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I See Red People

The Guggenheim Museum in New York will soon exhibit what might be the work of art of our, and all, time: an 18-carat solid gold toilet – not just an “installation” in the sense of an artistic work in a gallery, but also an actual installation: the functional golden toilet will be plumbed into the museum’s sewerage system and visitors will not just look at, but sit on it: people will be able to say they literally shat all over a work of art at the Guggenheim. Read more
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Our Art, Which Fathered Heaven

Feel the pulse and vibration and the rumbling force/ Somebody is out there beating on a dead horse/ She never said nothing, there was nothing she wrote/ Shed gone with the man in the long black coat Bob Dylan

ON SUNDAY – or Monday, if you use the calendar date to mark the anniversary, but, in either case, at 5.05pm – it will be 23 years ago my father died, the same day (and a couple hours short of the same time, to the minute) as Martin Luther King: my father would have been as pleased as a person could be about dying if he knew he checked out on the 25th anniversary of the death of one of his own heroes (4th April, 1968, 6.05pm, US Central Time).
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Holy Firetruck!

ONE THOUGHT goes off in my own mind every time some crackpot Muslim jihadist explodes himself: that mofo just blew himself (and innocent bystanders) to bits gleefully, to rush to Heaven and reap his reward of 72 virgins; 72 virgins! As a reward! As Robin Williams (I think) said, Anybody who thinks 72 virgins is a good thing clearly never actually had one. You could accurately call the jihadist mindset a firetrucked-up perspective. Read more
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Missing God

GOD ALONE knows when last I prayed. I want to believe that the last time I did it even half-seriously– or quarter-seriously, or one-eighth seriously, or one-sixteenth – was at university, 30 years ago, when, every May or June, after liming on Paradise Beach for the preceding two-and-a-half terms, I would beseech the Almighty to let there be four questions on each paper based on the two measly topics I could manage to revise in the two days before each exam. (God unfailingly prevented me from failing, indeed, allowed me to graduate with honours.) Read more
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The Thin White Prophet

DAVID BOWIE was why I wanted to dye my hair at age 15. Those, as Lou Reed sang, were different times and Bob Dylan & Makandal Daaga would have been-frustrated at how slowly they were-a-changin’ in Trinidad. In 1973, despite the 1970 Riots/Revolution/Pick Your Prejudice, a black person boldfaced enough to sport an afro could be gleefully mocked in public.

DAVID BOWIE was why I wanted to dye my hair at age 15. Those, as Lou Reed sang, were different times and Bob Dylan & Makandal Daaga would have been frustrated at how slowly they were-a-changin’ in Trinidad. In 1973, despite the 1970 Riots/Revolution/Pick Your Prejudice, a black person boldfaced enough to sport an afro could be gleefully mocked in public. In form four, in January, almost three full years after Black “Power”, I saw a large group of black people follow a young black couple dressed in dashiki and kinte cloth from St Mary's College to Woodford Square, taunting and jeering at the couple all the way. “Go back to Africa!” a man shouted. ”Them from America!” shouted another. “No African would dress so!”

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