Category Archives: humor

Training Time

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IMG_0587

Not my train

No way I’m going to make it. The 8:36 would have to be sitting in the station for ten minutes which is not going to happen. I’m late getting into my car by at least ten minutes. I should go to the dry cleaners who have had the pants they hemmed for me since August. That would be a good use of my time. But somehow, I can’t believe I’m going to miss my train. So I reach the on ramp to the TZ Bridge and look! It’s empty! A chance, I say. A chance.

Half way down the ramp we turn a corner and…brake lights. OK. It’s a usual Monday. I can get through this. Are you kidding? Speed demoning and tailgating dangerously just to make a train? Why do I set myself up for this sort of thing? Slow down. Life’s too short.

What will I do if I don’t make the train? I’ll sit 20 minutes and write my thoughts. I’ll take the milk train that leaves late and then on top of that stops at every local stop and takes 20 minutes longer than any normal express train. I’ll live the life of a free man, unfettered by my inner Nazi.

I park the car. I won’t make the train, but I will hear it. That’s the worst. It will race by me to the station as I walk, stop and let people on, and then go on its merry way.

I could make it. I have 6 minutes. I could probably run a 6 minute mile if I had to. If someone was holding a gun to my shoes. But I have a kind of sore ankle, like shin splints, only it’s ankle splints from walking weird in a new pair of shoes last week. Damn, it takes me a long time to break new shoes in. I could hobble-run, my briefcase held like a football, dodging cars and pedestrians to breathlessly slobber on my train mates, wheezing and holding my sore ankle and crying Mama. It could happen. And if it did, I would make the train and not be late for work.

On the other hand, just change the context. Change it. You have the power, right now.

What’s that sound? Probably the train coming up from behind. No. No. I think it’s that house’s dryer vent.

A tweeting! Is that the train doors opening and closing? No, a truck is backing up.

I will not hurry. I will put one step in front of another. I dare not look up from my feet because they are plodding along trustingly, one foot in from of the other on asphalt. If I look up, I will want to run.

This is good. This is a rhythm of sanity. This is a freedom of sorts. Don’t look up. Time was given me at birth. It’s about how I spend it.

Prepare yourself. It will come from behind. It will sound like a train. Really, if it comes and I’m only a few yards away I will sprint up the steps and hurt my ankle. I know I will. That would be too much temptation.

Slow down further then. No chance of making it if you just slow down.

The whirring comes from behind. It might be my train. No, it’s not mine. No train is mine. It is a train. It is the 8:36am. It streams past me and stops. I can see it stop up ahead. I have no quickening in my step. My reasoning mind knows I am too far from it to even run and make it. Eyes back to the road. I will sit and write on the quiet platform. Is there a place to get tea nearby? There is no need to take this train. I’m as free as I want to be. And the rest of the day will likewise be free, easy and under my flow of control.

The doors tweet and shut. Off it goes. I have beaten the train.

Solutions for 2016

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HONITON HIPPO

The Hippo Deduction

Problems with the IRS?

Become a hippo! That’s right. You’ve taken on a few more pounds than you should anyway. Hippos are not Americans. They are residents of sub-Saharan Africa. They don’t have drivers licenses. They don’t have to hire expensive tax preparers and fill out 1040s.

Just replace your Facebook and Linked in profile photos with the picture you took of a hippo last time you went to the zoo and you’re home free.

The IRS can’t take a hippo to court! Wrong habitat! They can’t be cross examined or plead the fifth because they won’t fit in the witness box. Their legal domicile is mud. Put them on varnished flooring they’ll lose their footing and take several government lawyers down with them.  Push them on a technicality, they’ll sue those pencil-pushers from here to Wakkerstroom Wetland under the Endangered Species Act.

So, when the IRS comes knocking, just put on your hippo mask and smile. You’re covered.

Virus Away!

Purchase this maladjusted magic wand for the price of a song (must be “Some Enchanted Evening” sung by The Harry Potter Gospel Choir). Wave it at your computer screen and all the malware, adware, virus ware, hardware and deck chairs disappear from your computer system. Also works on Excel formulas you can’t figure out and word documents where the margins seem to have a life of their own.

Self-killing Geese

No guns, no hunting license, no plucking or preparing. They know when it’s dinner time. Just open your front door and your oven and they flap in, pre-plucked. Try Teriyaki (they fly through a car wash that covers them with sauce) or Truffle oil.

Bad Breath? — Try Surgery

Global warming? Polluted planet? Wars of religion? No scourge is worse than the scourge of bad breath. But now, bad breath can be remedied with surgery. You heard right! Have your gums surgically removed and no food will ever get caught in them again! Plus, has the added benefit of turning your mouth into maracas. Just close your lips and shake those gumless teeth! Caramba!

