End Of The World More Fun Than Anticipated

Scientists, Theologians, Political Pundits, Celebrities (including Saint Britney below) and regular ol' Joes and Janes on the street are predicting that the End of the World (EOTW) will be much more fun than first anticipated.

Saint Britney tells us in her sacred music video that we can get all sweaty at our local Rave with tons of hot twenty-somethings and dance the apocalypse away in the sewers. Imagine how wonderful it will be when we all emerge from the manholes with the beautiful sun shining just as it always has and the EOTW nowhere in sight. Now THAT is a message of hope and peace and not one of death, doom, destruction, and insane angry Gods. Gods who love us so much that they are insanely jealous and will kill every living creature and blow up their universe to show us just how pissed they really are at their loving spirit children. "THERE! Take THAT you naughty little children that I Love so dearly." "Bad Earth, I have to blow you up to show you just how much I really really Love you!"

Of course, Jesus the Christ himself told everyone that this sort of stupid thing would happen and that many would come out of nowhere crying, "The end is near!" and that they possessed some sort of secret knowledge to save us all and some would even claim to be the Messiah him/herself. In fact, some of these false prophets will be so convincing that they could or would deceive even the sanest and staunch true Believer ... like these guys who are obviously totally oblivious to the insanity, they are destroying their very lives, businesses, and families with. Wonder what they will be doing the morning of May 22nd, 2011 ...

I know, I know, I know ... why would Harold Camping and his horde of mindless zombie followers listen to what Jesus Christ said? They nor the established "church" have ever taken anything he really said to heart or they would not be in between the rock and a hard place they find themselves in on this eve of doomsday.

Wanna know what really pisses me off? What makes me really angry are how many people will be misled or deceived into having a really bad Saturday instead of enjoying it to its fullest potential. How many poor, unable to think for themselves folks will end their own lives or do stupid things like selling all their junk and stand in the middle of the street naked, arms raised to the skies waiting to embrace the returning Jesus in the clouds. Of course, only "born again Christians" will be so lucky to be snatched up out of harm's way of the worldwide earthquake ... yet that Christian God Loves EVERYONE ... wow, talk about a mixed message.

It is my opinion that Harold Camping and his ilk are emotional vampire dicks who feed off of the fear and guilt they generate through deception and terroristic stories of eternal damnation and suffering. They gain their false sense of power from how many people they can dupe into believing them as authorities on what God really wants. Yeah, like God really wants you to give these jerks your money and your very soul. Asshats.

Oh, and to think that it took the "Gay Movement" in America to finally tick God off enough to pull the plug on his/her entire creation. So, Harold Camping is personifying God with his own homophobic tendencies. Guess you can't burn the Gays without a little collateral damage ... like THE ENTIRE HUMAN FRAKKIN RACE! Sheesh.

If there is a Hell then Harold Camping and others like him have their own special reserved torture chambers awaiting them.

Omyword! Am I in Paris?

I've been honored by an invitation to join the Bonez Crew and write some little ditties for your pleasure and illumination. The problem is, I may not be able to adhere to the little part. Ditties I can do. Little ones, je n'sais pas.

Currently I find myself in Paris, with my boyfriend and a female communist operative named Mao. We are staying in a 4th-floor apartment somewhere between the sex shops and peep shows of Pigalle and the Moulin Rouge, the tourist mecca of Montmartre, the church at Sacré-Coeur and the Little Africa of Château Rouge. The church was built as a symbol of the defeat of the Anarchist revolutionary Comunards. I haven't told Chairwoman Mao about this. She would hiss and spit and no one would win.

Our building is unstable, as is our life, and is sinking slowly down the hill, moving away from the Church (a process I also started at age 12) and bringing us to an inevitable collision with a huge bank building. I hope, in a Jungian sort of way, that this is symbolic. Not the downhill slide, but the falling-into-a-bank bit. Meanwhile, my ability to climb or slide from one room to the other is directly related to how much cheap French wine or pastis I have consumed. At regular intervals, we must push the bed back up the hill as it interferes with our frequent trips to the toilet.

I love this neighborhood. It's rich and vibrant and full of color. Statuesque as well as broad-beamed Senegalese women traverse the streets, wearing the most amazing outfits: long skirts that flare out at the bottom and bell-sleeved tops with a matching high-rise chignon. Their babies are tied to their backs with another long piece of contrasting fabric. All is fashioned from the Tissues Africains that I had never seen before I came here. There are no ready-made outfits to be found, but plenty of Tissues stores with their windows and walls stacked floor to ceiling with fabric. Nearby, there are couturiers who will sew for you. Tiny little holes in the wall with one sewing machine and fabric detritus all over the floor. I want one of those outfits. Badly. But I am too afraid of looking like these white girls.

On a Saturday or Sunday afternoon, we walk over to the outdoor market full of fruits, vegetables, fish and Halal meats. It smells like blood and melons (with a little urine on the side). The crowds are thick and noisy, with illegal hawkers of sunglasses, handbags, and belts with temporary cardboard-box shops on the sidewalks, ready to swoop everything up and disappear at a moment's notice. There are African restaurants with strolling musicians in long robes playing the Kora. After shopping we sit outside at Bar L'Omadis (translation of the painting on the outside wall: Live together with our differences) and drink the local rocket fuel and aphrodisiac cocktail called Rhum Gingembre - Caribbean rum and fresh ginger juice, with a wedge of lime. We usually end up at our favorite Algerian place for couscous and chicken tajine with lemon and green olives.

My boyfriend is an encyclopedia of music, and so we've found the underground music scene here, from local sensation and hot-chick rocker Mademoiselle K (website, MySpace) to the humorous banter and contemporary French chansons of Sepia, the jazz piano of Philippe Baden Powell, son of famous Brazilian guitarist Baden Powell, and the hidden bar L'Attirail, a college hangout with live music every night - Berber, Manouche Gypsy and traditional French music - with students and musicians all crammed into a tiny, smoky corner.

So, along with a few links to take you on a little ride with me in Paris, I leave you a video of the gazelle-like Mademoiselle K as she sings my favorite song: Ça Me Vexe, which can be loosely translated as, That Pisses Me Off, a feeling she and I often share.