People who need Papal...

Everything was Pope Crazy today.

Benedict XVI was in town, meeting with our demented manchild of a president before cruising up to Catholic University in that sporty Pope-mobile. What on Earth could those two talk about behind closed doors, I wonder?

If only I were a fly on the wall for THAT meeting...it actually wouldn't matter, because flies (probably) don't understand human speech. They're funny that way.

But it was fascinating to observe the general reaction to all the papal fuss. Most folks seemed to be having fun with it, with jokes at Benedict's expense: Pope-mobiles, sexual scandals, is-he-a-nazi-or-isn't-he, dig those rockin' red shoes, etc... I wondered if the devout Catholics out there were taking it all with reverence and strength, outright embarrassment, or quiet indifference.

I was Catholic-by-association during childhood: Catholic school until 4th grade, mass on Sundays, the whole trip. And frankly, it's no religion for children. That shit scared the liver-flapping hell outta me.

No pun attempted.


As I saw it, God was an old white man with severe "competition" issues, his boy was a blue-eyed hippie fruitcake that was doomed from birth by scripture but had to slog through life anyway (the ultimate 'foregone conclusion'), and these "priest" people were like earthbound lawyers: here to translate and explain the ritual disciplines necessary to be saved, because the whole thing was so bloody complicated.

Oh, and the kicker: Thanks to Original Sin, NOBODY is truly worthy of "salvation" so the best you can hope for is to catch the old man in a good mood when you get to the Reception Desk. Thus, it's a swindle. The books have been cooked by a revolutionary sect that became a worldwide government.

The Holy Roman Empire (who, by the way, stole the concept of urban planning from the Etruscans and took credit for it; just sayin') was to become the most grisly slaughterhouse in human history. And its agents are still with us today.

Anyway;

I left the Catholic scene far behind in the smoking ruins of childhood. Thus, during all this Pope Stuff today, it was almost shocking to find that there was still a Catholic church operating in modern times... Therefore, there must still be real Catholics walking the earth.

Didn't all that just cease to exist when I stopped paying attention?


Now of course this is not a slam against modern Catholics, just some self-indulgent naval-gazing. Benedict's arrival has indeed been thought-provoking.

But I find it interesting that some of the most vibrant and happy agnostics, pagans, Wiccans, Druids, Asatru, Dianics, and Discordians I've ever met started out as Catholics. So maybe it wasn't just ME having nightmares of getting my astral ass kicked by that jealous bearded dude in the clouds.

Enough!

A TV crew from Eurovision has been camped out at the front door of my office building for the past two days with cameras on Thomas Circle, preparing to film something Pope-ish (Popian? Popoid?). I assume the motorcade passed by today shortly after noon, en route to the Basilica, where Benedict was going to host a big bash for the folks of Catholic University.

If I wasn't up to my neck in magazine deadlines, I would've embedded myself in the madness with camera, notebook, and evil grin. But alas.

Next time, Pope. I'll catch ye next time.

He Ascended into Target...

Late afternoon on a brisk Easter Sunday in Columbia Heights, Washington DC: The new Target store closed early today, what with Christ's ascending to Heaven and all.

Of course we didn't realize the store would be closed early (truly, the Messaiah wouldn't have left Earth without tube-socks and Pepsodent), so we arrived to see the carts wandering in a daze, outside the locked doors. The giant, illuminated Target logo stared out over the carts like a huge eye.

Meanwhile, the carts puttered nervously. Wondering what to do. Where to go.

Nobody is here. Nobody is pushing us around, stuffing toasters and throw-pillows and bulk boxes of chicken corn-dogs inside our gaping plastic mouths...

Poor dears. They know nothing of this "ascended Christ" person. They have heard of an "Easter Bunny" though, but have yet to see it, or to experience its healing touch.

Perhaps THAT would be a god more befitting this brave new world of chocolate, diapers, credit cards, and dreams? I've seen him hanging around the bar...at the Wonderland Ballroom... His name is Harvey, I believe...

