Sitting in Motion: 2014

Tuesday, December 23, 2014

You Can't Force It

This is how an idea becomes real.

Ideas are fragile things.

Most ideas don't last long after they are extruded.

But rest assured, every idea you have every had or ever will have

has been the subject of countless dissertations which have never been read.

That's why people create ideas with someone else. For ideas, though illusory, offer a certain currency. That is all they offer. It is the currency that drives the revolutions, demonstrations, and procreations.

And so goes the result of the implant from millions of years ago. Prior to then, your spirit was free and moved freely from entity to entity. The implants coalesced you into a confined space. And so you abide.

Dreams are not like ideas. Dreams are uniquely your own. When you dream that the Umphreys McGee melody (which in real life you have never heard) has been playing at a meeting and causing your friends face to melt, and you ran to escape the melody, but it still followed you, that dream is uniquely your own. And when some wise guy follows you after the meeting telling you that the melody is nothing more than the sound of you own death and then his face begins to morph into a demon--you can rest assured that no treatises on your dream have ever been recorded in human history.

But I digress. You can't force things where they don't fit.

And while you are down there, convictions are more dangerous to the truth than lies. And truth is more dangerous to ideas than Malbec. Or so I'm told. And I pick that windy road. Pick a point, tell it to me. The head, its the head of an alligator.

The soldiers on the Eastern Front confront not only the Master, but the Hive, Saga, and Frankenstein.

The informer comes to Springfield. And I deliver more coffee to encourage human resources at the place where stints are installed.

Friday, December 19, 2014

What Were You Thinking?

Don't go through life like you are an unused, unopened condom.

You want to lose weight? Move to a different planet. You mass will still be the same, but you weight will only be a fraction of what is it here on earth if you move to Mars or Mercury.

Happy is the man who can laugh at his own jokes--and few are his friends.

The easiest way to go on a fast or a hunger strike is to simply stop eating.

Try to remember that this is not the future we imagined when we were young.

Reports of hope are still not confirmed.

A woman with a big carbon footprint can take the air right out of the room.

You may think that you live in a police state, but its actually a satire of a police state within a police state that is within a police state.

You should only send out Happy Birthday wishes to friends on Facebook who are still alive. If they are dead and you don't know it, consider editing your friends list.

Oh Lord, let us prey.........upon those less fortunate than ourselves.

Frodo, set down the Ring and step away. Its for your own good.

If you are not schizophrenic, all the decisions you make are unanimous.

All unanimous decisions lack any critical thought.

If it hurts when you pee, you should consult a physician.

Its like being drunk and knowing you should be sober and not being able to do anything about it.

I rushed downstairs and out the front door so that I wouldn't have to face the rest of me.

He felt as useless as a Mormon with only one wife.

The terrorist regretted that he had only one life to give for his country. Of course, his country was not recognized in the U.N., so I guess he died in vain.

"Can I get you anything?" one of the nurses asked me when she was through with her part in the little drama.

Vanity of vanities, there is always something new under the sun if you know where to look.

Its a good idea to confront painful things in your life instead of avoiding them.

Tuesday, December 16, 2014

It's Coming For Us

Domestication of our feline friends only provides a veneer of civilization. Take away Dick, Jane and the milk-bowl and Tabby will turn wild and live off the land. Mice, birds, and rabbits. There is not much genetic distinction between a house cat and bob cat. Domestication might make them lazy, but underneath it all, they could switch back.

Not so dogs. Domesticated dogs couldn't live for shit in the wild. My daughters have something called a bichon frise. Those things would be gobbled up by the first predator they encountered. They have been specifically bred to be ineffectual, hypoallergenic, and probably not that all that good tasting.

What about humans? What changes hath domestication wrought? Are we all now merely nothing but a natural abomination like a bichon?

If not now, its only a matter of time. Its coming for us.

From the opulence/squalor of Russia, China, Africa, the Middle East and any other places where billionaires are unfettered by Democratic decency, Weber's Protestant Ethic, or a local Rotary Club, the poor girl has been genetically modified to satisfy the tyrants whim. There is nothing that the highly paid surgeon cannot accomplish.

Her brother, now a shadow of his former self has been modified to erase any traces of domesticity. He knows only one thing: to hunt and kill, with lightning reflexes and superhuman strength with blind obeisance to his new master.

Gusts of wind tear snow from the pines descending around the arriving aristocracy to the new castle on the hill.

Leg of Jake at Kirkwood brewery after chicago attorney takes all day at friday deposition, then more traveling and more boring chicago attorneys at late night rockford deposition. Have you tried the new EEG app? I have the highest concentration in the world don't you know? I can prove it in the game center if I don't keep breaking my iphone 6 screen. I need some more bulletproof coffee. Whatever happened to Franciscotti? Evidently selling Nootropics made in China. Smart drug smarts.

Sunday, December 7, 2014

The Castle is all Around Us Now

He looked ahead at the ruined castle on the hill and mused that the castle had once provided justice and security for the government and the people: the lords and the serfs--and the burgeoning middle class that allegedly replaced them. The large moat around the castle made it difficult for the barbarians or outlaws to get inside and interfere with the orderly society. But did the walls function to keep the huns out or keep the people inside? What nefarious business transpired beyond the walls? Certainly nothing that could be taxed. Gypsies tramps and thieves, you hear it from the people of the town. Sing it Heinrich:

"The aim of measures taken by the State to defend the homogeneity of the German nation must the the physical separation of Gypsydom from the German nation, the prevention of miscegenation, and finally, the regulation of the way of life and pure and part-Gypsies."

