygen. After all, it’s one thing to kill a green alien, and it’s another thing to kill your fellow man, as chronicled in the tragic episode, “The Jeffersons Move On Up To Bedrock.”
The following happened in a far more gentle and innocent time, before the death of irony (Thank you very much, ill-informed Alanis Morissette), before the death of truth, before “collusional” (street slang combining collusion and delusional) presidents, before apparent fake media, and before 9/11. Most importantly, before my divorce.
This is not to say that it was a golden age, far from it. There was still poverty, pestilence and mass murderers.
A touring American tenor arrived in a small Japanese village. He claimed to be the greatest singer in the entire world. His mission was simple: to grace the villagers with his beautiful voice, in return for a meal fit for a king. Before proceeding further, it is imperative to point out that Japan does not accept such boastful words without merit, it needs to be earned, backed up. In short, prove it or lose it. With this, a competition was decreed to prove once and for all, who had the best singing voice.
Little is known (Actually, there is a wealth of information, but for my purposes, they are rendered moot.) about postmodern poet, e.e. cummings. All you need to know is: it is with the same arrogance in which cummings will not acknowledge upper case letters that he approached his slightly better than average ping pong skills. It is with this similar blindness he supported Joseph McCarthy and the Republican Party.