Archive for April, 2015

Sunday Services

trudeau is an ass


Grimlimb jeeb. HEAMBLOW HEAMBLOW HEAMBLOW. Not yepgur chim ghli. Fort clin to. Claba-clabba-clabb-glip.

Clim sheet ork nort clad grhrobtug.

Hork bit cleeb ghort. Shinkleep todaly ouir. Clibbq-clibaa nobk ship nort grebelik.

Fort nok fukaduckjl yourty klim rort ough; wjoff dyritu ghty yuooir drughtought-ghotuhg. Plab plab thiighht your-fhguty evehgyy youruts tyroiug, fnoirhwyt yours—envehg thjiout.

Eeek a beak ituioo gepootm goklom.

Port shclid gdy; ghotuhy truoour yupportyy.



I had a dream the other night. In it we were all just rainbowbumbling around as usual.

But all our cores had been opened.

And I had been cracked open as shaman.

That was what I had always been.

But, so what: after this revelation: I was, natch, thereafter, doing just my usual thing. Hiding. Craven. Nebby Meeko. In the shadows.

There then, in the dream, came a place, where I couldn’t do that anymore.

For all was in peril; dying.

Even unto me.

I was then, in the dream, reminded, strongly, serenely, that, as shaman, my job was to move the people to the next place. This was me to be.

I didn’t believe I could do that; I am and always have been no one; the shaman thing was all bollocks; but it was all so dire, in this dream, in this place; that, in this dream, I gave it a try.

And, the more I tried, the more I tried, shaman, the more I tried, the more crystal, clear, the world became; the more it shined; the more I can’t even describe to you now how jeweled it all was and I see see it still and I see it still; the more I could really move in magic; the more the people proceeded, the more they were no longer sluggish oxen who refused to move, the world no longer a cart to which they were yoked; the more I felt and knew I could See, and Move, the more they felt they could See, and Move; the more I, then the more we, we Saw, and Moved; the more I was Strong, the more all the people were Strong: the more we all ascended the mountaintop, the more we Saw, and Moved, and Looked Over.

And then we walked. All the way. To Tir Na Nog.

All of all of us: are me, in this dream. Seeing. Shaman. Looking Over. Seeing. Moving. Becoming great wide open. Caledonia Soul Music. What it is. All the way. To Tir Na Nog.

Christ Jesus Make It Stop

stop me please

The Little Brown Ones

Back in 1988 the Philip K. Dick simulacrum “Ronald Reagan” got off a plane, and, there on the tarmac, the simulacrum’s “vice-president,” George I, introduced the simulacrum to some of his alarming number of grandchildren, distinguishing this particular batch by identifying them as “the little brown ones.”

These grandchildren were brown because one of reagan and son George I’s sons, George III, had unaccountably run amok, and married a brown woman. Who proceeded to pump out children of a color heretofore considered Not Acceptable in Kennebunkport and the other blindingly white enclaves in which the George people had traditionally congregated and frolicked.

The Reagan simulacrum, he was so appalled that George I’s pure-white blood had mixed with that of the duskier races, that he, then and there, decreed that George I should succeed him for but one term. After which time a crazed wild Arkansas foam-head Clenis, that all its life had ceaselessly sprayed sperm all across the land, would serve in George II’s stead, wandering wildly about the White House, spurting semen all over all and every, except onto and into his wife, because, she, yea verily, was allergic to the stuff. All because. George I. One of his sons. Had gone brown.

How my sho nuff god almighty times they have since surely changed.

For George III, he pretty much kicked off this 2016 presidential campaign-season by admitting he had once upon a time identified hisself as Hispanic. Though all for decades believed his nickname was “Jeb,” actually, we learned, it was all along “Heb.” Though his skin is so friggin’ white that when sun reflects off it, it blinds those directly gazing into the glare, we were told that Heb was in truth brown as fresh dirt, and so everyone who be in any way a blood-Hispanic, should vote for him at once, and forever.

Immediately, all the other candidates for president in melting, melting2016, they trampled one another, to, too, declare their total and unassailable browness.

Because, apparently, in 2016, brown is the color to best be.

First, Ted Cruz, an insane man whose face is forever melting, like a bit player’s in The Devil’s Rain, announced he would be the next president, as he was brown, because his father was an embarrassing Cuban splat of chickenshit who ran off like a squealing coward when Real Brown People kicked the gringos’ asses off the island of Cuba in 1959. Said father then moved to Canada, where he dribbled into some woman some weak sperm that eventually became the mewling crawling creature known as Ted.

Then Marco Rubio—whose real name is Nebby Meeko—descendant of another strain of chickenshit bawlers who ran off like cowards from Cuba, said he was more browner than Cruz, and should therefore be better as president, because he would maybe allow a couple hundred thousand or so of the 12 or 15 million brown people currently in the country Hiding every day from the INS, to, Maybe, come Out from Underground, to work, so long as they worked as glorified Negroes, for save meRich People, for, oh, 600 years or so, at which time they will then get a citizenship Paper.