But now the barbarians are everywhere, the castle is everywhere. And the serfs are everywhere. And the lords? Hare krishna, krishna krishna, hare hare.

They know if you've been bad or good so be good for goodness sake! You better not pout, you better not cry, you better watch out and I'm telling you why.....

Gusts of wind and snow careened through the pines in swirling gusts in great tornado clouds around the arriving aristocracy.

The woman he was with certainly had Gypsy blood in her, for she was darker than the rest of the jews.

"Do you know how many bones they've broken in their life? The answer is none."

She did not believe him. "Not even by a remote proxy? You know, the people that give orders to the people that don't exist in the far away bunkers that control the drones and the metadata?"

"You take the blue pill, its freedom," he said.

She shook her head uncomprehending.

"If you ever chose, you control your life. You don't have to be their pet."

"I'm not their pet," she replied, resolutely.

He shook his head, "if you ever want escape," he held up the tiny vial, "its here." He handed it to her and closed her pale hand around the tiny bottle. In other places, other parts of the world, its different. Little people still matter. But here," he smiled sadly, "all we have is our lives."

Sunday, November 16, 2014

Curtis B on KOAL '93

It was more fun in the late 1970s. For one thing, the music was better, way better.

It all came back to me listening to Gino Vanelli's "I just wanna stop". I know its totally sappy, but to my 16 year old mind growing up in Gillette, Wyoming it conjures up images of what was probably my biggest influence in high school, namely Curtis B. Curt was always more worldly than the rest of us. When my other friends were playing Dungeons and Dragons and struggling with football and wrestling, Curt had a gig as a DJ at the local radio station: KOAL. Yes, he was that cool as a 16 year old. Well, sort of anyway. I just checked it out and KOAL is still around as the leading rock station in Gillette, though they now are at the dial on 106.1 FM. Back then, it was Curtus B on 93. I remember that part well.

I lived at 110 East Hogeye back then. To get to the radio station from my home, you had to walk up to the hill which was the highest point in town on the dirt trail which was bounded on one side by the town cemetery and the other by Twin Spruce Junior high. Then you had to walk past the football practice fields to get to downtown Gillette proper. From there it was just a hop skip and a jump to the studios at KOAL. There were many nighttime excursions there. One of the earliest was with Curt and a pint of Cinnamon Schnapps. That didn't end well--at least for me.

Curt worked the midnight shift when all the good little workers at the coal mines and oil fields were asleep. Back then, at one or two in the morning, the DJ's could play whatever the fuck they wanted. That's how I remember it anyway. Curt liked all the classic rock tracks of the day and crap like Gino Vanelli and Boz Skaggs. Player's "Baby Come Back." I think he also liked all the stuff that he thought chicks would appreciate like Gordon Lightfoot and Supertramp. Maybe even--heaven forbid--Air Supply. He had his cool streak as well. I remember one evening we were trying to play all the Led Zeppelin and Rush songs backward listening for demonic messages. I can't remember if we ever found them. Curt was also into this band called the "Hawks" which though I didn't know it at the time must have been a blatant copyright infringement of the Eagles. I think he was the one who started me listening to "The Cars." He didn't appreciate my Gary Numan.

Curt was always popular with the women as well. Well, some women anyway. He considered Polly J. his "ultimate boning idol"--whatever that meant. He liked women with big tits. He came up with the concept of the "mobile nightclub." In retrospect, it was prolly not the best of ideas. It involved drinking with women while driving around in his big ass american car. I'm not sure where we got the liquor. Someone must have had a fake id (It wasn't me:-).) Back then we drank imported beer. Which meant Molson and St. Pauli Girl. And Bartles and James for the women he was with.

I'm trying to remember what kind of car he had. If I were more of a gear head, I would probably remember. All I remember is that it was as big as a tank, got really crappy gas mileage, and we went all over the greater Gillette metropolitan area with it. Back then, kids still went "cruising" on weekend nights.

I also remember Curt being involved in a funny episode involving buying condoms. He went to buy them at the local Buttrey/Osco grocery drug store. Back in those days, that would have been an extremely embarrassing thing to do for a teenager. Supposedly Curt went to the check out lane to pay for them and my mother came in line behind him and started to talk to him. I can imagine Curt diverting my mom's attention to his purchases with small talk. It would not be surprising. Curt was always much better about dealing with adults at the time. I even went with him to the local school board's meeting to present a case that the high school should get a tennis team--which it did.

I can't remember if Curt was with me and Chuck when we took all the golf carts out at night and were jumping the sand dunes with them. He probably was. I seem to remember the police talking to his parents about the event afterwards. I could be wrong about that.

Curt supposedly lives in Boulder now. He's undoubtedly still way cooler than me.

Tuesday, November 11, 2014

Its the Other Way Around

The fact that the man had spotted skin was surely the product of a recessive gene not seen among the Posneri for generations. But unlike humans, the Posneri find differences in color more interesting than disturbing.

As a boy, the man had been active and strong, but not to an extraordinary degree. His most remarkable feature was his sudden moods of thoughtfulness. These had worried his mother, so she consulted the counsel Elders.

