Yesterday the news of comedian Bernie Mac’s untimely death was all over the Twittersphere, which because I only use Alternet, BBCNews and CBC as my sources for news is the only place I would have heard about such an event.  From the comments about him, a middle-aged black comic probably somewhat past his prime and never meteorically popular, you would think he had been sainted as he died.

I could be wrong but I am fairly sure he was not.

But read this tripe:  [Bernie Mac was] the most compelling stage performer of the past 20 years of comedy … A truly amazing, unmatchable presence on stage and on screen. Uh, no, sorry people.  Did I miss something?  If he was that hot I would have known about it.  I’m not sure I could pick him out of a lineup, actually, so he couldn’t have been that great a performer.

So why all the misplaced grief over a man nobody’s thought about since 2006?

This is why:  we are fucking afraid to die. That’s right, dead people scare us.  So it’s better to tread lightly once they die rather than run the risk of being thought uncharitable about a dead person.  GASP!  Dead people are sacred, didn’t you know that?

True.  Think about it:  Heath Ledger.  Princess Di.  Elvis.  Marilyn Monroe.  JFK.  Were they gods or people?  Fucked-up people, I might add, every one of them.  Oh sure, they were talented.  And loved.  But would we still be revering them if they aged like the rest of us, got fat(ter), older, uglier, and more wrinkled?  Or does dying young magically grant one mythical status?  I’d hate to imagine the blimp Elvis would have become had he not conveniently OD’d.  Or the sloppy drunken hag Marilyn would have been in ten more years.  Or the pathetic skirt-chaser JFK was becoming.  Ugh.

I know what you’re thinking.  You’re thinking, “C’mon, Heath Ledger?  Really?”  And you’re right.  He didn’t hold a candle in the wind to the fucked-up mess Princess Di made of her life, but because he’s being mentioned in the same hushed breath lately as “Oscar” and “posthumous” I have to bring it up.  Sure, he’s not bad in The Dark Knight but you have to admit that there’s no way to tell now whether or not you would have thought he totally sucked if he hadn’t had the forethought to go and die first.  But because he’s dead we can’t offend him.  We have to think nice thoughts about him and feel sad for him.

Gah.  You people are pathetic.  Scared of a dead pile of decaying flesh.  Ooh!  Dead man’s gonna come and getcha!  Better talk nice about him!

When people die we should tell the truth.  All the truth.  Stop sugar-coating it.  People are fucked up.  They make mistakes.  They’re, well, human.  We all know this.  It’s not like it’s a secret or anything.  We’re born, we live grand, eloquent, pathetic, fucked-up lives, and then we die.  Boom.  Some of us are sort of famous for some of the fucked-up stuff we do.  So what?  In the end the famous people are just as dead as the rest of us.

So give Bernie Mac a rest.  Being somewhat famous didn’t make him any better or worse than you.  He was a guy, not that notable a guy to me, and now he’s dead.  People loved him, some of them anyway, and likely some people didn’t.  He lived his life and now he’s dead.  The end.

It’s summer, and people’s feet are visible again.  There’s a reason that shoes and socks were invented.  It’s to cover up the unbelievable grotesque ugliness that is some people’s feet.

I’ve been making an unofficial survey regarding feet by observing my clients.  These are people with money, most of them, or enough money anyway.  I’ve noticed something:  the more money people have, the more disgusting their feet are. You would think these people would spring for the odd mani-pedi, or maybe just have all that thick dirty-gray heel callous shaved off somehow, or retain someone to manage those lumpy, dirt-encrusted toenails, but no.

I may insist on a footbath before all my sessions in the future.  Not for me, for them.

You’d think this is something people might notice when they’re dressing for the day:  Hey, I’m putting on sandals here and my feet will be exposed.  Someone might see them! But no, sadly no.

It’s my corollary observation that the more fucked-up a person is, also the more skanky their feet.  This seems obvious, don’t you think?  Attention to feet = attention to reality?

(You’re checking out your feet right now, aren’t you?)

Here’s something else:  reflexologists believe that for every part of the human body there is a corresponding part of the feet.  Press on a certain place and you can stimulate your liver, for instance, or your … I did mean every part.  I’ll wait here while there’s a mad rush to Google “reflexology chart” and find your genitalia.  There.  Are you back with me now?  Good.  Because you can elicit profound effects on your sense of well-being just by getting someone to rub your feet.

I’ll just leave you with that.  My duty to humanity is done for today.

Not long ago I was seated in the very back row of an airplane.  You know the row I mean:  next to the line of sweaty people who need to pee, in the way of wayward crash carts, and with seats that do not lean back. I need my two inches of seat-lean, y’know?  I knew it was going to be an interminable flight.

I looked to the right for help.  Maybe my right-hand seatmate would provide interesting conversation fodder.  She was a heavily pregnant returnee from visiting her family in Costa Rica.  Looked at her book.  Nora Roberts.  Uh, no thanks.

Looked left:  a 40-something frantic disheveled woman carrying multiple bags, totes, and assorted je ne sais quoi, carefully arranging books, iPod, journal, pens, etc.  Uh, not there either.  But wait.  Her book:  Eckhart Tolle’s A New Earth. Probably an Oprah convert, but there were possibilities.  We engaged.

This Broadway choreographer was thrilled to meet a Real Psychic-Person.  So we talked shop.  And it came out that she was hugely judgmental of Marianne Williamson because of the rumor going round that Ms. Williamson’d had a facelift.  Apparently spiritual people are supposed to be above such things, she says.

I nearly spit out my club soda.

Sure, there’s such a thing as “walk the walk,” but that’s in how lives are lived.  Since when does this apply to one’s appearance?  Pardon me, but how I look and what it takes to get there is my business.  If I want to wear mile-long eyelashes like the lovely Esther Hicks or ‘fro out my hair like Sai Baba then la-di-fucking-da, people.  Appearance does not affect the message.

Why is it that people who touch lives in this intrinsic way are held to a higher standard regarding their appearance?  Sure, Gandhi made an effort to always appear clean and in clean, neat clothing, but this was an outward reflection of his inner self.  A choice he made.  Not a requirement to meet someone else’s standard.

So let it go.  Let Marianne have her facelift and leave her alone.  She looks fabulous no matter how she got there.

The message stands alone.  No matter how it is delivered.

*”Spirituality” also anagrams to “a pity I slur it.”  Something you ought to know.

People have been asking me, “WTF is going on with you, NAB?  Like, when are you going to get down to it and post?”

Like, now, people.  Right now.

Because I am in no mood to explain myself.  Life just happens, and if you wait to jump onto the merry-go-round you miss your turn and have to start over.  So, sure, I’ve been finding reasons to hold off pouring my heart and soul into these pages, but frankly I am plumb full of life-juice and need an outlet.  And this is it.  In other words, you are my alternative to masturbation.

How does that make you feel?

Let’s start with a teeny weeny little pet peeve.  So listen closely.  Here it is.  Ready?

Do not talk to me when I am writing.

There.  Glad I got that off my chest.  As a result I am now down to a 28B as opposed to the 28C. No lie, people.  Ladies, find your own Boobologist and change your lives, because 99.8% of you are wearing the wrong bra size.  Just a little tip from me to you.  Seriously, check this out because tits and their proper supportage will indeed change your life as well as the lives of those around you.  In fact, if I could offer one sure-fire tip to point you on the path toward spiritual satisfaction, this would be it.