The batshit insane “When Can I Start The Nuclear War?” harridan Clinton II meanwhile rolled into the presidential plaza at the head of a column of tanks, bellowing that she was brown as god and that her name had always been “Hidalgo” Clinton, and all those who said otherwise would immediately be taken into custody by uberfuhrer David Brock, who would rip out their spines and throw them into a Hole.

At the same time, Ayn Rand Paul flapped in, foaming that Proof he had always been Totally Brown was contained in the legendary video of his father (seen below), in which the crazed crackpot mouths “the hardest part is to shoot Ramon,” which Ayn Rand Paul asserted meant that, when dad would set about genociding all those Not LIke Him, he would leave the Brown People for last.

The sudden Browness of the 2016 campaign caused both Mike Huckabee, and Carly Fiorina, who had previously planned to announce their presidential disabilities about now, to shove said announcements off till early May, so that both and each could enter those clinics where Keith Richards used to get his blood transplants, when he was a junkie; Fiorina and Huckabee, determined to have brown blood run into their veins, so that they can emerge as “Miguel” and “Carlota,” respectively, and claim they have always been brown as the day is long, and Forever.

All of these people are Wrong, and should go into a Home. None of them will be president. We should pay no attention to them. They are not Real. They have a Problem in their Brains. They need to be in a Clinic. We can safely and comfortably go about our lives. For, they won’t get us. None of them. Somebody, else, they may Try. To Get Us. But, of those who might Get Us, it won’t be any of these current, fake, brown people. All of them, they are Over. Buried. Beneath the good brown earth.

All the white people are over. It’s a good thing. No blood will be shed. All of all of us. We will just go. Into the great wide open.

The Bowel Explodes

So the new C-Thru-Peephole extravaganza, I hear, is called The Force Awakens.

But since an essential plot-point of this film apparently concerns someone finding Luke Skywalker’s hand, I think hurtsit should be called instead The Hand Awakens.

Presumably, in this new one, people, rather than saying, as once they were wont, “Luke, it is your destiny,” will instead say, “Luke, it is your hand.”

I think maybe I am going to manufacture and sell “Luke, it is your hand” t-shirts and hoodies and such. And make millions. I will then buy all the water, and dredge many ponds, where ducks will swim all day. I will also secure several elephants, who shall suck up water in their trunks, and pour it all over their bodies, without even using shut-off valves or micro-sprinklers. I will call my domain the “Luke, It Is Your Hand Water Park.” Luke, I think, was raised on a dusty desert dirt-blow planet, so this is all, it seems to me, all appropriate.

Apparently there is a new Enemy in the new film who is sort of the opposite of Luke. His name is Analhead Earthcrawler. He has a special fearsome Power: if he Looks at you, you turn into Jar-Jar Binks, or one of those munchkin fur-balls in the forest. Your name becomes Hutt Fett, and you are Doomed to Drool in a Hole for a thousand years.

Harrison Ford is meanwhile in many Dangers: while making the film, he had a leg-hurt accident in the Falcon; in real life, somewhat later, he crashed in a plane. Clearly he needs to stay out of the air, both in film and in real. He should take instead to driving trains. While he runs the choo-choo, that orange bigfoot, Chewtobacco, can grunt, loudly, famous train songs, as he stokes the boiler.

Finally, I hear that, in honor of Yoda, the entire film will run backwards.

BREAKING: I have just been informed that episode VIII shall be called The Foot Awakens. This references Luke, an old man, reunited with his hand, who falls asleep in a chair, and, when he wakes up, his foot has gone to sleep, and so he has to wait a while for the feeling to come back.

In the meantime, 19 new Death Stars are constructed and deployed throughout the galaxy. But no one can stop them, because Luke’s foot is asleep, and Han and Chewtobacco are driving trains.

Fortunately the heads of Yoda and Obi Ben-Wa Balls Kenobi, mounted on spinning discs, come roaring up to mouth mounds of gibberish, that inspire the truthCommon People to get some Force, and so stop the Badness.

I also now Know that the the third film of the trilogy shall be called The Bowel Awakens. In this, the Sith, renamed the Shit, construct hideous massive Death Stars that are giant sphincters which spray odious strings of diarrhea across the galaxy. All are doomed to drown in poop. Except a new heretfore unheradled Common People named David succeeds in rocketing from star to star, within seconds fastening new toilet seats to the sphincters, succeeding in driving the jettisoning poop back down into the bowels of the sphincter stars, thereby suffocating all the Bad. And thus all ends in happiness, and true gosh-darn wonderment.

In early 1977, two films were in post-production at a film studio in England.

