My boss just stopped by, and asked me to get involved in a little project he’s doing with the students. They’re designing Triptychs, that is to say, folding three-panel display boards that are supposed to show where we’ve come from, where we are now, and where we’re going — as a species. The left-hand panel has a skeletal form, that’s supposed to demonstrate the physical and mental adaptations we’ve come through. The center panel is supposed to have a photo of the kid who’s making it, and labels indicating the origin place of the materials he’s wearing in the photo. The right panel is supposed to have images suggestive of where the human tribe is going.

Of course I have to get involved (, I’d be interested in seeing your project, too. ;-)). Of course, I’m not a photoshop guru, but I can see this kind of thing through with some glue and some new sharpened scissors, which I’ve got, this project will be hot, I’ll put photos behind the skeleton and my photo, we’ll go interesting places with this.

Oh, and I’ve written my first ‘rap’. I’m not sure what to make of it. Opinions welcome

So it’s clear that the Sox Have become better jocks
Than the World Series’ seen Since nineteen eighteen
Damon’s taking chances To bust the Astros’ defenses
They got grace, they got skillz And sweet destiny wills
That they get to the top… but meanwhile a cop
Is firing bean bags into rioting crowds
Grown too loud, this ain’t game day excitement
It’s incitement to riot In streets usually quiet
On world series nights – now there’s fights under the lights
And the mob just goes crazy, Whipped up into frenzy Getting so messy
That the SWAT teams with shields
Are sweeping the fields…With their tear gas and bullets
Bashing ball caps and mullets.

Yes the fans are a shame,
‘cause they’re wrecking their city for the sake of a game
and the mayor takes blame for co-eds knocked senseless
when they’re shot in the street. Maybe defeat
Would suit Boston better Than a politician’s letter
Taking the rap and political heat.
Kinda neat, bitter-sweet, as you hear her heart beat
her life-blood right out of her chest –
To be blessed as the death
That ended the Babe’s curses,
And if these verses
Are offensive, you find me insensitive
Keep in mind that
Some think the circus
Is somewhat recursive…

That this brutal cop action is a sleight-of-hand diversion
From a contested election where G.O.P. de-selection
Results in eviction From the poll-lists and vote-rolls,
And the Democratic coalition fills the news-rags with torsion
highlights the country’s division
Sets us on collision
Course with the world… Accusations are hurled
About massive destruction… But it’s all a huge fiction –
A Texan with poor diction claims he’s fighting the terror
While he perpetrates horror Worthy of Bram Stoker
And the Senator lags In the polls to those trolls
In the White House who send our boys to Iraq
In unjustified attack and then bring them back
In boxes with flags or on stretchers with bags
Filled with morphine
To keep them from noticing rags
Tied as bandages ‘round
Their phantom-limb syndrome.

That guy Tilman is dead from a shot to the head.
And all his mad jock-build
Couldn’t keep him in armor that would ward off the timer
On the bomb by the road. It explode-ed its load
Just like some big cruise missiles rode
Right down the chimney
Of some Iraqi abode.

And somewhere, I bet, old Bin Laden is laughing,
Happily hiding, just a-planning and plotting,
America’s downfall, like a bad pitcher’s slow-ball,
That will catch Johnny Damon
At a blink of inattention,
so Clio, the Muse of History will shout,
like a comic book umpire,
“America, You’re out.”

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