Trouble Finder

trouble-finder

In earliest days, radio was my window to the world.

Recalling living pictures more than sound, “Let’s Pretend” from CBS was unmatched.

Cream of Wheat was the first and only sponsor of “Let’s Pretend”.

It was the early ’40’s.

“Cream of Wheat is so good to eat, Yes, we have it every day. We sing this song, it will make us strong, And it makes us shout – hooray”!

“Let’s Pretend” was make believe – a Saturday morning children’s program offering whimsical tales of fantasy and fairy tales. It was the life work of Nila Mack, a Kansas woman who had been an actress on Broadway. She felt the best way to tell a children’s story was with kids. Mack developed a company of versitile juveniles who could play a variety of changing roles week after week. She trained and directed two generations of child actors. She was known as “the fairy god-mother of radio.”

“Heel-looo, Pretenders! Helllloooo, Uncle Bill!”

LET’S PRETEND!

“Neptune!”

“Poseidon!”

“Oceanus!”

“Prometheus!”

“Atlas!”

“Jesus!”

Jesus Please Us!

Jesus is all over This Place.

He’s here, He’s there – He’s everywhere.

Had He lived in present times, churches around the world would have steeples topped with electric chairs. Or gallows. Or gurneys.

Here’s a brilliant word — “anthropomorphic”–the attribution of human characteristics
to a god, animal or inanimate thing.

You’ve heard of “Murphy’s Law?”

“If anything can go wrong – it will.”

Here’s “Murphy’s Mirror.”

“So God created man in His own image….” Genesis 1:27

I find no salvation worshipping an Invisible Sky Monkey.

“The Well Below the Valley” by Planxty (1973) is a traditional Celtic tune from the Middle Ages, often mistaken for a Christmas offering – soft and sweetly seasonal. There’s a woman continually being impregnated by her brother, uncle and dad – her humble hut more hamster hutch than home. She buries sad little consequences beneath “The Well Below the Valley.” Then Jesus saves her. Amen. One year I put this selection into heavy holiday rotation at WLQR in Toledo. Phones rang off the wall for “that lovely Irish carol.” Few people pay attention to words anymore.

And I meant no blasphemy. Quite to the contrary. It’s about Redemption. And the Forgiveness of Sins. And Life everlasting. Maybe a wee bit over the top. Irish.

The Shanachie holds a sacred place in Irish culture. The Storyteller weaves enchantment from strands of struggle, strife and strength – the vanquished becoming victorious.

No wonder the Irish greeted Saint Patrick’s message in 433 A.D. with open minds and happy hearts. It is Celtic to the core, imagination yielding to exaggeration in elegant elaboration.

I agree with everything Jesus said, which was a lot in few words.

I disagree with what most say He meant, especially the sending money part..

Eternal Fires of Searing Damnation await Pat Robertson and other predator preachers.

More Irish.

Our current Pope is a crazy old man.

Heil Mary!

The Passion of Christ was miserable enough, but what poor Jesus suffers most is everything everyone wants from Him.

Gimme. Gimme. Gimme.

And being played by an unknown actor whose next movie promised “The Passion of Golf.”

Jesus.

Organized religion is modern mythology.

When someone prays to “God” or preys on Infidels or
praises “Allah”, they might as well tell me, “Oops. I’m nuts.”

Kindly note that I put the word “God” in quotation marks. I believe in God, but not “God.”

I am neither atheist, nor agnostic.

I am aware.

We go back thousands and thousands of years. Forward, too.

There is no need for rebirth.

It would be difficult being Born Again anyway. I was premature by seven weeks, spending my first three months in a hospital incubator -a glass tank. Like a goldfish- I wasn’t born so much as hatched.

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggity Jig.

It was September of ‘41.

Gasoline was ten cents a gallon. Sugar – six cents a pound.. Eggs – twenty cents a dozen. Milk–fourteen cents a quart. Bread – eight cents a loaf. Minimum wage was thirty cents an hour. A brand new Buick was a grand.

We were almost again at World War.

I recall the horror of touch.

We don’t want to be here.

Do we?

We didn’t ask to be tiny, vibrating strands of energy trapped as matter in an eleven dimensional universe with no center or edges.

Did we?

Fuck.

Being an us is a pain-in-the-ass.

But exciting.

A mystery.

This Place.

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