The first was Cross of Iron. Which Orson Welles later pronounced, correctly, the finest anti-war film ever made. But when it was released, no one wanted to see it—except in Germany, where it was perceived, wrongly, as a vindication of the WWII German army.

A taste of Iron:

Down the hall from the Cross of Iron editing crew, there in England, labored the unknowing Mordorites who inflicted upon the world Star Wars. A film that ebulliently spread mass sunny slaughter into outer space. That offered a final sequence which, as German director Wim Wenders noted, with no little outrage, aped, frame-for-frame, a celebrated portion of the Nazi propaganda film Triumph of the Will.

A film that opened with the obliteration of an entire world, and all the creatures on it. An event which the filmmakers asked the audience to accept with less emotion than the later Perils-of-Pauline tribulations of a pair of bumbling robots.

Threaten an R2, and the heartstrings are tugged. Exterminate a planet, and the billions of people upon it, and blithely chew the bitchin'snack-bar cud. So you’ll be ready, the day that they come for you, to tell you that it’s time to drag or be dragged, out on the killing floor.

A very different film, if we had heard the cries of the billions of souls extinguished.

As Willi Heinrich, a combat infantryman in the German army during WWII, who tramped over 8000 miles of Russian territory—to the suburbs of Moscow, and back again—and who watched everyone he knew die around him, as he himself was severely wounded on five separate occasions, wrote:

When we sing the national anthem in a military cemetery it is, of course, a very moving event, but it distorts the true nature of the matter. We should rig up giant loudspeakers and relay recordings of the screams of the wounded and dying and then no one would ever forget that cemetery[.] We ought not to play anthems over their graves or make solemn speeches in remembrance of them. A people which is proud of its war dead has learned nothing from the war. This is only my personal opinion, but as long as we have no stronger feelings than a bad conscience about our dead when we talk of them, then there will always be other wars. It all began with falsehood and it will one day finish with falsehood: that is what I mean by inevitability. Lies breed death, death breeds lies and so it goes on. By distorting the meaning of our existence we have legitimized mass murder.

Mr. Lucas, he let us hear the screams of no one. We simply moved right on.

Lucas destroyed the reality of space, established by Stanley Kubrick some years before in 2001: A Space Odyssey, wherein, as it is in truth, there is no sound in space, and replaced it with an bigscreen whiz-bang video game, in which bitchin’ sound Alderaan goes dead deadeffects accompany the Good Guys, blasting away The Bad.

But not a sound did we hear, there at the dawn of the film, when an entire world, Alderaan, and all the beings upon it, was obliterated, by his, and Peter Cushing’s, hand.

And here we will move right on to Mr. Wim Wenders, from his 1984 “American Dream”:


The American State philosophy
Entertainment: advertisement for America.
The German word for that is hardly comparable.
“Unterhaltung” is something nice.
“Entertainment” is a totalitarian thing.
The entertainment industry is probably already
the next biggest sector of the American economy
after armaments, so it’s only logical
to suppose that one day
it will become the biggest economic factor bar none.

The more impossible and unthinkable wars become,
world-wide ones in particular,
the more evident world-wide entertainment will appear
as the “continuation of politics by other means.”

A film like Star Wars, truly “entertaining,”
makes that perfectly clear, not only
because it’s about war, not only
because it supplies new images of war
and a new mythology of war
to a whole generation of children “world-wide,”
but also
because in the end it reveals, in all innocence,
where those images come from and where they belong:
the final sequence is a faithful copy
of a sequence from Hitler’s greatest propaganda film
Triumph of the Will.

Let us behold, the Triumph Of The Hope:

Everybody loves Star Wars. I know that. It is cute and cuddly. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. PG. Benign. Everybody says so. Sure.

Used here, only as example, that when we think we’re not hurting a fly, we’re actually blithely blowing right past the deaths of billions of beings.

Humans were built poorly. They have a lot of wrong impulses. One is the impulse to kill one another. And nothing whatsoever will get anywhere at all, until that impulse is stifled.

Kenneth Patchen, marooned on this crazy stone, saw this:

It’s simple. There’s nothing at all complicated about it.
War—There won’t be war when you decide you won’t murder other human beings.

You cannot hate without hating all; and you cannot kill some without killing all—because the welfare of any man is the welfare of all men. Through violence men are made to enslave and murder one another; through violence the world has been turned into this unimaginable hell; through violence the rulers of this hell are enabled to maintain their positions.

Have you ever looked at a man?
There is something helpless and majestic about a man.
If you believed in anything, you could not kill a man.

A man has two legs. He’ll build a house—from cellar to rooftop, with his own hands. He’ll put seeds in the ground. He’ll watch the sun and the rain at work. He’ll take a woman to bed. He’ll find enough tenderness and love to get him through the day. You’d think that man deserved a little something. You’d think that man was worthy of a jot or two of sympathy and consideration. You’d think that maybe someone would say, Let’s just let him alone for a while, and see what he can do.

