God isn’t omniscient. It would ruin for Him the joy of hearing jokes.
"God, I just heard the funniest joke. Did you ever hear the one about . . . oh, I guess you already did."
Without surprise, there is no humor, and because God needs a laugh more than anyone, I believe he observes things as they come.
Picture him kicking back, listening to the day’s petitions.
"Dear God, I’m a six-year-old girl and I want a puppy."
Mm-hmm.
"Dear Lord, please help me find a better job."
Mm-hmm.
"Dear God, please heal the sick."
Mm-hmm.
"God in heaven, please help us murder, maul and rip the skin off the Amarillo high school football team this Friday."
Texas checks in.
"Dear God, thank you, thank you, thank you, oh thank you so very, very much for helping us get the ribfest gigs this summer?"
God looks up over his glasses. Which group is this? He looks up from his crossword puzzle and peers over the clouds.
Ah yes, Foreigner.Time sure does fly. Seems like I just let Kool & the Gang in.
It's hard to believe that Foreigner is now eligible to bring their once-stadium rock act to the fastest growing venue for over-the-hill rock and roll acts . . . the great American Ribfest.
Most every sizable town hosts a summer Ribfest. Three days of hot sauce, cholestrol, quaffing cheap beer in the town square or along the riverfront, and an opportunity for has-been rockers to take a summer sabbatical from their lousy day jobs and make a huge dent in their kids' tuition bills.
Legend has it in the late 80s God took pity on the petitions of the woebegone drummer of Procul Harum. God decided to deliver him from his carpet installation day job by planting into the minds of the Erie, Pennsylvania ribfest committee the notion to hire the favorite bands of their youth.
"You mean Procul Harum's available?" the aghast Erie baby boomers said. "And Humble Pie and Uriah Heep, too? In our budget?"
Soon other former big venue rock and roll bands were playing to audiences with barbecue sauce on their chins. Sure, they were competing with the PA system from the Knights of Columbus 50/50 raffle, but work is work.
Immediately God was overwhelmed with prayers from the likes of Billy Ocean, Boy George, Leo Sayer and Bonnie Tyler.
"Wait!" God exclaimed thundrously. "Wait!"
He came upon a plan. He would withhold eligibility until twenty years after the band's popularity spiraled. (A few years later, the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland would ape God’s plan by requiring 25 years since the release of the artist’s first record to become eligible for induction.)
Before the Erie Epiphany, ribfests were the sole domain of tribute bands, Elvis impersonators and local groups with names like Black Jack Shellac, Blue Moon Boys, and Cadillac Dave & the Red Hots (with Chico), groups that are still around but must now play in the late afternoons. (Such acts must also adhere to strict criteria, i.e., they all are required to dedicate their version of "Mustang Sally" to the notorious tattooed biker hag of their choice in the audience.
Once, the great mulleted masses paid top dollar for big stadium and ampitheater performances by Foreigner, Dave Mason, Dr. Hook, Poco and Pure Prairie League. Now to the egocentric astonishment of these fans, they can get closer to these dimmed rock stars than they did to the accordionists at their first weddings.
The Ribfest lineups are something of a reward for those who've hung in their during the lean years. It is not without precedent.
Licking their chops are the likes of Culture Club, Spandau Ballet, Poi Dog Pondering and the Thompson Twins, on the precipice of accepting the moniker as grandaddies of their era in exchange for employment.
But God can make mistakes. Just look into the eyes of a ten-year-old kid who got dragged along with his parents to hear Loverboy sing "Turn Me Loose." If you watch his lips, you might make them out to read, "Father, father, why hast thou forsaken me?"
And there is possible chicanery. After all, who’s to say that Poco won’t take the stage, do a few numbers, go backstage, change shirts, and come out as Pure Priaire League and nobody is none the wiser. And if three sixty-year-old guys come out onstage and say they’re The Lovin’ Spoonful, who am I to say different?
While God is benevolent, is it right that Nick ("Hot Child in the City") Gilder is ever eligible to perform again . . . for anyone, anywhere? Same goes for the Lemon ("Green Tambourine") Pipers.
And does this mean that in 2022, the flouncy broad Pink will beckon us to both "get the party started" and kiss her no-longer-young bum to boot?
Too much to ponder.
So when God’s ways become too mysterious, I’ll stick to the midway with the clowns, jugglers and face painters. Look for me near the Dixieland band, relegated to the street corner, beating the heat under a shoe store awning, made up of three octogenarians and a 39-year-old whose trumpet solo on "Basin Street Blues" will bring a tear to my eye.
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