Meatloaf and other bamboozlings

at the time i was volunteering of all things as a fucking youth minister i never figured out how they said ok because my mouth was the filthiest in church and i argued with whoever would take me on about the difference between swearing and vulgarity. i simple liked vulgarity. i am vulgus, so i speak my own fucking language. anyway, we do these trip , go fix roofs for poor people 200 miles away from our parish like there were no poor bastards right there around the church but i don’t call the shots, i just minister which really means drive the little shitheads around, eat pizza with them and listen to awful music with them. on one of these trips i heard this bat out of hell cd in the car.  and i fell in love, i fell in anger, i fell in battle, i fell for it and i demanded that no matter where we went we would listen to meat fucking load, man. and the kids obliged and they thought immensely cool and i would hang out till late listening to the meatloaf . it was fucking awesome. kids would ask me how come their parents didn’t like them listening to that shit how come i did. i would explain beautiful is beautiful and this meatloaf dude is absolutely beautiful the sound reminds me of the backgrounds of some of my paintings and i listen then i stop for a while and one day i come across it and i play one song and i finish the whole CD but i don’t do that. i can feel the whole thing welling up and pouring out with the very essence of rebellion and fuck you i ever heard. growing up in the sixties there was a lot of shit that people called that but it really wasn’t all that and i know it because i was there and i had learned to pretend that i thought it was cool and radical when it was just sophomoric shit, except some of the brazilian songs from the time of the vicious military dictatorship, like Calice, and some of the Spanish language shit that went around and I would hear without ever listening to the words because the melodies were so pungent and sad that I would be lullabied all the way to work, via the freeway and one day I accidentally heard the words and I wanted to vomit because they sang about the 5 minutes it took to destroy the life of one campesina because manuel who worked at the factory had gone to not return he had been disappeared just the kids had in brazil and argentina an fucking chile under the maternal eyes of  the cia and that fuck pinochet, and how easy it was to numb your mind, your judgement, your decisions, your future and present with a series of mathematically juxtaposed 7 fucking notes.  and we sang, and ate, smoked and drank and smoked pot and discussed fucking bunuel until we could not talk any more and it was time to eat again.. and boys and girls kept getting killed in vietnam and we burned flags without any historical perspective, because we could, since it wasn’t our flag so we did and smoked pipes and listened to jazz , once in a while got fondled in the recording room and it really sucked but there was no room for fear for guilty and any of that because life was precarious at best.  i had been betrayed by the mathematical perfection of melody and had swallowed a lot of crowords, a whole fucking lot of them. it could be baez, it could be meatloaf, i was always the innocent bystander betrayed by their trickery and quickness of hand. Bamboozled by an apparent beauty which sang the horrors of my times as absent-minded as the kids that got high on the public square would plan to conquer the art world, taking no prisoners.