They try to fix it so nobody’ll care what happens to a man anymore.
I don’t mean millions—I mean any one man anywhere.
If anything is worth anything it’s because one man is worth something.
If any one man isn’t worth something, then nothing whatever is worth anything.
It’s all got to come back to any one man anywhere or it isn’t going anywhere.
Don’t tell me how interested in Confucius or Jesus Christ you are.
Tell me how interested in any one man anywhere you are.
You don’t get it.
You’d cry.
You’d cry if you could feel that.
It’s all got to come back to one man or it isn’t going anywhere at all.

This house. Do you see this house?
It is a house where human beings live.
There is a strange dignity about them.
They are looking at you as I talk.
I want you to leave them alone.

Sharp Words From A Master

We recorded “Man In The Long Black Coat” and a peculiar change crept over the appearance of things. I had a feeling about it and so did [producer Daniel Lanois]. The chord progression, the dominant chords and key changes gave it the hypnotic effect right away—signal what the lyrics are about to do. The dread intro gives you the impression of a chronic rush. The production sounds deserted, like the intervals of the city have disappeared. It’s cut out from the long blackabyss of blackness—visions of a maddened brain, a feeling of unreality—the heavy price of gold upon someone’s head. Nothing standing, even corruption is corrupt. Something’s menacing and terrible. The song came nearer and nearer—crowding itself into the smallest possible place. We didn’t even rehearse the song, we began working it out with visual cues. Before the lyrics even came in, you knew that the fight was on. The lyrics try to tell you about someone whose body doesn’t belong to him. Someone who loved life but cannot live, and it rankles his soul that others should be able to live.

I wasn’t sure that [with the Oh Mercy album] we had recorded any historical tunes like what [Lanois] had wanted, but I was thinking we might have gotten close with this last. “Man In The Long Black Coat” was the real facts. In some kind of weird way, I thought of it as my “I Walk The Line,” a song I’d always considered to be there at the top, one of the most mysterious and revolutionary of all time, a song that makes an attack on your most vulnerable spots, sharp words from a master.

—Bob Dylan, Chronicles 

Christ Jesus Make It Stop

ugloy beyond our capacity to understand

It Could Be That Easy

To Tir Na Nog

And We Walked All The Way

Days Of Future Passed


We are all one all the same.

We all know all the know.

We are all in the great wide open.

Move Along Now


In The End There’s Just A Song

Once upon a time, there in the 1990s, came some high wired fired British young lads who Saw it and tried to enrapture It in song. And realized that, to fully & completely do so, they needed to nick a five-note sample from a thirty-year-old Rolling Stones tune, “This Could Be The Last Time.”

So, dutifully, they wrote off to Allan Klein—not a musician at all, but assholejust a money-grubber. Who, alas, nonetheless exclusively held the copyright to all pre-1971 Rolling Stones songs. Because the Stones, back then, were on drugs. And Klein was not. Klein, then, as always, was only on money. And so he then stole it—money—in the form of their songs, from the drugged-out Stones.

Anyway. Permission was in the event granted by Klein, to these humble supplicants of British young lads (known collectively as the Verve), to sample five notes from “Last Time.”

And all then seemed very fine and every.

But then the song the Verve, those humble supplicants of British lads, infused into the five notes from “Last Time”—a song monikered by the Verve boys “Bittersweet Symphony”—became a truly massive hit.

To wit: it made money.

Lots and lots of it.

And so Allan Klein therefore roared forth with phalanxes of lawyers, and decreed the Verve kids had used the five-note sample “too much” . . . and so he wanted all of their money. Every penny. And soon succeeded in buffaloing this band of young kids, who knew of the music biz nothing, into signing over every cent they got, or would ever get, from their “Bittersweet” song.

Though in truth, the five-note sample employed by the kids in the Verve, was not actually from the original Stones song, but instead pulled notes forth from an orchestral version of “The Last Time,” produced and released a bit after the appearance of the Stones song, by Andrew Loog Oldham.

Further, Oldham himself didn’t come up with the five notes.

David Whitaker, an old-school British composer and arranger, hired for the Oldham sessions to white to the leftenvision and afix the orchestration, did.

Whitaker would, much later, work with the producer of the band (The Verve) that got sued, and liked him. And said the whole Klein-theft thing was, in his opinion, a sick-making shame.

“The whole thing just makes one a bit sick, really.”

That was his—Whitaker’s—”high string line,” that he had created, that the Verve used, that Klein used to rake in, to himself, all the money.

But Whitaker had no say. And got none of the money that flowed to Klein.

Keith Richards, he also was truly disgusted. It was his band. But he also got none of the Klein money.

I’m out of whack here. This is serious lawyer shit. But if The Verve can write a better song, they can keep the money.