Precursor Tie Spot Preventer

With deep prayer and a faith in your higher power, you will never have spotted ties again. Try Precursor with the active ingredient Natch. Here’s how it works. After praying, God will lead you to where your lunch’s biggest drips will end up BEFORE THEY HAPPEN! Just apply Precursor with a steady hand to those exact spots and not a millimeter more. And then eat. When the spaghetti sauce flies, it goes directly to the pre-treated, Precursor drops you’ve applied to your tie. The result? A perfectly spotless tie every time!

No Chin? No Worries!

Nothing below your lips? Is the distance between the bottom of your face and your mouth less than 2 cm? Now you can rest easy, Dr. Chindimple can help. His patented process of putting marbles next to your lower gums to stretch your face has achieved stupendous results on men, women, girls, boys, even salamanders. Why live with a jawline that stops at your front teeth? Make an appointment by calling 1-888-NOCHIN.

And, for serious cases, try Dr. Chindimple’s Roving Chin. This small fleshy marmot is shaved and made to look like a chin, then trained to cling to your jawline. For an extra fee we will train it to reposition itself from side to side based on jokes you might be telling, but only if it gets the joke. Comes with 6 plastic ziplock bags of marmot food and a Barbie Princess Suite to tuck your chin to bed in at night. Go ahead, scratch your chin in contemplation like Abe LIncoln.   (Not responsible for ticklish marmots.)

Reading Problems? Why not fuse your child’s spine to a Chair!

That’s right. Dr. Lev Solonoloff has written a paper on the effects of pediatric spinal fusion on a whole host of things including bedwetting (more), sedimentary wastewater (none), sympathy for Toulouse Lautrec (plenty), yen for string cheese (duh), all due to the newly discovered process of fusing your child’s spine to a chair. Most importantly, he has proven the link between your child’s poor reading habits and your bank account.

Imagine a life without reading problems. That is what this surgery will do for your child. Signs, books, texts, comics, even adult magazines, all can be read now, without the stress of knowing. You don’t have to know, and neither do they. You just put them in our hands and we’ll cripple them for good.

Dr. Solonoloff–‘Lev’ to his friends, ‘asshole’ to litigants–created this special surgery out of sugar water and string. Born with webbed feet, at the age of eight, he discovered the beauties of a soldering iron and never looked back.  If he had, he would have only seen the trees, since he lived in a forest; his parents having died in a parachuting accident. He had nothing, but what he DID have was…nothing. (I told you he had nothing! Why didn’t you believe me the first time? This is the problem with the world. Lack of faith. When will you ever grow up?)

Well, now you never DO have to grow up. Just sit quietly in a chair and read. And your twelve children? They’ll all be sitting next to you in their chairs, reading. What a perfectly lovely picture of order and value in the world. Just don’t stick around when they  ask to go to the bathroom.

Hemaroids? This will clear them right up. ADHD? This is perfect! Corporal punishment? Done. You have a chair and a spine now. Your butt is a thing of the past.

Don’t delay. If you have no time for your child, Dr. Lev has time for you.

Connectivity

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IMG_0495More people pass through Grand Central Station in a single day than live in the state of Alaska. For perspective, each Alaskan has 1.26 square miles to roam around in each year, New Yorkers at Grand Central have 2.7 square feet to roam in each day. Are there too many people in New York? Alaskans might think so.

I was not brought up in Alaska, but in Southern California. Some city planner claimed that my home was within the LA city limits, but compared to NYC it was hardly city living.  Three families carved out house plots on a large hill at the end of a fire road covered with sagebrush in the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains. We were 1/5 mile apart and our nearest neighbors were another mile or so across a gully on a ridge. When I looked for play friends as a boy, I hiked down into the gully or sometimes when the mustard weed had been cleared as a fire break from the top of the hill, slid half way down on large pieces of cardboard only to slide face first into the sagebrushy prickles.Then I’d go pile rocks as ammunition in case another boy, a prospective friend, might challenge my position. So I feel pretty spiritually close to the 1.26 square miles Alaskans bask in.

The first big city I ever experienced was Disneyland–the crowds, the waiting in lines for things, the myriad people watching. It trained me for what I might find when I moved away from home to a real city–Chicago.  How different life was with people as witnesses. How the people had to behave differently because they were always always being seen by other people. It was a house of mirrors.

It must have satisfied though, some part of it at least, because for the next 40 years I have lived in cities, and never returned to my cowboy and indian roots, meeting friends by throwing rocks in the canyon.

