My Little Golden Book of Phobias

I just semi-watched the Seahawks (go Seahawks!) cream the San Francisco Wolverines (or Broncs or Spatulas). I made that all up. I have no idea what San Francisco's mascot is and frankly, I don't care. Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn. Those boys all have mommas who watch their sons get thrashed; knees, shoulders, concussions, etc, etc. for a lotta money. And they're wrecked at the end of the day. A stupid game. Sorry if I've offended any football fans. I'd rather watch soccer or basketball or almost anything else. Well, not boxing. Ug, what is the deal with boxing? Hit hard enough to knock someone unconscious?

I'd rather be hiking or swimming. Or reading the NYT. I haven't read the front page yet. I'm saving it. They are a bit stuffy so maybe there won't be any mention of the end of the world. Which didn't happen. That's the trouble with predictions. They don't come true.

There is always a guy near the beginning of the gay pride march with a giant sign, painted flames on the bottom that reminds us that we're all gonna fry in hell because Jesus loves us or some random logic.  I bet he's wrong. I do think he's misguided. He also has a bullhorn so he can yell stuff. The drag queens in their gowns and heels and impossible makeup are having way more fun than he it.

But it's baby Jesus time in Christendom. I've always wanted to use that word. I only have a few things to say. As a midwife, the baby Jesus was conceived when sperm invaded the zona pellucida and tada! cell division which eventually produced a new human. And that probably meant hanky-panky. AI wasn't around yet. Likewise, to be fair. The baby Buddha did not, I repeat, did not come forth from his mother's armpit (ouch) while she was leaning on a tree. (PS, she died two days later, wouldn't you?). He walked immediately and wherever his feet touched the earth, a lotus flower appeared.

As humans, wer love to make shit up. We love stories. We do. And when a remarkable person comes along, Nelson Mandela for example, we want to think that we're not like him, we couldn't do what he did,  befriend his jailers but. He is an ordinary person. We can do what he did. We can be Jesus or Buddha or Dorothy Day. We can. We can forgive the unforgivable. We can endure great suffering without taking everyone around us down too. Therefore. I bow to the musicians and writers and artists who turn dross into beauty. Vincent Van Gogh, Beethoven, Chopin, Audrey Lorde, Allen Ginsberg, Louis Malle, Brian Eno, Picasso, everyone has their lists. Not saints, humans like us.

Onwards, into the year of the snake, my dears.