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An Actual Really Truly Live “Good Friday” Would Mean A Naked Stoned Hippie Woman Sirened Jesus Onto A Plane, Bound For The Great Ride Open, Flying Him Forever And Away From The CrossPublished April 17, 2014 Animal Matters , Capital Crime , Eros , Eternal Recurrence , First Peoples , Into The Light , Israel/Palestine , Johnny Law , La Musica , Oddbins , Outer Limits , Sunday Services , Variations In B-Flat , What's Good Leave a Comment
‘Cause otherwise, he’s going to have to go through this.
He is so much better off. With the naked stoned hippie woman. In the great ride open.
So apparently there is some rich-fuck rightwing racist shameless welfare-recipient Mormon-underpants-wearing rancher wantonly roaming his cows over public land for which he has not paid grazing fees for more than 30 years.
This nit-knock has deluded a Reality wherein the federal government don’t mean shit; only, so says he, shall he acknowledge the government of the State of Nevada. He’ll pay them, says he, the state people, to graze, his cattle, over land that don’t belong to him, but he won’t pay no feds.
Next, he’ll be raving on about how he gets to keep slaves.
‘Cause that is jist the sort of git, that this git is.
I am mostly— when not earning my crust in the folly of the law—painting oils, and planting seeds, these days.
Occasionally, I’ll peer into a tube.
That’s how I found out about this old nutbag Nevada sunburnt Mormon, who insists he can ejaculate his cows, for free, all over public land.
And my question, it is this: didn’t we already have the monolith?
Didn’t the true-life documentary film 2001: A Space Odyssey document the true fact that ape-men, they stood before a powerful passing planted black slab, millions of years ago, and thereby grew a brain?
So that we are actually millions of years beyond this yeehaw screaming till his lips bleed that he has a “natural right” to freely and flagrantly cornhole his cows on public land?
I am simply not allowing this crazed cattle-cornholer into my universe.
For he is like a species-appendix. Some weirdsmobile, completely shrunken and malfunctional organ, that may, several million years ago, have actually had a purpose. But, these days, we have no idea what that purpose may have been.
He is an old and desiccated desert rat, and soon he shall die. And, though his of-family people—who are many and manifold, because he refused in his lifetime to control in any way his loins—shall upon his memory weep, soon no one will remember anything about him.
Because, in the great wide open to come, all the land, will belong to everybody.
It is the bare beginnings of this, that this cornholing Rancher Retrovert, he cannot abide.
Too bad for him.
He’s already over.
We, of the seed people, we have gone long beyond all the galloping cornholing Rancher Retrovert horseshit that appears each day in the “news.”
This blah NSA blah Ukraine blah Nevada horse-ass blah blah blah blah.
Who gives a shit. None of them have ever once touched the monolith. They are so hundreds of millions of years behind the times. Just let them go. They don’t even actually exist. Close our minds to them: and they are gone. Willed-away wisps.
I am growing feverfew. Also, sunflowers. Moonflowers. Hot peppers. Potatoes. Some several different-one blueberries. I am growing passionflower—where it is not supposed to grow. Because I can, and I will. Dill. I am growing. Meadowsweet. Fairies. Magic. I am growing. Sage. Unto immortal May. I am growing. Madder. To dye all us good Celts red. As it has always been written. As even unto today it is done. I am growing. I am surrounding myself with garlic and arnica. I am growing. Buckwheat. It will be all and everywhere. I am growing. All the opium and wormwood: I shall plant thee: and then thee, shall, in vision, plant thyself in me.
I am growing.
I am no longer a sterile shrunken intertubes pod. “Living,” on a screen.
I am growing.
I am coming round here. Just about midnight.
—In Somalia is a law that makes it a crime to place chewing gum on your nose and then walk around in public.
—While Jesus allegedly changed water into wine, the Sixth Century Irish nun St. Brigit would, when visitors dropped by, transform her used bathwater into beer.
—Some 4% of the American public believes that “shape-shifting reptilian people control our world by taking on human form and gaining political power to manipulate our societies.”
—In Japan are mayonnaise-flavored Doritos.
—The recent referendum on independence for Venice saw 2.36 million votes cast. Some 2.1 million of the people, they voted for independence. Some of these people are getting a little feisty and impatient. So, like, they built a tank. In it, they intend, alpha and omega, to roll away the dew.
A while there some time back, a penguin attempted to assassinate my daughter.
My daughter the well-known award-winning deviant.