So it is somehow otherworldly, but in other ways completely natural that I now share Grand Central Station with 750,000 other people each day. And each day I disembark from my train and walk from 42nd Street to 19th Street where I work, passing 900 people just on the sidewalk I’m on. ( I counted.) I’m not even talking about the people walking on the other side of the street.

In my rock-throwing canyon I could watch another boy approach my position from a mile away. They tended to leave their backyards that spilled over the hills into the canyon, so you could see them as they skittered down their side of the hill. And with the binoculars that I kept hidden in a metal box dug into the dirt at Eagle Rock, I could see who they were long before I had to decide whether they were friend or foe.

This is different. It’s like viewing 900 photographs in 15 minutes. Some stick with you, most are a blur. But they are a blur of something human. If you saw 900 porcupines walking downtown it would be remarkable. Somehow this isn’t. And yet 900 arms, 900 noggins, 1800 eyelids–it all adds up so fast, and, it is completely indigestible. There is no time to size anyone up and see if you have enough rocks. Instead you have this too up close and personal view of nose hairs and elbows as they flash past. It takes some getting used to. Any one of them could be a serial kiler. Or more likely, your second cousin, future dishwasher, life of the party, lunky linebacker, someone’s friend from China. They all seem to pass the test for correct number of body parts. But what do they want? They whiz past like bullets.

My Buddhist practice says that we are all connected. But to my naked eye, it sure doesn’t seem that way. On the other hand, take a moment to stand on the mezzanine above the main floor of Grand Central station. From here you can see the big picture: bodies in motion. At this time of the morning there must be roughly a thousand different bodies all going which way. Here comes a big, aggressive late-trainer, he’s moving at a speed 2.4 times faster than anyone else. And the other bodies move around him, make way for him without even really noticing he is there. This is a rock thrown in a pond. This is physics. This is the Buddhist principal of dependent origination.

Nothing exists independently of other things. If this exists, that exists; if this ceases to exist, that also ceases to exist.

Hence this morning’s experiment. I am donning my guerrilla mask and going to walk at an even pace across the entire floor length to watch interconnectivity at work. What am I proving? Nothing. I’m just having fun. I’ve already told you I believe in dependent origination, so what more is there to say. Besides, it’s almost Halloween.

Probably though, I am also proving to myself that the reason I don’t live in Alaska is that it is much harder to be connected to the herd there. You have to assume that other people exist and care about you there. Here in New York, you know they exist and you know they don’t care about you.  So what do they want? Why are they here? Is it just the safety of the herd?

The tattoos may explain it. New York City has some definite over achievers in the tattoo, hair color process, look-at-me-I’m-different attention getting department. There are more tattoos per square body inch here than in Alaska, I guarantee it. Roses on butt-cheeks, hashtag Jesus on neck napes, the Loch Ness Monster swallowing entire arm wings. They came here to be part of the herd and then to prove they were different. Like me, they gave up their rocks for the expression of themselves as art. Take that Alaska.

Moreover, in moving here, my pile of rocks has been bronzed and sits on my desk as a paperweight. My new weapon, retardation. Bullets would be happier metals if they slowed down to a point where they can’t hurt anyone; that they dribble, retardedly, out the end of a gun and wobble across to their target and give it a little kiss.

So it is with the interconnectivity of people. Retard my friends, retard. Decelerate.

Alaska may be an extreme but so is Grand Central Station. Get out of there. Go to Starbucks. Or better yet, to the corner diner. Smile. Say hello. She’s nice. He’s a great guy. Are you reading Dickens? I am too! How about those Mets? Let’s take a selfie with everybody here.

Women understand this. But sometimes when they’re dressed for business they forget. Heart to heart. Whether we like it or not, we want to be connected, we are connected.

 

Rules for Parents of a 13 Year Old

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IMG_0472– Tell them to spend more time on their iPhone. It is teacher, friend, recreation director, novelist, film maker, shopping outlet.

– Do not speak to them until spoken to. They have much on their minds and running in their veins, don’t ruin their concentration. They’ll tell you when it’s time to speak.

– Give them the keys to the city. Make sure you open charge accounts for them at Starbucks, Forever 21, the joke shop and every store in the mall, that they can use to get whatever their heart’s desire.

– Give them the keys to the house. Two locks for their bedroom to ensure security for their valuable things, the key to the liquor cabinet in case they’d like to try new things, keys to all the doors, passwords to all your websites and accounts, especially Netflix.

-When they’re bored and ask what to do, tell them to play more video games and try to beat their past records.

– Let them win at tennis, bowling, Parcheesi, ping-pong.

