Entry XXVII--Hotlanta

Fahrenheit 452.

The page begins to singe, and then burns into ash.

The ashes take flight on a slight breeze and blow away into indistinguishable nothingness.

Wonder which page it was...from which essay.

Move forward to get a closer look...

Never been to a book burning before.

And my first is one that's really personal--since it's my book they're burning. An angry mob all saying bye bye to Bye Bull.

And they're not alone, watching from above, carved into the stupendous Stone Mountain is the world's largest bas-relief, depicting the three major figures of the Confederacy; Stonewall Jackson, Jefferson Davis and of course, General Robert E. Lee.

A couple dozen people have gathered here today before a raging bonfire in this enclosed area of Stone Mountain, an area that appears to have been appropriated specifically for this book burning. And--no surprise--was previously the site of KKK rallies.

The mayor of Stone Mountain likes to brag about the city's ethnic "diversity"--and it is, but the bas-relief speaks louder than all the p.c. sloganeering from all the PR firms in this county of DeKalb.

Cassandra is by my side, of course. Like me, she is incognito. Despite my precautions, neither one of us were going to take the chance of being recognized.

Being that it's November, while still warm in this Southern environ, it's still enough of a 'fall day' for me to wrap a scarf around my neck--and the vast majority of my face. A baseball cap with curved bill completes the subterfuge.

For her part, Cassandra has concealed her all-too-conspicuous red locks under an umbrella beret and dons big sunglasses to obscure her pretty face, though she's still attractive, somehow more so in that way sunglasses make a person look sexier.

Even though we're still getting to know each other--on some intuitive level I can already sense the pulsating rage within Cassandra; she wants nothing more than to lash out and fully utilize her martial arts skills on these motherfuckers burning my book.

But she won't. She's a pro, and she wouldn't do anything to jeopardize my safety. Even though I know this bothers her more than it does me.

Amuses me, frankly.

And hell, at least they're buying my book. More sales equals more royalties; I mean, how long is Ms. Cabal going to support m, might as well cash in while the cashing in is good.

That sounds awfully cynical, but after a lifetime of poverty, royalty checks rolling in sure sounds promising. And while Ms. Cabal has seeming endless coffers of wealth at her disposal, can never be sure how much she'll dispose
onto me.

On third though, maybe I am crazy for being here, but when I heard a news report on the radio on the cab that took us to the hotel that there was a book-burning being sponsored by the Atlanta chapter of the Crusaders here in the very city on the very day I just happened to be visiting, it seemed to be a once-in-a-lifetime proposition--how could I possibly miss it?

OF COURSE, THE CRUSADERS PROBABLY EXPECT ME TO HAVE THE BALLS TO SHOW, AT LEAST SOME OF THEM PROBABLY DID, THAT'S WHY I CAN'T SHOW MY TRUE COLORS AND I HAVE TO BURN A BOOK

Ms. Cabal initially--and vehemently--opposed the idea, but then relented, on the basis that it could be a good experience for me as a writer.

(Typical publisher, she's already got a sequel in mind).

Besides, she feels safe so long as Cassandra the living weapon is by my side.

To my surprise--and disappointment, it is a woman who leads them. Heard her name was Magda something. Still not sure if that's her first name or her last. Don't really care.

Short of stature and stout of frame she stands, waving her arms about in gestures of emotional authority.

"This isn't a book fit to print, this isn't a book fit to exist on the face of the earth. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust--as it says in the Holy Bible--not that mocking title of the book we burn tonight!"

A hearty roar from the crowd. in unison like proper sheep.

Haven't the heart to break it to them that the expression "ashes to ashes, dust to dust" comes from a Reformation-era prayer book--not that other book that sounds suspiciously like the book I wrote and am currently promoting.

But neither she nor her followers are concerned with accuracy, or with getting things right. As if simultaneously feeding and feeding off of the crowd, Madison raises her voice above the din, "Let's say bye-bye to the Bye Bull!"