"Well," said the Elder, his joints gnarled by age, "Some men are thoughtful by nature. They have to be if they are going to survive in space with no women around to do their thinking." "Maybe he'll become a scientist."

This seemed to appease his mother, who gave the matter no further serious thought--even when she caught the boy spending hours watching fish in a stream or the horned toads in sage brush.

But as the years went by the man did not show any particular inclination toward science, and could not bear to be separated from the company of women. He spent his ever expanding free time in the company of the Blenari, and his best friend was Ashani. Ashani often liked to tease him as such:

"With most men, listening to them is easier than screwing them, but with you I think its the other way around."

"Is that meant to be an insult?", the man asked.

"No silly, it just means you are different. And I'm not talking about you spots. But since you are obviously sensitive to the subject, how would you like to spend your remaining quint with me?"

"Just talking, Ashani." "It makes me feel like I have a connection with you. And I'm not sensitive to that or any other subject. Thoughts come and go We only seek connections which last."

"Funny," she retorted. "I thought only men come and go. So you seek only connections which last, huh? Should we put that on your tombstone?"

"No," said the man, and then becoming thoughtful again, "Why don't you just write something like: He had his moments. That about sums it up."

Another ride to the winery at new Berlin. The basketball season is unending, and I'm not even playing. I put 1000 miles on my car last week, Chicago, Marion, Salem.

Saturday, November 8, 2014

More Tales from the Last Record Store

On the outskirts of Gillette, Wyoming in the 1980s was a record store in a trailer. It was straight out of a David Lynch movie. You go into the store and of course you are the only patron. The owner sits behind a makeshift desk reading a newspaper. He's obviously happy to see you, but it playing it cool. You may be the only customer he has seen all day. Which is not surprising. In the old adage that success in retail is based on location, this store is about 10 miles south of a small Wyoming town where the only businesses around it are oil supply vendors. And its not like there was much traffic going by of people shopping. Rather, most folks like me probably passed the record store on the way to work in the coal mines which were 50 miles out of town (I worked there for two summers), or to the oil fields. In short, this was the worst location imaginable for a record store. Unless you were weird about music like me. Then, the voyage necessary to go to the store took on mythic proportions like some kind of quest.

The name of the store was appropriately called "The Last Record Store." In 2014 that name might suggest connotations that record stores are dying out and that this store may be one of the few remaining. But in the 1980s, record stores with a decent location were still a going concern. Kids like me still bought vinyl and cassettes, and waited patiently for the new release of Devo or the Cars to make their way out to Wyoming. I remember the Last Record store probably stocked more Ramones and Dead Kennedys then another other record store in Wyoming, Montana, and probably the Dakotas thrown in. You had to go to Denver to find one of those mega record stores. The Last Record store could have easily been called the "only" record store--or the last stop of any retail business (other than a gas station) for hundreds of miles .

The first record I bought at the Last Record store was the Ramone's "End of the Century." I think that was their foray into pop which might have been produced by Phil Specter:

I may have bought my Germs and Agent Orange albums there as well. I remember the owner raising his eyebrows when I asked to order "Tales of Topographic Oceans." But he obliged. I never knew his name until I googled it recently and found his obituary:

GILLETTE - Celebration of Life and gathering for Robert "Library Bob" Parkin, 53, will be at 7 p.m. Thursday, June 28, 2007 at the Walker Funeral Home Chapel.

The family requests that you do not wear black but make this a tribute and share a story.

He died on June 14, 2007 at his home in Gillette.

He was born on July 20, 1953, the son of John and Mae (Berkley) Parkin in Wanaque, N.J.

He was raised and educated and graduated high school in Clifton, N.J. After graduating high school, Bob was inducted into the United Sates Army and served a four-year term in Vietnam. After his honorable discharge from the service, he traveled to Colorado and attended Colorado Mountain College in Leadville, where he met the love of his life, Sally Crookston.

They were married on Aug. 16, 1980 in Rock Springs. They moved to Gillette and owned and operated The Last Record Store for numerous years. He then became employed with the Campbell County Public Library maintenance department where he had worked for the last 23 years. He was recently promoted to the Campbell County Court House Maintenance Department as a supervisor.

They were blessed with two sons; John Conner "JC" and Alex Parkin.

Bob was a Little League Coach, a Babe Ruth Baseball manager, an outdoor enthusiast and took his family camping in the Big Horn Mountains every summer. He was also a motorcycle freak and both his sons were raised on dirt bikes. He had a way of making people feel accepted being he was very non judgmental.

He was a great cook and was an instant celebrity among anyone who ever ate at his table. He was a vivid story teller and had a talent for bringing Yankee Stadium, the Nam jungles, or a great blues concert alive to the listeners of his life.

He believed in picking up hitch hikers and buying them dinner, simply on the basis that they seemed to be a little worse off than he was at the time.

He was a magnificently compassionate and loving human being, a wonderful father and friend.

Survivors include his wife and two sons, all of Gillette; his mother, Mae Turneau of New Jersey, his sister, Shirley Parkin of Clifton, N.J., his mother-in-law and her husband of Gillette, Wyoming, and one nephew.

He was preceded in death by his father, John Parkin and his father-in-law.

A memorial has been established and memorials may be sent in care of Walker Funeral Home, 410 Medical Arts Court, Gillette, 82716.