If you do all these steps religiously, you will be GUARANTEED an arrogant, unfeeling and egotistical young American adult, who sucks value from the world like a weasel sucks eggs.

How to Embarrass Your 13 Year Old

Embarrassment is of the utmost importance for your 13 year old; as important as the right kind of diet and plenty of television.

– Turn off Rihanna on the radio and sing Barry Manilow tunes, preferably off-key.

– Drive them to Birthday parties and instead of just dropping them off outside, go in and say hello to the parents.

– Tell visiting family relations they are a cello prodigy and ask them to play a tune.

– Talk to their coach about why they were benched during the entire soccer game for just asking to play defense in a game they lost 9 – 0.

– Say hello to their friends when you meet them on the street and then make sure and go home and tell your 13 year old that you met their friends on the street

– Speak.

– Offer advice.

– Be.

-Ask them if they need help with their homework.

– Be yourself in public and private

You think I’m’ joking?

Conversation with a 13 year old

Me: Let’s go to the Street fair!

13: I’m going with a friend.

Me: Oh, who?

13: I haven’t set it up yet.

Me: Oh I see. And you don’t know who yet?

13: I’m setting it up.

Me: We used to have such fun at the street fairs. Would you rather go bowling?

13: Be inside on this nice day?

Me: Ok, how about a hike or a bike ride?

13: I have to be honest with you, that doesn’t sound so interesting.

Me: So basically anything to do with your parents is wrong for a 13 year old to do.

13: I’m almost 14.

Me: You’re not. You’re not even 13 and 1/2. Don’t grow up too fast. Are you sure you don’t want to go to the street fair?

13: Sure, I’m sure.

Me: Well then, Mom and I are going by ourselves.

13: Well, can you go later when me and my friend aren’t there?

Me: It’s a huge street fair! There are thousands of people there!

13: Well, just in case, don’t go ’til later, after we’re through.

Da Newspaper

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IMG_0451I like reading newspapers. Always have. I hate the black smudged fingers, hate the awkwardness of folding the damn things and am not particularly partial to the smell of printer’s ink. But there’s something to be said for the leisurely manipulating with arms and fingers of a veritable blanket of news. In these days of single tap iPhones, reading a paper almost registers as exercise. It’s a kind of kinetic fun reading a beach towel of newsprint, where every square inch is covered in information. It ripples and folds and is big enough to catch the wind in its pleats.

Now here’s the odd part. We read it for relaxation, don’t we? I do. I have a hard time reading it in the morning, because there is so much to accomplish that day. I only have room for that. But as the afternoon turns to evening, I yearn to de-stress. I can’t think about another email or phone call or meeting.  I just want to sit, relax and read the paper.

Why should reading about other people’s (states’, nations’, governments’, presidents’, politicians’) problems be relaxing? My rational mind can think of nothing worse.  And one story in ten is downright awful (10 in 10 if you read the Post).

The biggest problem is negativity. It’s a constant game played between the negativity of the situation (rarely good news), the negativity of the writer (objective reporting be damned, yes because they’re human they can have negativity too), and one’s own negativity.

Let’s take a story about Al Qaeda as an example. Some cell of Al Qaeda bombed a marketplace. Okay. This is not good. I shop in marketplaces. Maybe I’d better stop doing that, particularly if I move to Sudan. (Your negativity.)  People die the world over, but these twelve people died doing something so human — bargaining for lentils (negativity of the situation).  Al Qaeda is a bunch of radical extremists who kill people with suicide bombs, warp young people to think that redemption is wearing a suicide bomb and detonating it in a public place is the only way to have friends when you get to heaven, and besides should really have a ‘u’ in their name, shouldn’t they? (Negativity of the writer.) When these three things come together you have a perfect storm of suffering negativity, and all you did was read the paper and “relax”. Hmm. Maybe I should take up ping pong.

So why do I do it? Why do I seemingly relax and enjoy reading about pain, sorrow, death and destruction? I don’t know. But here are some possibilities.

1) It’s comforting to watch/read about people taking action — positive or negative. Especially when you aren’t (at that moment). It’s a great substitute for the feeling of actually accomplishing something and all you’ve done is read a story.

2) It’s just a bedtime story. Story is one of the oldest forms of entertainment, escapism, do we really take them that seriously, whether you identify with the protagonist or not? (Do you go out and sleep with your mother after reading Oedipus?)

3) The other sections. Though you can grit your teeth while reading the front page news of the world, reading about Sports (unless you’re a Cubs fan) Arts, Business, Home, Style (as long as there are photos of models) is pleasurable.

