He painted P-Funk band members without regard to ethnic heritage, thus offering his predominantly African American audience an opportunity to try on the idea of transcending their own skin color, an idea Afrofuturism literature frequently explores.
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I know a lot of people differ on this point, but for me I feel that most of the time alien species in SF make more sense as human offshoots. They generally have hominid, if not outright human, physiology and psychology and are often interfertile with humans. Their cultures are similar if not identical to historical human societies. And if they have more or less advanced technology the magnitude of that difference is still, at most, about as different as the Maori and British. Why bother making them aliens in the first place?
What if he believes that illegal aliens are, on a statistical basis, more likely to be slime than citizens? This might mean that he has no negative feelings about you personally (since he does not believe that every single one is slime), but he thinks that since the laws cannot mention you as a special case, prohibiting all of them (including you) is better than letting them in (and helping you)?
In the seventies, you and I called it "having sex" or just "doing it," and we did it wherever and whenever we could: in the shower, on an air mattress in a tent, in saggy beds in cheap motels.Somewhere in the eighties it became making love. Our honeymoon lovemaking was the best ever: in a real bed with no one to interrupt us. We were going to do this forever. In the nineties we did it on a schedule: calendars and thermometers and keeping track. After the babies, making love meant keeping promises. It was as routine as you putting on the suit and tie and shaving every morning, and me doing laundry and having dinner on the table every night.The babies grew up and left home.After 2005 making love was you saying I was beautiful even though I was vomiting and bald, and my skin was gray.In 2008 it was your turn. Sex was out of the question. Making love was me changing dressings and cleaning the drainage tubes as gently as I could.By 2012 making love was just this:lying beside you, our hands touching knuckle to knuckle;smiling and crying; letting the morphine do its job;saying good-bye.
And what if I told you that, like an alien clone in one of those science fiction thrillers Hollywood cranks out like chocolate cupcakes, Bob sprang into being fully formed, only ten weeks later? This time the locale was a suite at the fabled Al Mansour Hotel in Baghdad where we had gone to negotiate the sale of my priceless collection of exotic war trophies with the impish elder son of that fickle Stalin impersonator, Saddam. 2ff7e9595c
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