The penguin assumed the form of a coffee mug, and then rudely hurled my daughter to the floor. The penguin committed great violence to her hand. It could have been terminal. But fortunately a kindly doctor immediately washed over my daughter great waves of opiates. So she felt no penguin pain.
Heretofore, my daughter had believed penguins to be benign—yea, verily, even Goodly, even Godly—beings.
This: my fault. For I had failed to advise my daughter, as a Good and Proper father should, that penguins are in fact a veritable Fount of Evil.
There is a Reason why penguins live only in the Antarctic.
This is because, long ago, the other animals, minerals, and vegetables of the planet, exiled the penguins there. Because of the penguins’ Great Evil. That—the Great Evil—is also why the animals, minerals, and vegetables, they ripped the wings off the penguins. And replaced them with flaccid flippers. So the penguins would not be able to lift off the continent of Antarctica, and thereby invade, befoul, plague, the rest of the planet.
That penguins are Foul Beyond Measure is not generally appreciated . . . until they suddenly run utterly wild, and commit bedeviled acts like attempting to transport my daughter to a hospital, morgue, or asylum.
Few humans have been able to penetrate the seemingly pathetic, waddling, flightless, nimrodness of the penguin, to regard the great seething evil that truly roils inside them.
In fact, the “human” who has best understood the penguin, is not a human at all. “He” is instead an alien from space, here on this planet as an anthropologist. Documenting, for those Out There, the numberless weirdities of this planet.
In one of his very first films, Fata Morgana, “he,” this alien, traveling on this planet under the rubric Werner Herzog, devoted the first five minutes or so of his feature to endless looping shots of an airplane struggling to rise from an airstrip to ascend above the Sahara desert. He kept looping this footage, until even a human could understand that air travel, at this time, on this planet, is stone-mad.
Some 36 years later, in Encounters At The End Of The World, Herzog traveled to the very bottom of the world, in order to prove absolutely that penguins are, likewise, stone-mad.
In the clip below, Herzog nakedly exposes a penguin who has so flipped his lid he is determined to extinguish his being. Like Sylvia Plath. Or Ernest Hemingway.
This is sad.
But it also sad when penguins hurl my daughter to the floor. Or drown Jim Morrison in the bathtub.
One of the doomed Morrison’s last songs, it was “Riders On The Storm.”
In truth, the song was originally envisioned as “Penguins On The Storm.” But after the penguins drowned Morrison in that bathtub in Paris, they intimidated the remaining band members into changing the song’s title, and many of the lyrics.
Hints of the original tune, they do survive. In, for instance, these lines:
there’s a killer on the road
his brain is squirmin’ like a toad
For anyone who has ever had a daughter whom a penguin suddenly and unaccountably hurled to the floor, these lines will ring true of the Great Evil that dwells within the flabby flightless breasts of these Antarctic—yea, verily—Satanic creatures.
The penguins must be stopped. No longer may they be permitted to run utterly amok, drowning lizard kings in the bath, sprawling my daughter to the floor.
That is why tonight I ordered from Amazon the oil paints.
For I intend, in oil, to freeze the free-range insanity of the utter nutter penguin fleeing into the freeze, depicted there in the Herzog film.
This painting, once completed, it will spread among the people like scabies, like swine flu, like chunder chunked from the grunting heaving pig-lips of Runt Limprod.
And once they have viewed this painting, all the People, they will Know, that the penguins, they are a Menace.
And therefore, the people, once Apprised, never shall they allow the penguins to hurl my daughter to the floor again.
But. The penguins. Somehow they Know. For I just went out on the back porch—braving the storm—to have a smoke.
Here, it is raining. Here, it is hailing. Here, it is snowing. Here, out back, is a sheet of ice.
And here, now, waddling, across that sheet, and in numbers limitless, come, determined, the penguins.
yet will I sing
bonny mad boys
bedlam boys are bonny
for they all go bare
and they live in the air
and they want no drink nor money
i went to pluto’s kitchen
to break my fast one morning
and there i got souls piping hot
that on the spit were turning
bonny mad boys
bedlam boys are bonny
for they all go bare
and they live in the air
and they want no drink nor money
Until today, I believed absolutely that a nun invented barbed wire.
Then I was informed, by the intertubes, that this was just some shit made up by James Joyce, in Ulysses.
