.comment-link {margin-left:.6em;}

The Joys of Art

Monday, November 25, 2002

WHISTLING DIXIE...."Oh I wish I was in the Land of Cotton..." We all know how the song goes...I should have made a post to my blog concerning this matter two Fridays ago but like I always say "When you have to put something into words you also have to relive it." Damn I was trying to get my Friday "on"---not trying to relive how the simple whistling of a Song that is synonymous with the "Old South" can make you feel so degraded...I was alone with a former co-worker* (because I no longer work at that job) and while we were trying to figure out why my password to be logged on to an account wouldn't work, he started whistling the tune to the song Dixie...I am sure some of you would say that it was a slip of the "lips"...LOL..."Slip of the Lips.." LOL...Likewise, I am sure there are some people that insist that we are being too politically correct nowadays and would not hesitate to say that he was just whistling a perfectly legitimate song, afterall, the song "Dixie" is not banned from being sung in this country and besides rap music tends to degrade minority women more, right? In the land of "equal opportunity" I can't possibly think of a song that Black people can sing that would in an instant make White people possibly feel inferior to them...No..."Baby got Back" doesn't count...Since we all have innate insticts that in certain situations make us aware that something is not right and since each of us has a right to interpret situations as we believe them to be (ie, our innate instincts), I believe that for that brief moment that the hairs on my back should have stood at "attention". After all, If he didn't think the song would have offended me, he wouldn't have stopped whistling "Dixie"...Would've he?

* For the sake of setting the record straight the former co-worker was White Hispanic and not your average "Trent Lott"(12-13-02)....

Friday, November 22, 2002

They say that hens do cackle loudest when
There's nothing vital in the eggs they've laid;
And there are hens, professing to have made
A study of mankind, who say that men
Whose business 'tis to drive the tongue or pen
Make the most clamorous fanfaronade
O'er their most worthless work; and I'm afraid
They're not entirely different from the hen.
Lo! the drum-major in his coat of gold,
His blazing breeches and high-towering cap --
Imperiously pompous, grandly bold,
Grim, resolute, an awe-inspiring chap!
Who'd think this gorgeous creature's only virtue
Is that in battle he will never hurt you?

Hannibal Hunsiker