Sunday, April 21, 2019

Bunny Bunny

Three blondes died in an automobile accident on Easter Sunday. As they line up at the Pearly Gates of heaven, St. Peter tells them that they can enter the gates if they can answer one simple question.

"What is Easter?"

The first blonde replies, "Oh, that's easy! It's the holiday in November when everyone gets together, eats turkey, and are thankful..."

"Wrong!," replies St. Peter, and proceeds to ask the second blonde the same question, "What is Easter?"

The second blonde replies, "Easter is the holiday in December when we put up a nice tree, exchange presents, and celebrate the birth of Jesus."

St. Peter looks at the second blonde, shakes his head in disgust, tells her she's wrong, and then peers over his glasses at the third blonde and asks, "What is Easter?"

The third blonde smiles confidently and looks St. Peter in the eyes, "I know what Easter is."

"Oh really?" says St. Peter, incredulously.

"Easter is the Christian holiday that coincides with the Jewish celebration of Passover. Jesus and his disciples were eating at the last supper and Jesus was later deceived and turned over to the Romans by one of his disciples. The Romans took him to be crucified and he was stabbed in the side, made to wear a crown of thorns, and was hung on a cross with nails through his hands. He was buried in a nearby cave which was sealed off by a large boulder."

St. Peter smiles broadly with delight. The third blonde continues, "Every year the boulder is moved aside so that Jesus can come out... and, if he sees his shadow, there will be six more weeks of winter."

The Difference of Three Days

According to the New Testament the Hebrew legal council surrendered Yeshua bar Yosef to the Roman Prefect of Judaea. The Sanhedrin accused the citizen of Galilee of the blasphemy of claiming to be the King of the Jews. Pontius Pilate concluded that the healer was innocent of these charges, however the Passover crowd before the Prefect's palace cried for blood and the Roman offered them a choice; their 'king' or Barrabas, a violent insurrectionist. The mob led by the Pharisees and Sadducees, the two most powerful political forces in Judea, clamored for Barrabas. Pontius Pilate washed his hands and ordered his garrison troops to crucify their Yeshua.

The date was supposedly the 14th of Nissan and the year ranged from 28AD to 36AD, although the Vatican determined Good Friday and Easter according to the ancient calculations of the Council of Nicaea, which declared Easter to be celebrated on the first Sunday following the first full moon after the vernal equinox as was the pagan holiday honoring Isthar, the Babylonian goddess of fertility, love, war, and sex.

Her temples were infamous for their prostitution cults.

The early church was adept at kidnapping the traditions of other religions, but not so good with arithmetic.

The priests and nuns taught the faithful that Jesus rose from the dead after three days. He died on a Friday. He stayed dead on Saturday. He rose on Sunday. Three different days, yet a time span of only 43 hours or less than two days, then again the time between the Immaculate Conception and the Birth of Christ was only four months.

Maybe I'm too picky.

Clocks didn't exist in 33AD.

The hours were either sunrise, noon, sunset, or night.

Calendars were also hard to find in 787 AUC (Anno Urbis Conditae or the founding of Rome).

A long, long time ago.

Before I was born into this lifetime.

And I couldn't care less, because for me Easter is simply a day for chocolate and wearing a new suit and tie.

The former is for kids and the latter for my beloved departed Mother. She liked to dress up on Easter and even atheist shall honor the old traditions for their mother.

Happy Easter Eggs.

Easter, 1916 - Yeats

EASTER 1916 by Yeats

I have met them at close of day

Coming with vivid faces

From counter or desk among grey

Eighteenth-century houses.

I have passed with a nod of the head

Or polite meaningless words,

Or have lingered awhile and said

Polite meaningless words,

And thought before I had done

Of a mocking tale or a gibe

To please a companion

Around the fire at the club,

Being certain that they and I

But lived where motley is worn:

All changed, changed utterly:

A terrible beauty is born.

That woman's days were spent

In ignorant good-will,

Her nights in argument

Until her voice grew shrill.

What voice more sweet than hers

When, young and beautiful,

She rode to harriers?

This man had kept a school

And rode our winged horse;

This other his helper and friend

Was coming into his force;

He might have won fame in the end,

So sensitive his nature seemed,

So daring and sweet his thought.

This other man I had dreamed

A drunken, vainglorious lout.

He had done most bitter wrong

To some who are near my heart,

Yet I number him in the song;

He, too, has resigned his part

In the casual comedy;

He, too, has been changed in his turn,

Transformed utterly:

A terrible beauty is born.

Hearts with one purpose alone

Through summer and winter seem

Enchanted to a stone

To trouble the living stream.

The horse that comes from the road.

The rider, the birds that range

From cloud to tumbling cloud,

Minute by minute they change;

A shadow of cloud on the stream

Changes minute by minute;

A horse-hoof slides on the brim,

And a horse plashes within it;

The long-legged moor-hens dive,

And hens to moor-cocks call;

Minute by minute they live:

The stone's in the midst of all.