This leads me to another conundrum. Why is reading a bad review of a play or movie pleasurable? Is it because we love to laugh at fools? Even those brave fools who actually try to achieve something difficult and great? Or alternately, do we like to hate critics?

Both of these activities give us great feelings of superiority — again, while all we have actually done is read a story. In fact, now that I think of it, doesn’t that apply to all the news stories as well? “I could do better than those idiots in Washington DC.” “Does Rupert Murdoch have any idea what he’s doing divorcing wife #3 after wife #2 cost him a cool billion?” “Should police really be given guns when polls show that triggers trigger violence and all violence really is is unhappy people having a bad day.” It allows for smug superiority of the most covert kind. Not pretty. This is what I do to relax? Serve as judge, jury and executioner while reading entertaining stories.

I’ve been in the paper before. And at its worst I felt a little bit proud. I got my name in the paper. I must be someone of importance. It’s like a mirror that only sees one way.

So that’s it! Everything, whether you’re in the paper or reading it, makes you superior. What a great trick. Of course you’d want to keep reading the paper wouldn’t you?

But here’s the rub. When I actually read a newspaper everyday, I feel cheap. I feel like a whore. You think I have time to solve the Syrian Civil War? Why are they making me read about radiation escaping from Nuclear plants in Japan? I’m so paranoid about disease, war, terrorism, the political logjam, and our democracy already, why are they adding to my burden? Why? Do they want me to have a panic attack right here, right now?

Could it be that spending that much time with printer’s ink on my hands feeds my superior attitude to the point where I’m ashamed of myself? (I get the same feeling from watching CNN or too much local news on TV) I just don’t want to feel that superior. It hurts and I have things to do that actually create value. That is perhaps the gist of it. Though the fourth estate has significant purpose to maintain free speech, keep us informed, etc. somehow too many stories just feels like masturbation, not like creating value.  Ultimately masturbation is just release. It’s creating value that makes you happy.

I don’t think I’m going to read the paper any more. At least not until I get off work. Did you hear that Donald Trump wants to use caged leopards in designer gowns as presiding physicians in clinics for four year olds? What an idiot.

Facebook Apology

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StarbucksJust a note of apology to my Facebook Friends.

I’m sorry.

That Starbucks Coffee I took a photo of with my phone and told you I was enjoying a nice cup in La Jolla, California? It wasn’t true. I was at a truck stop on Interstate 80 in South Bend, Indiana. And I poured the 3 Beans Coffee I got there into an old Starbucks cup I had in the car to make it look like i was enjoying Starbucks. I’ve never been to La Jolla but it sounded jolly, like I might laugh if I was there, and be more myself, whoever that is.

And while I’m being honest I never went to Brazil.

Those photos of me and my children with blooming rain forest flowers were taken at the New York Botanical Garden in the Bronx because we got a coupon for half off on Goldstar and it was closer and much cheaper than Brazil. For a minute though, it felt like we were there.

Right now the children and I are staying at my mother’s in South Bend. So those pictures of Larry and I being happy at the lake, including the selfie of he and I with the spatula, are from a much earlier time. I just re-posted them because I thought it might revive the love between us. You know, remind us of all we’d done. But I haven’t seen the bastard and his bitch in six months, and the picture I really want to post is the look on his face when I serve him papers.

To come clean, my name isn’t Sue, it’s Su-La-Twa and I’ve decided to stop wearing the make-up that makes me look like a young WASP from Indiana and embrace my roots. That includes no more Clairol Nice n’ Easy.

Some of my High School Friends, particularly, may be surprised I am coming clean, but I thought it best to set the record straight. I never went to Central High as my Facebook profile claims, but spent four years with an AK47 at my side in the swamps of Nigeria while my doppelgänger Sue went to Homecoming. Sue has been erased now. Although for old time’s sake I have decided not to delete her pictures from my timeline.

As you scroll through the life I led as a double agent, know that I loved Indiana, my children and the rest of my cover and wish I could still be shopping at Sears for slippers in the University Park Mall in Mishawaka. By the way Lucy, I still owe you $20 for the smoothies, and given that this is truth telling time, I doubt you’ll ever see it. I have more important debts now. My debt to my newly revealed name, my debt to my country (not sure which one, because I emigrated when I was still a zygote, but I can tell you with all honesty that it was not the US), my debt to my people – the ones who live in that country whatever it is, and my debt to Caitlin Jenner.

I hope to be a man one day soon.

If you like the new me, Friend me.  I will understand if my sudden honesty has turned you against me for all the years of lying on Facebook I have done. As a role model, I encourage all of you, my Facebook Few, to tell the truth and never use Revlon to cover up who you really are.

