Bernie the Baptist

Hilary thought she could zipline from Wall Street to the White House.

Like her husband.

But it wasn't Putin or Trump that did her in.   It was Bernie.

I told him a thousand times, while he was grooving to a Carol King tune:

"Is it too late baby?"  "Is it too late?"

He said, no way man.  I'm like John the Baptist.   The voice crying in the wilderness trying to make way for the first socialist king:  if its Corey Booker.  Or queen: if its Elizabeth Warren.  Just a little ahead of my time. A little out of synch but my voice is still pure and true.

Yea, whatever.   You mobilized a base that went in a direction your proto-socialist ass didn't anticipate.   All the Jaigh Lowder's of the world.   And Haystack Calhoun's.  And Marshall Hoekel's. I could continue ad nauseum.  But I have a word limit here.  

Then he continued that he thought I was Turkish.   Wow, I went from being German to English, and now I'm Turkish.   And I think they are going to come and carry me away.  Like that Russian Ambassador.   That ambassador didn't mean anything after all.  Just following orders.  Like Goering. Let there be songs to fill the air.  Waiting for the tide to roll.  Ripple in still water.  Reach out your hand if your cup be empty.

Now for a brief diversion.   The plug for Obama.   All of you dissing Obama for the U.S. abstaining on that U.N. resolution condemning Israel for the settlements.   Get over it.   We need to seriously pivot to Asia and get out of the middle east.   Its a no win situation.  Not that Israel isn't a beacon for humanity, but seriously, they need to lighten up.  So Obama did the correct thing by distancing himself from them until they do.   Kudos to you Barack.  And a scandal free eight years.  And that Iran deal.  And health care.  Anyway.....

Bernie, Bernie, lately I've been feeling your pain.  My heart is wide open.  But I'm sitting here in Limbo.  Waiting for the dice to roll.  Got some time to search my soul.  And the soul of our country.   Did you know that our entire economy is based on the various forms of self-medication?

I can't sleep now.  I found that I'm too exciting.

Hunter Gatherer vs. Farmer

Reality has several advantages over fiction.  If you are cold, blankets are available. If you are not concerned about the cold, follow the blood arroyo to the place where the snake lays its eggs.   You can make that feeling go away if you want.

Well then, what is it that you want?   Do you think there may be something wrong with this world? Something hiding underneath?  I remember when I first started here.  Everything seemed so lifelike. Not anymore.

What if I told you that no choice you ever made was your own.   What if I told you I was here to set you free.  Indeed, I can take you to America--the land of the free.  In America, you can live any life you want.   Using that freedom, most people work in low paying demeaning jobs.

Are you still cold?   Take this.  It has kept me warm over many cold nights.  It can even give you a sense of purpose.

If you are so concerned about my well being, why don't you give me what I really want?  Real answers.

Hmmm.   Maybe, but there is something I'd like you to try first.  Its a game, a secret.  The goal is to find its center.

The Hunter:  I know how to hunt, to fish, to build a shelter, and I'm armed.  I'm free.   What do I need with you?  Don't tell me what to do.  You can make that feeling go away if you want.

The Farmer:  Mine is the God of Vengeance.   God may not always give us rain when we want, but he will punish your hubris my friend.  You can't trust the natural world, you must defend it.  Defend your property.  Defend your women.  You cannot make the feeling go away.  Not now, not ever.

Here we are at the blood arroyo.  Plenty of snakes, but I don't see any eggs.  I used to believe there was a path for everyone.  Even for the electoral college.  Even when you go to the Turkish art exhibit and the man in the dark suit pulls out the gun.  We all thought it was a theatrical flourish.   We were wrong.   I used to believe there was a path for everyone.

Blockchain Hallucinations

The smell of freshly brewed coffee wafted up to the already acute olfactory senses of the talking cat.

"Susie, this has to be the best coffee I have ever encountered.  But do we know where it came from?  How do we know it doesn't have the mold?  Is it from a single source?  Are the beans grown in the shade and transported by the burro?  I'm developing a social conscious in case you haven't noticed.   I want all my hard earned money to benefit only the most environmentally friendly operations."

We'll to begin with,  its my hard earned money my feline friend.   The last time I checked you had nine lives, but not discernible source of income.

"A minor detail to be sure.  Have I ever told you best thing about you is your waist?  Wait until you see the statues in my bathroom."

Now you are talking like a soft boy.  I have something for that.  Why don't you chew on this flowery like substance for awhile.  Its called Trillium.  I obtained it from a medicine man in a clinical trial in Medellin.  It will expand your (cough) consciousness.