That was a nice nun there, really sweet face. Wimple suited her small head. Sister? Sister? I am sure she was crossed in love by her eyes. Very hard to bargain with that sort of a woman. I disturbed her at her devotions that morning. But glad to communicate with the outside world. Our great day, she said. Feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel. Sweet name too: caramel. She knew I, I think she knew by the way of she. If she had married she would have changed. I suppose they really were short of money. Fried everything in the best butter all the same. No lard for them. My heart’s broke eating dripping. They like buttering themselves in and out. Molly tasting it, her veil up. Sister? Pat Claffey, the pawnbroker’s daughter. It was a nun they say invented barbed wire.
According to the intertubes, barbed wire was actually invented by some farmer in Illinois named Joe.
Sorry. I’m not buying it.
For the intertubes is an ever-roiling snakes’-nest of lies.
Anybody can post any nonsense, balderdash, barking-mad insanity to the thing.
I know. I’ve done it myself.
For just one instance, the intertubes would have me believe that when Lindsay Lohan was sentenced to community service in a morgue, it was a tip-off that she is an MK-ULTRA-like sex/drug slave embroiled in Call to Chaos rites by a Freemasonic conspiracy involving US intelligence agents who also controlled Marilyn Monroe and directed “Manchurian Candidate” assassin Sirhan Sirhan.
Then there’s this sadsack over to the left. He is the guy who invented the typewriter. He later disowned the machine, refusing to use it, or even recommend it. He was a newspaper publisher who was an indefatigable advocate of the abolition of the death penalty. This was in the mid-1850s. Clearly, ahead of his time. His typewriter had ivory keys, and ebony keys, like a piano. He lived in Wisconsin, land of cheese. He, in the course of things, sucked in TB, and eventually died of it, some nine years later. He was 71 at the time, which was pretty old for somebody dying in 1890. He may have soured on the typewriter because to test it he kept shipping it to a crazed maniac who delighted in destroying it. The maniac would ship it back in pieces. The maniac kind of like that ape in the old TV commercials who used to jump up and down on the luggage. The eschewer-of-his-own-invention sadsack was the doyen of QWERTY. And though he turned his back on it, QWERTY controls Anglo scribblers to this day.
I understand that in this universe there recently concluded an “Olympics.”
A “Winter Olympics.”
In my universe, there has never been any such thing.
Because that’s where it began. The Olympics.
And it occurred, the Olympics, occurs, only in summer.
Because this is Greece.
And we, here in Greece, we do not have skis. Or skates. Or snowboards.
We, pretty much, don’t even have snow.
So we don’t have sports in winter. Instead, in winter, we go inside. We build wee fires. We eat warm food. And we, hot, get jiggy with it.
All the latter-day, today, Olympics events, here in my universe, they are as those that occurred 1600 years or so ago. There in Greece. And the performers, now as then, represent only themselves. And, now as then, they compete stark naked.
For the fine high sensual breeze passing across their oiled bodies, as they do disport and play.
Maybe somebody will win.
In our universe, we remember that the original Olympics were about fucking and fighting.
In your universe, you don’t much fuck. You just fight.
I understand that in your universe the “Olympics” occur every two years and they move from place to place where billions are spent on temporary crazed transitory facilities and the Olympoid mavens are always inventing new events and each team screams at each other team that there is cheating and the athletes are festooned and costumed and dragooned by peculiar artificial ephemeral constructs known as “nations” and are not individual free human beings alive on this earth but limpy-loo computers the rulers may soon someday be able to control through their teeth.
Meat nor drink nor money have I none.
I am so glad that I do not live in your universe. But instead live in mine.
Where the Olympics, once resurrected, were sited permanently in Greece. You, you in your universe, currently have a Greece with a bankruptcy problem. In my universe there is no such problem. At all. The permanently-sited Olympics: it obviated that.
In your universe, you had to have a Putin.
This might have been okay, if he had been made to skate, shirtless, across the ice. That would have been like a Dukakis tank moment.
But, alas, that did not occur.
But that’s okay. Because, here, in my universe, Putin is all so over.
And he was over more than 20 years ago. When the band Electronic released this song—there, below: “Soviet.”
Putin was done then. As he is done now.
So let it be written. So let it be done. Here, as it is, in your heaven. And earth. And everywhere else. You may need. Anyone like him. To be done.
tryin’ to make it real
compared to what
Philip Seymour Hoffman, the other day, he died.
And all the eager scoured-brain skull-lickers, they are all, now, over all and every tube, telling us just how awfully, awfully Wrong, it was, the way, that he died.
He died, apparently, with a needle in his arm. Shooting heroin.
So. Striving. He was. Yassa yassa massa massa. For: the great wide open.