So click ‘Like’ dammit. What are you waiting for!! I did this for you. The you who ‘Likes’ me. Do you think I would do this on my own? No! I did it to get your attention. I’m pretty fucking Friendless here. I have few Facebook friends to begin with. I figured if I change my sex, release NSA documents, and get a tattoo I would at least get more ‘Likes’. Some people have a pet chicken, I have Facebook. So click the damn Like icon and we’ll call it a day.

Thank you.

PS. Friend me!

PSS. If you Friend me, Like me!!

PSSS. If you Friend and Like me, marry me. I need help and Caitlin says she’s not interested.

Thank God It’s Global Warming

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Baby With the Bath Water (150dpi)

“Baby with the Bathwater” by Gina Freschet. More info about Gina’s art at freschet.com

I thank God for Global Warming. Without Global Warming, where would we be? We’d still be looking behind potted plants for Communists, or recording everyone’s cell phone conversations to make sure they’re not allied with ISIS. (“But I’ve owned this movie theater for fifty years! We show vintage movies, honest! It’s always been called The Isis!”)

It’s always around, like a friend, communicating to us all the time through the backs of our minds. Guiding our hand as we rethink throwing old pool Chlorine down the toilet. Then something big happens like a hurricane or the Giants win the World Series and it dances to the front page and we don’t have to think about racism or religious wars any more. It’s so big that even the free market and the dollar are affected.  It’s even bigger than corporations (and you thought nothing was bigger than that!).  You can run, but you cannot hide.

As far as each individual is concerned, we turn the heat down two degrees (well maybe one) and bring our batteries to the recycling dump. But really isn’t the world just too big for anyone to make a difference against the onslaught of us?

No.

Global Warming is cause and effect.  Who do you think made the cause in the first place? It wasn’t Barney the Dinosaur. It wasn’t Fred Flintstone, it wasn’t Betsy Ross or George Washington for that matter.  It was my right foot. (On the gas pedal.) It was my index finger. (On the thermostat.)

It is a little known fact that George Washington is the Father of Global Warming (if his initials aren’t enough to convince you, don’t forget that incident with the cherry tree), George W. Bush is the Son, and We are the Holy Ghost.

Is it my fault? No! Google should use less coal in its search engine. It’s just that Global Warming used to be six degrees of separation between the cause I made and the effect ( I didn’t know that burning old tires made smoke, who would have guessed? It was sure fun to watch them melt though). Now it’s three degrees of separation and diminishing fast. (The latest model cars have actually been developed with a Siri voice that says “Ouch” when you push the gas pedal. That’s what I’m talking about.)

Let’s face it, we need more common enemies and Global Warming fits the bill perfectly. And, believe it or not, Global Warming comes from the same place that the trash island as big as the state of Texas in the middle of the Pacific comes from; even ISIS has roots in it–our arrogance. We are a proud country, we are a country that has brought the idea of individual freedom to a pinnacle, we are a country that is so intelligently modern that we have gone soft. (Pass the Doritos please, my thumb is on the Wii trigger, and can you put them in my mouth while I play?)

But I’m not here to cast aspersions. This is really all about me. They go to the trouble of making those fluorescent twisty bulbs to save the world, so why do I throw them in the garbage when I know that somewhere in the back of my news-reading mind they should be disposed of in some other way. And why, when I read the packaging that it comes in, is there no mention of how to dispose of them, but when I read the headlines in my newspaper they say they are filled with Mercury. Why do I drive to the drug store when it is 6 blocks away? For that matter, why do I drive to my yoga class one mile away, spewing carbon into the atmosphere just so I can stay healthy? Who programmed me to stand at the refrigerator trying to think of what to eat, while this intelligent machine loses as little of its refrigeration to the atmosphere as possible, which is still too much. And why, when it no longer serves me, do I put the fridge on the curb without taking the Chlorofluorocarbons (CFCs) from it. Does anyone know how to do that? Why are we taught the math that is the foundation of our planet without being taught about our planet?

Oh well, wait a year or two. Global Warming will take care of it. It will take that smile off my face, when it attacks like Godzilla and destroys homes, gyms and the food supply. And then we will start the retraining. Then our children will learn new lessons. And they won’t be grammar lessons or how to edit video to put your film on youtube. They’ll be the lessons that the Native Americans taught their young when the land was sacred and the teepee was the only housing stock on its face; when the rivers ran pure because they belonged to all of us, not just General Electric. We’ll live simpler and smarter because Global Warming will have us by the short hairs. And we’ll rediscover our happiness and our sense of appreciation and the joy that comes from contemplating soil. We’ll spend the next century reverse engineering our planet so that cows give milk, caterpillars turn to butterflies, and there’s still a little time left over to play Grand Theft Auto.