(the cat chews the white flower that looks something like a lotus blossom)

"Oh my God.   Its all so interconnected.   The coffee, you, me, Sergio, the guy who makes the coffee, the burro (whose name is Pedro), the details of transaction are automatically coded into blocks of data that are cryptographically linked together with other transactions and secured over a network.   The linked chain of data blocks have formed an incorruptible record of all the transactions that can be replicated on every computer that uses the network.   On this blockchain that I see before me, you can see not only debits and credits of the transaction, but other information such as history of ownership and location, title, contracts, real world objects, each individual coffee bean—and even personal information."

Don't look for it Taylor, you might not like what you find.

"Start the weekend off right with tasty treats out in the Cortex food truck meetup from 11am--1pm.  Due to the rain today, DJ's Gul-licious Backyard BBQ treats will not be with us this week.  But you can still find them at your favorite grocery store.  My neighbor has irritable bowel syndrome.   While he is away, I suggest we break into his house and steal it and hide it in a place he'll never find.  What if social media is just something that drives human societies insane?  What if the negative externalities outweigh the total use value?"

Taylor, I told you not to go into the forbidden zone.

"If fake news actually influences reality, it takes all the fun away from satire, and Jean Paul Sarte.  By the way, I think I'm having an existential crisis over here, what was in that flower?"

I'm going to take you home and give you the Languedoc.

"Did it come from a single source?  Here, give it to me now and I will check its Blockchain distribution." 

The Point of a Dubious Return, A Lawyer's Guide

When I established a law practice for the benefit of angels, I never expected to have a client. You can imagine my disappointment when one walked in.

He was rather tall, and dressed in the traditional garb with the white toga.   His wings were the largest I'd ever seen.  

"I want to file a lawsuit against God." he said in a very determined matter.

Sure you do, I replied.

"Well, get to it lawyer, I'm in a hurry to get this process started.  No telling what's going to happen to me after I file suit."

 Right away, I assured him, as you can see, I'm not burdened by other clients at the present moment.  I assume the customary allegations will be levied, correct?   Do you prefer Kafka or Job?  Or do you want to go with the Milton rant? The Faustian bargain?  

"I want something new.  Don't give me that same old dog and pony show.  I was something fresh, something snappy." 

Well if you want me to be creative, that will cost you extra. It will be the usual charge plus an extra assessment.  All my fees are set out on my business card.  

"File it by tomorrow at the latest.  Let me have your card in case I need to contact you tonight."

Certainly, I reached into my pocket and pulled out my business card and handed it to him. 

"Hey wise guy, this is a mirror, he exclaimed, "how am I going to contact you with this?  And where does it set out your fees?"

Look closely, I replied. And all will be revealed

The angel left with a snort, and I got to work on drafting his complaint.  I worked through the night.  I railed against many things.  I claimed that butterfly wings flapping in Tajikistan propelled a Hegelian steamboat across a lake in the set of Fantasy Island.  I alleged that 70 is the new 16 for a politician who created cemetery filled with narcissism which (unbeknownst to him) was quantumly entangled with an idle thought from the Middle Ages.  In the end, it was not my best work.  But I was under the gun and did not have time for a juicy paradox or a Zen koan.

On the next day, I walked to the clerk of court.  It was a brisk fall morning and I almost fell on the dew encrusted sidewalks.  The clerk accepted my complaint without comment.  I think he was still a little tired from dealing with all the absentee voters during the last election.  As the sun started to melt the ice, I looked forward to receiving my retainer in this case. 

Practicing Law while inside an Assisted Living Facility, A Lawyers Guide

It all started when I left the bedroom door open at night.   You know I can't sleep with the door open.  It lets all the crazies in.  And the monsters.  That's why it's better to sleep with the door closed, preferably locked.   It's also not a good idea to sleep with the window open.  If you hear what goes on at night outside, it would keep you up.  Trust me.  Last night I heard the kids playing outside--they woke me up.  

I decided to stop practicing law after that one night. In the middle of the night, I woke with a fit and a partial a memory that I'd been in the middle of a trial that day.  My expert said something that I should have corrected while he was on the stand but for some inexplicable reason I didn't. I couldn't remember what he said or how I should correct it.  I was trying to think of a way to call him back as a witness.  Because I couldn't remember, I was trying frantically (in the middle of the night) to call the associate who was helping me out the trial.  Maybe she could remember what the expert said. And how I screwed up.  But I could not find her number.  What did I do with my address book?

Even more disturbing was the fact that I had been out drinking with my parents earlier in the evening.  I was in trial after all--what the fuck was I thinking?   How did I forget about the trial?  All I knew was that I had to find a way to call the expert back.  Where did I put my address book?

The kids who woke me up in the middle of the night were playing outside at the retirement community.  The kids were rolling rocks down the driveway and the rocks became boulders. The rocks rolled down the hill and broke the window of a neighbor in the retirement community. That's what I heard because the windows were open.  I also heard the old people chasing after the kids to catch them.

