"A Wayne Dyer
Christmas"
The Author Wreaks Mischief at a Very Proper PBS Gathering!
And just what country was THAT? A lukewarm Danish/Welsh mix, appropriate enough before the PBS crowd, ever conscious of those ethnocentric sins of the 20th century, pulling back their cautious hands "so not to offend". To be CATHOLIC, that's safest and most ecumenical of all. . . . . asides from the fire-breathin' Protestants croakin' on about "The Whore of Roam" like bullfrogs.
But tonight Catholics, lapsed Catholics, non-Catholics, and conscientious non-practicing Jews gather around Wayne Dyer's fireplace. They ponder on his deep, reflective voice as he quotes from "Great Teachers of the Ages" in solemn, joy-inspiring tones. Pacing back-and-forth, talking to each and every one of us, like the Euro disciple of some long-dead Swami, sage, or moon-faced Buddha with nuts tinier than peas. Eastern peoples have a magic association, a non-Western credibility, envisioning a simple yeoman meditating up in the mountains with the pandas in unabated purity.
In the audience, a young college couple stare on blankly. A dumb blond wearing a pink sweater folds her arms, crosses her legs. A scruffy kid, skinny as a soccer player, wears a "Washington University" sweatshirt, gray, and would have been wearing Birkenstocks if it wasn't winter. He gazes on like a statue. Wayne clears his throat, and begins a story about a more naive period in his life; when he was in. . . . . college.
(audience laughter)
Arms before him, he raises and lowers his hands, as if to enclose the balloon of thought before it flies away forgetfully like old age or too much "Green Tea" that takes away our drive to ferociously charge the end zone in one big, cocaine-hyped victory dance. The point is: he and his college sweetheart were overlooking the lakeside one night. . . . .
(-- a snicker, a cough, a guffaw erupts through the crowd. They know what that means; a place they've been before. Or fancied as much, because indeed-- "the man who doesn't fight doesn't fuck". The college couple of late look to each other, smile, and continue to stare on blankly)
As Wayne was saying, he and his future fiancè. . . . . (-- she blushes at the attention, as he recognizes her with a gentle nod of significance) made a vow to work out their life challenges. It was a long, arduous road. That was before he commenced "the dance"; imitating the spiritual masters with his clumsy, pirouetting heel and own leaping joy for life. Come one, come all.
Now "Dr. Dyer" entreats them to discover the fine line between perfect altruism and a $150 donation. . . . . in return for a "free gift". A "Peter, Paul, & Mary" cassette of all things. Nostalgia for singer/songwriters, folk guitar music from upstate New York before the 1960's imploded into a squalling mass of flesh that were occasionally gunned down at universities by National Guardsman. He counts himself among the experts, giving broad advice, spooning it to the audience in checklist form, like a doctor telling a patient to join a health club, practice yoga, eat alfalfa.
"But what can I personally do?", is the question; the bleat of selfish worry, an emotional-splotch of bottomless mortality that has no answers.
He smiles warmly, genuinely caring to answer these universal questions of interchangeable people. Some things can't be answered further-- not for cheap, anyway (-- unless you want to consult a physician-- chalk drinks, cat scans, spread but cheeks, and the stuff of diagnosticians that will only confuse & unsettle the general audience), so it's best to sit under the Buddha tree and wait for enlightenment, assuming that it somehow happens by itself. . . . . if not getting exercise and breaking out of your neurasthmatic rut of too much boredom and abundance to dwell.
He then asks that everyone hold hands and sing Christmas carols. . . . . something alone the lines of "Good King Welchessus". A true Welsh/Danish favorite.
He stands there. . . . . the scent of yuppie cologne about his ears, hands clasped before him, swaying slightly as his voice harmonizes deeply and softly. He looks down at his shoes, standing there alone, making his "stand" a bit self-consciously. Glancing up to see if the audience will sing too. Reluctantly of course, but sing they do; a mumble of half-remembered words.
Waiting up afterwards, a crowd gathers around
"the great Wayne Dyer". Giving compliments, asking questions, hoping for a personal insight to take ta' heart.
"Yes, yes"
he nods, dishing out quotes like Saint Aggisiz feeding the pigeon-minded.
Wayne fields other questions. He almost forgets about the stockings. Full of candy canes, pocket books, and bars of fruit-scented soap to distribute. He reaches deep and frowns. An expression clouds his face-- archetypical-- no more graceful than a Gaelic pig keeper back in the middle ages, hair long & dirty & straw-like, discovering the prank.
He empties the contents on a disposable paper plate. He gets out a napkin and massages his soiled hand. Struggling to regain his fumbling composure he calls for the audience's attention.
"Uh, ladies & gentleman, someone misplaced the gifts I was about to pass out, but remember: there's a spiritual solution to every problem"."Yeah, suicide!" I piped.
*******************
"You want a-nuther song? Well I ain't plain' one mutherfuckin' note until someone comes up here and puts sum money in my god-damned tip-jar! You know I only came here for one purpose. . . . . to take yor fuckin' cash! Why, I could make more profit puttin' out my meth-head neighbor's asshole and ringin' a bell, hollerin' 'Man for sale! Man for sale!'
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
(Rheeee of Crickets)
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
("I heard that, Missy!")
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