Dear St. Paddy
JM: Enclosed, please find a note CC to Cantanker, written in anticipation of March 17. Best of luck surviving the holiday. I’ll be on Kauai. Will call on cellular phone, possibly – possibly not.
Dear St. Patrick:
Please go to Austin, or at least devote some Saintly Juice to the good people of Cantanker. Serpents have infested the art scene there in Austin. I’ve seen them & it’s horrifying. The people of that good city are cowed, if not outright paralyzed by terror. …All that writhing, hissing and spitting, and it’s no wonder. The hardy band of misfits has risen up to make a stand. Help them, St. Patrick. You know what it’s like. The head of this slithering Beastie, if I might speak of It in anthropomorphic terms, is trifold: the earless press, the lipless moneyed citizenry, and the armored scaly institutions. My poor friends are put upon my Its forked tongue, the pretensions of care, where there is but little. Interests are not care, and of interests there is much and care, as I say, is in desperately short supply. As is common among snakes, these reptiles reside in holes, under nice homes and in tall grass. The Beastie commands them by enforcing an order of shunning. I know, St. Patrick, this seems a poetic way to describe the situation, but, believe me, the danger is so dire, it threatens the freedoms of all who make that great country, Texas, home. As the Beastie winds his dirty belly through the streets of Austin, which many dreaded folk claim is a great oasis in the cultural desert of that most powerful of all lands (home to Halliburton, our great President and many of his buckshot minions), the foul Dragon breathes fumes of apathy over all, and most slumber in a materialist walking haze. No city, or Art, ever needed you more, dear Saint. The artists are therefore all poor, and put upon. The only recourse these innocents have, in general, is to play the harlequin, serve beer and charge cheaply, for the only souls brave enough to enter the fray are drunken, and underage mostly. Give the artists hope, St. Patrick, give them dreams and give them courage. They, Art and Free Speech won’t survive without you. Bless these fine people of Cantanker, who raise the righteous banner against the plague, who brandish the brawny blade against the fangs, who shake a fist at the Odds and martyr on. Make the Beast skitter away, through them. Let their bandy legs have the power of David. Let their voices sound like the Horn of Jericho. Give them victory, in their lost cause (Note: you might want to let St. Jude in on this). For where three or more Rain Men gather together in Your Name, surely it will Rain. May their Reds be true Reds, Blues be true Blues, and Whites be as of the Rainbow. Give them a Coalition of the Willing, give them Shock and Awe. Make their aim sure and their hands steady. And when the enemy, the Beastie of Traitorous Neglect and Hypocritical Rancor moves to strike them down (as It most assuredly will), make them like Bilbo, and Smite It, with Thunderous Fury! And Bring Day where there was only Night! We ask this of you, O St. Patty (if I may be so bold), and offer you the Greenest of Green beer, & our gratitude, in advance.
All the BEST,
Pablo Bruto III