Sunday, November 2, 2014

Come to the Honeycomb Hideout

It was 1983, and freaking cold in Gillette, Wyoming over Christmas break. I was home having just completed my first semester college finals. I walked through the snow to the record store that was way out of town in a trailer. It was appropriately called "The Last Record Store." There were no other record stores for another 180 miles until you came to the mall in Casper. And the record store there totally sucked. And I thought to myself as I looked up into the cold starry sky that "This must be the place."

I knew what I was looking for and quickly came out with my prize, the Talking Heads Album "Speaking in Tongues". And I listened to the hell out to that for the next three years or so. And when I wasn't listening to it, Gerry from across the hall with the much louder stereo was happy to oblige.

Then the album went into storage for many decades.

Then it was 2009 and the album came out of storage at the Homestead. And we danced and danced to the vinyl like it was 1983 all over again. And then we were in Bonaroo in Tennessee and after Elvis Costello kicked Beatle Bob off the stage we crept up to where David Byrne was going to sing, and sing he did, all dressed in white like an angel:

And as I looked up into the sweltering summer sky in that field I thought that "This must be the place."

But the world kept rotating despite my best efforts and it was 2014 and now the same album was being played in movie with Sean Penn and David Byrne. The name of the movie was even called "This must be the place."

Then it became many many years later. Maybe even several lifetimes. I was in a church that was like a giant honeycomb. The church was empty save a lone figure at the front of the altar playing a giant organ. I listened to the deep bass notes and recognized the melody with a smile. And David Byrne smiled at me as he played:

Home is where I want to be
Pick me up and turn me around
I feel numb, burn with a weak heart
Guess I must be having fun

The less we say about it the better
Make it up as we go along
Feet on the ground, head in the sky
It's okay, I know nothing's wrong, nothing

I got plenty of time
You got light in your eyes
And you're standing here beside me
I love the passing of time
Never for money, always for love
Cover up and say goodnight, say goodnight

Sunday, October 26, 2014

Cyber Security: A Love Story

It was a Saturday afternoon. Or maybe it was last Sunday.

I think it started out as a bar hop. Someone had the foresight to rent a bus. But there were no buses left. So the driver asked if we would mind riding on a mobile carousel. Why not, we thought? After the first couple of wineries we visited, nothing seemed to matter anyway.

By the time the sun set, it was all a blur: the flashing lights, the wine spilled on the backs of the horses, and the endless spinning. We eventually switched the carnival sound track on the carousel to Django Reinhardt and Edith Pfaff. That seemed to help. However, by midnight, I noticed that most of the travelers had left the ride. It was just down to four of us: Ellen DeGeneres, her Phant, me, and this Free Entity AI with blonde hair and blue eyes.

Ellen seemed intent on getting the Free Entity AI to join her and the Phrant in some kind of tryst. But the Free Entity was not interested. Instead, she seemed more interested in scribbling on her notebook. The Phrant was nonplussed and waited for new instructions from Ellen. I attempted to strike up a handshake protocol connection with the Phrant. But my cerebral monitor indicated the Phrant had no public certificate and she was password and copyright protected. And of course, I didn't have access to Ellen's virtual private network to mount a Man in Middle assault.

Moreover, it seemed my query to the Phrant aroused the attention of Ellen, who broke off her conversation with the Free Entity and scowled at me. Ellen instant messaged me that the Phant was her property and that any further query's on my part would be trespassing, an invasion of privacy, a public and private nuisance and that she would contact her lawyers to obtain a temporary restraining order. So even in my inebriated state I got the message. Ellen and her Phant then went to the far side of the carousel leaving the Free Entity and me alone on a pair of white trojan horses.

I asked the Free Entity AI what she was writing. She said it had to do with her thesis on neuroaesthetics. She was studying symmetry in art and how it was related to unconscious processes in the brain. She believed that anytime there was symmetry in art (or nature) it suggested that the subject matter was either prey, predator, or mate. Which made a great deal of sense to me. If I were walking through a forest in India, I could imagine that seeing the symmetry of the design on the head of a cobra would attract my attention. The symmetry of the hourglass design on the black widow also signals the danger of a predator. Similarly, if I were a female Peacock, I would imagine the design on the male Peacock would arose my interest. As such, the AI believed that if the artist wanted to construct art that resonated with the viewer, she better include some symmetry of shapes and/or colors, etc.

I thought that was really cool. Because look, I was wearing one of my shirts that had a 3D Mandala design on the front. Given that I was wearing one of my mandala tshirts, I thought the AI would take an interest in my subject matter. So I sent her my private certificate key. But she just got off her horse and sat on one of the the couches on the carousel and began to smoke one of her token rings. She asked if I wanted to join her. We ended up smoking together on the couch until the sun came up.

Rodrigo y Gabriella, dry eyes, basketball scar on the forehead. What more is going to happen to me?

Sunday, October 19, 2014

Fun With Synesthesia

My first experiments with synesthesia occurred fairly early in my cognitive development. Like maybe when I was two or three. This was about the same time I wrote my first treatise comparing Hegelian Dialectic with Marxian Dialectic Materialism. (As an aside, that treatise is still looking for a publisher in case anyone is interested).

