“All human beings are born free and equal in dignity and rights. . .“ (Universal Declaration of Human Rights)

For sale in Dallas

For sale in Dallas

A couple of days ago I was walking along St. Paul Street in downtown Dallas. A homeless man was rifling through the trash receptacle at the corner of Elm and St. Paul. He pulled out one soda can and put it into the clear plastic bag of cans he held over his shoulder. I’ve seen him on the street before, but always at a distance.

As we approached each other, we looked AT each other, not past each other. Our eyes met, and I said, “Good morning.” He said, “Good morning. It’s hard today.” I asked him what was hard, and he explained that, with all the construction on the downtown streets, he was having trouble making a living.

Streets are torn up for construction of the free trolley from downtown to West Village, and the DART rail is being repaired between the St. Paul and Ackard Street stations. I was out of sorts because I had to get off the train at the American Airlines Center and take a bus to St. Paul Station. Five extra minutes, and two extra blocks to walk. This gross inconvenience is going to last on weekends until November 30.

My new acquaintance explained the construction had reduced foot traffic on St. Paul Street, and that meant fewer soda cans in the trash. He usually collects about ten pounds a day, but these days he’s getting only about six pounds.

He said he was down about $20 a day in income and things were tight. I, of course, had my “give it forward” $20 bill in my wallet. I gave it to him. He offered his hand to shake, and said—as every person I’ve passed the money on to has said—“God bless you.” With the Ebola Crisis, I should not have touched his grimy hand, but I did.

Not to single anyone out, but how much does a liberal TV host make a year?

Not to single anyone out, but how much does a liberal TV host make a year?

From THE UNIVERSAL DECLARATION OF HUMN RIGHTS. (I challenge you to read it)

Whereas recognition of the inherent dignity and of the equal and inalienable rights of all members of the human family is the foundation of freedom, justice and peace in the world,

Whereas disregard and contempt for human rights have resulted in barbarous acts which have outraged the conscience of mankind, and the advent of a world in which human beings shall enjoy freedom of speech and belief and freedom from fear and want has been proclaimed as the highest aspiration of the common people. . .

. . . Whereas the peoples of the United Nations have in the Charter reaffirmed their faith in fundamental human rights, in the dignity and worth of the human person and in the equal rights of men and women and have determined to promote social progress and better standards of life in larger freedom. . .

Now, Therefore THE GENERAL ASSEMBLY proclaims THIS UNIVERSAL DECLARATION OF HUMAN RIGHTS as a common standard of achievement for all peoples and all nations, to the end that every individual and every organ of society, keeping this Declaration constantly in mind, shall strive by teaching and education to promote respect for these rights and freedoms and by progressive measures, national and international, to secure their universal and effective recognition and observance, both among the peoples of Member States themselves and among the peoples of territories under their jurisdiction.

Article 1.
All human beings are born free and equal in dignity and rights. They are endowed with reason and conscience and should act towards one another in a spirit of brotherhood.

Article 2.
Everyone is entitled to all the rights and freedoms set forth in this Declaration, without distinction of any kind, such as race, colour, sex, language, religion, political or other opinion, national or social origin, property, birth or other status. Furthermore, no distinction shall be made on the basis of the political, jurisdictional or international status of the country or territory to which a person belongs, whether it be independent, trust, non-self-governing or under any other limitation of sovereignty.

Article 3.
Everyone has the right to life, liberty and security of person.

Article 4.
No one shall be held in slavery or servitude; slavery and the slave trade shall be prohibited in all their forms.

Article 5.
No one shall be subjected to torture or to cruel, inhuman or degrading treatment or punishment.
Article 6.
Everyone has the right to recognition everywhere as a person before the law.

Everyone has the right to recognition everywhere as a person. Before the law or otherwise, I would say.

For those who think the United States should not be a member of the United Nations, that we somehow are giving up our independence by trying to be members of the world community, here’s what our Constitution says about $20 bills.

We the people of the United States, in order to form a more perfect union, establish justice, insure domestic tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general welfare, and secure the blessings of liberty to ourselves and our posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.

Or, if you must,

“. . . for I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me.”

I suppose all along when I’ve been wondering about, terrified of, the “meaning of life,” and about my (incipient, it seems to a 70-year-old) death, that about sums up what I need to be worried about.

