Madness, Musings, and Mickey

When one reads the rants and raves of another, there is a certain quality to the words they craft that either gets your attention or causes you to abandon them altogether. That can be a shame, for one day it may be drivel, the next, outright brilliance. I'm sure that Einstein, Plato, even Christ had their bad days, and to have been judged for their musings during that snippet of time would have changed the course of history. If Christ had fed the masses with one hotdog or bag of peanuts during a World Cup match, I doubt anyone would have noticed, quite frankly. Thus, I am glad I have returned more than once to see what Mickey has been blathering about.



Mickey's cache' is that he is Christ incarnate, a madman, both, or neither. That on the face of it would normally cause me to dismiss him altogether, for I am sure he is in insanely good company and I don't have all their blogs bookmarked. However, because I was paying more attention to what was being written between the lines rather than any premise, I sometimes feel as though I have struck literary gold. No, I don't really care that he hates his Sister's guts (I might have misunderstood in that regard but it hardly matters) or that he has issues with inanimate objects he suspects might be possessed by Satan. But I DO care that his eloquence at times could never be attained by someone of relative sanity. Perhaps his madness, much like my own, is an acquired taste, but believe me, pay attention and you GET IT, and find yourself grinning from ear to ear.


I don't really believe Mickey believes in Christ as the Son of God, much less that he himself IS the Son of God come back to us in a straight jacket, but as a schtick it works well for him. If I had the misfortune of hopping on the lithium express, I would go with Napoleon, myself, since we both share stature and a sense of unappreciated arrogance. Instead, in the throws of my sanity, I have chosen to pay homage to my imagination (a word that seems so much safer and superior to madness) by doing part time evangelizing for Bob the Almighty, who has enlightened me in many ways concerning the answers to life's nagging questions. My only saving grace is that I have chosen to accept this knowledge as personal enlightenment borne of my own ethos rather than blaming it on some hapless superior omnipotence who's just trying to mind his/her/it's own business. I'm sure Bob doesn't want to be blamed for the holocaust anymore than Ken Lay did for Enron, the later actually deserving to be, in my opinion. The day mankind takes responsibility for it's own atrocities, the sooner we'll stop committing them.


A man ensnared and held hostage to his own voices is a lonely man, which is why I am thankful for the likes of Mickey, as well as Tim, Shandi, and the Buffalo, and even the occasional peeps from darling gina. If Mickey were ever cured of what supposedly ails him, I think something weirdly wonderful would be lost forever, thus, shamelessly and selfishly, I dare hope no cure is ever found. I like Mickey just the way he is, at least as I know him on a monitor. In real life, I'd probably be practicing my restraint techniques on him, keeping him safely imprisoned in the hospital bed until the shrink showed up to decide what to do with him. May we never meet that way.