Louder cheers as she tosses yet another copy of Bye Bull into the fire.

Want to rescue it, to show these christians that I'm impervious to their flames of false judgment.

But I know it's merely one copy of the book, that they can never destroy the copy in my home. And even if they did go fascist, and break in my house and seize my copy and burn it, they'll never burn the copy in my mind. The same mind that produced the work they now put to the flame.


Magda has pointy fish eyes are matched by pointy torpedo tits. A lot of guys would fuck her, but not me, I'll tell you that. Gotta give me some credit for integrity, at least where that's concerned.

Feel better about my resistance to her as she tosses yet another Bye Bull into the fire.

The approving roar of the crowd matches the rise of the licking flames, almost if their collective shrieks of delight stoke the fire.

They think they're hurting me and my work, but I let them know they're not by smiling in the face of the smoke and ashes.

Most depressing is to see the kids and teens present; the impressionable ones who have yet to develop fully mature consciousness (happens between 18-25) and thus, formulate their opinions on this, or any subject.

Instead, everyone save Cassandra and I "ooh" and "awww" when a small boy from across who can't be more than seven or eight, tops, approaches the fire holding a copy of the Bye Bull

His mother is videotaping the whole affair, father wearing a beaming smile of pride, standing directly behind his son to prevent him from getting burned in the process, or to assist him in the endeavor if necessary.

But no such assistance will be required it appears, as the lad wears focused determination on his face, and a chill runs down my spine when he looks up, across the fire, directly into my eyes...

Our gaze holds for an uncomfortable duration. The child's gaze wins out, becoming so potent that I'm forced to turn away, making me feel weak and inadequate inside.

Now that I've granted this devil-child-in-reverse the power, he uses it to toss the book--my book--into the flames.

Pretty good hurl; the rugrat might be a big league pitcher some day.

And just like that, the tyke becomes all kid again, squealing approval and clapping his hands as the last of the Bye Bull that is tangible is consumed by the raging element.

Lad runs into his dad's waiting, loving arms, his mom recording it all for digital posterity.

More oohs and awwws and cheers from the crowd at large.

Again, Magda takes center stage, now cackling through crackling bullhorn: "I want to thank all you good Christians for showing support on this chilly November afternoon. I don't know if you're all aware of this, but the piece of trash who wrote this piece of trash we're burning today is in fact here in Atlanta today speaking later tonight at the Willow's Books!"

Most of the crowd boos, so I join in, throwing in some hisses for good measure. Cassandra is having none of it; she's scanning the crowd, probably trying to remember faces to look for tonight at Willow's. Some of these necks are sure to attend.

Magda resumes "So let's let this Darwin Grimm--what a surprise his name is Darwin, huh?--let's let him really know what we think of him and his book."

She tosses another book in the flames, to even louder approval.

Then, it's my turn...

Reach over my shoulder into my knapsack and pull out a fresh copy of the Bye Bull

Cassandra glances sideways at me--can tell she's wondering just what the fuck I'm up to.

Shock her more than myself when I ceremoniously toss the book I labored over for most of this year into the waiting, growing fire.

WHOOSH! The book is swallowed whole and new sparks fly up into the late Autumn breeze.

To say that it felt liberating would be an understatement, cannot lie. Like a carnal release, a satisfaction. But I can't say it was any more like an explosive sexual orgasm than it was a pleasing bowel movement.

Follow the flight of one of the embers until it leads my attention to the presence of at least one other "outsider"--a print reporter, I reckon, someone interviewing various people in the crowd and a photographer alongside her.

She's got a bad short cut of flat salt and pepper hair, eyes entombed by thick pop bottle glasses. The photographer, also female, looks like a gym teacher. Both seem decidedly out of place at this gathering. Would take them for the proverbial liberal media. But then, this is Southern USA...