...and am i born to die?

It was a weird little photo-shoot in the dining room, involving a mug of Guinness and the wooden head of Christ we found in a Tucson junk-shop several years ago. After the Guinness was dispatched, the photoshop play commenced.

Then it struck me how much the head resembled the child's drawing that adorns the new release by Current 93. I'm certainly no music journalist, but it's worthy of a review here, since it's definitely one of the more important records of recent years.

As an album, Black Ships Ate The Sky is an anomaly: It is intensely personal, and at times feels delicate as a child's diary, with its catalogue of fears and dreams. It seems focused into a tiny and intimate emotional space, but through the inclusion of many collaborators, the project is a vast epic. Four years of obsessive creation has not let David Tibet's legacy down.

"Apocalyptic Folk?" Yep, If there must be a label, I suppose that's as good as any.

The acoustic guitar duties are shared, on alternating tracks, by the familiar dark sweetness of Michael Cashmore and the complex trances of Ben Chasny (of Six Organs of Admittance). While each has a distinct voice on the instrument, they both complement Tibet's fascinated narrations perfectly.

But this is a much more dense recording than the minimalist C93 efforts of recent years. It's a mighty thick stew. John Contreras' cello sobs throughout and Steven Stapleton's sonic textures are ever present, with layers of things peeping and whispering around the corners. Within these 75 minutes, Tibet takes us from sparse pastorals to full-on nightmare rage, and he's not alone. The guest-list includes Marc Almond, Bonnie 'Prince' Billy, Baby Dee, Antony, Clodagh Simonds, Cosey Fanni Tutti, Pantaleimon, and Shirley Collins. Each guest collaborator leaves a unique flavor in the broth, mostly through interpretations of the Idumea, a haunting, melancholy hymn of death and redemption, originally written over 300 years ago.

Old-timer Current 93 fans will appreciate this one, as well as curious newcomers. Tibet and his Black Ships have dared to re-introduce true Mystery to the Christian universe by venting the shadows and the dark dreams and the beauty of it all... The booklet is filled with those childlike drawings of Christ's weary face: he knows the Apocalypse is a train-wreck he can't stop, and the Black Ships are there, hauling the body of Caesar to its new throne. And in the midst of it all, Antony's shuddering delivery of Idumea weeps with the mystery of dying...

Heavy stuff, certainly. And appropriate, perhaps, for the onset of Autumn.

Returning to the scene of the shrine...

I was about ten years old. Perhaps eleven. Certainly not twelve, yet.

By the age of twelve, certain sophistications begin creeping in; a growing understanding of science and logic, and the myths begin to fade. Before that age, mysteries still share the world with adult reality. It is a precious and dangerous time, when monsters or angels might confront you as easily as policemen or teachers.

In those days, I remember being taken to the Shrine of the Immaculate Conception in DC's Brookland neighborhood, for Catholic holiday services... High Mass, you might call it. At this particular cathedral, with its fantastic architecture, it was quite a HIGH high mass. It's perhaps the grandest church in DC. The pipe organ embraces your head from nearly all sides with its tonal mood swings; from whispers to full-on explosions of sound.

It was during those explosive moments of organ music that I locked eyes with that fearsome dude behind the altar: not the priest, he was tiny by comparison. The human priest was a mere insect beneath the truly Fearsome Dude, who lined the convex arch of the North Apse with hands wide, eyes burning with challenge.

What was this crazy, monstrous thing? It was like praying to a savage, feral Sun God who threatened to bitch-slap the entire congregation with one mighty sweep of its bloody palms. The power of this mosaic image was shocking, at a time when childhood still had faith in magic things...

Needless to say, we all made it out alive, and I have since lost my irrational fear of angry gods with the face of Donald Sutherland. But one need not be a Christian to appreciate their churches. They are still quite transformative places. Particularly this shrine; its vibe is still quite potent after all these years.

While browsing the gift shop, it occurred to me that they would do well to design a t-shirt that says "naw, I'm not a christian, I just dig the buildings..."