Charles Mingus
The Black Saint and the Sinner Lady

Rome, Flavian Amphitheatre (commonly known as the Colosseum).

It was the day of the winter solstice, I still remember, and I stood naked before the ruins of an ancient civilization now buried, when even the sun, weary, surrendered at my presence, vainglorious in its pride. The midday sun shone upon such dionysiac perfection and, refracting on my wisely smoothed belly, indicated the right path to mortals. The imperishable gods seemed annihilated by such a marble erection, the supreme image of perdition. Should I have taken pleasure in their envy? Or aimed for unusual heights?

That was the precise moment I knew what Charles Mingus must have felt when he conceived the very same album (the Black Saint and the Sinner Lady). Only such a state of sublimation could make a man capable of so much, and Mingus was no exception. An immense masterpiece, the greatest jazz masterpiece, on par with the arrogant "A Kind Of Blue" and "A Love Supreme."

I still remember the moment when I set about deflowering the vinyl wrapped in cellophane. I was initially intrigued by Mingus Charles' pianistic technique, not superb, at most interesting. I lay defenseless in my nest of love, and it felt as if I could feel them all on my skin, like so many small orgasms: Charlie Mariano, Don Butterfield, Quentin Jackson, Rolf Ericson, intrepid and resolute in creating music for refined palates, certainly not for those who had turned their behinds into trumpets. A ballet in six movements difficult to recount in a way that even you mortals may enjoy, you who never united with Aphrodite, the goddess of perverts. An uncontrollable flow of notes, like greedy fingers running over my body in a senseless pursuit of pleasure. Gentle yet decisive blows on the snare drum, like the trembling of thousands of imploring mouths, panting in anticipation of quenching their thirst at the flow of my precious nectar. Nothing more and nothing less. Sublime.

A record to be listened to multiple times consecutively, and thus perfect as the soundtrack to daily sexual exercise. My typical day between the two solstices included:

• 6:00 am: waking at dawn to the sweet chanting of maidens praising my abilities (Sing to me, oh women, of my hostile erections, which induced infinite clitoral orgasms...);

• 7:00 am-10:00 pm: repeated and piston-like carnal conjunction - enhanced by the musical background of Charles Mingus - divided into three distinct phases:

• 11:00 pm: to sleep completely nude with a drop of vintage 1874 Barolo behind the ears, after cleansing myself in partially skimmed albino rhinoceros milk and wiping my bottom with fine fabrics imported specially from the far East, while my personally customized copy by Charlie himself continues to echo among the mighty walls of the baroque basilica erected in my honor.

Oh average DeBaser reader, who envies me, "annihilated" shall be your epitaph.