Dying to music

noteWALKING THROUGH the living room the other day, the FM station was playing a nice classical work, and I thought, “That would be good to die to,” and I envisioned falling forward onto the ceramic floor, dead as that doornail.

I was in a good mood when the thought struck me, and dying in a good mood is desirable. Dying to music is common in movies, but I wonder how often it happens in real life. Not much, I think.

A sudden death, which is how I want it, would reduce the chances of dying to good music, something that likely requires planning. Which is best? Dying suddenly to no music or a prolonged demise to good music. The sudden death wins out because you want to go fast, music or not.

Good mood, fine music, healthy and sudden. That’s how I want to sail away. Of course, a sudden death contradicts the notion of healthy, but let’s imagine it was an unknown heart problem that brought down the curtain. Just thinking you’re healthy till the final moment is enough.

But if a sudden death isn’t in the cards, I would like some good music playing on Departure Day. Kitaro’s Light of the Spirit is the top pick, something I’ve loved since the late 1990s. Downing some ecstasy and turning on that Kitaro tune is a religious experience in itself.

Try it. You’ll see.

A close runner-up would be one of a number of songs by the appropriately named Dead Can Dance. A real standout is their Host of Seraphim, a fine piece to shuttle you off into that distant space where resides whatever God or Goddess you put your money on.

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(A close runner-up to Host of Seraphim is Yulunga. About the 3:18 mark on the video, it moves into high gear visually, going multicultural in a spectacularly fine way.)

Bernie’s bunny hole

bernieLOTS OF AMERICANS are scurrying down the Bernie Hole. That would be Bernie Sanders, the socialist candidate who’s running for president as a faux Democrat.

hillBut before we start chuckling at Bernie, let’s get some laughs from the entire Democrat end of the Great Divide.

On that side, we find just two candidates: The humorless, charm-challenged, battle ax and future felon Hillary Clinton and the quasi-Democrat but admitted socialist called ole Bernie.

joeLurking in the wings is the aging, foot-in-mouth, groping, leering Joe Biden, an old pol who cannot keep his hands off good-looking women within grab-ass distance. That is what the Democrats offer voters, a geriatric trio of whiteys.

The party of inclusion and diversity. Oh, the irony!

Are you laughing yet? Can you believe this?

Are we in Alice’s Wonderland?

On the Republican side, we have black, white, Latino, Asian, women, men, an incredibly diverse, talented lineup. The multiculture-obsessed Democrats have three old honkys, and the allegedly racist Republicans reflect a veritable mosaic of color, culture and idiom.

Oh, the irony, again! Let us hold hands and hum Kumbaya.

Why, even Jeb Bush speaks fluent Spanish. Neither Hillary nor Bernie nor Joe speak anything but English. They are language-deficient.

Let’s look at Bernie now.

He’s a socialist, which means he likes Big Government, Heavy Regulation, Welfare, and High Taxes. Just like Barry, but more.

Think Greece. And cringe.

Looking at Bernie’s campaign website, a number of things leap out at me, issues that reflect the dreamy-eyed Utopianism that runs rampant through the leftist way of thinking — if you can call it thinking.

  1. Income equality. There are too many rich people and too many poor people. So rob from the successful and gift to the unsuccessful.
  2. Getting “Big Money” out of politics. Dream on, Bernie.
  3. Racial justice. Blacks are oppressed and cops are bad. Arrant nonsense.
  4. Fighting for women’s rights. What are the rights women lack?
  5. Caring for Veterans. Seven years into a Democrat administration, why hasn’t that happened already, Bernie?
  6. Support the Iran Deal. Yes, Bernie trusts Iran! Good Lord. He has faith in the “Death to America!” Ayatollahs.

There are more, but I know you’re laughing so hard right now that it’s difficult to focus your eyes. Grab a Kleenex.

Thankfully, ole Bernie will not be president, but it’s sad that so many people subscribe to his cockeyed nuttiness. He’s a leftover radical relic from the flower-power 1960s, hardly a sane fit for the 21st century.

Where are the Franklin D. Roosevelts and Harry Trumans? Now those were good Democrats, people worth voting for.

We all die

plaza

MORE OFTEN than some would prefer,* the bell in the steeple of this 16th-century church, not far from the Hacienda, begins a special ring. It is ringing at this moment as I write. It was ringing when I woke this morning, and it was ringing in the middle of the night.

What makes it special is its slowness. It gongs about once every 20 seconds and it goes on for hours. It is done by hand, and I often imagine that person, sitting down there in the dark, reaching up every 20 seconds or so to give a tug. Bong! Wait…wait…wait. Bong!

All through the night.

I also imagine a bottle of José Cuervo and perhaps some tacos or cheese and crackers are at his side. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I feel like getting up, dressing and going down there to see first-hand. Who and how. But I’ll never do that because I’m too old and lazy.

Later, during our morning exercise walk around the plaza, the church door was closed, and the bongs were continuing. It was a good time to check it out, and perhaps I would have done so had the door been open. But we just kept on walking. The door in question is that smaller one at the steeple’s base.

We talked about where my child bride will put me when I’m “promoted to Glory.” The neighborhood cemetery is a couple of blocks away from the church, across the highway. I would like to be planted there, the only American-Mexican, I’m sure, the sole, true paleface.

I’d provide a modish, multicultural air.

No, she said. She’ll keep me in an urn in the Hacienda. And that’s okay with me.

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* Especially those for whom the bell tolls.

(Note: This post was written yesterday. This morning I awoke, and the bedroom window was open. Birds were singing in the fan palm, and the bell was still gonging. Same deceased, or someone new?)