They start getting close to us; not sure if it's intentional, if they intend to interview either Cassandra or I. Cassandra leans over casually my way and whispers, "Maybe we should get going. You burned your book, there's nothing more to see there. And I don't want that reporter and photographer getting too close to us and blowing our cover. Besides, there's bound to be extra security concerns at the bookstore you're appearing at tonight and I want to get their early and assess the situation."

She's close enough to me where that silky red hair touches my shoulders, and just slightly, my cheek. More than enough to raise bumps on every inch of my skin...but she seems totally unnerved.

Face it, I'm just another client. Another body to guard, not to hold close.

But as far as what she actually said (yes, I was listening, despite my erotic yearnings), they're all compelling arguments. As I'm in no position to offer resistance to any one of them, let alone en masse, nod agreement and we depart slowly, utterly relaxed--like we're just bored with the proceedings and we'd rather go home and fuck.

(Don't I wish...)

Oh wait, we're supposed to be christians, so I suppose I should say we'd rather go home and keep our clothes on and read the real bible (after burning the Bye Bull).

But just a few steps from freedom, we're abruptly stopped by a beefy chap with feathered hair and a cheesy mustache, who appears to be one of the organizers of this here event.

He smiles congenially even as he blocks our movement with his arm, in a subtle gesture, but Cassandra's acute senses are fully aware of what every muscle in his body is doing at all times.

For the moment, she makes no move towards him, letting him speak, as he exhorts with toothy grin:

"How y'all doing. I'm Clem. Haven't seen you two at any of our Crusader meetings before." There's a slight undertone of suspicion in his tone, like he suspects we're undercover Feds working as infiltrators.

Back in San Francisco, I'd probably be all uptight over this encounter, and handle it all wrong, but I don't know, maybe it's because I'm in Cassandra's presence, or maybe it's being on 'vacation' of sorts, a stranger in a strange land, that has me going with the flow, making up names on the spot, "I'm George Danner and this is my girl--my friend, Susan Clover."

Clem chuckles, "Sounds like you two aren't sure of what you are yet. And that's alright, just so long as you're not living in sin."

Fake a bashful smile, though out of the corner of my eye can tell Cassandra's red is coming from her being livid and really wanting to punch Clem--or someone.

"No, nothing like that Clem, we're just friends."

"Be that as it may, you can't leave yet! I saw that you burned a copy of that blasphemous book and that's a good thing Brother George, but you two should stay for our barbecue and prayer meeting after we put out the bonfire of salvation."

Haven't the heart to tell our new friend with the cyclopean arms I'm a vegetarian--and certainly haven't the guts to tell him I'm the author of that blasphemous book, so instead come up with a quick lie:

"Sounds great, but Cass-Susan here is really feeling like shi--um, feeling bad. That's why we were leaving."

Cassandra plays right along, trooper that she is, burying her rage, even throwing a weary affectation into her voice, "Oh yes, I think it was all the smoke--we burned so many books, didn't we?"

"Thank the Lord!" Clem exclaims, most of his chins quivering in unison.

Cassandra has assessed he's harmless and relaxes her guard. Lucky for him that she does.

Feeling even more relaxed and even a bit cocky, decide to pitch a little paranoia Clem's way: "Hey, buddy, it's been a great book burning and all, but don't you worry that the cops will catch you doing this"

Might have guessed that was going to be fruitless, as Clem doesn't bat an eye, flashes a knowing, toothy grin as he gestures with his chin to the tall lanky fellow near the fire, currently throwing not one but two copies of the Bye Bull
into the flames.

"See him? He's a police sergeant, so we don't have to worry about some atheist liberal cop trying to bust us."

Nod, and then seize the momentary pause, to initiate our exodus: "We really should get going. Enjoy the BBQ and say a prayer for us! C'mon Susan."

Clem sports that tooth baring smile one last time, patting me on the shoulder, "We will keep you in our prayers. Thanks for coming!"

"Thank you!" I exhort back and Cassandra and I start walking towards the parking lot and our rental car.

Only until she's sure we're out of earshot does she say, "Why did you start to call me your girlfriend--and then stop? That definitely sounded like you were faking it."

