I am Not God

Contrary to popular belief the rumors are not true.

I truly may have been blessed among men.  I can write something stupid or off the cuff, and inspire the passion of a nation to send me one thousand emails implying that I should be sleeping in a bed infested with the fleas of a thousand camels, or sitting under a sick horse somewhere outside Bozeman, Montana atoning for my sins.

I can write I had an eargasm this week, which is the sensation one gets hearing a dramatic climax in music — Or I nearly had an eargasm while listening to his performance of Rachmaninoff’s Piano concerto No.2 and I will get emails from every Tom, Dick & Harry within 200 miles.  Objections from deep in the Piney Woods outside of Macon, Georgia or the foothills outside Provo, Utah.

The Chairman of the Board Of Directors of Good Family Living will reply within two days.  I could possibly be the subject of contention on The View by next Wednesday morning.  So stupid me, I write a poem about George Bush and I make mention of Christianity and now I am forced to admit that I am not God.

Forgive me … But there is a definite need this day to dispel a rumor that has appeared here recently.  This rumor that I am God or that I think I am God, or I have somehow irritated God, or that I simply do not believe in God.  (which should be between me and God, don’tcha think?)

So I stand ready to defend the work.  To answer the questions of:  “Who are you, to assume that you are good enough to go to Chicago and sit on Oprah’s couch?” And a host of other complaints in the past couple of days.  It appears that prayer or comments toward religion from a heathen such as myself are taboo.  Which is ludicrous.

All of this is simply not true.

I do believe in God, Mom, The Flag and Apple Pie.

So as the first prayer was so dog-gone popular and I never seem to learn, here we go again.  Dear Lord, grant me the senility to forget the people I never liked anyway, the good fortune to run into the ones that I do, and the eyesight to tell the difference.  Amen.

Now that I am older (but refuse to grow up) here is what I have discovered.  I have just as much talent as anyone else, I have the right to go to Chicago and talk to whom I want, I am totally unique.

Just like everyone else in this world.

What I am is remarkable, tenacious, and I guess it would be safe to say, in it for the long haul.  No flash in the pan here, just me, an ordinary guy.  Not saintly, enlightening, prophetic, miracle working, just an ordinary guy.  I haven’t even come close to — I have seen and heard enough.

Sometimes when I sit here in my basement, alone, no one around but me and the mushrooms, I have to admit, I am quite the person, “THE” catch of the day, the absolute-best-what-have-you there is on the block.  I adore little children, and puppies, not in that particular order.  Somewhat fond of Californians, but do not like pretentious intellectuals and snobs.  I am a dynamic figure, often seen scaling walls and crushing ice.  I have been known to remodel trains stations on my lunch breaks, making them more efficient in the area of heat retention.  I love City Hall and it’s employee’s.

In my spare time I have been known to translate ethnic slurs for Cuban refugees.  I write award winning operas.  Manage time efficiently.  Can effectively deal with Road Rage.  I have more than once shook hands with the governors of many states without the benefit of hand sanitizer.  I can fix a small oooowie on a child’s finger, I write poetry — “Fifty bucks is fifty bucks, I am not made out of money — I just topped my truck off at fifty-one eighty and that aint chicken feed honey.

(thank you very much)

Thanks to a teacher and all the many handlers in my life, I can add and subtract, smell a rat in the woodpile every now and then.  I know the EXACT amount of bubble bath to add to a regular sized bathtub.  I use to part my hair on the left, now I just part it all over the place.  I only take a half of tab of Viagra because the bride said “she just wants to cuddle,” Waffles excite me now, but my eggs are never scrambled.

Coffee, black, two sugars, no conversation.  I hammer, I paint, scrape and sand, I am a regular This Old Spouse, I am after all, handy around the house.  I am so dog-gone good I could possibly re-decorate your bedroom or your home.

I don’t know what part of the chicken the McNugget comes from.  I can tread water for three days in a row.  I woo women with my sensuous and Godlike trombone playing.  I can pilot bicycles up severe inclines with unflagging speed.  I cook Thirty Minute Meals in a little under twenty minutes.  I am an expert in stucco, a veteran in the War of Love, and an outlaw in some parts of Peru.

I buy my shoes at K-Mart, underarm deodorant at ChinaMart, I pay all of my bills on time, especially those I owe to the City.  I never ever cheat on my taxes, believe in UFO’s and Roswell, New Mexico, and I write on the Internet for fun and for profit.  Mostly fun here lately.  I hiked the Grand Canyon once in my youth, rode down to the bottom and back on lopped ear mule named Sarah, not to be confused with the current elected governor of some state in the frozen north..

Having two recently installed crowns and one chipped tooth, I have a fetching smile, which cost about $2500 and some change if I remember it right.  Using only a hoe and a large glass of water, I once single-handedly defended a small village in the Amazon Basin from a horde of ferocious Army Ants.  I play Blue Grass Cello, I was scouted by the New York Mets, I am the subject of numerous documentaries.  When I am bored I build large, scale model, suspension bridges in my backyard.

But I am not God.