Please be a good friend and remind of that the next time you read my kvetching about anything.

The Stewpot, Dallas

The Stewpot, Dallas

“. . . something difficult lifted, pressed or curled, Power over beauty . . . “

the light left turned on all night across the parking lot below on the wall around the swimming pool is supposed to have a partner but it burned out last week and they didn’t replace it. . . .

Two lights

Two lights

I know because I look out the window many nights some time between midnight and four-thirty or five when I get up because I am awake and get up not to pee like most old men but to take an Ambien. it’s not every night and I am not addicted so don’t worry about that and I’m hardly addicted to anything anymore. maybe sugar cookies the unhealthiest kind at Kroger or Albertson’s which has now bought Safeway and my grandmother used to take us with her going to “the” Kroger down on “The” Avenue (Minnesota) in Kansas City and when we were growing up almost everything we ate that mom didn’t grow came from Safeway. but I can avoid buying one of those plastic trays-with-the-fold-up-top with eight Kroger sugar cookies except about once every couple of weeks when I just have to have one and eat them all in one day to get them out of the house

but sometime yesterday when I wasn’t at home Blaine replaced the burned-out bulb in the parking lot and it’s on now at four-fifteen and I’m up because I woke up and can’t go back to sleep which is what often happens. it’s too late to take an Ambien because then I’d sleep too long instead of not long enough and I wonder what the staff people will do who –I hate to say it because it sounds elitist or bigoted or self-centered in the extreme but we all know it’s true –will be taking care of me when I am in the assisted living or medical unit in the run-down geriatric public housing facility who don’t have enough education to get my jokes –see I said it would sound elitist—and have no clue how to relate to an old faggot. they will probably try to get me to accept Jesus as my personal savior and get over being gay before it’s too late and I can go to heaven. and they certainly won’t let me have my computer because when I wake up at four in the morning and need to write they will think I need to pee and when I can’t because I don’t need to they’ll assume I’ve got one of those old man conditions and need a catheter. all I need is my computer which they have taken away because the people who have my medical power of attorney are in California or some other god-forsaken place and the care givers here in the public run-down old folks’ home in Dallas would never think of asking them what I might really need a computer or a catheter

no it’s going to be grim since I don’t have hundreds of thousands of dollars salted away to take care of me in my old age not that I’m not already old. seventy which I’m just ten months from being and I know I talk about it too much but only because I have to get used to the idea. it sort of crept up on me unawares and I don’t know what to do about it but I don’t suppose anyone does. I certainly didn’t plan for the three hundred and fifty thousand dollars the retirement gurus say an old queen needs in the bank to pay medical expenses in his old age so the pittance I have will be gone in about a week if I get really sick sometime instead of just needing hip or shoulder repair. I don’t know what they do with poverty-struck old gay used-to-be-college-teachers who don’t have enough money salted away

At 4:30 this may be what I see

At 4:30 this may be what I see

so when Joanie was in my face purring thirty seconds after I woke up—she sits at the foot of my bed waiting for my breathing to change and then charges she doesn’t wake me up but she knows the minute I am awake—after I checked the parking lot lights I was immediately thinking about the problem of getting enough exercise when I am snowed under with papers to grade and knowing that if I don’t keep exercising regularly and quit eating sugar cookies even once every two weeks and lose the fifteen pounds I’ve been trying to lose since I lost the fifty pounds two years ago I will be unhealthy enough to end up in that assisted living or medical care facility that everyone else’s taxes are paying for. I better not be in Texas when it happens because the fucking republicans have managed to make this the worst state in the union to be taken care of whether you are a helpless child or a helpless old faggot and Mark Doty explained what we need to do better than I can and I read his poem and think that’s it and I need to contact my trainer that I haven’t seen since my shoulder repair surgery and get back to the gym

. . .  where men
lay down their heads,
back to the bench,

and hoist nothing
that need be lifted
but some burden they’ve chosen
this time: more reps,

more weight, the upward shove
of it leaving, collectively,
this sign of where we’ve been:
shroud-stain, negative

flashed onto the vinyl
where we push something
unyielding skyward,
gaining some power

at least over flesh . . .