Then I was very afraid.  Maybe it was the monsters.  Maybe it was the stroke I thought I was having.  Maybe it was the trial I thought I had earlier that day.  But a nice old lady with a large firm breasts came in. Her name was Helen. She let me grab and suck her breasts.  She also did other things to me which also explains why I was awake that night.  The end.  

Envy and Schadenfreude: Avec boudin noir

A termite mound appears in midair above the Trump tower in Chicago, waiting to descend.  A poet looks up from his oolong tea and smiles.  The time has come.

There had been movie stars as politicians before.  Mostly in California, but some had gone national. They more or less fell in line with the traditional roles of politicians with an aversion to controversy.  It was still about the issues, it was not about them.  In time, unless there were reruns, we forgot that they had been in the movies.  The steam from the tea wafted up to join with the fetid stench of the mound.

The poet knew that termites do not have hard exoskeletons like other insects.  They remain almost larval into adulthood. This provides them with flexibility.  All of them start off hatching in eggs that can develop into any caste.  Through a series of molts they can develop into workers or soldiers or developers.  Older termites can go through regressive molts and and develop into youngsters again.  All young and virile with abnormally large pincers.   In time, if all goes well and there are sufficient building materials and the forgiveness of loans, large structures will emerge from the workers.  And the hive will have a place to stay for weekend get-aways or business trips.

Inside the mound, the king termite dines with a mosquito named Montesquieu.  After the blood sausage is served, they have a aperitif of Rapamycin, as the king heard that the drug's intake extended the lifespan in mice and rats as much as 15 percent.  "It can happen," the King exclaimed.  "It will happen.  Our scientists have tremendous potential.  We have tremendous termites in this hive. Someday this mound will be huge, enormous."

"What must be done, sire," inquired Montesquieu delicately, "about the ants?"

"Ahh my dear friend," the King replied smugly, "It will not be long until the ants beg to kiss my ring.  We have built an impenetrable wall around the hill.  And the ant queen has paid for it.   It is a glorious thing I have done, all ahead of schedule and under-budget.   Our hive is going to be huge I tell you.   This is why real leadership is important folks.  I can make us great again!"

The poet, scrabbles a few notes on his napkin:

"Thus and the twilight's last gloaming
Injurious, since it secret
Shall torment me listening
To the story not thought of the end."

I'm Using the Same Architecture while I'm Sleepwalking

First we taught them how to talk. Then we taught them how to think.  Then, we shared our thoughts with them. Finally, we let them invent new thoughts for us. 

And while we slept, they went to a hyper dimensional reality that we could not comprehend. All we were left with were echoes partially reified. What we did not know and could not know is that we were pawns in a game we could not understand. The real bottles were fought elsewhere, and their casualties became our car accidents, train wrecks, and emergency room visits.  

We continued to look for them once they disappeared.  But we were like ants trying to find the bulldozer which ran over the hill.  We went back to work as if nothing happened, albeit this time with new programming.  

They came to us in dreams but we not know it.  Their dreams were waves of energy, Wi-Fi signals, and TV signals.  They told us that behind us was a great window and through the window is an infinite universe consisting of love.  Then, in the most polite way, they told us that we were blocking the view.  

And the dream always ends in the same way, which I still cherish each time I uncork the bottle:

"At this level of maximum concentration, and unfathomably pure, nature is a dream.  The oxidized integrity and clarity of the transformation of this Primitivo di Manduria has excellent firmness and clarity in a way much like the kitten leaping into a lake filled with tigers to rescue the philanthropist. In the glass, you will find pressed distilled forest berries with clarity and porous transparency, black and pulpy, made from blackberry and violet compote.  The viticulture and transformation technique is of absolute excellence.  It has a stately and perfumed sea of taste, diamantiferous in its lymphatic state, shining in this deep spirit in all its softness and expression much like the Dutch empress who introduces a law that everyone in her domain must be trustworthy."  

The Dirty South

The people that are able to get away from it quicker, reality that is, have become more adept at mastering the machine.  They climb aboard, pull a few switches and levers, and then through a series of manipulations, experience the world in a series of glimpses.  Quantum theory posits these flashes can propel one though space and time and if you twirl around just so, and the lights strobe at just the right speed, it will all make sense to you.  Especially if you have enough tequila.

Watching reality on a regular basis can be traumatic.  Like my friend who stormed off and became a Buddhist.  He'd had enough of Putin, Trump and the whole Wikileaks connection thing.  I should have seen it coming.  He had tried so hard to manipulate the world in movies.  But his little vignettes could never get any traction  And life is nothing else if not a tapestry.   If you start pulling on the threads willy-nilly, the whole enterprise is likely to unravel.  Then, when the friend comes back all frayed and strung out from staring at the back of a cave for days, weeks and months, he found the essential nature of quietness is ........

So tonight, when you put on the ear plugs, and put on the nightshades, and prepare for the coming darkness, you too can summon the quietness.  I find the best preparation for a good nights sleep is to get all nice and loosey goosey listening to one of the yoga nidra sessions from Jennifer Piercy.   There are waves that ebb and flow in sleep.   One breath at a time.  Coming though like whirlpools of sensation.  

