High on the Plains: Pro-lifer saved by pro-choicer in rebirthing workshop or can we crucify Justin Bieber, please?


Chad Christensen, Columnist

If there was ever a spaceship that would come down and take a person up into space (similar to “Close Encounter of the Third Kind”) it would be Chopin’s Nocturne for Piano in B flat, Op. 9/1.

I thought about this over the weekend, sitting in a bathtub drinking ginger beer.

The sky literally ripped open before me and aliens that looked like tiny versions of Tony Danza in drag welcomed me onto their bright circular ship. Each note Chopin wrote in the beginning of that nocturne unlocked a hidden gateway to a strange and curious world filled with light and forgiveness. It’s true, I swear.


But who cares, right?

Hmmm. Not us.

Justin Bieber must die.

Jason Aldean must die.

Carrie Underwood must die.

If we could get these people’s heads on a stick that would be nice. It’s as though a fast food giant got into the music business and started handing out McChicken-music for the soul. Everyone got fat and no one knows why.

I’m thinking about buying a huge 4×4 truck (with super-swamper tires) and then driving it around my hometown with a confused and angry look on my face as if to say, “I want to understand why.”

Careful now. Easy.

Actually, I love Jason Aldean.

We’re good friends. Just last weekend we went fishing and talked about our wives. He likes to entertain me with interesting thoughts about Nietzsche and how the moon landing was a hoax.

I like to try to keep a conservative lid on our conversations. He tends to get out of hand.

I watched him eat four grams of psilocybin and the man actually thought our goal as a human species was to go back to the water from which we came. That we needed to become FISH. The key is in the gills, he said. We needed to get our GILLS back. The way he said “gills” had a dangerous tone to it. He was serious.

And, hell, who knows. He’s probably right. He has had some success in the music business. He seems to know what he’s doing. I have great respect for a man who wears white rimmed sunglasses and can actually pull it off.

Someday I will pull my children aside and tell them, “You must listen to Jason Aldean. He is a country hero and a true American. He has changed our world for the better and we owe him everything.” And tears will form in our eyes and we’ll weep together under the shade of an elm tree.

Yet, after this weekend with Chopin, I’m just not sure.

I feel uneasy. I’d hate to think that a Polish astronaut (posing as a composer) saved my soul and that’s there is actually hope beyond ourselves.

Seems like a heavy burden for a person to bear. I guess I’ll just have to put my trust in tiny Tony Danza.

We all know he’s the real boss.