2016 is like 1971 hyped up on a steroid cocktail in a methadone maintenance regimen; trying to get America off crack and Marvin Gaye is nowhere to be found. The babies that grew up on poison Similac and twisted philosophies are products of test-tube cows and chickens on growth hormones; all physical mutations from our on-demand appetite for foods that used to have seasons and animals that mature faster than they can be slaughtered and flash-frozen. The products of feeding experiments financed by conglomerates that are not, in the least, interested in conflict but branded with conflicting interests that blatantly brandish their interests in wealth over public safety. And nobody’s even asking “What’s Going On”?
The Flint experiment is looking like Tuskegee-for-families and although we’re horrified at the results we’re still watching it play out in real-time and in real-slow motion we’re dealing with it by handing out 12 ounce bottles of Dasani on television. Don’t worry Flint, we’ll be back with some water from Deer Park when y’all need a shower. Rest assured that somebody in Michigan’s governmental complex has that on their desk for action. But can we at least “Save the Babies”?
Since I’m only part-time on all three of my jobs I can only afford to be sick part-time; on my off-time, between jobs because sickness is one of the preexisting conditions I had to waive to get my jobs. If I take time off I lose money and if I go to the doctor, it costs money. The medical diagnosis of cancer-free is even a lie because the truth is that I can’t even get cancer for free; it’s definitely going to cost me something. And if I die before my VA test results come back some politician who wishes he had the opportunity to serve in the military is going to be outraged. There’s a hole in my medical coverage the size of Congress’ benefit package. That really “Makes Me Want To Holler”.
“Mercy, Mercy Me”! With all that’s going on in 2016, the mandate to untwist twisted minds rests upon the musical wisdom of the careful crafters of relevant messages. The catchy tunes of change, repeated through chorus lines in cerebral recitation revolutionize thought into melodic accomplishment. Relevance wrapped with a fifty-year warranty of time-stamped reflection. The toils and strategies of revolution won’t be devised in a strip club. Thoughts of diamonds and Lamborghinis mirror third grade daydreaming, and like every other musical expression of limited thought and extravagant life on a borrowed budget, it’s an insulting display of irresponsibility; a reckless sellout of an artist’s ability to be the vehicle of change the world demands; a pitiful outcry of spent resources and probably money. Hey Stevie, where’s Marvin?
Although this world is not “Wholly Holy” those of us who understand that “God is Love” know that we can rest in the assurance that He will never leave us nor forsake us. God knows the world of gifted songwriters has.
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