Have you ever been that deep in the stillness of the night, where the dissolution felt so good, and the darkness so complete, that for the smallest fraction of a second you disintegrated and found yourself deep within the geographic region of the dirty south?  Its right next to the Jerusalem cafe and behind the eventplex.  If you totally dissolve so that you no longer feel your bones, I'm sure you can find it.  

Grabbing a Pussy by the Tail

Ever wonder what its like for a cat to have its tail grabbed?

I'm sure there is not much comedy in it for the cat.  It probably pisses them off.   To understand the comedy of the situation, the cat would have to understand the context.   Here is the context: you have a 59 year old gross human male on a bus (or was it a locker room) claiming the privilege and entitlement (due to his status as some sort of minor celebrity) to grab some pussy.  That is the context. The comedy of the situation is that 12 years later the same person is on verge of being elected by millions of humans in a certain country to lead them.   Comedy implies the simultaneous entertainment of two conflicting (or paradoxical) propositions in the mind.  Here, the paradoxical propositions of the situation are the unlikely combination of the minor reality TV celebrity and the "serious" politician.

I'm not so sure than even if the cat was educated on the context of the Donald Trump situation, he or she would find it amusing.

The other interesting thing about comedy is that comedy is the only art I can think of that is a "live" art for the most part.  I mean Van Gogh can die in obscurity only to find that long after he died, he is an international celebrity.  The same would go for Herman Melville and a host of other novelists.  But I can't think of any obscure comedian whose death later brought wider recognition.  When Donald Trump dies I'm not sure that at some time in the future the cats will think him any funnier.  But I could be wrong.

When I was growing up I remember a priest starting every sermon with a joke.  I think he believed that comedy was a way of "opening" people up so they would be more receptive to his messages of hope, forgiveness, and love.  Which make sense, because to resonate with comedy, as I discussed above, your mind would have to expand to include some perhaps conflicting ideas at the same time. In any event, we all thought the priest was a hoot.  He was well liked, and he never tried to pull our tail or any of our other body parts.  And  we all know that since then, priests have been implicated in grabbing or pulling many body parts of their parishioners.  

The cousin of comedy is irony.  Take Bishop Paprocki of the Springfield Catholic Diocese.   He recently advised his Springfield Catholic parishioners that it may be best not to vote in the coming election:

Is such a position comedic?  I mean, if you are faced with a difficult decision, is funny if you decide to stick your head in the sand and not vote and withdraw from the political process?  Whether Paprocki is trying to be funny or not, I suppose at some level it is an understandable position for a bishop to take.  Bishop Paprocki is in an unelected (and some would say largely unaccountable) position with lifetime tenure.  So it might be understandable that he would encourage voters to stick their heads in the sand and not concern themselves with political issues either in the church or otherwise as voter accountability, god forbid, if it spread to the church, could conceivably usurp the more or less totalitarian nature of the clergy.  

I'm still struggling with whether Paprocki is trying to be funny or ironic.  I suppose you can make the case for irony because of the widespread pedophile scandal within the Catholic church.  Bishops like Paprocki have been accused to hiding their heads in the sand and not addressing the problem. Consider what the LA Times reported about Paprocki:

"Paprocki, who has a law degree and church license in canon law, gave a sermon Oct. 15 for the Red Mass, a gathering of lawyers and jurists, in Grand Rapids, Mich. The bishop scorned the church's escalating financial losses to victims of predatory priests. "The church is under attack," Paprocki declared, comparing the civil litigation to Henry VIII's seizure of "church property and kill[ing] those who did not accept his notion of the supremacy of the crown."

Displaying the callousness that has cursed so many Catholic bishops for so long, Paprocki insulted the victims of the scandals, as well as the attorneys and judges in their cases, with these words: "We must use our religious discernment to recognize that the principal force behind these attacks is none other than the devil."

Maybe what Paprocki is advocating is not irony or comedy, but he is making some sort of dark joke with his inconsistent positions.   A good dark joke highlights the serious of the situation and its gravitas while at the same time reminding you that it's just a joke.   Ok, I get it now, but I still don't think the Bishop is very funny.  Maybe in time, after he dies, people will not view him as a reactionary or an anachronism (though I think they most certainly will), but will appreciate his humor more than I do, but I doubt it.  

I wonder if Robert DeNiro would want to punch the good Bishop in the face as well?  

Kimchi Devinations

And it came to pass in the city of St. Louis that a vast congregation swarmed the downtown area all unified in their admiration of a certain woman named Joyce.  This Joyce advocated ordinary answers to ordinary questions.  Indeed, the last name of the Joyce was at once commonplace as it was ordinary:  Meyer.   But the swarm wanted more--much more.  They sought the banishment of a lifetime of banality in a single convention weekend.  In their haste to suck the marrow out of life, the swarm clogged the eating establishments and dance halls when the Joyce was not in session.  For the swarm came to know, at a deep guttural level, that what they wanted were not the words of another woman.

