Don't Worry

I heard that song "Don't Worry, Be Happy" the other day. It brought back confusing memories. I attended a lot of church-related youth group events in my teens, and when that song was popular it seemed like everyone who spoke to youth felt like they had to address the theological implications of Bobby McFerrin's cheerful little song. An awful lot of them were deeply disturbed by it for reasons that I can't remember. Boy, they didn't like that song, and not just because it was unavoidable. OTOH Freddie Langston, a musician who was all over the Southeastern Presbyterian youth scene, loved the song and performed it regularly. I hadn't quite figured out this whole Protestant thing wherein one is really supposed to make up one's own mind, so the mixed messages I was getting from theological authority figures had my head spinning.

Listening to it again I think Freddie got it right; this song isn't meant to be taken with such furrowed-brow seriousness. How could anyone listen to this thing and take it too seriously? Do you think Bobby McFerrin really wants you ringing up at all hours and beg him to cheer you up? Or that he'd really advise anyone facing eviction to simply not worry and be happy? Added to which, once we found out the Bobby didn't really have a Caribbean accent, and collaborated with ironic performance artists like Laurie Anderson, the penny should have dropped.

It may seem like I've spent way too much text explaining that Don't Worry, Be Happy was not a Satanic meme designed to lull Christians into a false sense of security, but when I was a baffled teen it seemed pretty ambiguous. Around the same time I was confused because plenty of church folk were picketing Last Temptation of Christ, while my Dad, a devout Christian and proud Elder of the church, was singing Last Temptation's praises.

Probably the best advice I ever heard on these matters came from a lady I worked with on a temp job. She was fond of going to casinos and gambling. She related how her nephew asked her "Don't you listen to what the preacher says?" Her reply: "Yes I do. I also listen to what I say." That's the power of Protestantism.

Second Post of the Day: George's plea

I'm listening to an old Frank Zappa live album on which keyboardist George Duke tells an improvised story about boogerbears. He closes by saying "A booger to one is not a booger to all." Indeed. I often feel that when I'm clearly a booger to someone, I am a booger, and I have a hard time understanding how others can tolerate those whom I regard as overt boogers, but I need to remember George's wisdom.

Got My Grille Gleaming

Today I got some teeth capped. I've had perfect teeth for years, until now. My reupholstered fangs look fine, although I was tempted to request gold instead of ceramics and get an MC-worthy grille going.

It amazes me that I could so easily screw up something as intimately important as my teeth. The problem was that I brushed too hard. The reason I brushed too hard was, let's face it, sexual frustration. Abstainance is bad for your teeth.

My issues aren't collectors' items.

September is shaping up to be a complicated month. I've overextended myself in a lot of directions. I won't bore you with details, but I got some serious juggling to do. Lots of people want lots of things from me, and I want lots of things from lots of people. I might have to puzzle some things out, behave erratically, and holler.

So it's the perfect time for Not Blog X, my new link. It's a guy reviewing his childhood favorite X-Men comics. I never got the X-Men bug, but I enjoy it when people thoughtfully reexamine the stuff they dug as kids, and I feel a bit like a '90s era X-character: consider me a poorly-drawn lumpy hollerin' guy who's suffering from unclear problems but bearing up by striking poses and acting sullen.

Nonologue

Saturday J'mel's group The Feminist Debutante Guild did a monologue show. All the monologues were written by J'mel, with a slew of performers. I was pleased to be one of the performers, and although I'm not entirely happy with my work (I could give you a list of things I did wrong, but David Mamet pointed out that it's rude to the audience for actors to do so) it went quite well!

One problem: one performer, whom I've worked with before and knew to be a talented actor, didn't show up at call time. The director called this actor-whom we'll call Box for reasons which shall remain obscure- and Box explained that he was drunk, in a bar, having a panic attack. So the director did a perfectly fine staged reading of the monologue. All was well.

Later that night we sat on the deck of a popular late-night bar and grill, scarfing down burgers, when who should come shambling by, with a girl on his arm, but Box. He turned on his panty-removing charm and apologized to us all, but it was a cloying "Pwease wuv me" apology, the kind sleazy boyfriends use to bamboozle their girlfriends into forgiving their infidelities. "Don't hate me" was his refrain. I don't hate him, but I've lost respect for him, and I'm worried for him.

There was a time when I did similar no-shows for little local films in which I didn't really want to take part, and while the films turned out badly or not at all I'm sorry I handled it that way. Now I understand that one should simply keep one's promises or not make promises. Show up or sod off.

Love Life

The other night I watched a movie titled Room 666. It's by Wim Wenders, and it's simply interview footage of various major filmmakers at Cannes '82 talking about the future of cinema. Susan Seigelman was on it, and she said something that piqued my interest; simply that filmmakers make films because "They love life." Huh. I wonder if that's as true in 2007 as it was in 1982. Do today's film-school whiz kids like life near as much as they like movies? Do digital CGI types really want to capture life, or create a substitute for it?

"Wide Stance?" Is that what they're calling it these days?

Here's how dopey I am: when I heard about Senator "Wide Stance" Craig's Lavatory Lovequest, I thought "Why be a closet case? Why not take a tip from Barney Frank and be Out?" Then I realized, duh, Frank's a Dem, Craig's a Republican. I have chums who are Log Cabin Republican types: openly gay, openly Republican. That's okay for them because they're not running for office. The day when an openly gay person can get elected on the Republican ticket ain't here yet.

Also, spare some thought for cops who are so low on the totem pole that they get assigned to potty patrol. There are worse jobs, but not many. I'm too squeamish to sit on public toilets in a non-emergency situation, anyway. The idea of hunkering down on the polluted porcelain for an eight-hour shift is smelling-salts-worthy. But if one is that uptight one probably shouldn't be a cop anyway.