They wrote a better song, the Verve. Keith knows that. And so do we.

For even more irony, the Stones song itself—”This Could Be The Last Time”—is said by bitter grousing black folk to have been stolen from the earlier tune “This May Be The Last Time,” recorded by The Staple Singers in 1955.

Richards himself freely admits that he was “inspired,” for the Stones’ “Last Time,” by that very Staples song: “We came up with ‘The Last Time’, which was basically re-adapting a traditional gospel song that had been sung by The Staple Singers. But luckily the song itself goes back into the mists of time.”

And now is here where we will trip through each of these songs.

Here is the ’90s hit, “Bittersweet Symphony,” from the Verve.

A song that really connected with people. Really strongly. And still does. When people come across it on YouTube, for example, they write things like:

Ever heard a song on a radio and no matter how much you tried to describe it people had no clue who or what it was, and you hear it on some ones playlist and it passes, then you realize that the reason why seven years ago people laughed at you for hearing music that didn’t exist and you ask that person to play it again and you ask them what it is, and it’s this holy fuck awesome song and it’s melody and lyrics Jesus, and that symphony and you straight up kiss the girl who told you and yes I got smacked but it was worth it, and now it was our wedding song and we’re expecting our second child next April.

Here is the orchestral Oldham version, where Whitaker pulled from the ether the “high string line”:

Here is the Stones version:

And here are the Staples:

From “Bittersweet Symphony,” the Verve got no money. The members of the Stones got no money. David Whitaker, who unspooled from the ether the Universal Right high string line, he got no money. The Staples—black people—for fuckin’ sure, they got no money.

All the money went to Allen Klein. A tone-deaf music-less fuck who would—and did—rob even dead and dying people: this man once lashed into jail for defrauding Biafran babies, dying with flies crawling on their eyes, through ripping off UNICEF, and the Concert for Bangladesh.

Irony central—in that all of the money of their art stolen from a man of no art—in the lyrics of the Verve’s “Bittersweet Symphony” itself:

’cause it’s a bittersweet symphony, this life
try to make ends meet
you’re a slave to money, then you die

But that is not why the song rings in the heads of hundreds of millions.

It rings instead for whirls like this:

well i never pray
but tonight i’m on my knees 
i need to hear some sounds that recognize the pain in me
i let the melody shine let it cleanse my mind
i feel free now

There you go. People of the karass. Verve. Didn’t get paid? Join the club. May be scrabbling on the street, but afire in your mind that, people hearing your art, say things like: “one of those songs your soul always knew”; “HOLY SHIT I Keith-RichardsFINALLY FOUND THIS SONG AND IT’S BY COMPLETE ACCIDENT OMFG I’VE BEEN LOOKING ALL OVER FOR THIS FOR YEARS I AM SO HAPPY RIGHT NOW HOLY CRAP!”; “Oh. My. GOSH!! I found it! Finally!”; “ever hear a song that just stops you in your tracks, and no matter what you are doing it’s not as important as the song?”; “this is the song my bridesmaids walk down the aisle to”; “I will have this played at my wedding and funeral”; “everything is amazing, yes, make it endless”; “I quit my job while this was playing”; “i love you”; “this is a masterpiece approved by god”; and “well, I thought I was going to bed . . . .”

Didn’t get no money? Yeah, well, true art is positively allergic to money. Pure accident, when the two come to meet. You, with “Bittersweet Symphony,” you young boys, you seared souls. No amount of “money,” can ever match that.

Downhill from there?

So what. You’re artists.


Not, humans.

As Robert Hunter and Jerry Garcia, they did pull from the ether:

All the years combine
They melt into a dream
A broken angel sings
From a guitar

In the end there’s just a song
Comes crying up the night
Through all the broken dreams
And vanished years

When all the cards are down
There’s nothing left to see
There’s nothing . . .
And broken dreams

In the end you hear that song
Come crying like the night
Down every lonely street
That’s ever been

I’ve stayed in every blue-light cheap hotel
Can’t win for trying
Dust off those rusty strings just one more time
Gonna make ’em shine

It all rolls into one
And nothing comes for free
There’s nothing you can hold
For very long

And when you hear that song
Come crying like the wind
It seems like all this life
Was just a dream

stella blue

The Gesture Of Fruit Is Not Timid

He quiet and unseeing leaves nothing to its fate. The useful dimension of the apple-bird-star-saloon-motorboat-naked cannibal-shadow-safety not timidrazor-arcade-jewelbox-baby’s ass-green cloak.

A. An owl in a wasp’s nest.

B. The next step is 1917.

C. Why can’t painting be done from inside the canvas?

G. It is all-important to know how you hold your hands in sleep.

I. What crisis do you speak of? The gesture of fruit is not timid.

He quick and unseemly learns what he knows before his head gets around to it.