"Yeah, sorry, but I was reacting in split-seconds."

"I understand. That was clever how you used our initials in reverse to come up with each of our names on the fly."

"Oh, liked that, did you? I didn't think you'd notice."

"You did good," Cassandra offers softly, and I appreciate it.

"Yeah, for a minute there I thought that guy was going to throw me into the fire."

Cassandra knows I'm cracking wise, but she still responds firmly: "Not as long as I was standing. I would have neutralized that entire gathering before a hair on your head was harmed."

"I know you're good, but you really think you could take out that whole mass mob--even the undercover cop--all by your lonesome?"

"I didn't say that--I said I would neutralize the crowd. I would do that by taking out the 10 biggest, strongest looking men as quick as I could--say, within 90 seconds. From that moment forward, everyone would be hesitant to attack me, and that would give me the complete advantage. Putting the fear in the mind of a mob is 90 percent of winning the battle versus a mob, if not a higher percentage."

Don't say anything, just soak in her words as we trudge up a slight incline to the parking lot.

Sometime on the short drive back impeded by heavy Atlanta traffic, fall asleep in the shotgun seat. All that clean Stone Mountain air has me in the mood for a pre-signing nappy...


NOT GOING TO BE PEACH BECAUSE THEY'RE REBELS
Don't come to until Cassandra pulls into the parking lot of the book store, the Peach Page, everything in Atlanta is "Peach This" or "Peach That", you just have to accept it. It's an inevitability that's a lot easier to swallow than christianity.
OTHER BOOKSTORE NAME: THE MONADNOCK

After a couple of stretches and a series of yawns in the parking lot to shake the sleep off, enter via the backdoor, which somehow seems appropriate, sad as that may be.

An hour later and I'm chowing down the last of a veggie submarine sandwich that D'Mona's assistant fetched for me from some place 'round the corner. Not a big fan of subs, but it'll do in a pinch. The whole book-burning scene left me famished, and there's no chance in heck I'd make it through the lecture and book-signing without passing out from hunger.

Taste is mediocre at best, but that's life on the road I reckon. Wash it down with a so-so cup of green tea, though the caffeine jolt is appreciated. Definitely deserve a good meal once we leave here--if it's in Ms. Cabal's itinerary for me.

Am naturally sensitive to caffeine, which tends to make me more thoughtful, and am suddenly struck by the disparity between the two events I'll attend before the day ends; earlier this afternoon my book was being burned, later tonight it's to be celebrated. This thing, this ragtag collection of essays I conjured in my dingy apartment is now affecting external reality in a manner most profound. It's getting people to do things they wouldn't have done otherwise, to burn books and to hear me speak.

Fortified with that thought and the energy boost from the otherwise tasteless sub, am finally ready to take the stage--but first have to wait for the signal.

Then, the bookstore's special events manager (think her name is Petra) approaches me, "Every seat is filled, so we're ready whenever you are Darwin."

Nod that I'm ready and follow Petra's perky ass through a slight maze of corners until we walk through another door and just like that I'm in front of everybody, with only the slightest of podiums to shield me from the masses--feel like if somebody sneezed hard enough, they'd knock it over. Further, there's no raised area, on the same level as the audience. Hate that; not 'cause of my ego, but for aesthetics. But never confused being a writer with being a rockstar. All prepared to amble on up the podium--but am suddenly halted by Cassandra, who's been behind me all the while, apparently. Guess I'm not awake as I thought.

She's not concerned with that, only with doing her job: "Everything looks pretty secure from a security standpoint," she tells. me. "I'll be standing two yards from the lectern during your talk and the entire time you're signing books."

"Don't," I whisper in failed protest, "that's gonna make me--and everyone else--nervous."

"Darwin, we're in a city where they burned copies of your book earlier today. If it were up to me, we'd cancel this whole thing. It just seems like that someone at that book burning will get all charged up and come here to start some trouble...or worse."

