Leave My Fleas to Diamond Joe

So. . . I had some interesting responses to yesterday's post.  Some thought it fun.  C.C. called it "linguistic blackface."  One of my Sharia Liberals (a term taught me by Q) schooled me on "code switching."  I learned that some of my rich, white hillbilly friends could rap.  With a country accent, of course.  That's what happens when I venture into the world.  I learn new things.  

Guess I'll need to watch New Jack City.  

Oh. . . I also learned that some of my friends don't know what the fuck yesterday was all about.  There ain't no world, yo.  There are many of them.  

"When Worlds Collide."

Yesterday was a big news day.  The Joker got charged again.  And again.  And again.  "WE GOT HIM NOW!!!" they scream, but what I've learned is that people will watch a movie if it is about The Joker.  He has a much greater following than Batman himself.  The Joker makes me afraid.  Very, very afraid. 

In Texas, they fired a Black elementary school teacher for being a racist.  Huh.  

In Brazil, the Brazilian Barbie is apologizing for being all white, long legged, and blonde.  She's sorry.  It wasn't her fault, but she went along with it.  Now she is cashing in in other ways.  

As Robert Frost said, "everything goes to market."  That one stumped me for a long while, but eventually I got it.  Nothing has inherent value.  Ideas have to be valuated, too.  But the Market Place of Ideas is like the Stock Market.  Values rise and values fall.  

It's tough being on the low side.  But somehow it seems that the Greedheads always win.  Maybe it is just a matter of Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs.  Safety first.  Then, you know. . . esteem. . . self and other.  God knows life is easier when you don't have to worry about making the monthly nut.  

I spent most of my life worrying about needing new tires or a car battery.  So. . . how'd I get to be so cocky?

Maslow's full of shit, that's how.  

Just kidding.  My life coach taught me all about Maslow.  She had me pick a spirit animal.  I chose a bear, but she said no.  She wanted me to pick a possum.  WTF?  

"I don't think that's how it works," I told her.  

"You need to be realistic," she said.  "Live with it a bit and see if it begins to fit."

"I don't even believe in spirit animals," I said.  

"Trust me.  As you evolve, you will."  

So. . . the journey continues.  

You may not know this, but I'm a skeptic.  I don't find it easy to believe in things.  I certainly don't believe in premonitions, but last night I had one.  There was something going on in my chest that scared me and I felt that this was the end, that I was dying.  It made me terribly sad.  I remembered a card the Mormons left on my door when I wasn't home.  It said, "What happens after you die?"  I don't think people should be leaving such things on doorknobs, but my response was quick.  

"The Orlando Magic win the NBA championship?"

I took some Umcka and began to feel better, but the specter of the premonition clings.  It is an uncomfortable feeling.  It seems very unjust.  I recall that part of "The Open Boat" where the protagonist, fearing that he is about to die, wants to know the meaning of life.  His answer, simply, is "the cold twinkling of a distant star."  Thus, he raises an angry fist to the heavens and shouts, "But I love myself!"  

That's about it, I think.  Maslow won't help you in the end.  

I can't help wondering if Trump ever feels mortal?  He seems to me like Judge Holden in "Blood Meridian," a preternatural form of supernatural and eternal evil.  After every death, you see him, "a massive, hairless albino" dancing on a hilltop in the pale moonlight.  

I'll take more Umcka this morning.  It will be fine.  

If not. . . leave my fleas to Diamond Joe!