The shapes must be mutilated . . . it is holes not blocks we need.

It is exciting to think of keeping the secret from the secret.

—Kenneth Patchen, The Journal Of Albion Moonlight

Por Fire

Tonight I was sitting on the toilet. Because that’s what sometimes one must do. When incarnated in a por away the dewcorporeal container. Here upon this planet.

And into the room, to perch in the doorway, came the kitten-cum-adolescent, Por. Who sat. He in a growth spurt. So his little front legs, so out of whack: like sticks, they be. His eyes meanwhile so big, and so round. Like those of all mystery. And so far back. Pierced onto me.

Against all instinct. All before-me experience. His eyes saying, unto me: I trust. I wonder. I want to be with you. I will. I will, love.

And this, this is why, this is why I know, that all, and all of this planet, and all upon it, shall Make It.

Someone Left The Cake Out In The Rain

Indiana is a deeply stupid state. We know this from the sort of people born there. Dan Quayle. Jimmy Hoffa. Michael Jackson. Jim Jones. Put them together, and what do you get? An illiterate thug who sleeps with a monkey and poisons people with Kool-Aid. The typical Indianan.

Except they don’t call themselves Indianans. Instead, they refer to themselves yeehawas “hoosiers.” Which sounds like a form of special-needs person.

I consulted a Science Paper, as to the Nature and Meaning of this “hoosier” name, and learned the following:

The residents, they are known as “hoosiers.” What’s a hoosier? Nobody knows, or, if they do, don’t expect a straight answer. It could be an early form of “hoosier daddy?” Some scholars maintain it means inbreeder, others insist it means blockheaded.

Various different-one Science Men have advanced other Theories:

 . . . the word refer[s] to woodsmen, yokels, and rough people. [Science Man Jacob] Dunn traced the word back to the Cumbrian hoozer, meaning anything unusually large . . . One account traces the word to the necessary caution of approaching houses on the frontier. In order to avoid being shot, a traveler would call out from afar to let themselves be known. The inhabitants of the cabin would then reply “Who’s here?” which—in the Appalachian English of the early settlers—slurred into “Who’sh ‘ere?” and thence into “Hoosier.” A variant of this account had the Indiana pioneers calling out “Who’sh ‘ere?” as a general greeting and warning when hearing someone in the bushes and tall grass, to avoid shooting a relative or friend in error. The poet James Whitcomb Riley suggested that the fierce brawling that took place in Indiana involved enough biting that the expression “Whose ear?” became notable . . . “To hoosier” is sometimes still encountered as a verb meaning “to trick” or “to swindle.”

The Ku Klux Klan has never been more popular, anywhere, than it was in Indiana in the 1920s, when more than one-third of the state’s white males were publicly enrolled in the organization. So the typical “hoosier,” then, is an illiterate one-eared thug who sleeps with a monkey and poisons people with Kool-Aid and goes out nights looking to lynch “darkies.”

An undercover report of life today in Indiana offers the following:

People here are very conservative and are likely to be nice or polite not because they like you but because they think they have to. Deep down they probably resent you, maybe even hate you. if you come from somewhere else, they wonder, “why?” ballsAnything or anyone new, or different from their regularly scheduled drudgery, freaks them out.

BALLS ! A lot of people have them.

They look like big glass yard balls and people like to put their balls on pedestals. They must think their balls look classy that way. Originally I thought the balls were there to suck the creativity and culture out of the residents. But apparently these “gazing balls” originated in the 13th Century and are supposed to bring prosperity and ward off evil spirits, especially witches. What century are we in now??? I bet if you ask anyone what the balls mean, you are likely to be told “they just make the yard look nice.” But in reality, they have balls because their neighbors do and you got to conform. Or be shunned.

Never have I lived in a place of such stupidity.

Many people live in homes which contain a driveway or a garage and in some cases both; however they park in the street, creating an obstacle course. Then they wonder why their side mirrors are gone.

People wear helmets to ride their bikes; they do not wear helmets to ride motorcycles.

For some good Clean Fun, how about acornhole rousing game of cornhole?

Yes, this stimulating game involves tossing a bag of corn, or reasonable substitute for the aforementioned bag, into a hole made in a board. If you get really good at it, you can enter a tournament and have the chance to be a Cornhole Champ!

Currently the state Cornhole Champ is Mike Pence, who is the governor. This is a human of such scarifying stupidity he terrifies his own hair, which has turned corpse-white from fear and loathing of him.

Pence is one of 656,789 scrapings from the bottom of the gene pool that in 2016 shall seek to become the Republican nominee for President of the United States.

His particular Path to Victory involves positioning himself as more of a numbnuts cornhole yeehaw than any of his many competitors.

And so Pence recently soberly signed into law a bill that permits retrovert hoosiers to decline to bake pizza cakes to be served at gay weddings.