So let’s get started. Put your hands together for Global Warming. It’s Nature’s way of saying, “Stop already.”  And frankly, It’s the best thing that ever happened to us

The Devil King of the Sixth Heaven Explained

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Monkey God

Monkey God by Gina Freschet. More art at Freschet.com

The Devil King of the Sixth Heaven. This is a Buddhist phrase or principle. A way of reminding ourselves just how our human is natured.

Let’s start with Heaven. This is where you live. This is where you find yourself. Picture it without the angels, the harps, the clouds, the need for perfection, St. Peter, or gates that lock. Think more of a staging ground for your life; an off season county fair ground waiting to come alive. Bring your best to it and suddenly it’s open, enlightened. Ride the Ferris Wheel. Have a good time. Your Heaven is what you put into it.

And why the 6th Heaven, not the Fifth or Fourth? Because the Sixth Heaven is the intersection of your five senses. The heart’s brain. The place that is supposed to make sense of all the input coming in to you and then suggest action.

And the Devil King? He’s your doubt, your poison, your karmic shadow. And He’s all yours. No one else can claim Him. He is specific to you. You can scale the sheer walls, you can invent a single coptered flying machine powered by bicycle pedals, but if you listen to Him telling you you can’t, you won’t. When you make His voice King, you’re one fucked monkey.

In fact, He may be talking to you right now: “Why are you reading this? Do you buy this load of crap? Monkey schmunkey. Get off your ass and get a job you worthless piece of shit. And stop eating those Cheetos you obese douche bag, you’re getting orange grease on your PhD. Your friends are crap, your life is crap, you are crap.” So that’s Him. The Devil King of the Sixth Heaven. And just imagine what kind of action you’ll take when His voice reigns — the lottery could make me a millionaire, my nose is too big, why can’t I win an Oscar? Any Faustian bargain you care to make for money, youth, beauty, fame is the product of the Devil King of the Sixth Heaven. And He is so familiarly personal. He is part of you and me because we are human. In fact, He’s at least 9 of the 7 Deadly Sins. His nickname is Freely Enjoying the Fruits of Others Efforts. (His doppelgangers are Freely Complaining about Others Without Understanding that it Takes Two to Tango, and Freely Judging Others without Taking Steps to Improve Your Own Damn Self.)

Hey I want to enjoy the fruits of others efforts as much as the next guy. Why not? Italian silk ties made in Bangladesh on sale at TJ Maxx for $3.99? Throwing away good food by the truckload because it’s not to my liking right now. And what about Donald Trump? He doesn’t deserve all that money.

But the more I chant, the more I realize that Donald Trump, despite his bad hair, knows more about money than I will ever know. In fact, his father was a wealthy real estate magnate. So he studied money and real estate at the foot of his mentor/dad. And, in fact, he probably suffers the disease of knowing money so intimately. Yes, he could beat me at Monopoly. But the treasures of his heart’s life only he can know. I can’t know his treasures, I can only know mine. End of story.

How do you get to know your treasures? You have to see the Man. Because He stands between you and them.  And since He’s all yours; He’s so much a part of who you are; He’s the king of your obstacles, always telling you why you can’t do things…well, since He’s yours, anyway, you might as well own Him. Put Him to work. Harness your Devil King.

Here’s the list of why you’re not happy right now. A_____ B_____ C_____ and D_____ E_____ F_____ and more. Let’s be honest. He’s behind every single one of them. Narcissus drowned, don’t forget That’s right. Know how to identify Him. The more you put him to work for you, the happier you’ll be–understanding that He’s negative, understanding that He’s gonna look for the easiest way out, understanding that He has forces of sugar and salt, sex and drugs, mindless music and mindless video techno game pastimes arrayed behind Him–understanding this you are stronger, happier. And when your family doesn’t invite you to Easter dinner because they hate your girlfriend, you show up with cake and a smile and tell them your girlfriend  had to be with her family. Because though the Devil King may think differently, you love your family. You want them to be happy, you want to be happy with them, see them succeed, stand strong with them as they take on every difficult adventure.