Too long a sacrifice

Can make a stone of the heart.

O when may it suffice?

That is Heaven's part, our part

To murmur name upon name,

As a mother names her child

When sleep at last has come

On limbs that had run wild.

What is it but nightfall?

No, no, not night but death;

Was it needless death after all?

For England may keep faith

For all that is done and said.

We know their dream; enough

To know they dreamed and are dead;

And what if excess of love

Bewildered them till they died?

I write it out in a verse -

MacDonagh and MacBride

And Connolly and Pearse

Now and in time to be,

Wherever green is worn,

Are changed, changed utterly:

A terrible beauty is born.

To hear Ted Hughes read EASTER 1916, please go to the following URL

Pacem In Terris

Pope John XXIII wrote the Easter encuclical PACEM IN TERRIS in 1963. The Pontiff was upset by how close the world had come to global destruction during the Cuban Missile Crisis and his holiday missive was addressed not only the Faithful, but 'all men of good will'.

His treatise also extolled the rights of man, stating, "That every man has the right to life, to bodily integrity, and to the means which are suitable for the proper development of life."

Two months later he passed from this Earth.

He was a good man, who rescued Jews from the Nazis and attempted to mediate between the USSR and USA.

His last words were in Latin, "Ut Omnes Unum Sin."

"That they may all be one."

It remains our hope.

To read PACEM IN TERRIS please go to the following url

Beermas Vs. Easter

I'm no longer religious, but I am spiritual, so I celebrate Beermas.


And I don't drink to make women more beautiful.

I drink to improve my looks.

Oh, you dog.

Easter Finery

My mother instilled in her children the desire to look good.

"It's one thing to be broke and quite another to look broke."

I got dressed up in her honor for Easter.

A suit and tie.

I'm sure that would make her happy in the Here-Before.

Now all I have to do is shave off the scruff.

Saturday, April 20, 2019

A Reprobate's Parental Guidance

In 1969 I smoked reefer for the first time in my VW Bug coming from Nantasket Beach. Tommie Jordan and John Gilmore were my passengers. The weed belonged to Tommie, a hockey player from North Quincy. His hair was long, at least for a hockey player, but then so was that of Derek Sanderson and he got big money for playing with the Boston Bruins.

Tommie's weed was mild, yet strong enough to strike my sense of hilarity like cobra venom.

We sat at a traffic light for three changes of red to green, laughing hysterically about nothing and very little is funnier than nothing.

Marijuana was illegal in the 60s.

It is now legal in some states, but the DEA continues to oppress smokers'

The greatest segment of the US prison population are convicted pot smoker. Teenagers are constantly lectured on the dangers of smoke.

At the end of last summer I was out in Montauk . The surfing beach town at the eastern tip of Long Island is a relaxed community. I watched the moonrise on Saturday night with my friends. It had been bigger on Friday evening, but size wasn't important this far from Manhattan or Easthampton. We retreated back to a beach shack in Ditch Plains for a BBQ filled with reminiscences of friends long gone. One woman and I vowed to save a 80s beauty trapped in Detroit. We could have reached Wendy in 9 hours, except none of us were driving after a few glasses of wine. Wendy would have to wait for another posse.

I was surprised that our host's son was in the house. This was Labor Weekend, the last days of freedom before school for a 17 year-old boy.

"Why's your son in the house?"

"I caught Todd with weed."

While my host had been straight for a decade, she wasn't a hypocrite. She had started smoking at 14. "What could I say?"

"Not much."

I turned to the teenager. Todd looked like a good kid.

"What were you smoking? Weed or sinse?"

"Hydro." Too didn't roll his eyes, which was a sign of maturity beyond his age.

"Hydro's not really weed."

I had been at Agent Rockford's underground weed plantation this Spring. Every plant had been a twin to the other like a successful cloning experiment. Rockford had handed me a mask.

"7% THC gets in the air. Too much exposure and you're high."

"Is that a bad thing?"

Rockford's reluctance to answer said a lot and I have steered clear of sinse and hydro ever since. I could have given a sermon to the grounded teenager in Montauk. Instead I asked, "How kids in your school smoke pot?"


"That many?" I didn't doubt his number. He attended a Manhattan private school.

"The other 10% are Jesus freaks praying for our salvation."

"I only pray for our victory," I explained about Mexico's liberal drug policy. "Anything under 4 joints is legal."

"Even big fatboys?"

>"Maybe only two of those." Rasta joints burned a pile of weed. "Victory is in sight."

The teenager high-fived me.

Later in the evening my host took me to aside and said, "Thanks for the free-pot speech. Maybe you should be doing a tour. Smoke a marijuana."

"That used to be a David Peel song." No one in this generation or even the last two had ever heard about the East Village hippie dedicated to the freedom of the weed. It was too long a story to tell without going to youtubes, so I poured myself another glass of wine and watched the stars drift toward the full moon. It was a good night for it.


David Peel was a good man.