The bill Pence signed is known as the Religious Freedom Restoration Act, but what it is really about is Hating Homos. It permits business-owners to decline to offer services to patrons if to do so would offend said owners’ “religious beliefs.” It is of the same sort of legislation that some states and localities passed in the wake of the various civil rights laws and court decisions of the 1950s and ’60s, my hair is scaredwhich at last legally codified the basic notion that black people are human beings. Such legislation constituted the last throes of dead-enders, and died like dogs once submitted before courts staffed by Sane People. Now, apparently, we are going to have to go through the same thing again—eternal recurrence, march yea verily on—with the last throes of dead-enders whose brains explode at the notion that gay people are human beings.

And so we have this female hoosier person, named after methamphetamine, Crystal O’Connor, of Memories Pizza in Walkerton, Indiana, intoning to all and sundry:

“If a gay couple came in and wanted us to provide pizzas for their wedding, we would have to say no.

“We are a Christian establishment,” says O’Connor.

“We’re not discriminating against anyone, that’s just our belief and anyonedarn diggy has the right to believe in anything,” says O’Connor. “I do not think it’s targeting gays. I don’t think it’s discrimination. It’s supposed to help people that have a religious belief.”

It is believed that Walkerton, the hoosier burg where Ms. Meth O’Connor lives and works, is so named because the people who reside there are too knee-crawlingly stupid to drive, or even pilot a bicycle, and thus are allowed only to walk.

So what do we learn, other than that Indianans remain dumber than dirt?

That apparently Indianans serve pizza cake at their weddings.

Who knew?

To close this ditty we must needs embed “MacArthur Park,” the state song of Indiana. With a cautionary note that, to endure it, one may need to rely upon the state drug of Indiana, which is heroin.

He Is Risen

. . . . opening day . . . .

We Are The Eggman

i am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together
see how they run like pigs from a gun see how they fly
i’m crying

Sometimes the people, they wonder: “whyfor if Easter celebrates the resurrection of Jesus, is the day all about rabbits laying eggs and then giving them away to children?”

The answer is simple, really.

First it must be recalled that the revised standard authorized version of the life and works of Jesus of Nazareth in that volume today known as the New Testament agglomerated in the Fourth Century CE courtesy of a claque of ruthless politicians seeking to ensure that the faithful would forever: (1) be Catholic; (2) obey in all and every thing walks with me and he talks with mechurch hierophants, and only church hierophants; and (3) hate Jews.

The 27 “books” selected for and sanctified in said New Testament were carefully selected from among several hundred gospels, narratives, and letters regarding Jesus that were floating about at the time. All those works that were rejected from the New Testament were subsequently denounced as heresy and subjected to pogrom by fire, the goal to remove them first from existence and then from memory. In this the burners were, for the most part, and for nearly two millennia, successful. Many of those works disappeared forever; others, secreted away in advance of the firestarters in, for example, tightly sealed clay jars in remote arid caves, remained hidden from view for some 1600 years. Until this, the most recent era, when every square inch of the planet is being unearthed and examined, for one reason or another. And thus it is now possible to read such long-suppressed, forgotten, works as the Gospel of Philip, the Gospel of Thomas, the Gospel of Judas, the Apocalypse of Peter, the Gospel of James, the Gospel of Truth, The Mystery, the Testimony of Truth, The Thunder, Perfect Mind, the Secret Gospel of James, and so on, and on and on and on.

The 27 books selected and sanctified for the New Testament did not take their place for reasons of “truth”; that is, it was not perceived that they hewed closest to What Is and What Was, whereas the countless rejected works had strayed into error. Instead, the great 27 were selected, and all the rest forbidden, for political reasons.

The earthly existence of Jesus of Nazareth caused a ripple in human consciousness. His core message—everyone is god, and the maya of the world is a clown car from which each god should disembark to get about, with Love, what is Real—naturally and intentionally had a quantum effect: each god permitted and indeed encouraged to See and Do as the individual spirit moved. Many of the books burst into flame by the firestarters, among them those referenced above, quite explicitly set forth this message.

The men with the flamethrowers, that is, the selectors of the books that would become known as the New Testament, these were devotees of bad fitthe cult of Saul of Tarsus—that self-confessed liar, murderer, and thief—a man who had experienced a brainshower that Jesus should be retarded into a pagan sun-king, his worship rigidly supervised by a priest-caste, of which he, Saul, naturally, would be The Ruler. These Saulites did not want any vision of Jesus walking about that encouraged everybody to be god and pursue the Real, for such would seriously interfere with the power and money flow, which of course should accrue to them. So into the flames all the Bad Books did go.

