Fight! Fight! Fight!

Remember, in grammar school, when two kids would get into it by the water fountain or in the coatroom or near the monkey bars? And everyone else would gather around and chant, "Fight! Fight! Fight!" And then one lone messenger, ye olde towne crier of the playground, would zip around the blacktop making sure everyone in the vicinity knew about it? And then the teacher on duty would get wind of it, sigh, and attempt to break it up. Or call the principal. Who would tighten his khaki overcoat and tell the wrassling second-graders, "That's enough, that's enough" in a tired, disgruntled voice as he shooed the rest of us away. If he had even a speck of a sense of humor, he would be trying not to laugh.

Maybe that was just my school. It was public, after all.

Anyway, the point of this is that a lovely acquaintance of mine called Lara wrote up a lovely endorsement of my last catapult column about Bono and bawdiness. The thread went at least 38 comments before someone actively disagreed with me, which must be some kind of miracle, because I sure do spout a lot of bee-ess. So anyway, finally, someone popped on, positioned him-or-her-self as "one small voice," and took me to task for my apostasy. When I read the line, "[Jesus'] wife (no wife of course) was not at home watching him grind [his] toes into Mary's boobs as she washed his feet," I knew I had to reply.

Come on, everybody, it's such a Monday. I'm my own towne crier. Gather 'round the monkey bars, ball up your little fists inside the mittens which are clothespinned to your jacket, and chant it like you mean it! Fight! Fight! Fight!

(Sidenote, related but less funny: to be honest, the meta-fight here is kind of wearing me out. I am sooooo tiiiiiiiiired of explaining why pornography is not the same thing as art to people who are just not going to change their minds. Times like these, I really start feeling my expat status. And thinking that I might need to scoot a little further away from my homeland.)


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