April 21: News of Himself, Bad Publicity, Holy Week Plague

Zaphod Beeblebrox, President of the Galaxy and now thief of the Heart of Gold spaceship, is listening to the radio for updates about himself . . .

A loud clatter of gunk music flooded through the Heart of Gold cabin as Zaphod searched the sub-etha radio wave banks for news of himself.  The machine was rather difficult to operate.  For years radios had been operated by means of pressing buttons and turning dials; then as the technology became more sophisticated the controls were made touch-sensitive--you merely had to brush the panels with your fingers; now all you had to do was wave your hand in the general direction of the components and hope.  It saved a lot of muscular expenditure, of course, but meant that you had to sit infuriatingly still if you wanted to keep listening to the same program.

Zaphod waved a hand and the channel switched again.  More gunk music, but this time it was background to the news announcement.  The news was always heavily edited to fit the rhythms of the music.

" . . .and news reports brought to you here on the sub-etha wave band, broadcasting around the Galaxy around the clock," squawked a voice, "and we'll be saying a big hello to all intelligent life forms everywhere . . . and to everyone else out there, the secret is to bang the rocks together, guys.  And of course, the big news story tonight is the sensational theft of the new Improbability Drive prototype ship by none other than the Galactic President Zaphod Beeblebrox.  And the question everyone's asking is . . . has the Big Z finally flipped?  Beeblebrox, the man who invented the Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster, ex-confidence trickster, once described by Eccentric Gallumbits as the Best Bang since the Big One, and recently voted the Worst Dressed Sentient Being in the Known Universe for the seventh time . . . has he got an answer this time?  We asked his private brain care specialist Gag Halfrunt . . ."

The music swirled and dived for a moment.  Another voice broke in, presumably Halfrunt.  He said, "Vell, Zaphod's just zis guy, you know?" but got no further because an electric pencil flew across the cabin and through the radio's on/off sensitive airspace.  Zaphod turned and glared at Trillian--she had thrown the pencil.  

Zaphod Beeblebrox likes to hear about himself.  He is sort of a social media star--the Kim Kardashian of the Galaxy.  Like any social media star, he seems to court publicity--good or bad.  And, of course, there is the saying that there's no such thing as bad publicity.

For example, when I was directing a production of the musical The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas for a local community theater organization, I had this message placed on the marquee:  "Whorehouse Opens June 14!"  That little message did exactly what I wanted it to do--it got people talking about the theater and the production.

I went to my dentist to get my teeth cleaned one day.  The office was just down the street from the theater.  The receptionist who checked me in shook her head and said, "Did you see that marquee out there?  I think it's a disgrace."  I played stupid, nodding my head as she said that she was telling all of her church friends about that "terrible show."  Two weeks later, the show opened to standing-room-only crowds.  People were lined up down the street to buy tickets.

I did the same thing one Easter season when I was a worship leader for my wife's church.  On Good Friday, I arranged a screening of the Mel Gibson film The Passion of the Christ.  At the time, it was still quite controversial.  On the posters advertising the event, I think my tagline was, "Come see what everybody's been talking about!"  And lots of people did.

It is Easter Sunday at 5 p.m.  I am still recovering from Holy Week.  I'm a little exhausted, not feeling the greatest.  Probably from lack of sleep and being physically rundown.  From Good Friday to now, I've spent hours rehearsing, playing, and singing.  Just yesterday, I practiced for four hours in church and then played the Easter Vigil Mass last night.  That service started at 9 p.m. and didn't end until just before midnight.  Then, I went home, made a dessert for a family get-together this afternoon, and crawled into bed a little after 1:30 a.m.  I got up at 5:30 a.m., took a shower, got dressed, and drove to my wife's church to play a 7 a.m. Easter sunrise service.  Then I sang in the choir at an 11 a.m. Easter service.  All that doesn't even take into account the hours I've spent on the organ bench these last few weeks practicing music.

Easter and Christmas are the big shows on the Christian calendar.  Churches will actually take out advertisements in the newspaper to publicize their services.  And the crowds do increase.  Last night, for the Easter Vigil Mass, there were a LOT of people there, sitting in the pews for three hours of Gregorian chant and music.  This morning, at 7 a.m., the church was also quite full--which might have been because of the breakfast that was served after the Sunrise Service.

Easter publicity.  Come to the Catholic Church and witness all the bells and incense and chanting.  Worhsip at the Methodist Church and get a free Easter breakfast.  I've been doing this for close to 30 years now, and  I always end up in the same condition on Easter night:  exhausted and sick.  I call it my Holy Week plague.  Sometimes it's a matter of catching up on all the hours of sleep that I've lost over the last few weeks.  Other times, it's a little more serious.  One Easter, after I was done with all the services and Masses, I spent the rest of the day throwing up in a bucket.  Didn't even get to eat my mother's baked ham.  I just laid on the couch and watched Cecil B. Demille's The Ten Commandments, sucking on ice cubes.

I don't think I will be throwing up tonight, but I am feeling really under the weather.

Here's Marty's headline:  "Easter Weekend Gives Saint Leprosy."

September 17: Mock-Orange Hedge, Leprosy, Maple Leaves

It is mid-September now; I can see in the fading light the jagged holes in the leaves of the mock-orange hedge outside my study window.  The more closely I look, the more I doubt that there is a single whole unblemished leaf left on the bush.  I go out again and examine the leaves one by one, first of the mock-orange outside my study, then of the cherry tree in the yard.  In the blue light I see scratched and peeled stems, leaves that are half-eaten, rusted, blighted, blistered, mined, snipped, smutted, putted, puffed, sawed, bored, and rucked.  Where have I been all summer while the world has been eaten?

Mid-September is upon Tinker Creek.  Dillard notices things that she hasn't notice before, like the fact that something has chewed up the leaves of the mock-orange hedge outside her window.  That's the way of the world, of course.  Eat and be eaten.  Blight and be blighted.

Outside my living room window is a beautiful maple tree.  It shades the side of the house all summer long.  In the fall, when its leaves start turning mustard and tangerine, the tree also gets what I have come to call a case of leprosy.  On the skin of the leaves, black and brown spots appear.  Dime-sized and nickel-sized.  These blemishes mar what would be a Norman Rockwell-esque autumn scene.

The tree isn't dying, as far as I can tell.  In the spring, new leaves appear, green and full and healthy-looking.  All summer long, those leaves waves and whisper in the warm winds.  If you can't tell, it's one of my favorite trees in my yard.  Come early October, despite its annual case of small pox, the maple can still be breathtakingly beautiful with its flaming colors.

But, as Dillard says, the world is an imperfect place.  Beauty and blight on the same leaf.  That's why Jesus tells parables like the prodigal son, who pisses away his inheritance and then goes crawling back for his father's forgiveness.  Humans understand (you will excuse my language) how inherently fucked-up we are.  Jealous.  Greedy.  Profligate.  Jesus wanted us to know that nothing is unfixable.  Mistakes can be made right.  Blight can be turned into beauty again come springtime.

I thing God has to be infinitely patient.  I mean, humans slaughtered His only son, and He didn't rain down fire and lava on our asses.  Nope.  Instead, He waited three days, and then He brought His son back.  To save us.  To make things right.  To forgive.  To make the sick, yellow maple leaves green again.

Saint Marty thinks that's pretty cool.