Though there's something more tender, beneath our vanity

Though there’s something more
tender, beneath our vanity

I need to gain power at least over my flesh so when they want to give me a catheter instead of a computer I will have the physical strength to resist and then they’ll call in the men in the white coats and they’ll be “coming to take me away to the funny farm” and getting power over my flesh right now. I’m sorry Mark it has nothing to do with the “will to become [an object] of desire” it is only self-protection and self- preservation and anyone who doesn’t understand this isn’t seventy years old and alone in the world and a dirty old gay boy faggot queen which is what the less-than-well-educated care-givers will think of me regardless of the new same-sex marriage laws

This salt-stain spot
marks the place
men lay down their heads,
back to the bench,

and hoist nothing
that need be lifted
but some burden they’ve chosen
this time: more reps,

more weight, the upward shove
of it leaving, collectively,
this sign of where we’ve been:
shroud-stain, negative

flashed onto the vinyl
where we push something
unyielding skyward,
gaining some power

at least over flesh,
which goads with desire,
and terrifies with frailty.
Who could say who’s

added his heat to the nimbus
of our intent, here where
we make ourselves:
something difficult

lifted, pressed or curled,
Power over beauty,
power over power!
Though there’s something more

tender, beneath our vanity,
our will to become objects
of desire: we sweat the mark
of our presence onto the cloth.

Here is some halo
the living made together

—Doty, Mark. “At the Gym.” Source. New York: HarperCollins. 2002.
Mark Doty has won the Lambda Literary Award for his collection Atlantis (1995), and the National Book Critics Circle Award and Britain’s T. S. Eliot Prize for other collections. He has taught at the University of Houston and is currently Distinguished Writer at Rutgers University.

“We all get bored: between mainstream culture (buy things) and nature. . .”

The poet Henri Cole said of his need to write every day

. . . I do want to extract some illustrative figures, as I do from the parables in the Bible, to help me persevere each day at my writing table, where I must confront myself, overcome any fear of what I might find there, and begin assembling language into poetry (1).



Immediately when I quote from an established writer (or musician, or political observer, or. . .) my fear is that someone (myself included) will think I’m favorably comparing myself to them (2 – please note). That’s often the trouble with quoting someone in order to make a point about what’s going on in one’s own mind. I’m saying only that Henri Cole, with his word-skill honed over decades, has managed to say something that resonates in my expressive life.

Every morning “I must confront myself, overcome any fear of what I might find there, and begin assembling language. . .” I have no illusion that what I write is poetry, or even that it’s good prose. I write. That’s all. I assemble language. Most of the time I can’t tell when it is assembled whether it’s sincere, artless, good, bad, or indifferent. If I like its looks or sounds, or if it seems to mean anything I feel or think, I am apt to post it here—or tuck it away in a folder on my computer desktop intending to come back to it someday and make it into something useful or delightful.

I’ve been thinking, talking, writing (privately) about emotions—feelings—whatever the word might be. Trying to think about (much less write about) my feelings directly is a risky proposition on many levels. It is perhaps the most immediate process of “confront[ing] myself, [trying to] overcome any fear of what I might find there.”

One of my close friends and confidants refers periodically to the work of Pia Mellody at The Meadows clinic in Arizona. Yesterday, trying to write coherently about some of my feelings (in a way that sounded objective enough to post here for the whole world to see), I searched for her on the internet. I searched for her because I know one of her basic ideas is that there are eight primary emotions.

Anger, fear, pain, joy, passion, love, shame, guilt.

Mellody works with her patients to help them learn to sort out which of the eight they are feeling at any given moment and to concentrate on them rather than mixing them with other “secondary” feelings. Sorry for the psychobabble.

I am pretty sure I feel each of them on a regular basis. Anger, pain, and shame most regularly.

These days one of them has crept into my consciousness in a way it never has before. I am not a brave person. I’m too self-absorbed and too unconscious of the world around me very often to have the sense to feel fear. I’m not afraid of much because I don’t put myself into situations of derring-do physically, mentally, or spiritually. I’m too cautious to feel much fear. I either hide, or I let others of the eight primaries take over and guide my thinking and action (usually anger or pain). Bipolar II disorder I think makes people angry and passionate, not fearful. Who has time to be afraid if you’re swinging from high to low in ways you can’t control?

However, I am facing a situation I do not know anything about. I know many people who have faced (are in) the situation, and, frankly, I see few of them whose response I want to emulate. Fortunately for me, my own father is one of those few. But it is an almost overwhelmingly fearsome prospect.