"Stand if you must, but if it gets on my nerves and I cancel the book-signing, you're going to have to explain it to all my pissed off readers."

"If you cancel it, that's on you, Darwin. If someone attacks you, I'll take the punch. If someone tries to stab you, I'll take the knife. And if someone tries to shoot you..

"...you'll take the bullet." Can you guarantee that?

"Wouldn't be here if I couldn't. Now if you don't mind, Darwin, I'd rather end the conversation between us. I need to concentrate on protecting you. And you need to--"

She stops herself, but the damage is done, I've gained the upper hand: "I need to...what?"

"Nothing. Never mind, please, Darwin, let me concentrate."

She was going to say that I need to concentrate on my speech or something like that. Can read her pretty good, which is a pretty good sign.

For the first time, feel tension between us, but I'm too dumb to figure out if there's any sexual component to it.

But she's right, it's about time to focus on the matter at hand, namely this new lecture I concocted and scribbled on the inside of one Bye Bull copy we brought but forgot to burn. Oh well, maybe we can do a second leg of the book tour through Birmingham.

Moments later, we emerge from the dark back corridors to the open area of the bookstore, where a microphone-ready podium has been set up. Cassandra walks out ahead of me, remaining in front of me until she veers off and maintains her standing position, slightly out of the way, guarding my blindside.

First, Petra steps up to the mic to address the crowd with her upbeat delivery: "Hello and good evening everybody! Welcome to BOOKSTORE NAME. I want to thank you all for coming out tonight to listen to the words and wisdom of our special guest, Darwin Grimm!"

Applause flows and it means so much more than it did even in Chicago. Almost healing, after being burned beyond recognition this afternoon. But after the applause, there's one lone "Boo" uttered by someone somewhere in the back of the audience, so barely audible it goes ignored.

Petra then steps away from the mic, and extends her hand in a ceremonial gesture as if to passing the torch to me.

Although, given the earlier events of this day, 'torch' is either a poor--or a perfect--metaphor.

Drop the copy of Bye Bull onto the slanted top of the gray metal lectern. Open it up to my notes, using my water bottle to keep it open to that page.

But before I get to those, have to share with my readers the background of how I came to write those notes:

"First off, let me echo Petra's words and thank you all for showing up and getting your books signed.

"As it is with my book tour I'm doing in various cities across the country that I will give a little 'talk' before the actual book-signing, as I'm doing now, quite obviously.

"Don't worry, the talk is not about the talk itself.

"And to be honest, up until the events of earlier this afternoon, I wasn't sure what I was going to talk about. Could have taken the easy way out and read from one of the Bye Bull essays. And I'm not necessarily applauding myself for not taking the easy way out, because maybe I should have read from one of the essays, or at least extrapolated on one of the subjects.

"But I feel, and I think most of you would agree, that you came here to hear something different than what you've already got in the book."

Hands clapping and heads nodding to confirm general agreement.

And then, another soft: "Boo".

"But have to admit that I was stuck for a proper subject. Wanted it to be something special, considering I haven't been to Atlanta since I was a little kid, ten or eleven. Came here with a friend and his mom because of my fascination--well, really it was both of us who had a passion for the Civil War and the Confederate South--not the slavery, obviously, but the fact a war was fought in America, on our own territory, but it wasn't an invading country, it was both of us fighting.

"But as I grew older, and my opposition to christianity was shaped, that fascination with the South pretty much ended, and haven't been back to the South since that summertime vacation many moons ago. So this day is special in that regard if nothing else.

"But it wasn't until my bodyguard and I were driving back from the book burning--"

My speech, not exactly a bedrock of stability to begin with, is stopped dead in its tracks by the genuine responses of shock from the audience. Some shocked I actually went to the burning of my own book, others shocked that a book burning was actually being held in this day and age.