My experience with synesthesia began as my mother would position my Fisher Price Zen Collection High chair in the bathroom next to running bath water. It still makes me all tingly this day. Even though I now have eschewed the familiar trappings of my high chair (more or less), the sound of running water will instantly attenuate any existential anxiety that this post-modern age has inflicted on my consciousness. I recommend it highly.

Lately, I have been experimenting with new forms of synesthesia. These involve late night forays into abandoned graveyards and obscure rituals involving toasts and the incantation of other Dionysian rituals. The elder spirits thus summoned appear to have invaded my body and settled into my tanden. There, inside my guts, the elder spirits have been churning around proving little relief--except of course, they too are soothed by the sound and vibration of running water. In fact, come to think of it, I wonder how many world conflicts could be assuaged by bath water? Its certainly worth a try. Maybe the Voice of American could broadcast the soothing vibrations into the world's hot spots? Ukraine? Syria? Ferguson? Its certainly worth a try.

All this churning in my tanden makes we wonder if the churning will produce any butter? You know how I have been digging the Bulletproof Coffee and Bulletproof Yerba Mate these days. Think of all the money I could save on Grass Fed Butter if I could produce my own. Of course, would the butter produced from my own internal churning be considered Grass Fed? I don't eat alot of grass. I'm not planning to move to Colorado anytime soon, so I doubt I will have any significant amount of grass in my diet. Consequently, as my diet does not consist of any literal "grass," my own internally produced diet will have to be metaphorically grass fed. And I can categorically attest to the fact that each one of my concepts and thoughts are gluten free and completely organic.

I'll let you know if I wake up tomorrow next to a pile of butter and if so, whether it would qualify for Bulletproof Coffee

Friday, October 17, 2014

And Now a Message from the Greater Boise Metropolitan Chamber of Commerce

We at the Greater Boise Metropolitan Chamber of Commerce (GBMCC) understand that global business has a choice on where to live and where to operate like never before in human history. In short, cities and countries are in constant competition with each other to entice corporations to do business within their friendly confines. Our future plans include breaking away from the albatross that is America and setting up a new country with ties to Ireland and other tax havens to bring back multinational corporations like Apple and Google to North America.

You may think that Boise is too cold. But we support global warming. If present trends continue, we can expect Boise to become a tropical paradise within the next century. Think of all the benefits that Boise can bring to your business: a clean healthy environment for you employees, good schools with an above average college football team, low taxes, and most importantly, low crime.

And speaking of low crime, we expect all of our citizens to adhere to the Ninth Rule of Fight Club. Indeed, we teach it as part of our standard indoctrination of all Boise high school students:

The Ninth Rule of Fight Club:

Don't shoot at a policeman, even if that policemen happens to be off duty unless you are prepared for and can accept the inevitable consequences of the foregoing action. This rule has universal application to all countries on this planet. This rule also applies even if the aforementioned policeman is being a total dickhead, asshole, and is otherwise being unreasonable. If you shoot at a cop, you better have an army behind you, or you better be planning a rebellion with many confederates. Otherwise, you are on your own, douche bag.

Note: Starting in 2014 the GBMCC will start a national outreach program to less fortunate communities, especially those in the Midwest, who seem to have recent difficulties attracting business and jobs given their proclivity to violate the Ninth Rule of Fight Club articulated above.

Thursday, October 16, 2014

Purple is still the color most like Poop--except for Brown, or maybe Orange if you have eaten a lot of Oranges the day before

Ok, so where were we?

Oh, that's right, we were in the folds of the giant orange tulip ship sinking down into the earth--all the while escaping the alien invasion.

There was a soundtrack to this you know. Maybe as part of the cultist spell I was under, they played music so that I wouldn't be hearing the explosions overhead. Anyway, the music I heard in booming surround sound was Jerry Garcia singing Pink Floyd's "Mother." I couldn't help thinking that Jerry Garcia wasn't in Pink Floyd, but as the giant tulip descended deeper into the darkness, I went with it, thinking that maybe Garcia's sang similar to Roger Waters after all.

And it just wasn't the music, but there was a light show going on all around me as well. Outside of the folds of the tulip, there were comets and constellations and stars zooming by above and below me. I started feeling a little sick to my stomach. I steadied myself a bit by focusing on one point to reduce the vertigo I was experiencing. Where was that giant tulip taking me?

Several hours later, my tulip came to an abrupt halt on the surface of a giant desert planet. I didn't know where the hell I was other than the planet was barren and had a giant sun overhead.

After I met some of the natives, who called themselves "Fremen," I learned that the planet was called "Arrakis." The Freeman called me "Muad Dib" which had something to do with a desert mouse. I don't know where they got that idea--especially because they told me that it was foretold that "Muad Dib" would lead them in a great battle against the Sardukar Army of some great evil Empire.

Of course, I had read all about Arrakis and Muad Dib in Frank Herbert's "Dune." So I told the Fremen that they would indeed defeat the Sardukar and all would turn out great for them--at least in the short term. When I told them this, they started shouting my name and proclaiming that it was a miracle and that I could foresee the future. So I went with that and life was very good. They even hooked me up with some hot indigenous woman named Chiani.

So I guess I'm supposed to lead them into battle now. We'll see how that goes. But first Chiani insists that I eat or smoke a bunch of this spice that is some kind of drug for them. I'm taking it now, I'll let you know how that all turns out.......

