I was born in the summer of 19--, fifty years, to the day, after the Treaty of Versailles. Twenty-two days later, we would land on the moon. Except, since I was born in Bombay, India, not yet an American citizen, I didn't know then that we were on the same team. Of course, I didn't know a thing back then, but "Thank God for the Internet!" Armchair historians can figure out their place as figures in an endless chain of mediocrity. Because research bores everyone to death, and if you can't tell a story, or you have no personal agenda, no political axe to grind, you might as well pretend you are important in some way as an infinitesimal mote of cosmic dust, or dandruff from the head of a-yet-to-be-seen eternal God, Creator of all things seen and unseen. Of course you matter, you bloody halfwit! Welcome to your humanity! You have less than a hundred and thirty years to solve the problems for all mankind, or drink yourself silly trying to think you have a chance to make your mark in history. Like I said earlier, I was born on June 28th, under the constellation of Cancer.
Roughly, one hundred and one years ago, the powers that be set in motion the conditions to start another war in roughly twenty years, after the war to end all wars failed to achieve a lasting peace. World War II would last six full years, from a declaration of war to a formal ceremony of surrender. But none of this has anything to do with my own unfortunate existence. That my parents were born on the same date, one year apart, two and three years, respectively, before the powers that be waged total war, still means nothing, as my father was born in Nairobi, Kenya, and my mother was born in Goa, India, under the constellation of Sagittarius, the Archer, one year apart, my father first, my mother next. Her family was in Nairobi and shipped my grandmother back home, to our so-called homeland, where the illustrious feni drinkers waste their lives or travel abroad to promulgate the gospel of feni. Feni is not worth discussing, much less writing at length about, or imbibing. The less said, the better off the reader. So, the west coast of India, and the east coast of Africa, not really hot spots during World War II, other than both are near the equator, but not much fighting in battle unless between fishermen and a fish or two.
As you could guess, or deduce by logic, I turned 51 at the end of June, during the COVID-19 pandemic. Summer started early with civil rights protests in the major cities across America. The President couldn't care less unless it would help him to get reelected. The whole world was on fire, but as long as he could play golf... But discussing the President is a lot like discussing the merits of distilling feni, not worthwhile in the least, unless you like taking easy potshots at sitting ducks, or hopefully, just one lame duck. Sort of like living through the Reagan Years, waiting for the absurdity to end. The yoke of conservatism never appears to the donkey. So, I stayed home, unemployed, on furlough, waiting for normalcy to resume. Summer murders in Chicago, looting and wanton destruction of property, multiple music festivals, and spending time on the Lakefront, or the smells of local cookouts, picnics in the park with the Chosen Few deejays, or Ronda and Koko's House Music pub crawl with chartered buses, the pendulum of fun and games swung back and forth daily. The Promontory would not throw parties until the coronavirus pandemic disappeared. That was where I worked once, part of a crew, a team who put together concerts and parties. We walked the walk and talked the talk. I was blessed to work there. Somehow I fit in and was accepted at the nightclub which was ninety percent black clientele. Hip to the hop!
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