My next words seek to accommodate those unaware: "I take it by some of the expressions that some of you may be unaware. If you haven't heard, this afternoon in the shadow of Stone Mountain, a group of local Crusaders held a good ol' fashioned book burning, and Bye Bull was the main course on the menu. And I was in attendance and threw Bye Bull into the flames along with all the haters.

"Don't be so surprised I actually attend the burning of my own book. I just had to see it for myself. As strange as it sounds, it was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and I wasn't about to pass it up."

Elicit genuine laughter with that too-true-crack. And after it dies down, a tiny "Boo".

"Not to mention being there today provided ample inspiration for the talk I'm about to impart to all of you.

"It took the experience of seeing my book being destroyed with such...purpose that made me see the American South, at least this aspect of it.

"For one thing, why the obsession with christ and christianity in Southern USA? Is it that Southerns are not as likely to attend higher education institutions? After all, those with college degrees are less likely to believe in god. It's a factor, but not the underlying cause. Imagination is more powerful than knowledge.

"Is that Southerners are more inherently faithful? More intrinsically superstitious?

"No, there's nothing to suggest that--pound for pound, the Mormons of Utah are far more devout than the average bible belter.

"That's when it hit me, in the car today. The rebellious side of the American South. I've always been a bit of a rebel--duh--so I can relate. Of course, I've never been the rebel that's appealed to women though."

More audience laughs along with a few "awwws" in mocking sympathy.

Few moments later, there's a single: "Hissssss".

"Forgive my diversions into self-deprecating humor. Let us return to the subject at hand. Burning a book is an act of rebellion if nothing else, rebellion against acceptable standards, and not something you're likely to see in other regions of the country, certainly not conducted so brazenly as was done this afternoon beneath the watchful eye of Jefferson Davis.

"Not even in the deeply religious Midwest, because of what I like to call "Midwest Modesty" and while there is "Southern Hospitality" and a great many of you have extended that hospitality unto me, there is a difference in the south than the Midwest, an more overt tendency towards rebellion. So we see this rebellion still manifest in the 21st century, as evidenced by today's Bye Bull burning.

"It is nothing less than a rebellion against progression. That has been the--pardon the pun--fundamental factor in christianity's stranglehold in the South.

"The progressive mentality is to rebel against the corrupt establishment. The Southern mentality is to rebel against the prevailing progressive spirit. From slavery to Civil Rights to abortion, the South has always rebelled against the progressive alternatives to their unjust establishment. Yes, I realize abortion is now outlawed, so in that sense, the South is more in step with the nation at large, or maybe it's that the USA is finally in step with the south.

"But don't expect me to declare, If there's going to be change in this country, if the right to choose will be restored, it will start in the South!"

Pause for effect, then: "No fucking way, Jose! The South will always lag behind when it comes to abandoning christianity, if they would ever do so en masse whatsoever.

"If the rebellious spirit and unbridled passion of the South could ever be re-channeled into progressive change, if there ever could be a Renaissance of rationality here in Southern USA, it would be an amazing transformation."

See a few eyes light up at my suggestion; they too have dared to imagine how things might be in a different South.

"But realistically, don't see that happening, sorry and sad to say. And where does that leave us? I can't say. It could come to the South's adherence to christianity above cultural progression being a pivotal catalyst in some kind of future conflict or division between the South and the U.S. in general. I speculate on that in the final essay of the book, which some of you may have already read, in which an America dominated by christianity is contrasted with one that has largely abandoned religion. At least in regards to the manner in which it impacts the culture in general.

"In closing, I'm glad I had the chance to see the resistance to Bye Bull firsthand and up-close, just as I'm looking forward to meeting all of you during the book-signing. I have a feeling you'll prove that not all Southerns want to burn my book, right?"

Laughter and applause follow.

Then a soft "Boo".

Again, burdened with the task of having to choose hands. Really want to pick the person who's booing, but I can't tell who it is.

Surprised and a bit disappointed that there seems to be considerably more people
here than in Chicago, despite the "hometown hype" we tried to get the press to generate before my appearance there.