Too, those most resistant to the Saulites in the latter’s cabining of the quantum Jesus to a narrow little sphincter, these were those folks identified with James, brother of Jesus, who had from the get-go regarded Jesus as what he was: a devout Jew, offering revelation in the traditional Jewish mystical tradition. Thus the great Jew-hate deliberately salted away among the 27 books selected by the Saulites for the New Testament: the Saulites, in their unholy war to squeeze the infinitely round Jesus into their little square hole, perceived the James people, the “Jews for Jesus,” as their primary foe (because Saulites thought in such pre-monolith terms as “foes”), and thus crafted their New Testament as a weapon with which to libel, discredit, and kill Jews. Their piece de resistance was inscribing, in their revised standard authorized version, the lie that “Jews killed Jesus.” When, in historical reality, Jews had neither the desire, much less the power, to do any such thing. Jesus was killed by Romans. A glow-in-the-dark freak who wandered around telling people they were all god, every one, and that the Romans, as “Romans,” weren’t even Real, such a person quite naturally needed, from the Roman point of view, to have holes spiked into his body and then be hoisted onto the wood until he was dead, dead, dead.

But the Saulite lie, that it was the Jews who killed Jesus, this lie, through the New Testament, and through weekly priest-caste ritual, entered the annals of collective “truth,” thereby generating millennia of mad Jew-hatred, which reached its most perfect expression in the Holocaust.

Well done, Saul.

Besides the aforementioned Gospel of James, and Secret Gospel of James, there also today exists, again, the long-suppressed book, also attributed to Jesus’ brother James, the Secret Gospel of James Regarding the no on realityResurrection of My Brother Jesus as An Egg-Laying Rabbit.

In this tome, we learn that after the Romans spiked and then hoisted Jesus up onto the wood, for saying everyone is god and “Romans” aren’t Real, and after up there Jesus died, the people said, well, that’s that, as ever, better get him into the ground, before he goes ripe. So they brought him down, and washed him, and then laid the corporeal container in a sort of cave. From which, three days later, he burst forth as an invisible rabbit who laid eggs and then secreted them away so that children could experience joy in finding them.

The reason for this, James explains in this gospel, is that Jesus wanted to get across to people that not only is death just one more manifestation of maya, which everyone who is god—and everyone is god—can and should elide, but that, even through the utter permanent devastation of total irrevocable loss, one can try to tease fun from it . . . and what could be more fun than a giant invisible rabbit who lays eggs for the joy of children?

Now, it is a little-known fact that James, brother of Jesus, he has never died. For it is he, James, who is the legendary Wandering Jew, a Jew of the time of Jesus, who, it is said, shall walk this earth for so long as walk upon it people.

Over the millennia, James, wandering, he has taken many forms. One such form was as “James Stewart.” And it was in that form, as “Jimmy Stewart,” that James offered us the gospel of Harvey, the true-life documentary film in which a giant invisible rabbit lays eggs, stops clocks, encourages people to bestow upon themselves and one another love and peace and fellowship, and transports those who wish to go to hither and yon . . . for Harvey, as his brother James tells us in the film, “has overcome not only time and space—but any objections.”

Anyone who doubts that Jimmy Stewart was James, brother of and in Christ, can regard below his brief, rhymed gospel, the Gospel of Beau:

Still, there could come the objection: if Jesus wanted people to Understand, why did he roll away the stone to emerge as a giant invisible rabbit who laid eggs for the joy of children? Why, instead, didn’t he emerge as in the Saulite version, to sternly lecture his erstwhile fraternity brothers; or as in the Tim LaHaye version, to personally machine-gun bunches of Wrong people; or as in the Mormon version, to sail away to North America to there tell the Indians to Worship and Behave?

Because a giant invisible rabbit who lays eggs for the joy of children is something children understand. And children are those who best appreciate that everybody, everything, is god, and that a giant invisible rabbit who lays eggs is no more some lesser maya than “money,” or a “city,” or a “job.” A child has not yet made the titanic mistake of putting away childish things. And thus knows that, in this minute, Jesus is an invisible rabbit, bringing eggs he has laid, to anyone who wants them, all over the world, and that all we rest, as god as was Jesus, should, and shall, from charity, which is love, do the same.

Why Steven Spielberg Will Spend Many Years In The Re-Education Camp

Money was the solvent that dissolved the tissue of the ’70s like acid on flesh. Years later, at Robin Williams’ fortieth birthday party in Napa, rongSteven [Spielberg] and Kate [Capshaw] were hanging around with John Travolta, Kirstie Alley, and a few others. Travolta is licensed for multi-engine jets. Somebody asked, “So John, you flew your own plane up here? What kind?”

“A Learjet.”

Steven broke in, “Oh yeah, a Learjet. Do you have the kind where you can just walk into it, or do you have to duck your head?”

“You have to duck your head,” replied Travolta.

Steven turned to Kate and said, “We don’t have to duck our heads on ours, do we?”

Peter Biskind

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When I Worked

April 2015