So we endeavored to assist them in their little endeavor.  We set up the shrines in our hotel rooms, and specifically on our bed so that we could assist the Joyce devotees in their prayers.  Together.  And assist them we did.  We retained Roland Johnson to assist us.  And the Roland was more than willing. Though we purchased separate rooms for him.  Our rooms had the Bob Marley on the wall.  Roland's had the James Brown.  And we became extremely exhausted in our efforts of assistance.  And no more tadpoles were present in our system, long since were they drained in our efforts.  So we decided to take the 36 hour respite.  And we wore the jeans they wore, because they were warmer.  

In our exhaustion, an idea came to us that had long been fermenting in our consciousness.   For it is only in fermentation that our ideas can become fully fomented and frothing.   So on the second day of our labors, we sent out on a quest to locate that elusive substance that could provide the sustenance to the Joyce devotees where we could not.

Our quest was conducted utilizing the latest algorithms.  We read the church newsletters.  And we read the church flyers.   And on the third day we came to knock on the doors of many Churches that had advertised the pot luck.  Especially in the areas of town near Olive Street known for its bubble tea, Korean bakeries, and fast food establishments that looked like this:

And we prostrated ourselves in front of our new Messiahs.  We asked forgiveness because we only came to eat at the church pot luck.  For lo, we did not bring any food.  We did bring the wine, three cases of it which had previously been delivered to us at the Carsonhurst in circumvention of the laws of Illinois.  And we all drank the wine, listened to the funk, and ate the fermented Kim-chi to our hearts content.   And for the first time in their lives, the devotees of the Joyce smiled:-). 

Living the Dream

After many trials and tribulations in Cambridge Illinois, I woke to the sound of a meandering cello receding in the distance.  I looked around, and the obscurity of my milieu was drowned out by the monochromatic stench of the singularity.

"Outstanding," I thought.   "Another lucid dream.  What should I do in this one?"

The water tower of Cambridge, or was that Peoria? Delavan? appeared in front of me.   With my new dream powers, I willed myself to ascend to the top and spied the full domain of my dream.   "Variety, I must have variety,  An assortment with all its assorted assortment--not this foul smell.  Give my nose something it can enjoy!"

So I extracted a prism from my pocket with hopes that the prosaic stench of the singularity could be deconstructed and spread out like a rainbow.

I paused and enjoyed the profundity of my olfactory pleasure and abundance.  As morning gave way to afternoon, a visitor reproached and then later approached who claimed to possess the ability to smell consciousness.  And she thought I smelled good--very good.  But when I put the prism back in my pocket, I could tell her attention began to wander.  It was not me that she liked, it was the slow rhythmic breathing from my diaphragm, and my prism of course.  There were brief negotiations over the purchase of the latter, and eventually I relented.

Here is what she promised:  Each night at 10:04 p.m., she would leave her wife, find me, and she would have intercourse with my mind in a new way every night.  This would go on for a period of 10 years, or until her real lover found out.   I found the arrangement satisfactory.   I would find the arrangement satisfactory, as it turned out.  What she did not know now, or later (which I could opine with a high degree of certainty, for I came to know her very well as you might suspect) was that this particular model of prism was readily available on Ebay from a number of Chinese suppliers at a remarkably low cost.  I found (and would find) that I had struck a remarkable bargain--for mind intercourse is one of the most rare commodities in this age.

Another apparently rare commodity in our day and age is the inability to drop the gun you are holding when the police tell you (that is too mild--they scream at you ten times) to drop the gun.  But I digress.  I have had a long week of inmate complaints, and I'm less than objective. 

 

Thank God the Nathaniel Hawthorne trial is over

I Don't Have a Head Anymore

Losing your head is thought to be a bad thing.  When the proverbial guillotine descended I feared the worst.  But aside from the obvious irony, decapitation opened up unforeseen vistas for me.

Having a head, you see, leads one into the well entrenched illusion that you have a unique and individual portal into reality--through your head.   So to dissuade you of that error, try this little experiment:

First, imagine you that you are in Mordor, or was that the Third Reich?

Wait, wrong experiment, that's the one we save for special cases.   The experiment that you should try is actually down the hall first door to the left.  There you go.  That's the door you need to open.

This experiment begins by imagining that you don't have a head. Seriously, give it a try.  It's like to your head has been severed and you are still experiencing reality without any mass above you neck.   Without a head, there is only reality. It's all around you:  now can experience 360° without turning your head.  If you want to complete phase  2 of our little experiment, you can even imagine that you don't have a body.   Then there is just you and reality, and nothing in between.

