When I was a small boy living with my parents in Gary, Indiana, long before I came under the care and feeding of Miss Diana Ross, I remember an old man who wore sup-hose and dusty shoes that should have been shiny, and who used to go up and down the streets of our neighborhood with the help of a stick. It wasn’t in his hand, though. It was down the back of his pants. I believe the sharp end of it came to rest in his chocolate factory, if you know what I mean, and the stick thereby propelled him forward by stimulating several thousand nerve endings. Hee-eee! He must have been getting on for eighty in the year 1966, earlier than which I am sure I would not remember him, for I was born in 1958. A few stray locks of hair hung out from beneath his hat, which was a bright yellow, and though he was clearly insane, he was much respected. His name was Andy, and from my first acquaintance with him I resolved to be his miniature.

His wife was rumored (by him) to exist, but I never saw her. From the way he described her, she was a creature some twenty feet tall, with branches and leaves, rooted into the ground on the northeast corner of Main and Brindle Streets. He had spent several days speaking to her, felt that she understood him better than any other living thing, and fell to one knee to propose. Jam on! Jam on! I hoped that one day I would find someone to love me as much as Andy’s wife loved him.

Andy’s wife

Andy was a singer by trade before he bought the bright yellow hat that would make him crazy and marry a tree. He was also at one time the finest dancer in the land. If you started to clap your hands, or to beat the soles of your feet against the sooty sidewalks, Andy would be seized by what others in our neighborhood described as a “tic fit.” I remember how he seemed to lose the support of all the bones in his skeleton, and even the stick that was shoved down the back of his pants, and then to regain that rigid form all at once. I stood with my brothers and watched, rapt with attention, and those clapping soon started to sing the popular songs of the day: “Baby Don’t You Do It,” “Good Times,” “Tea And Sympathy With President Lyndon B. Johnson.” At the first sign of melody, Andy’s limbs became as serpents, moving through the air, and his fingers became as serpents’ tongues, speaking a language I could not understand, but that I knew held the secrets of the cosmos. There are those who say that I stole everything from James Brown, or Mick Jagger, or Jackie Wilson, but the truth is that my one and only inspiration was Crazy Andy from Gary. Mamase, mamasa, mamácusa!

I mention this for two reasons. First, because I heard recently that Crazy Andy’s wife passed away. A truck was making deliveries and the driver dozed off and plowed into her. Leaves shook off and rained down like unheard prayers, and by the time the last one hit the ground, she was dead. Whoo!

Secondly, there has been recent news coverage of some statements I made in which I took credit for being on the leading edge of concern regarding global warming and climate concern. This is, of course, true. I was writing songs like “Heal the World” and “We Are the World” (not to mention the unreleased “Still the World,” “World Oh No,” and “World Evidence Of Potential Badness/Sadness”) while you were still sucking on your mother’s dick, as the kids say. But the song that really summed it all up was called “Earth Song,” in which I detailed all the horrible things that are happening to our planet. “What about the elephants?” I sang. “Have we lost their trust?” Those questions still remains, hovering over us like a dark fog of shame. What ABOUT the elephants? Have we lost their TRUST? Emphasis mine.