Friday evening, after spending an 11 hour work day, I departed for SFO for my TWA flight
(one of the last before they are swallowed whole by American Airlines) to JFK.  I arranged this trip
primarily to visit my dear friend Cosette, who's in her third year studying Race Relations at Brooklyn College.
Cosette is always a treat.  She was born in the Dominican Republic, grew up primarily in New York,
then moved to California where we met.  She became a citizen during her time in California, before
returning to school--taking her first two years at Foothill College.  She is of African and Spanish heritage,
looks a full fifteen years younger than her real age, and she speaks in the most delightful Castilian accent.

I thought that I'd take full advantage of the trip by having lunch with Christian Livemore (whom I have
established an e-mail relationship with, as we both frequently submit to Bartcop and to OnlineJournal),
and an old friend from my college days, Mr. Don Stitt.

Ah, but first things first.  When I arrived in town, the controversy of the moment was Puritan Mayor Rudy's
bashing of a display at the Brooklyn Museum of Art.  Renee Cox, a renowned black photographer had done
a five part photograph depicting a satire of The Last Supper.  The work is part of an exhibit of various black
photographers who demonstrate their reactions to "the black experience" in America.  This runs afoul of
Puritan Rudy's "Catholic" sensibilities, and he threatens to appoint a "decency" committee to ban all art
that serves some other purpose than highlighting livingroom color schemes.

I must say that Rudy has a point.  The colors in Ms. Cox's work are far too vibrant to mix well with most
of what is done with modern furnishings.  And it seems that Rudy also objects to Ms. Cox's full frontal in
her depiction of Jesus.  After all, don't we all know that Jesus and his apostles were all tall, blue eyed,
blond males.  Well at least that is the way they've been represented by white Europeans over the last
2000 years; and anything white must be right.  Right?  Besides, white goes with anything.

It was apparent that Cox tried to appease Rudy some by adding certain white symbolism to the piece.
Symbols that would look charming adorning any white sheet or hood.  But I fear Ms. Cox's efforts
were lost because, according to the museum guard we spoke to, Puritan Rudy hasn't been to the
Brooklyn Museum in the four years the guard has worked there.

On our way out, a Spanish speaking international news crew was on its way in.  They had heard of
Rudy's warnings that this exhibit was an assault on Catholics world wide.  I guess nobody told Rudy
that this exhibit had just come from Venice, Italy where no one utter a peep of protest.

Finding her way into all things controversial, Cosette was only too delighted to be questioned by the
news crew.  This served to make me regret not having kept up my Spanish from high school, because
the conversation was rapid and passionate.  All that I understood was Cosette's comment involving
"concubinado," meaning, of course, sexual relations with a woman that is not one's wife.
This is considered a mortal sin by most Catholics--other than Puritan Rudy.

Later that evening, Cozy and I hit a local pub, and found ourselves sitting with a German gentleman,
who had recently become a citizen, and his female friend (a long time New Yorker).  They mentioned
that this last November was the new citizen's first crack at a polling booth, and he was lamenting how
it didn't really mean anything because he wasn't a member of the Supreme Court.  He also took notice
how, under the reasoning of the felonious five, no election in the country could ever pass the muster
of "equal protection."  Every precinct from coast to coast operates under a different set of rules.

We did find one thing in common.  None of us have ever been required to show our identification
when receiving a ballot at the polls.  Well--not quite true.

"I always have to show my I.D.!" protested Cosette.

"That's because you're black," I reminded her.

"Oh, of course," she admitted.
"They need to know I haven't committed a felony in the State of Texas."

But a good time was had by all, as we bashed the Surreal Court, and guzzled red wine by the carafe.
We focused, in particular, on Chief William and Uncle Thomas because they have both confessed
recently to throwing out the law for political concerns, just like the courts under Nazi Germany.
And for the same reasons!  Because we are in a CULTURE WAR!  Whatever the HELL that is!!?

The next day, Cozy and I met my old friend Don, and my new friend Christian, in the Village for brunch.

Don and I were theater types together at San Francisco State in the '70s.  We compared notes about how
well we did in those days, being practically the only two straight guys in a theater program in San Francisco.
Those were in the days before our hair began thinning and our waists began widening.

After college, Don left for the Big Apple, and I for the Big Orange.  We've met maybe twice, face to face, since.
Don is probably the only one of our contemporaries to have kept the faith.  He still performs regularly on stage
and television, and has recently taken to producing as well.

Don lamented to me that all the male dancers, he knew in the 70s, died of AIDS in the 80s.
Those were the days when Reagan refused to provide any money for AIDS research because
Reagan knew what we did not know.  That Jesus was punishing gays for their immorality.
AIDS infected our babies as well, to punish us for legal abortions, and infected straights
because we refused to strap homosexuals to fence posts, and beat them to death.

After eight long years of Clinton immorality, the Bushes have now come back to teach us,
once and for all, that Jesus is cruel and vengeful, and that we had better start living in fear.
What a wonderful world this will be.

I didn't say this to Christian at the time, but she is exactly as I pictured her.  She is as New Yorkers
used to be, with boundless and focused energy.  I tried to coax her to reveal some of the mysteries
of Bartcop, as I expected she knew more than I.  And I still suspect that she does, although she did
succeed in whetting my appetite to unravel a mystery that is best left the way it is.  Bartcop is indeed
better left a faceless entity--a conduit rather than a goal or a target.  I see him as Samuel Adams,
churning pages from his printing press in the darkness of night to rouse the thinkers into action.

But Christian and I discussed the issues of the day, as we always do.  But this time face to face, in none
too quiet tones, to allow those who would listen a chance to hear.  I know that she and I agree--in fact
we said as much--that the time for quiet disagreement has passed.  It is time to speak up with a full voice
in coffee shops and restaurants, at meeting halls and street corners, and to let those who would disagree
answer if they can.  We can no longer afford to leave the engagement of our discourse to the media.
The only remaining future of our Fourth Estate lies in Bartcop and his brothers, who beckon and encourage
debate.  Even if one can only offer an IQ of 67.

I returned on the Amistad, stuffed and chained into the coach bowls of a 757, on chairs too small for
Miss Nancy's Romper Room, and fighting against the jet stream for seven hours.  Only to return too
late for bed, and facing another 11 hour work day.  When I have recovered, I will return to my discourse.

Back to the Bay,
Jim H.