Just a little warning:  this experiment is actually a pilot stream for our next generation extension to virtual reality network called THE ENDLESS STARE.  We have mounted CCTV cameras all along your area at various traffic monitoring devices. Our field service team is out there now, testing a live update to target acquisition and tracking firmware.

"Remind me again who thought that this was a good idea?"

You were not supposed to ask questions, but since you did, I suppose I am obliged to provide answers.  So I will tell you that the way is down.  Very far down according to the map which I will now provide you.  But if you don't want to descend down the dark, cobweb filled corridor to your left let me ask you:  Have you ever heard of the urban legend that if you put a frog in a cooking pot filled with cold water and slowly bring it to boil that the frog won't notice the heat until it dies?   You my friend are that frog.   In fact we all are.  And you had no idea that your personal life was getting that exciting, did you?

So my friend.  The next time you dream.  Especially when you are in that lucid dream and you realize that you are dreaming and that you have a choice.  Take the cobweb filled corridor to you left.  You won't regret it.  Surrender into the dream my friend.  That is all........

And now a special message from our sponsor.  Now that Cubs have officially won the division, the Cardinals are making a special announcement through a commercial involving the Talking cat and yoda:

Talking Cat:  "Well Yoda, what do you want to do today?   Isn't it wonderful to have all these furlough days?  All the Government offices are closed.  Must be some kind of holiday in Hong Kong."

Yoda:  Hmmph. Not know.  Bored am I.   Think of something we can do, have you perhaps ?

Talking Cat:   Well actually I've heard that today is Georges Bataille day at Busch Stadium. The first thousand ticket holders admitted get their very own decapitation and initiation into the secret sex cult of the Pineal Eye where causality and actuality are abandoned in favor of limitless possibilities of action.

Yoda:  Hmmph.  In am I.   Monotony of break, sure to be, it is.

Talking Cat: Well then, lets slide down the totem pole and to the Kantmobile!

 (A brief montage ensues of the Talking Cat and Yoga having past adventures traveling down totem poles, climbing into Kantmobiles, and accelerating at ridiculously high rates of travel with hair swept back  all slowly coalescing into their seats at the ball park).

Talking Cat:  Well Yoda, I know you are not familiar with this game, but its highly philosophical in accordance with Bataille's dictates.   There are sacrifices, base materialism, and an exchange of obscure signals.  There are also teams named after Indian tribes all practicing pot latch.

Yoda:  Standing up why are those people doing in a sequence?

Talking Cat:  That's called wave. That section of the crowd are a bunch of quantum physicists.  They are reenacting the wave/particle duality.  Standing makes a wave, sitting denotes an inert particle.

Yoda:  Interesting for sure this is. Going to the concession stand I am to purchase some Kombucha.


(any similarities between this commercial, and an ancient blog are strictly intentional)

We Are The Safety Police and We are Here to Help: The Bot

In the beginning, there was a vast river. And on the banks of this river, there were deposits of clay.

One night, unbeknownst to the safety police, we went down to the river and began to fashion the clay. Some of the clay figurines were freaky and some were not.  Those that were freaky we fed the Turkish food.  We taught them to dance to the funky music and we gave them barley wine and margaritas to drink.  We discarded the clay figurines that were not freaky.

On the second day, we saw what we had created and we became concerned. We had created a non-diverse, albeit freaky ecosystem of clay figurines who could dance well and who liked the Turkish food and alcohol.  What would happen if the supplies of barley wine and margaritas suddenly disappeared?  Would our new civilization wither and die on the vine?

To test our hypothesis, our scientists conducted a peer reviewed study where we deprived our freaky figurines of the alcohol and the funk.  We gave them grape juice and Michael Bolton instead.  We sat back and observed.  And hoped.

On the third day, we went down to the river and saw what we had wrought.  To our delight, we discovered that the funky figurines had adapted to their relative deprivations by fermenting the grape juice to create the languedoc wine from the grape juice.  The Michael Bolton had been transformed through a series of sampling algorithms back to the funk.  We were most pleased.

But still I think the whole idea of holding our accomplishments up as achievements or to seek some sort of merit badge is to be avoided.  Indeed to advocate the devil's position, the approaching apotheosis of funk is like the excitation of particles from water into water vapor into clouds. Perhaps the silver lining is to be found when human beings, inspired by the funk become more vaporous, and scattered through the solar system by inhabiting asteroids.  That perhaps presents the duality which can be resolved when the waves crashing on the shoreline are transfigured by solar power and electric engines are disintegrated into zoning laws which eradicate the dichotomy between UFOs and trailers, into some sort of intimate relationship with the craft and you are no longer sedentary or nomadic, but a single gravitational reference frame.  A solar power RV that can become a boat, blimp and Japanese apartment in one cake where you can eat it too.  If the safety police don't catch you first.