Maybe it's because of all the controversy--or is it that Atlanta is more literate and radical than my own sweet hometown of Chi-town?

Egads, hope not.
"Mr. Grimm, when you said 'conflict', were you by any chance referring to the possibility of a war--another civil war or something?"

"No, not at all. I'm not prepared to make any such prognostications. Whatever will happen, will happen. It won't be me influencing things."

As if by design, suddenly catch the eye of Ms. Cabal and she doesn't approve of my answer. But she's got to cut some slack, I'm still pretty raw at this live appearance thing.

As always, part of it is me; relax a bit with a couple deep breaths and a prolonged glance at Cassandra's hair covered up by my taking a long gulp of water. and come to find the audience seated before me doesn't look all that different from the one in Chicago.

Except...this gathering features special guest stars such as...Magda, the cheerleader from this afternoon's burning o' the books.

Solitary booing must have come from her.

Instead of focusing on her, shift glance sideways immediately towards Cassandra, who has already cast her eagle eye firmly on Magda.

Also notice that Cassandra is scanning the crowd to see if she recognizes anyone else from the book burning. I don't, but can't speak for her--her level of perception when is on a level far exceeding mine.

Personally, I could give a shit who's out in the audience--as long as they don't take a shot at me...or fall asleep.

Going to do my thing and let Cassandra do her thing...

Attention is suddenly diverted to a female reporter seated in the first row, who furiously scribbles down every word I utter as if it were gospel.

Take a second glance at her--same bad hair cut, same pinched face--it's the same reporter who was at the book-burning today.

If I had to guess, I'd say she works for a more liberal or progressive magazine, but that's going solely by external appearances.

And it seems as though she was just waiting for that moment when I took note of her--to rise, and looks me straight in the eye with those 3D bifocals:

"Mr. Grimm, were you not in fact at the book-burning today, watching as copies of your book were being hostilely burned?"

Wait, she actually recognized me? Damn, thought I was completely incognito. Guess she knows Cassandra was there, too. Kinda creepy, but what the hell am I supposed to do? That was the risk I took in being at the book-burning.

Cassandra meets my eyes in a sideways glance; she's livid that I was ID'd as being at the burning. To her, it's a security breach. Or maybe that our security breach of the crazy incendiary christians didn't go undetected.

Safe to say Ms. Cabal won't let me again endeavor in another such undertaking any time soon.

First instinct is to deny, deny, deny--but catching a reflection of light off the butch photographer's lens reminds me that she was present at the bookburning, too, and may very well have a shot or three of me at this afternoon's proceedings.

Besides, who gives a shit if they find out I was there? Too late to do anything about it now, the last book was burned.

"Sure, I was there. Know thy enemy, after all."

"But tell me, Mr. Grimm, how did it make you feel, to watch copies of a book you labored over--and presumably love--being maliciously burned? Doesn't watching that go against everything you stand for, according to your book?"

"Perhaps. But I also threw a copy of the Bye Bull into the fire."

This admission draws an audible round of gasps from many in the crowd. Didn't expect that reaction. Then again, I had no intention of admitting I was at the book-burning--I was outed.

Now they're I'm engaged with the reporter, the photographer begins snapping shots of me

The reporter ducks down to furiously jot down my response and then bobs to the surface for another round:

"Why on earth would you, of all people--the author of the very book being burned, participate in such an action?"

Now I'm getting bored: "Like I said, I wanted to see how the other half lives. I heard about the book-burning and went on a whim. I brought along a copy of the book to throw in the fire for...I don't know...irony's sake."

That better answer all her questions. Apparently it did, she remains seated and silent.

Relieved to be facing anyone but her, I call on a tall, powerfully built cowboy-type with a broad 10-gallon hat and even broader shoulders.

His tone, however, is disarming and even a bit goofy, as he unfurls his question with a characteristic Texas drawl:

"Yes, Mr. Grimm, thank you for taking my question and for appearing here today what must be trying circumstances. Uh, I have to tell you sir that I am a unique animal around these parts, um, in that I am a Republican that is an atheist."

