Big Sister Is Watching
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" We like to think of ourselves as the corner pub for all those gods and goddesses out there who used to have massive libations poured out to them (for free) and who now have to drink on Cheap Beer Night. Will someone please buy Osiris another round?
My sister said she's going to vote the straight Republican ticket because of abortion. One vote, one issue.
Never mind those flag-draped coffins coming back from Iraq, dangerous war games off the coast of Iran, global warming, tax breaks for the super-rich, the rape of the Constitution, a federal deficit that boggles the brain...
Oh, for Zeus's sake, I could go on all day! Suffice it to say that, as usual, the one voter at "The Gods Are Bored" will cancel out Sis's attempt to climb into other peoples' wombs.
Today's topic: The Perilous Path of Minding Other Peoples' Business
There's a fellow living here in my little town who is my age exactly but looks about 25 years older. We'll call him John, as in Baptist. He is a victim of Fetal Alcohol Syndrome. He can't drive a car, but he can read and write, and he's very proud of the fact that he's a taxpayer and homeowner in this borough. (He has a trustee who pays his bills for him.) He's also unkempt and unbathed and has no teeth. I don't know if he eats locusts.
Anyway. One day I was blogging in the public library. The woman sitting next to me began an earnest (and very loud) conversation with the man next to her. They were talking about John.
According to this woman, John's house is a wreck inside, and he's "just completely incapable of taking care of himself," to use her words.
The man said something should be done.
The woman complained that John's trustee doesn't care about him. "They need to sell that house and put John in a halfway home," she said. "The money from the house would pay his upkeep, and his hygiene would be seen to."
You'd never know it to read this blog, but I'm not a confrontational person. I clamped my jaw shut and kept on writing about Aphrodite or some other worthy deity. But I was so ticked off that my train of thought jumped the track, killing an unsuspecting Luna moth.
See? Some people don't just want wombs. They want to decide which citizens bathe enough and whose houses are clean enough. Meddle, meddle, meddle!
It happens that John is a friend of mine. I know he's very proud to be active in this community. He draws up elaborate plans for parks where they don't exist now and attends every single Borough Commissioners' Meeting. And those suckers are the only thing I can think of that are more boring than a Methodist sermon.
We have no halfway homes in this borough. Not one. John would have to relocate to another town. Did I mention he was born and raised here, went all the way through school here, and has never lived anywhere else?
We at "The Gods Are Bored" say, to hell with minding other peoples' business, be it abortion, how they pay their taxes, or how they live!
If they're not being hauled away by the gendarmes or staining your furniture, why do you care? For the love of ducks, leave poor John alone!
I'm writing this today because tomorrow night the same meddlesome woman is hosting a candlelight poetry reading in her Civil War-era home. The featured poet is my friend The Monkey Man.
The woman saw me on the street a few weeks ago and made sure to invite me, because I came to a few of her poetry readings before this. When I said I knew The Monkey Man, damn if she didn't start in on him!
"I've invited him to spend the night at my house," she said. (She's a divorcee. MM is single.)
"Why would you do that?" I asked.
"Oh, because he lives in Camden!" she replied. "He shouldn't be wandering the streets at night in Camden!"
(For the record, Camden lost its distinction as Murder Capital of the Nation this week. It's now ranked #5.)
Okay, getting past my sneaking suspicion that Madame la Meddler wants to seduce the Monkey Man, let's look at this one:
Yes, The Monkey Man lives in Camden. Assume for a moment that he isn't safe going out after dark. What in the Sam Hill does he do this time of year, with Eastern Standard rocking on? Is he a prisoner in his home by 5:00 p.m.?
BAMP! Wrong. I saw him at the borough Halloween parade, which was held in the inky darkness of 7:00 p.m. Presumably he went home to Camden afterwards.
Meddle, meddle, meddle.
Go on. Stick your delicate nose into your neighbor's stinky business. But if you ask "The Gods Are Bored," we say that invites bad karma into your own life. Next time you might be the Medlee. Put that in your pipe and smoke it!
OOOOOPS! No Smoking Allowed!
Gosh, I need a drink. Thank goodness I'm legal.
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS