I for one don’t really care whether the vernal equinox happens on March 20, 21, or 22, I always celebrate it on March 21, just as I always celebrate the solstices on December 21 and June 21. What’s more, I treat all the seasons as having exactly 91.25 days except during leap year because that way four seasons make a year. However, the exposition of facts suggesting the contrary in the above article forwarded to me by Barbartzin Cihuacuamomohtli in the former CSA capital of Montgomery is quite erudite and interesting and attributed to someone from the Hayden Planetarium who ought to know.
Although I do celebrate the Spring Equinox and the Solstices, I find the Autumnal Equinox less stirring, although I don’t go as far as my former House Elf Antonio Rodriguez who once opined that “Otoño es la epoca del año más triste.” Still, from a historical standpoint, it’s hard to celebrate the Fall Equinox unless you’re a descendent of Robespierre and really long for the good old days when the original French “Department of Homeland Security” (aka “Committee on Public Safety”) instituted and promulgated the original Reign of Terror starting with the execution of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette. As an aside, Queen Marie Antoinette has risen considerably in my estimation since I read that she apologized to her executioner for stepping on his foot on the way to the guillotine on a crowded executioner’s platform. I anticipate that the Reign of Terror over which the Department of Homeland Security has been designed to preside will make the French episode of the 1790s look like the amateur small time affair or rehearsal which it really was….
Yes, by contrast and without doubt, Spring is traditionally the happiest time of year, when new growth and flowers and the birds and the bees all seem to conspire to compose a poetic statement of the natural order which…. sometimes just make a 53rd year old curmudgeon with a serious toothache want to regurgitate all over someone’s beautiful flower bed. And there are indeed an abundance of beautiful flower beds in New Orleans 70130, 70115, and 70118 (which is the extent of my wanderings most days—the French Quarter 70112, except for Place St. Louis aka Jackson Square, is not known for its flowers).
Ah, Springtime: Young lovers, even brothers and sisters like Siegmund and Sieglinde, notice that wintersturme wichen dem wonnemonde, and for once I find myself in a bad enough mood to sympathize with Fricka’s anger over the whole business: “Who’s ever heard of such a thing, a brother and sister as lovers?” She asks her husband Wotan in Richard Wagner’s Die Walküre. Sympathetic with his wife’s concerns always and so the model of a good husband, Wotan responds, “Well, as of today, you have heard of it.” I have spent my life changing the characters with whom I most identify in Wagner’s Ring. When I was young I wanted to be Siegried, but then I kind of realized that Siegfried was a bit of an idiot who would take a drink from anybody and really never did anything right or substantial after he killed that rather harmless house- (or cave-) bound Dragon Fafnir who never really bothered anybody but just liked sleeping aid all his treasure. Then I started identifying with Siegmund, slightly more mature but no luckier. Finally I have come to identify with Wotan “the saddest of all”. What I’m worried about is that I may yet live long enough to identify with Alberich the Dwarf, the final survivor of the epic of the Ring….. and that just wouldn’t be very poetic at all…. but the danger is there….
I came of age as a teenager in New Orleans, first felt the pangs of (post-secondary) young love here and all that rot. And now as a (soon to be) 53 year old curmudgeon I am back in this wonderful town, reflecting on the essential lack of difference and distinction between the institutions of marriage and prostitution, despite my lifelong fondness for the Sumerian and Akkadian love poetry of Inanna and Dumuzi (which of course was all about Dumuzi rising from the dead in the Spring—after Inanna killed him, but let’s not quibble here, she mourned and cried copious tears AFTER she killed him—just as Brunnhilde did after she arranged Siegfried’s Death in Gtterdaemerung…). New Orleans has forced me to come to grips with the notion that, as doggedly libertarian as I sometimes try to be, I really don’t like prostitution or prostitutes. But (even worse) I like women who pretend to be something else when they’re even less honest and (hence) less moral by virtue of their pretense to be something else. (Only tangentially, see footnote* regarding one rather New Orlenean girl by the name of Lila H.—this particular epistle was most unequivocally NOT written by me, but I came upon it as part of a collection of similar letters).
Two years ago I was obsessed with another rather extraordinary “courtesan” I had met in New Orleans at the same time as Lila H. and Sylvia F. named Tiffany H. (TCH moved to ABQ where she became “La Bruja de Algodones” in a beautiful desert corner of New Mexico off I-25). Now Tiffany was indeed quite beautiful, not at all “cheap” and certainly not tawdry. She was talented in several musical instruments, song, song painting, weaving, astrology, magic, and deadlier arts as well, but had that strange kiss of the spider woman which made for short-lived relationships…. And what really bothers me is that prostitutes are “cheap” girls….and wives like Elena, the mother of my son Charlie, who at her sole behest no longer speaks to me are just really really really expensive…. And so in general, there are times I wish I had been born gay so that I wouldn’t have had to deal with the whole situation…. But as Happy as I have been for most of my life, I have never been gay…..
And the reality is, right now, that the Winter of our Discontent (about the Islamic Communist Party Chairman Barack Hussein Obama’s second anti-constitutional inauguration as de facto President and Dictator, the acknowledgment by his simply appalling Attorney General Holder that Drone’s deadly force may be [and that means certainly will be---if they haven't already been] used to eliminate undesirable American citizens someday, and all the other developments of the past 91 days really just don’t inspire one to think happy thoughts.
Re-elected California Senators Dianne Feinstein and Barbara Boxer continue with their crusade to disarm ordinary Americans while buying otherwise illegal hollow-point bullets to arm the domestic police as minions of the Department of Homeland Security. It’s all enough to make one sing, with Lord High Executioner Koko from G & S’ Mikado, “The flowers that bloom in the spring “tra la” have nothing to do with the case.”
In general, it seems to me that Western civilization, American Political Society as it once existed, and the magnificent American economy are all going to hell in a hand basket, so why and how can we celebrate Spring—“Winter kept us warm covering earth in forgetful snow” or in the case of New Orleans and most of the deep South, forgetful brown (dead) leaves…. Wintersturme wichen dem wonnemonde — my ass!
Speaking of asses, now that Barack Obama has turned the Democratic Party so radically against America and the American dream, I think that all Patriotic Americans who, with me, might like to either call themselves Jeffersonian and/or Jacksonian Democrats ought to work with me to resurrect the Crowing Red Rooster as the Symbol of the Democratic Party—if anyone has examples of old Southern Democratic Posters or political advertisements of any kind with Red Rooster symbols—please get in touch with me…. I would like to start a large collection…. I suppose that will be my Spring 2013 Project to Dishonor Obama and all that he stands for….
*I swear under penalty of perjury that I did not write the following text nor was it written about anything I personally experienced, but I have seen and experienced a sufficient number of similar events with one of the parties involved that I believe that this does pretty well summarize the life of a certain New Orleans “Failed Debutante” well-on her way at age 23, soon to be 24, to becoming a “Delta Dawn” of the next generation:
Lila: I just don’t ever want to see you drunk again.
I can’t recall exactly how many times you’ve completely fucked me over. Of course, none of this was your fault. It’s not your fault that you’re a sloppy drunk incapable of taking credit for your actions. I mean, trying to kill a guy on the back of his motorcycle, pissing yourself on the sidewalk and cursing the man who kept you alive. That’s not your fault. No, that’s perfectly acceptable behavior.
If you still do have my phone number, if by some miracle it hasn’t fallen into the vodka and bourbon fueld vortex that is your mind, and you give it to some man and he calls me and says that you’re passed out in his hotel room I am going to tell him that I’m your psychiatrist and that you need to be restrained, gagged, and to call the police immediately. Don’t trust a word you say, you’ve escaped from the mental hospital, you’re a homicidal nymphomaniac. Or maybe I’ll say that I am your pimp and that he can have [edited: you anyway] he wants, free.
What I’m trying to say, Lila, is that you are possibly the worst friend a man could have. A user, an abusive drunk that no one should ever have to tolerate. I know you won’t even accept this judment, and yeah, I’m judging you, I feel I have the right after watching you screaming cuntcuntcunt, tears streaming down your face, because I wouldn’t let you go and fight a girl. I know you can’t accept this judgement. And I do feel bad for you. I really do. But this is the last time you treat me this way. Not that you give a fuck, there are plenty of other men to use, aren’t there? Plenty of other guys.
Anyway, enjoy. This time tomorrow you’ll probably be ass-up in an alleyway getting train-fucked by the boyfriend of some girl you picked a fight with and his friends, or blowing some guy in a suit in a bathroom because he was nice enough to give you a shiny piece of plastic.
Remember this, if nothing else: You had a horrible time last night. I know you don’t care that you ruined my evening, but you ruined your own. Your insistence on trying to assault that girl had you crying and screaming for around a half hour, then angry all night. You stupid bitch. And, by the way, it was PURE paranoia. I noticed you had lost one of the wings off that stupid headband that made you ‘feel special and pretty’ at least ten or twenty minutes before you were anywhere near that girl. I didn’t say anything in order to avoid a scene.
So yeah. You’re paranoid. Have you been diagnosed?
Because of that you missed out on a great night. I treat.. excuse me, treatED you well. That’s done with. And I genuinely feel like a load has been taken off my back. I gave you the benefit of the doubt three times now. That’s twice too many. We’re done, bitch. If you want my friendship and you decide to beg for it back and I can understand what you’re saying you’re doing it wrong [edited for younger audience...]