The unknown I am facing is, of course, that 89 days from today I will teach my last class as a fully employed college professor. On May 31 I will receive my last monthly paycheck from Southern Methodist University. I don’t know what it’s like not to have an amount of money deposited in my checking account adequately to support the (not very lavish, let me say) style of living to which I have become accustomed—that is, having a place to live, clothes to wear, and enough food for both me and my cats.

How are you feeling today?

How are you feeling today?

For anyone in the bottom 99% of the economic population, retirement ought to be a frightening possibility.

Anyone who began working for any educational institution after about 1980 has no retirement plan–only investments they bought over the years through some kind of 401 plan (mine isn’t even as secure as a 401(k) because the government decided people who work in private schools shouldn’t be given a guaranteed income in retirement—I guess because we make so much money) and let their funds be invested at the whim of the stock market. My total investment portfolio from my years at SMU was worth $4,000 less yesterday than a week ago. Every point the stock market loses means a loss of about 1% of my retirement income. And a market crash like the 2009 crash will render me income-less.

And I’m 69 years old. Statistically that means I have a 50% chance of hitting 90 because I’ve hit 70.

So my writing about feelings has devolved to thinking and writing about one emotion. I’ve got 89 days of writing to figure out how fear fits into the overall scheme of my life. And get over it. I want to arrive at a point of accepting reality as the French poet Charles Pierre Baudelaire (April 9, 1821 – August 31, 1867) apparently did.

Dead broke.

Dead broke.

Baudelaire’s Ablutions, by Roger Fanning (3)

Baudelaire, dead broke, nonetheless allowed himself
two hours for his morning ablutions.
(Warm water can be a narcotic too.)
His razor scraping whiskers cleanly off
sounded like a file rasping
against prison bars. Never did this man
gulp a cup of coffee, bolt out the door
with a blob of shaving cream on one ear,
and go to a job. He composed himself.
Dead broke, he explored (in prose) six waterdrops
that quake in a corner of Delacroix’s painting
Dante and Virgil! Meanwhile, through his window
intruded softly the spiel of a fishmonger
as well as the stench. Many, many vendors still
singsong their wares, as a sort of wishwash drizzle
inducing human animals to mope, to yawn.
We all get bored: between mainstream culture (buy things)
and nature (in this case, rain), people tend to snooze.
Poetry jolts awake the lucky few. I praise
the mirror-gazing mighty poet Baudelaire,
my hero, a fop full of compulsions,
a perfectionist to whom a single
tweezered nosehair brought tears of joy.
(1) Cole, Henri. “About the Author.” Poets on Poetry. Randomhouse.com. n.d. Web.
(2) If you are worried about my incorrect (that is, not agreeing in number) use of the pronoun “them,” see my note “Singular ‘They’” in the heading above. Let’s start a movement to end the absurd “his or her.”
(3) Fanning, Roger. “Baudelaire’s Ablutions.” New American Poets: A Bread Loaf Anthology (2000), 78.

“. . . how scary it is to be part of the 1%. . . “

Pass through the eye of my grandmother's needle?

Pass through the eye of my grandmother’s needle?

Just when I think I can withdraw from the stinking world of, well, “politics” (for want of a better word — “public morality,” perhaps), an event, an idea, a message of some sort draws me back in, and I must respond.

My perception is that a person can do two things that make them fully human. The first is to father or mother a child, and the second is to do an act of generosity or kindness at the most basic level of human need, that is, to help someone find food, shelter, or physical (perhaps medical) care. I’m pretty sure the first is not absolutely necessary (although at my rapidly advancing age I’ve been thinking it might have been fulfilling to try). The second, on the other hand, seems to me to be the unavoidable prerequisite for giving oneself permission to consider oneself fully human.

Anyone whose life is void of such acts or—worse by an order of magnitude almost incomprehensible— whose actions in any way deprive another of basic needs doesn’t share at the most basic level in the project of living as a human being.

I heard recently on TV that 85 persons worldwide own as much of the wherewithal to stay alive as the rest of us billions all together. Even if that number is incorrect—if it’s 85 hundred, or 85 thousand, or even 85 million—we have it in our power to give those people the chance to be fully human.

The basic text of the religion most people reading this follow (or at least know about) says that it’s easier for a camel to squeeze through the eye of a needle than it is for a rich man to get into heaven. That’s supported by the saying in that same text that the way one gets into heaven is by feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, and taking care of the sick.

I don’t give much credence to the “heaven” talk, but I think it’s at least sensible to use that idea as a metaphor for fulfillment as a human being. My guess is that a majority of those 85 (or 85 thousand) give at least lip service to the idea they are going to heaven.

But they obviously are not. Haven’t seen any camels passing through eyes of needles lately. Surely such a phenomenon would go viral on YouTube and Facebook.

However, we have it in our power to give them a chance at heaven (or simply to live fully as human beings here on earth). Caring about our fellow human beings, we need to help them divest themselves them all of that money that’s going to prevent them from getting into heaven when they die–or to live fully as human beings before they die.

I was naked, and you clothed me.

I was naked, and you clothed me.

We can’t, obviously, do anything for that guy from Mexico they say is the richest of the 85 or 85 thousand, but we could help some people in this country with names such as Gates and Walton. Or Thomas Perkins.

According to the webpage “Richest 250 People in the World” (the richest.com. 2014. Web.) Mr. Perkins is the 148th-richest person in the world. I don’t know how anyone calculates this, but where he is in the ranking doesn’t matter. He’s up there somewhere. Since he’s not in the top 85, I suppose quoting him is a bit unfair. However,

‘. . . the super-wealthy venture capitalist [Mr. Perkins] who once owned the largest private yacht in the world as well as multiple mansions, penned a letter to the editor to the Wall Street Journal this week about how scary it is to be part of the 1%, so scary it brings to mind how the Jews must have felt in Nazi Germany . . . “I would call attention to the parallels of fascist Nazi Germany to its war on its ‘one percent,’ namely its Jews, to the progressive war on the American one percent, namely the ‘rich’ . . . This is a very dangerous drift in our American thinking. Kristallnacht was unthinkable in 1930; is its descendent ‘progressive’ radicalism unthinkable now?”’ (Allon, Janet. “10 Most Absurd Right-Wing Lunacies This Week: Pity the 1% Edition.” AlterNet.com. January 25, 2014. Web.)

I have to admit, I’m one of the “progressive [radicals]” he’s thinking of. There isn’t a drop of camel’s blood in me. What I want to do is give Mr. Perkins a chance to get into heaven. For example, all the nations of the world could levy a 90% tax on both the income and the holdings of everyone who makes, say, $1,000,000,000 per year or more. Either 90% or an amount that would leave them $1,000,000.

I’d guess that money could give every hungry person in the world something to eat. For a long time.

Mr. Perkins, accustomed as he is to having $8,000,000,0000 (that’s billion with a “b”) would find it difficult to live on a mere $1,000,000 (with an “m”) per year. I would, too—what on earth would one do with that much money?

I can hear some of my readers complaining bitterly already. Mr. Perkins’s billions are what keeps the economy moving, his money creates jobs. I’m not saying that’s not so. Because I don’t have a degree from Cox School of Business at SMU where students learn how this works, I really have no right to an opinion.

But I do have one question that lots of Progressive Nazis (now there’s an oxymoron for you!) must be asking. If Mr. Perkins’s billions are helping the economy by making more jobs, where are they? Why are so many people jobless around the world?

And if it’s OK for 85 people to own half the world’s goods, why am I worried that when my contracted salary ends on May 31 and I retire, I won’t have enough money to live on? Me with a PdD and 35 years of college teaching experience? Worried, even while I know that I, too, am better off than an enormous percentage of the people in the world.

My home away from home,

My home away from home,

“. . . ye, who toil along the climbing way, with painful steps and slow. . . “

San Diego Food Bank, 2013

San Diego Food Bank, 2013

We go through life ignoring the major part of what we see and hear. If you couldn’t filter out the sounds you’re not specifically listening for, you’d hear the din. And if you’re driving down the street and can’t focus your eyes on the path ahead instead of taking in the entire panorama, everyone else on the road better be doing more than defensive driving.

I’ve often taught “music appreciation” classes with the goals of making listening to music consciously enjoyable for the students and helping them understand something of the history of musical style and the place of music in various cultures.