But why, cry the ur-humans, who these days are the all and every of “the press,” though they are knuckledraggers who have never even once gazed upon the monolith . . . why, would ol’ Phil, why would he knock hisself off, even inadvertently, with the ol’ Big Horse?
They do crocodile-weep, these ur-people: faux-crying what they never would say when he was alive—that he was perhaps the finest, most sensitive actor, of his generation.
And in this, they do answer their own question.
Phil, he was, with the needle in his arm, to try to bring the sweet peak understanding surcease release, to both body and mind, just, just, just:
tryin’ to make it real
compared to what
The frenzy to arrest people long ago veered completely out of control. And now, as we wade through this holiday season, we learn that these days it is necessary to place in the pokey even people who but publicly deny the existence of Santa Claus.
And this didn’t even happen in America. It was the Canadians, who did this.
Seems that during a Kingston, Ontario Christmas parade, a man, seized by the need to speak truth to power, and fortified by alcohol, shocked the children assembled by volubly informing them that Santa Claus is just made-up shit.
Police promptly picked him up and heaved him into the hoosegow.
People at the annual Santa Claus parade reported that a man was moving through the crowd telling children “the truth” about Santa Claus, saying that he wasn’t real.
“It hits every officer,” [Kingston policeman Steve] Koopman told the Canadian National Post, “as most of us have children ourselves. Some people have been saying, ‘We didn’t know police arrested for telling the truth.’ Some of us may disagree with that. In all honesty, he was disturbing everyone there on the thoroughfare.
“He was disturbing the families, obviously disturbing the children. We felt it very necessary to take him off the street and think the charges were warranted,” Koopman explained.
Koopman noted that the person arrested had his hair gelled into two “horns,” making him look like the famous Grinch from the Christmas classic, How The Grinch Stole Christmas.
Probably we will next be subjected to stories in which the children assaulted by this horrific Grinch and his inconvenient truth, were all rounded up and clapped into camps, for intensive psychological counseling. As the years go by, we will recurrently learn that many of them, permanently crippled by this incident, all counseling and treatment having, alas, failed, ran utterly wild in lives of the most heinous crimes.
I mean, shit, it happened to me.
Though when I was told that Santa was a figment, no squad cars came roaring up to disgorge beefy men with big clubs, to grapple my dad into the back seat, and then screech him off to the jailhouse.
(Another seasonal fave, originally posted in December 2009.)
A Redding, California substitute teacher has pronounced a crusade that will place before California voters a ballot initiative that would require state schools to teach students about Christmas carols, and then order them to either sing or listen to the things.
The teacher’s name—no, this is not a joke—is Merry Susan Hyatt.
Fretting that “we were having Christmas without Jesus,” Hyatt said of her initiative: “this is to make sure that we are allowed to have Christmas carols, and no school board member or principal is going to tell us, ‘no, you may not play ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing’ in your classroom.”
Hyatt’s initiative would permit heathens to extract their children from these annual assemblages of the Godly. Said outcasts would be provided with an unspecified “appropriate alternative,” one that would hopefully not resemble too much the bastinado or the boot.
Hyatt believes that the failure of state schools to command children to intone “Silent Night” is responsible for schoolyard violence and other upbubblings from Hell.
“The kids don’t have a moral compass,” she said. “It’s not much, but I think it [Christmas carols] would help.”
“You have to invite Jesus to have him work in your life,” she said, adding that if you have a Christmas party without Jesus, he won’t help. “He’s the prince of peace; he’s the only one who can get these kids to stop being so violent.”
Hyatt contends that once students are required to repeatedly recite “Good King Wenceslas,” then Good will reign.
“These kids, they need it,” she said. “They need to see that we believe in Jesus, and he is the Prince of Peace. That’s why we are the best country on Earth.”
At first I considered circulating a competing ballot initiative that would similarly require schoolchildren to sing such alternative Christmas carols as “Hark, Hear Shakti’s Bells They Ring,” “Good King Vlad The Impaler,” “Santeria Night,” “We Three Bodhisattvas Of Orient Are,” “Oh Come Allah’s Faithful,” “Carol of the Baal,” “Good Pagan Women Rejoice,” “What Cthulhu Is This,” “Thor Rest Ye Merry Mayhem Men,” “O Hopi Night,” and “He Came Across To Moses Quite Clear.”
Then I realized that it would be of greater benefit to such children, their parents, their heirs, and to all on earth, as it is in heaven, if, before leaving high school, every California child could be enabled to play the song offered below, with equivalent technique, and all the very spirit, heart and soul.
Peace, love, contentment, to all.
