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Whoa! Prince turns out to have been a junkie all along. But a covert junkie.

Kind of interesting the way his life parallels that of his arch rival, Michael Jackson.

I was and remain a huge Michael Jackson fan, dating back to his Jackson Five days. I maintain that Jackson’s ode to a killer rat, Ben, is one of the most perfect love songs ever penned and crooned.

(Reader, I married him!)

The kicker – if you believe The Daily Mail (and why wouldn’t you?) – is that despite their celebrated performer magic, both Jackson and Prince suffered from excruciating performance panic and thus, needed to anesthetize themselves thoroughly before they could climb up on a stage and go through the prescribed moves.

Both were raised as Jehovah’s Witnesses, a religion I know nothing about and tend to confuse with Seventh Day Adventism.

Apparently the Witnesses reject Christmas and birthday celebrations as pagan rituals, and they do not believe in the Trinity, hell, or the soul’s immortality. Death is the endgame for most of us. The soul, like the body, can die. The lucky few will be resurrected to go on living some time after Armageddon in a representative democracy governed by Jehovah. The end times started in 1914, and the big blowup should happen any moment now.

The Witnesses are on a first name basis with the Supreme Deity (unlike, say, the Jews who think God’s true name is powerful mojo and avoid speaking or spelling it.) Think of them as primary candidates trying to get your vote for the Jehovah platform!

I am not quite sure how Jesus fits into their equation. I do know that the Witnesses tend to anthropomorphize Satan more than other post-Restoration Protestant religions.


Anyway, it's becoming quite obvious to me that Prince died so that I wouldn’t have to read about the primaries for four whole days.

It was an act of sacrifice! It was an act of LUV, deep and profound. Unfortunately, its effects are wearing off. Just this morning, an article on byzantine Pennsylvania delegate selection techniques snaked its way into my newsfeed.

It’s time for some other celebrity to step up to the plate.

I'm talking to YOU, Kim Kardashian!


In other news, apparently 90,000 protestors turned out on the streets of Berlin to voice their disgust with Obama’s pet Transatlantic Trade and Investment Partnership. Presumably, many, many more Germans are sitting at home, gnashing their teeth over the prospect. Of course, in this country, anti-trade deal rhetoric is a major part of both the Sanders and the Trump platforms. Could it be that people are finally getting wise to the fact that global trade deals are mostly only good for corporations seeking cheap labor and fresh markets for shoddy electronics?

And if I were a Brit, I would so be voting to get out of the EU! Upfront cost savings, freedom from restrictive regulatory burdens, and more intensive security measures at the borders. The Norway model.

Yeah, yeah, there would be five to ten years where the remaining EU members would pout and play vindictive. But it would pass. The bilateral relationships would quickly resume.

Terrorism is the offspring of globalism. I do support immigration, but I also think it’s absolutely ridiculous in this day and age not to vet the immigration process very, very, very carefully. The EU mandate is for “open” borders, and increasingly, I think that’s dangerous.

But, of course, the U.K. won’t vote to leave the EU.
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Jim Harrison died Saturday. One of my favorite writers.

He was old; he was not immortal.



The moon comes up.
The moon goes down.
This is to inform you
that I didn’t die young.
Age swept past me
but I caught up.
Spring has begun here and each day
brings new birds up from Mexico.
Yesterday I got a call from the outside
world but I said no in thunder.
I was a dog on a short chain
and now there’s no chain.

Yesterday was Easter. My least favorite Jesus Day. Christmas doesn’t alienate me, but Easter almost always does. I kept wanting to dress Rutger up in a tiny yamaka and phylacteries, but one of the few downsides of cats is that they really don’t like costumes.

Instead, Rutger, the Meezer, and I all huddled up in bed together and watched Ben Hur. In his autobiography, Gore Vidal writes delightedly how he and the other writers involved with the film grafted a strong homoerotic subtext on to the pseudo-Biblical parable to which Charlton Heston remained utterly oblivious, and indeed, Ben Hur is one long gay fetish fest. So that was entertaining.

There wasn’t any work over the weekend, so now I’m waaaaaaay behind on my revenue-generating goals.

On the plus side, I got quite a bit of fiction-writing done, and I figured out the tricky transition to Chapter 3.


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Every Day Above Ground

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