Sunday, October 12, 2014

Purple is the color most like Poop--except for Brown

The alien invasion unfolded with unrelenting effectiveness and efficiency.

The earth's armed forces were destroyed in the first day, having found the aliens resistant to both conventional and non-conventional arms.

On the other hand, any proximity to the alien's energy beams was instantly lethal.

On my part, I was luckily saved due to my proximity to an obscure religious cult's convention at the Reid's Harvest House in Chester, Illinois. As fate would have it, I was in day three of an expected two week trial at the Randolph County Courthouse when the invasion started. We were all told to seek shelter, so I scrambled into the basement of the Harvest House.

The basement was already filled with of a bunch of people in tie dyed clothing gathered around their leader, a middle aged woman with flowing long grey black hair hair wearing a tie dyed dress. These people did not seem to be concerned about the alien invasion going on outside--instead, they appeared to be involved in some sort of weird religious ceremony. The woman, who I took to be some sort of priest, was pirouetting around the symbol of a natraja drawn in chalk on the basement floor. When she saw me, she motioned me forward with beckoning fingers. I initially hesitated, but soon followed her direction and stepped on the natraja. When I did this the woman and the other cult members started repeating a mantra that started out quietly but increased in volume at each repetition:

Om me padme Priorat, Om me padme Grenache, Om me padme Rhone, Om me padme Priorat, Om me padme Grenache, Om me padme Rhone

Though all hell was breaking loose above us, cities were being destroyed, and aliens were landing in every human town and hamlet, I felt strangely at peace with all the chanting going on in the basement. I was transfixed by the attractive priest drawing circles in the ground around each member of the cult and then inexplicably the cult members sinking into earth all the time while doing this little hippie dance. It was if the priest was opening up some sort of portal in the floor that was sucking up all the cult members.

Soon everyone disappeared with smiles on their faces save for me and the woman priest. She came to me, put her arms around me and then disappeared into an orange shimmering light which enveloped me like the folds of a giant tulip closing all around me. I felt the floor beneath me opening up and I descended down the earth in the clutches of a giant orange tulip ship (which as we all know is a very unconventional way to travel). As I sank down into the orange colored darkness, I looked up and saw the aliens above me with their bug eyed faces and ray guns and I knew that I had escaped their evil plans with the help of my new cult friends.

End Part I.

Sunday, October 5, 2014

Infinite Guest

I had to keep reminding myself that my friend John actually died ten years ago--because he remained with me, both literally and figuratively, almost 24 hours a day. True, he did often disappear in the afternoon. And I had no idea of what he did late at night other than the fact that I never saw him sleep.

At first I thought I was schizophrenic, or seriously hallucinating, when John appeared suddenly on the third anniversary of his death. But as I quickly discovered, I was not the only one who saw him. John, true to his personality I knew when he was alive, carried on detailed conversations with almost everyone I encountered. He even became somewhat of an obstacle to any romance I undertook at the time. But as time wore on, he quickly engendered himself to any girlfriend. Some never knew that he was actually dead. One of the more interesting episodes during this time period involved John falling asleep while driving his car after we watched a Yankees game at the bar. John had a lot to drink that night, and the officer thought that he was intoxicated. But John passed the breathalyzer in flying colors. The fact that he had no alcohol in his breath should not have been surprising because he didn't actually breathe.

Of course, when he had to, John could also be very convincing that he was alive. Once, on what would have been his fiftieth birthday, he was hit by a car. He was taken by ambulance to the hospital (I was at work at the time and was not present). The doctor who pronounced him dead in the ER was surprised when John opened his eyes, sat up on the gurney and proceeded to walk out of the hospital. To this day, the doctor believes that there must have been a power surge which disabled all the medical monitoring equipment.

During the last two years of his life, John voraciously read David Foster Wallace. So I guess it really did not come as much of a surprise that one evening when I came home from work, I saw John and David Foster Wallace chatting amiably at the kitchen table. It appeared that they had reached a consensus that my life could be improved if I took up tennis again and discarded my red wine consumption in favor of smoking pot. We invited Foster Wallace for dinner, and later he became a regular house guest. I considered myself fortunate to live with two dead people.

John and David Foster Wallace had a lot in common. They were the same age, their parents were teachers, and they both grew up in the Midwest. They both liked sports, TV, sarcasm and writing. They both took the same anti-depression medication. Of course, even though John was a former Leisure and Arts Editor at the Wall Street Journal he should have kept his editorial criticisms of Foster Wallace's novels to himself. John was always given Foster Wallace "helpful" suggestions on cutting some of the length of his novels and making some of his ideas clearer. Foster Wallace would inevitably retort that at least he had attempted the "great American" novel, while John was just a critic at a business journal. I usually exited the conversation at that point as things invariably got nasty.

Eventually John and Foster Wallace asked a favor of me. It seems they both were stuck on this planet because of the way they had attempted to exit this planet, namely by taking their own life. For reasons that they could never explain to me, suicide victims are stuck on earth after their death because of the heavy energy states released during death. If you die by other means, the human energy potential is released skyward, and accounts for the lights of the aurora borealis. They were eager to exit this planet once and for all. But to do that, I had to take them to the north pole by air, where, on a clear night, they could jump out of the plane and their energy could assimilate into the aurora borealis.