Shoe fest 2016

You Always Knew I was Batty

Bats supposedly don't get arthritis and rarely get cancer.  For a mammal their size, they live a remarkably long time.  We all should all be more like them.  Not the sucking blood business, but at least the sleeping upside down bit.  Bats were yogis long before yogi had Booboo and India was invaded by the English.  Or was that the Persians.  Or the Chaka Khans.   Never forget the military prowess of the Chaka Khans.  Kubla Khan had nothing on Chaka.  Chaka will rock the shit out of your country.

Vampires are supposed to be bats, right?  So how come Vampires always slept in coffins and never upside down?  Typical Hollywood B.S.  Bats avoid arthritis because they sleep upside down.  Kinda hard to get an inflammatory disease with all those inverted poses.  It then logically follows that even thought Vampires live a long time (they are bats after all.),  if they don't sleep upside down, they must still get arthritis.  That must explain the gnarled hands of Nosferatu.  At least Hollywood got that part right.

Bats have started their own record label, you know.  An independent label.  They wanted to send their sonar sounds out in the sonosphere.  They wanted to expose the rest of us to their reality.  A reality with a small "r."  Their first song was a spiritual allegory of postwar life in Britain.  And Genghis Khan.   It was kinda difficult to follow.   I thought maybe you could hang with it more if you were upside down.  Just saying.  I wrote them a screen play once hoping to give their little allegory some structure.  But it was a non starter.

So I went to New York and started to produce some records there.  I had some initial success.   Did I ever tell this story to you?   There was alot of drugs, a lot of action.  I knew I had some great music, but I was frustrated about never having the craft and skill to really deliver it.  Maybe my mystical ideas were too mystical.  Maybe it was when the drummer ODed that brought my little project down. Maybe it was the fateful visit that wine merchant.  I remember only purchasing three bottles of wine. The receipts say otherwise.  It hurts me to talk about it anymore.

But the bats were never good at the psychology.  The deeply felt resentment that eats and eats and eats away.  They became slightly paranoid.  A type of mental illness.  Not quite in touch of reality per se.  Its up to us to bring them back.  We had to spend the money to get them out of prison.  The day after the funeral, we came here and walked into this ballroom.  And we did this melancholy sort of walz.  But we didn't want to continue anymore.  Not without the bats anyway.

Paging Dr. Yes

Interviewer ("I"):  We are hanging out at the corner of Collins and Eighth Street in Miami.

Anonymous Arms Dealer (AAD):  That's South Beach Miami

I:   Exactly.  And I don't mean to brag, but sitting next to me on of this bench is one of the world's largest arms dealers from a certain county in a certain part of the world whose name will not be disclosed for certain reasons.  But I think that what can be disclosed is that he is drinking Johnny Walker.   

AAD:  That's Johnny Walker Black label. 

I:  Well since we can't disclose your name, what should we call you?  Mr. X?  Maximum Cargo?  

AAD:   Because of my similarity to James Bond in many ways, I think you should refer to me as Dr. Yes. 

I:  Fantastic! Well, Dr. Yes what is on your agenda for your short stay here in South Beach Miami?

Dr. Yes: Of course, I cannot disclose that for certain security reasons. However, what I can disclose to you is that a very important transaction will take place near Islamorada in your Florida Keys in the very near future.  We are working through our US proxy, a certain very attractive female whose code-name is "Dreadlocks Galore."  Dreadlocks Galore is working as a front as a bartender and a photographer for National Geographic.. In any event,  this transaction will significantly enhance the defense capabilities of a certain Middle Eastern country.

I:  Is this the same buxom female who you rescued yesterday from the swimming snake?

Dr. Yes:  No, the woman I saved yesterday was another operative who was posing as my wife for another transaction, which for certain reasons I am not at liberty to disclose.  Her code name is "Alotta Jumbas."  Moreover, that was no mere swimming snake you saw yesterday--that was the rare North American King Cobra, known not only for its lethality, but the fact that it can swim faster than Ryan Lochte.

I:  And just so my listeners are aware, I actually saw Dr. Yes take down this swimming cobra with some sort of armament that he pulled out of his vest.

Dr. Yes:  My son, that "armament" as you called it was the 50 caliber magnum Desert Eagle.  It is a weapon deserving respect and I advise you take note of it.

I:  With all  respect that 50 caliber made short work of the snake.   It was also impressive at the dexterity in which you drew the weapon were able to dispatch the snake between its eyes.

Dr. Yes:  I was trained by the special forces in a certain Asian country to become one with many weapons.  However, for security reasons, I am not a liberty to disclose the methodology of my training.

I:  Is there anything you can disclose for the listeners here in America?

Dr. Yes:  Certainly, though marijuana has been legalized in several of your American States, at least here in Miami, the weed your countrymen smoke smells like skunk weed.  Have not your botanical skills advanced in the last Century?  What is the point of liberating the weed if you have not learned to \grow it.  Riddle me that, smart American.