I always include lessons in singing various kinds of melodies—from medieval chant to folksongs to popular songs, to opera arias (anyone can sing a couple arias from Carmen). One of my favorite ways to teach such music is to help students hear dissonances and understand that in tonal Western music, dissonances propel melodies forward because they are set up with chord progressions and they resolve into other chord progressions. Dissonances are to music what “and,” “but,” “so,” “however,” “therefore,” “because,” “even so,” and hundreds more words are to language. Most English teachers call them “transition” words—if they mention them at all. I think, rather, they are “connection” words.

Because the Congress is useless” is not a complete thought. It’s a fragment—even though everyone knows what I mean and agrees with it. The bolded words are like dissonances in music—they make the writing complex and interesting, and they propel the ideas forward by connecting them together. Of course the “because” clause here is a fragment because it is not connected to anything (somewhat like the Boehner/Cruz Congress).

Connect musical ideas and make them interesting—that’s what dissonances do in tonal music. And, like the connecting words in writing and speech, they are so integral a part of our musical patterns that we hardly notice them or know what they are. I’d say—because I’m an elitist and a snob—most people would tell you they don’t like dissonant music. That’s tantamount to saying they don’t like music. Period. All music is (to some degree) dissonant. “Row, row, row your boat” isn’t. “Happy Birthday” has hung on as a cultural icon because it has one crucial dissonance—at the point where we stick in the celebrant’s name. A sort of mellow dissonance, but dissonance all the same, the dissonance for which the song exists, both musically and textually.

Unemployment line, Olympia, Washington, 2013

Unemployment line, Olympia, Washington, 2013

Take the Christmas carol “It Came upon a Midnight Clear,” one of those so ubiquitous this time of year that it might be said to be part of the collective unconscious of the entire English speaking (Christian) world. But a Muslim student told me once it was her favorite Christmas carol.

The standard accompaniment for the tune has dissonances (some so harsh that, if most people heard them in isolation, they would say they were noise) at the bolded words:

It came upon the mid –night clear, that glo –rious song of old; from an –gels bend –ing near the earth to touch their harps of gold. Peace on the earth, good will toward men, from hea –ven’s all gra –cious King. The world in sol emn still –ness lay to hear the an –gels sing.

This little chart does not include the greatest dissonance—the complete change of “key” at “Peace on the earth, good will toward men. . .” It’s almost as if for one sentence in her essay, a tenth-generation American English-speaking student wrote in Arabic for no reason other than to spice up her writing.

I would not try to teach this tune to a group of Russian émigré students again for anything. It’s impossible to comprehend if you didn’t hear it in utero. I know. I tried it once at Bunker Hill Community College.

But the overwhelming problem with the carol—the reason almost no one knows more of the words than the first stanza—is the shockingly harsh dissonance of the words. They are not, like well-constructed dissonance in music, prepared for. They strike out of nowhere and leave the singer horrified. They are not what Christmas, or any other materialistic, capitalism-praising holiday can be about. Members of Congress, for example, cannot—could not, if they ever got beyond the pabulum of the first stanza—believe their ears upon hearing these words. But don’t go feeling all self-righteous about that. If we could believe our ears, Congress would be made up of a much different sort of people, that is, not so much like us.

And ye, beneath life’s crushing load whose forms are bending low,
Who toil along the climbing way, with painful steps and slow,
Look now, for glad and golden hours come swiftly on the wing.
O rest beside the weary road, and hear the angels sing.

For lo, the days are hast’ning on, by prophet bards foretold,
When with the ever circling years comes round the age of gold
When peace shall over all the earth its ancient splendors fling,
And the whole world send back the song which now the angels sing.

Nope, we don’t even hear the dissonance in that. It’s a hymn to, a prayer for, social justice. No member of Congress is bending low beneath life’s crushing load. Most of us aren’t either. But more and more of us are as the wealthy friends of Congress store up for themselves more and more of the stuff that makes people secure, such as food and clothing and health care and shelter (connecting words bolded).

I don’t know who the angels are these days. But they will eventually arrive. And when they do, those who rest beside the weary road will be able to send back the angels’ song of peace. If you can’t hear that, if it’s too dissonant for you, perhaps you need a course in music appreciation. Or ethical and socially responsible thinking and behavior. As opposed to unthinking militant christianism and capitalism.

I don’t know. Sermon over.