To that day. When we all go together.
Into the great wide open.
F. Scott Fitzgerald saw it. To the bottom of every bottle. Which, early—44—killed him.
No matter. He got it right. Wrote the Great American Novel. The Great Gatsby. Which ends with this:
Most of the big shore places were closed now and there were hardly any lights except the shadowy, moving glow of a ferryboat across the Sound. And as the moon rose higher the inessential houses began to melt away. Until gradually I became aware of the old island here that flowered once for Dutch sailors’ eyes—a fresh, green breast of the new world. Its vanished trees, the trees that had made way for Gatsby’s house, had once pandered in whispers to the last and greatest of all human dreams; for a transitory enchanted moment man must have held his breath in the presence of this continent, compelled into an aesthetic contemplation he neither understood nor desired, face to face for the last time in history with something commensurate to his capacity for wonder.
And as I sat there, brooding on the old unknown world, I thought of Gatsby’s wonder when he first picked out the green light at the end of Daisy’s dock. He had come a long way to this blue lawn and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night.
Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgiastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter—tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther . . . . And one fine morning—
So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.
The green light, it will never be attained, as Fitzgerald knew, on this continent, by white people. Because they do not belong here. It was a mistake, for them to ever to have come. To this place. Because it is not their place.
The green light, they can bask in it—the white people—when, “boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past,” they return to from where they came. Where they should, forever, have remained.
the little bird; all that there is
From the beginning, as a Spanish colonial town, Los Angeles was a tough place, whose first building was the jail. After the Mexicans were dispossessed by the Yankees in the 1850s, with a chicanery that is typical of the place, it remained for the next twenty years the worst frontier outpost in the West, with whorehouses, weekend murders, and frequent lynchings of Chinese and Mexicans. The Protestant churches even closed down and abandoned the city to the devil—and the Roman Catholic Church.
—Frank MacShane, The Life of Raymond Chandler
Time for another episode of “Overheard in LA,” in which little conversational gems culled—okay, stolen—from the laist featurette are rendered here for red readers. I so enjoyed the last one I posted, back there in September, that I thought I’d put up another.
To refresh: these are Real words, uttered by Real lost angels, which touchingly reveal who they are, and what they are about.
—”Oh my god, I just realized they didn’t play ‘Gangam Style’ at our wedding!”
—”Oh my god, that dog is so cute. You should have it stuffed when it dies.”
—”Oh my god, I just got the best parking spot. I am going to change all my plans for the day.”
—”Why would anyone squeeze juice out of a giant mammal and drink it?”
—”If they can make watermelons seedless, I’m pretty sure they can make dogs that don’t shit.”
—”I don’t need to be drunk to be a stripper.”
—”After a wax, all my follicles are sore.”
—”It looks like the collagen is only in half of my lip!”
—”I spend a lot of time alone, so I change my look a lot so the people I talk to in the mirror always look different.”
—”People in L.A. are terrible drivers. Trust me, I almost hit a bicyclist, like, every day.”
—”Don’t you just hate it when your WiFi doesn’t reach your hot tub?”
—”Yeah, I guess I could just go home and write some songs.”
—”She never worked again after she got a nose job.”
—Young woman: “If I pay for coffee on a date, I devalue myself.”
—”You are the first guy I have dated in years that doesn’t have an iPhone. I still feel weird that your messages aren’t blue.”
—”I’m going to outsource my next breakup.”
—”He wasn’t a vegan. He was a Vulcan. It’s a different dietary situation.”
—”They’ve gotten more sexy now: Brussels sprouts.”
—”Spit that gum ball out. It’s not good for you. IT’S NOT SUGAR FREE.”
—”It’s a paleo, gluten-free, probiotic wrap. And it’s farm-to-table!”
—”Maybe I’m, like, just not meant to eat kale.”
—”I wouldn’t say I’m manorexic, but I’m giving up sugars and dinners.”
—”Whatever you do, Aaron, don’t get blackballed from Bay Cities the way our last intern did.”
—”My brother was re-birthed in a men’s group today. He literally simulated a vaginal water birth in a pool surrounded by men. He really had some breakthroughs. Apparently our mom was stressed during labor.”
—”I swear on my hamster’s life.”
—”I hate Waze. Buncha assholes telling me how to drive. I don’t need to crowd source my self-loathing.”
—”Halloween stresses me out. I can’t tell if people are celebrating early, or just back from their estheticians.”
—”I’m really shocked by the lack of Jesus in California.”
—”Will there be Xanax in heaven?”