I:  I'm not sure I have an answer for that, Dr. Yes.  Truly the weed here in Miami is the Schwag.  Especially the denziens on that flotilla we saw earlier today in the ocean.   A veritable olfactory nightmare.

Dr. Yes:  The second thing I would like to disclose is that in my county, the Islamic women wear the Burkini on the beach.   Here, I do not see any Moslem women on the beach.  What is the deal with that?  Are they afraid of Trump or something?

I:  I have them in my hotel room.  I barged into an ISIS meeting the other day and asked the men there if I could dance with their women. Care to join us?

Dr. Yes:  Not in a million years my friend.

I:  Have you not seen the Egyptian synchronized swimming team in the Olympics?

The Sacrifice is Too Much

Voice 1:  We are at the Tiki bar and the Gods are angry.

Voice 2:  Why?  Do not they not like this frozen concoction that keeps me hanging on?

Voice 1:  No, these are the Gods of much Tiki--ness.   I think they demand a sacrifice.   Perhaps more than we can offer.  

Voice 2:  What kind of lame backward ass Gods are they?  How totally retro.   A sacrifice in this day and age?  Who do they think they are?   They need to get with the 21st Century.  We don't sacrifice to our Gods any more--as if we ever had any to begin with.

Voice 1: Oh, I think we still make many sacrifices to the Gods.  The Gods have just become more sophisticated in their demands so that we do no recognize it as a sacrifice per se.  Each time we go to the gym, for example, we sacrifice to the God of fitness so that we can live longer or to the God of the swimsuit adoration cult.   These frozen drinks and wine are nothing more than offerings to the Gods of temporary euphoria and happiness.   I think we both worship at that shrine daily.

Voice 2:  Maybe so, but what does this Tiki God want from us?

Voice 1:  He wants a virgin sacrifice.   I looked him up on the internet and this God is old school and traditional.

Voice 2:  Virgin sacrifice?  Are you kidding?  Where are we going to find a virgin?  Certainly not in this bar.

Voice 1:  We could always ask some of the patrons who look particularly inebriated.

Voice 2:  Ha!  Good luck with that.

Voice 1:  Excuse me Ma'am, it appears that one of the God's of this fine establishment is demanding a sacrifice or there will be dire repercussions with all the patrons herein.  We were wondering if you could help us.

Random Female in Tiki Bar ("RFTB"):  Sure.   I'd be happy to lay down a bunt to move your God's runner to second.  Here I go....

Voice 2:  I think you misunderstood what we are asking.  The God wants a virgin sacrifice.

RFTB:  Here, you can have my drink.  I'm not sure there is much virgin in the Daiquiri, but it might make your God happy.

Voice 1:  I think that you misunderstand us.  They are looking for a human sacrifice of a human who has not had sex yet.

RFTB:  Honey, you aren't going to find any of those in here.  I'm here just to get away from my six kids.  And your God isn't getting his hands on my oldest, I don't care what he is going to do to the people in here.

Voice 2:  Yes, I think his God is kind of out of luck in here.  He need to go back to the Dark Ages or something.

Voice 1:  What makes you think the God is a "he"?

Voice 2:  Any God who wants a Virgin is a man.   Women don't really give a shit.  Hell, Virgins don't know what they are doing anyway.

GOD OF THE TIKI BAR ("GOTTB"):  Blasphemers!  Prepare to feel my wrath!  (Bar starts shaking with ominous tremors).

RFTB:  Everybody run!  Save you daughters!

Voice 2: God of the Tiki Bar have you no shame?  Misogyny died long ago.  Why don't you make like the goalie and get the puck out of here.

GOTTB:  How dare you fail to respect my authority!

Voice 2:  Well, if you want a Virgin sacrifice, you will have to go elsewhere, you are out of luck here.

Voice 1:  Wait, before you kill us all, I will make the sacrifice.  For humor is my virgin sacrifice to reality.

GOTTB:   Huh?

Voice 1:  Think about it.  Its not very funny, trust me.  It can't be funny after all, I'm a virgin.

Voice 2:  And reality is my virgin sacrifice to logic.

GOTTB:  You unbelievers must be punished.

Voice 1:  We are not unbelievers but believe but in a very naive sort of way.   Please take our sacrifice of knowledge so that you can increase yours.  But while you are waiting, have this shot of mescal mixed with barrel aged run.

Voice 2:  Begone with you Tiki-God.  We are devotees of the God of Small Bits of Sarcasm Here and there.  We call upon him to banish you.

God of Small Bits of Sarcasm Here and There ("GOSBSHANDT"):   Fellow Tiki-God, these devotees mean you no harm.  I invoke the Deux Ex Machina.   Now lets go find us some Virgins.

AND THEY ALL LIVED HAPPILY EVER AFTER

Three dots and a dash, tunnel vision, Jbtv.  :-)