My Jesus can beat up your Jesus can beat up Evolution.

A guy asked me the other day: "have you found Jesus?"

I respond to him: "Why? Is he lost?"

Which got me to thinking.  If you were to put every Jesus together in a winner takes all fight, who would win?

Would it be white and tall Jesus, pre-existent Jesus, Hebrew Jesus, perhaps Jesus Christo?  There are so many incarnations of Jesus, what he looks like, who he is and what he stands for that a question on finding him is truly unanswerable.

Therefore, I propose, the only true answer to that question: put them all together and let them fight it out.

He who cast the first stone, right?  Well, maybe. 

This would perhaps be the highlander of the Jesi - and, another probability on the second coming being so damned delayed is that the battle exists at this given time and - there can be only one.

Only problem - Jesus is reinvented quite frequently, and is evolving at a very rapid rate, therefore, a new battle contestant is entered into the royal rumble fairly often. 

Whoa there! 

Did I just say that Jesus evolves?

Uh, yeah ... I did.

The evolution of Jesus - It kind of goes against all Christian teachings and single track-mindedness.  Nothing evolves after all, NOTHING!

Not Darwin's finches, not mankind, not the earth, and surely enough, not Jesus. 

Okay then, how about you look at a portrait of his likeness over the centuries and - hmm.

Thus said, in his 33 years of not being a zombie could his appearance have changed so much, his teachings been altered or made up over and over again on top of getting plastic surgery, skin pigmentation therapy, haircuts, beard trims and grow several inches.

Either Jesus is a Highlander or Michael Jackson -  which finishes with 2 thoughts.

1:  If Michael Jackson comes back to life, be afraid; and,

2: There can only be one.

Infirmary de musicá.

Music is sick. 

Sure there are little gems of bands out there, and some I do rather enjoy, but the entire landscape is a mess. 

Enter iTunes.

A la carte has confused all genre and nobody really knows what they like anymore.  Back in the day, let's say the 80's, it was obvious by ones style, what kind of music someone was into -or- if someone was to ask you "what kind of music do you listen to?"

How would you answer?

Be honest, were you a rocker or a waver? Did you like country, heavy metal, punk, top 40?

There was no confusing those lines. 

Enter 2012 and what kind of music do you listen to?

Now how would you answer?

Music is sick, Hipsters make it worse, all genres are top 40, punk is dead, metal is pussy, and there are so many sub-genres it could make you want to scream.

Listen, if you want to be different, then by all means, be different.  But don't make something up to sound different just to be the same .... That's not different, it's just stupid.

Folk music on alternative playlists, country on pop, punk on top 40, rap in metal and too many crossovers.

Music is sick - and it is sick because it has no identity.

Life in Stereo

So I am sitting in a fast food restaurant with a buddy of mine, basically making fun of anything that walks in, around or near our field of vision - now, he and I have a thing, not for each other mind you, god this is not that kind of story .. anyway, we have a thing, 'do not make eye contact with unsavory types and unsavory types won't mess with you' ...

It kinda works.

Really -

Except for this instance.

A couple of gang banging bros walk into the place, all hard and shit. A bandana is pulled down over the top half of ones eyes, baggy pants, denim jackets ... you know the drill - well, they POP the double doors open with authority and start checking the place out - sizing it up I guess.

So enters our 'thing'.

Unfortunately, I panic.  Not quite sure what to do I look directly at them. What can I say? I fucking panicked - not just a look though, enough to draw attention to myself - oh god, I think - this is where I die.

Well homie number one and homie number two lock eyes with me and abruptly start walking towards me - on a mission .... I swallow, and take what may be my last breath.

Homie number one, hand in pocket, with the other on his belt with his thumb in his pants, starts talking while quickly pulling his hand out of his pocket to point at me like a handgun held sideways.

"Do you drive a white PT Cruiser?" he says with menacing body language.

"Uh, no?" Says I reluctantly.

"Oh man," he says, truly bummed he continues, "That's okay I guess, there is just one in the parking lot with its lights on, I mean ... I would hate it if someone were to get back to their car and the battery is dead - I know people don't stay in here for long but you never know."

And they walked on to the next table.

What the fuck?

I guess we don't die today.