"An atheist Republican would probably make you a unique animal in most parts," I quip back.

His smile is as broad as the horizon--everything about this guy is just larger than life. Except his speaking manner:

"Anyway, Mr. Grimm, I just wanted you to know that it was refreshing to read the portion of one of your essays in which you bashed liberals. You don't often find that perspective in an anti-christian collection of essays, and I just wanted you to know I appreciated it."

This exchange has captured the attention of the progressive reporter and she frantically scribbles down every syllable uttered.

"I wasn't really bashing liberals--that may be what you read into it, but I realize that with books like mine, people are going to read a lot of things into it and make their own interpretations--usually negative, rarely positive.

"What I meant was that most people who would describe themselves as politically liberal or progressive still tend to be attached to christianity on one level or another, usually motivated by sentimentalism; identification with religion triggers nostalgia, because most people, whether they turn liberal conservative or any shade in between in adulthood tend to have strong--or at least stronger--religious convictions when they are children.

"Another aspect of this sentimentality is found in the liberal or progressive who does not want to offend family members who may be deeply religious. This emotional connection prevents one who would otherwise flatly reject christianity from making a complete break from the religion. Perhaps an intellectual break, but not an emotional break.

"That emotion, in an abstract sense, feeds christianity, allows it to become more legitimate, and extend its influence deeper into the culture.

Greeted with some scepticism in the crowd. Obviously the liberals aren't buying it, and some register frank disappointment at my POV. Apparently they neglected to read that or they have selective Alzheimer's.

Shrug and surmise: "Put it this way, liberals maintaining their emotional connection to christianity certainly doesn't hurt the religion's hold on America-at-large."

Glance down and notice the reporter is looking at her nails--apparently she wasn't too interested in quoting those words. She got what she needed, but at the expense of getting the whole story.

Nothing I can do about all this now, but I'm regretting Atlanta. Looking forward to our next stop, D.C. Never seen it and think it'll be good just to be in a fresh city.

MAGDA HAS TO ASK A QUESTION



Turns out, the above is all a set up, they're both plants in order to create more controversy against me. Yet another incident that Ms. Cabal could have prevented or at least made Darwin aware of, but does not, despite her knowledge of what was taking place in present time.


LATER, I ADMIT I WAS AT THE BOOK BURNING AND THE REPORTER DOES A DOUBLE-TAKE TO SEE IF SHE RECOGNIZES ME

IN BOSTON, AFTER D.C., WE'RE PROTESTED BY LIBERAL GROUPS

PREVIOUS GRAPHS TO BE LIKELY DELETED


That thought illuminates the disparity between the two events; earlier this afternoon my book was being burned, later tonight it's to be celebrated. This thing, this ragtag collection of essays I conjured in my dingy apartment is now affecting external reality in a manner most profound. It's getting people to do things they wouldn't have done otherwise, to burn books and to hear me speak.

If god was so interested in influencing human actions as christians claim god/christ is, then god/christ would appear before EVERYBODY all the time, now wouldn't he--going on the assumption that god/christ is a 'he'.

“Anyway, in this scenario, you’d walk out the door and see your neighbor and say, 'Talk to God yet today?'”

"And he’d respond, 'Oh yeah, god was all over me today. Wants me to talk to some old people in the park before noon. What about you?'"

“And the first guy would answer, 'I chatted with god around breakfast. I got it easy compared to you, god only wants me to go to the forest and find the biggest tree and admire it. god said that he perceives it through me. god said that each human being is just one of the mirrors of the cosmic kaleidoscope that god looks through every day.”

“So his neighbor says, 'Yeah, you got a much better request from God.'"

Pause to let my little scenario soak in, most seem to be digging on it.

"And until that god starts doing that, it’s all just human interpretations of god, not verbatim godspeak."

Smattering of applause, warming me up a little to the Atlanta climate that's been chilly thus far.