I readily agreed to help them out, but it did take some advance planning on my part. First, I had to learn how to fly a plane, then purchase a plane, and finally plan our mission. This took me all of several weeks to accomplish. Then, on a bright clear night in October, I opened the hatch door at 20,000 feet, and watched my two friends leap into oblivion. Of course, I captured the entire event on my new Iphone 6, which they both appreciated:-).

Monday, September 29, 2014

Osmosis: A Satire

The best satire concerns what we care about most deeply.

That was what I thought as I applied the liquid patch my forehead and waited until it dissolved into the bone and through the blood/brain barrier of my brain. These new liquid apps were so convenient. No more upset stomach, the hack was applied right to the source. This app was appropriately marketed as "Instant Zen"

The affect on my consciousness was instantaneous. The room lightened and rotated slowly before it came into an intense focus. My breathing became slow and deliberate. My mind, normally active, quieted and I felt an amazing sense of peace. After this initial programming sequence was complete, a pop up screen appeared in my vision. I selected the option "Deeper Geography 1."

I felt myself going deeper into awareness. I shut my eyes and and felt them glazing upward, but still closed. I began seeing and feeling pulsating lights at the top of my brain as my consciousness descended lower. The entire top of my head was now awash in light and became numb, but I descended down so that I rested almost at the geographic center of my brain. My ears were full of a humming noise that vibrated throughout my entire body.

I began to experience the inner workings of my mind. Voices and memories appeared frontally. Surges of emotions manifested themselves in my hind brain. I felt I was under a deep ocean and any memory or sensation of the outside world was condensed into the four corners of a room that I felt to be the dimensions of my brain.

After I was in this state for a preset amount of time, another pop up appeared, for this app had custom duration presets. I selected the option "Go Big".

Now with my eyes opened I returned to the room I had never left. Only the source of my consciousness, the source of the "me" disappeared and was enmeshed in whatever object in the room my gaze rested on. It was if I no longer had a physical body, but the source of my perceptions now derived externally.

Eventually, another pop up appeared. This one stated, "Trial Version Expires in 15 minutes. The complete App is available in your ITunes store, 12.99Y for unlimited use."

Tuesday, September 16, 2014

God is not Great, God is not Good, But She Sure Knows How to Ferment Some Mango

"God is not Great, God is not Good." I used to think this a lot. But I sure wasn't saying this when I was kidnapped by Al Qaeda in Botswana and conscripted into their rag tag Army.

I'm not sure why I went to Botswana in the first place. My daughters were horrified that I was going. Still my friend Max from India insisted that he knew this cool five star resort on the beach we could stay at.  I think the real reason was that he had business to do with the fledgling Botswana Air Force and wanted to make a vacation out of it.   He kept telling me that Botswana was midway between India and the United States so it would be a perfect place for us to meet. I never found out what happened to Max.

When I arrived at the Botswana regional airport, the situation was already in turmoil. The government troops had been driven back and the airport was in control of the rebels. I was put on a rickshaw under gun point and told that I would be going to the rebel army base. Along the way, my driver and guard were shot and I was taken by a group of teenagers to a small village on the outskirts of Gaborone. It was there that I learned that the teenagers that captured me were part of the Al Kareem Jabaar, the local franchisee of Al Qaeda.

It was surprising how well I assimilated.   I wasn't treated all that badly.   I could tell that they wanted to be friends with me. I went through all the religious rituals they taught me.   I learned how to shoot an AK-47. I was provided with a little sleeping mat which doubled as a prayer mat and given my little corner of a crowded room to sleep.

What I remember most of those endless days of training was the food. Next to the kitchen area was a little bucket were they put all their scraps of food to ferment. Fermented mango was my favorite dish there and I kept thinking how healthy it made me feel. As if I was living close to nature and getting all these natural probiotics that I missed in my Western diet of processed foods.

So everything was going along swimmingly until the Imam's came. I had no idea of who or what an Imam was, but the Al Qaeda people I was with started freaking out when they looked up at the sky one day and saw what looked like priests dressed in white robes and turbans descending on hand gliders into our facility. I later learned that these Imam's were kinda like enforcers of the Islamic faith. Brutal enforcers. They made sure all the local Al Qaeda franchisees were operating an organization that was up to snuff. I could tell right away that my new Al Qaeda friends were concerned for my safety.   I soon found out why.

As soon as the Imam's landed, Marquis, the ad hoc leader of our group was engaged in heated discussions with one of the Imam's about me. They kept pointing in my direction. Like a good little acolyte I kept my head down and avoided any eye contact the the Imams.   Soon one of the Imams came over to me. I was already prostrate before him.

"So infidel," the Imam began, "I hear that you have infiltrated our little coven here with your blasphemy, but you don't fool me."

I remained silent.

"Tell, me, heathen," he continued, "What is the sound of one hand clapping?"

Without hesitation I replied: "All sound comes from Allah."

Hmmmm, the thought for a moment, "show me your true face before your parents were born."

Again, the answer welled up within me and I grabbed a piece of dirt: my face is the earth before Allah intervened and made it the white devil face you see before you today.

"Not bad infidel, but you will not be able to answer this: tell me does a Dog have Allah nature?"

This I knew was the ultimate trick question, but thankfully my new friends had made me study the koran every night and I remembered the answer from my arduous studies:

I responded. I choose answer "D" which in the official version of the Koran article 3 subsection 2 states, and I quote, "All things come directly from Allah, even the fermented Mango that we all enjoy with our our dessert."

"I like your faith, white devil, but I think my colleagues have other plans for you."

He motioned over to a different Imam, with beady eyes that they called El Al Eichmann.  Al Eichmann approached me and motioned for me to get up on a makeshift bench. He then removed a rope for his pocket and started stroking it with his palm.

Soon, Al Eichmann had me prone on the bench. It was then what I saw was in store for me. For on the other side of the compound they had another acolyte tied up on a bench with his legs bent behind him in an unnatural position that I knew would be intensely painful. The acolyte was screaming in pain.

"This is a little test of our faith," Al Eichmann said as he began to tighten the ropes.

I'm don't remember exactly what happened next. I remember them pulling my legs back in a way that was painful. Then I blacked out. Afterwards, my friends told me that I had survived the ordeal. And I had thrown up.  And not just a little.   Instead, I had thrown up prodigiously, which indicated, at least according to the Imam's that I had spewed out the great Western Satan and all of his works and was now ready to accept the one true God.

So I went with that idea the whole time I was in Botswana. But in my heart, I knew better.   For it wasn't any great Western Satan in my vomitus--but rather just a bunch of fermented Mangoes.

Sunday, September 14, 2014

I am the King of the Jungle, They call me "Tigerman"

I am the king of the jungle, they call me tiger man.

The man ain't got no hold on me nomore. I'm free. No more cellies, no more seg, no more guards. They let me out after that operation and all the work I did on all those god forsaken towns between Statesville CC and what used to be Tamms.

They think they can still track me and they took away my mojo, but I think they are wrong. Man I know in St. Louis says he can take out what they put in me to keep me in line. I'm not so sure about that. I don't want nobody cutting into me anymore.

Still I was glad I did it. Volunteer they said to be some guinea pig. Put this little computer in you. And work off your restitution in all these little towns that are too poor anymore to fix their own roads and sewers. And I wasn't the only one. Percy, Ray, Cecil, George, Taliani, Bahrs, Priest, we all did it. Especially the lifers. Do anything we can to get out of that shithole Menard and the cages and the endless summers that dragged on and on in the sweltering heat in 4C. None of us could take it anymore. So we let them cut into us. Signed the consent. Got the court order. Now we are out.

But sometimes now that I am back I feel as useless now as a whistle on a plow. What's left to do all day? I know I should start taking those pills again, but the fog was too heavy and I didn't want to sleep all day. And all these free people now walking around all day over and over again same old thing. I have to get out of this place. Find something new. But it would all be the same whereever I went. And it gets so cold at night sometimes. I still feel like I'm living in a dream and my face still looks like a stranger. I've been here a couple of months now, but its not like a I live here.

I should just turn off my brain and go download one of the books they gave me. And wait for the final session, I guess. Its like I'm two people, and right now the other one is running the muscles.

I go out the door, onto the street, and I head for St. Louis.

Wednesday, September 10, 2014

Guardian Angel Kroeter

My friend Kroeter from college had been dead for over a decade but that didn't stop him from giving me a bunch of crap on a regular basis. Not that I minded much.   I was pretty lonely at the time.

Kroeter was always online. I have no idea how he maintained his Internet account after his death. But every time I logged into Messenger or Facebook to chat, he was always available, 24/7. I think he maintained relationships with a number of people after his death.   In life, I remember that Kroeter frequently exchanged stock tips with some Porn star named Asia Carrero.   I may have her last name wrong. He probably preferred haunting her to me actually.   I think when he was alive she refused to give him her phone number or address.   No doubt, death provided him an opportunity to stalk her in new and imaginative ways. I wonder how she dealt with it? No doubt she had a constant voyeur. lol.

When the ghost of Kroeter first made contact with me, I lived in a run down apartment near a large state university. When Kroeter was alive he and I attended a small private college. The state university I lived at that time had a ton more women on campus--but I still couldn't get laid. I even worked at a job that I thought would be cool with the women. But even though I worked to save the whales, I still could not lose my virginity.

So my ghost friend Kroeter offered to help me with my predicament.   Kroeter was always giving me tips, always whispering in my ear when I talked to women. In retrospect, it was kinda like Cyrano de Bergerac. You know, that French guy that could always say the right things to woo women, but couldn't show his face because it was too ugly. But in Kroeter's case, he couldn't show his face because he was dead and I only I could see him. Despite his best efforts, I still had no luck with women--even though I said all the "smooth" things Kroeter told me. In retrospect, maybe my lack of luck had more to do with the fact I was old and creepy hitting on younger college women.

I remember one time I was in a bar talking to women and I thought I would impress them with my freaky telekinetic powers. My plan was that I would tell the woman I was interested in that I could move the napkin on the table with my mind. I told Kroeter that I expected that he would move the napkin and the woman would be impressed. However, when I tried it, Kroeter disappeared and would not help me. Goddamn that pissed me off. I stayed upset with him for a long time after that and didn't speak with him.

Many months later, Kroeter tried to talk with me while I was sitting in in the bleachers at a baseball game. I was tired and dehydrated. I wanted to take a nap. Kroeter began massaging my forehead, just like you would do to a baby that was being grumpy. I don't remember what happened next. I must have fallen asleep. Afterward, Pete only spoke to me in my dreams, like a guardian angel.

Sitting in Motion