Besides do you take even one moment each day to appreciate what you already have? Ah ha! If you do, then you can defeat the Devil King of the Sixth Heaven at his own game–today. Tomorrow you’ll have to do it again. You’ve got to be consistent. Keep meeting Him, eye to eye, and saying no. No, stop talking in my head and telling me I’m not fit to sell corn dogs at the Ritz; no, I don’t look as foolish today as you say, besides I like the tie with the blue diamonds; no, I won’t put up with people who have learned to sadistically victimize me because I try to be a nice person; no, my friends may be odd but who are you to judge because they’re my friends; no, I won’t allow a lower standard for my dreams, my dreams are too important to allow laziness, tiredness, fuzzy brain, life of this moment’s needs, bad hair cuts, relatives who think they know me better than I know myself, or stale pistachios that cracked my teeth and gave me astronomical dental bills, to stop me.

Take that Devil! And I’ll be here tomorrow too. And I’ll be awake too. And I’ll look Him in the eye. And together we’ll understand that He could be my greatest asset. That even He has an enlightened side. That He could help me look for, understand and control my obstacles. That we’re a team. That there’s nothing we can’t do together, day by day. Each day. That together we can enter the 7th, 8th and 9th consciousnesses without talk of devils. Just us. Just interconnectivity. Just the music of the spheres. Just the beautiful humans squeezed so tightly on this subway car that I can’t exhale, and yet one girl in a nice red coat is actually doing her make up, running a Q-tip along her eyelid while the train jolts forward. Yikes.

And then we’ll be in. Today. Because the Devil King of the Sixth Heaven is the GATEKEEPER of the 7th 8th and 9th consciousnesses. And once you reach those, you could be so calm, so happy that the Devils and the Heavens are left behind and you’re flying at a low altitude but high enough to see the peaks and valleys and you’re firmly at the controls keeping an eye out for Him in your rear-view mirror. Don’t hit the peaks, don’t fall into the valleys. You want to be connected to your past, to THE past, to your family’s past, to your ethnic origin’s past, and the presents and the futures. You want the happiness of the flight, and the knowledge that all you have to do is just lift the joystick up one inch to get over the obstacles, not be down there like bumper cars getting turned around by every little obstacle you bump into. Obstacle after obstacle. You want to fly toward the consciousnesses that can’t be written, because they must be experienced. Seven, Eight and Nine aren’t heavens in the true sense because Heaven is an invention of the human mind and they are not an invention of any mind.To say that they are love is to limit them. They are chance. This chance that we are living, appreciating, acknowledging, aspiring with…and that we know where our Devil is.

Television

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Old-fashioned four legged TV set isolated‘Tele’ — from the ancient greek, meaning I can hear you all the way over here, and ‘vision’ — Middle English for a trance-like state where you think Jennifer Anniston is funny. Copernicus was the first inventor of television. Other inventors were Galileo, John Coltrane and Bette Midler. Each had an instrument that allowed them to see from a distance (or in Bette’s case to sing “From a Distance”).

But does television exist any more? Probably not. You want to see Jennifer Anniston, go to Netflix. Not to be confused with Netscape. Which is something like Firefox. Not to be confused with Fios. But closer to Safari. Not to be confused with Amazon. Unless you’re wearing a pith helmet.

You see what I mean? You don’t need tele-vision for that. What you need is a degree from MIT.

With television, the challenge was all in snack preparation. But once you had your bowl of chips and Squirt the instructions were simple. 1. Sit on couch. 2. Turn on TV. 3. Fall asleep.

Today, no one has tele-visions, what they have instead are explicit blood-spattered nightmares, tasteless but titillating sexual inn-u-endo (as well as the actual endo itself when the Inn fills up and the ends spill out into the lobby), and amoral capitalistic rampages.  Just take a gander at some of the new programs that will be on this year.

Monkey Go Home Homeless monkeys read Beowulf on the streets of New York while begging for spare change. With their Malaysian habitat destroyed by logging corporations, the monkeys hop a plane to the big city and the hijinks begin. The first episode ends with the monkeys getting wise and catching pedestrians unawares with the old banana peel trick, then taking their victims’  wallets and house keys–proving once again that you can never go home.

McDonald’s Copter Gunship McDonald’s corporate PR firm decides that a helicopter gunship is just the thing to sell more hamburgers but the pilot can’t get the obese thing off the helipad. With a final 1,2,3 they lift it several feet in the air only to be foiled by a ketchup salesman from DesMoines who gets caught in the blades. Stars Bill Murray as Willy Loman, the ketchup salesman who Hunts for Red October.

Knit for Gnat Reality TV show about which insects are the best knitters. The spiders win legs down.

Sing for Your Supper Reality show with celebrity chefs about giving free gourmet food to people who make $9 an hour working at fast food restaurants, but only after they have been made to sing songs that are personally humiliating.  

Grandbaby Guignol Quentin Tarantino, Martin Scorsese and the ghost of Sam Peckinipah are put into a pre-school nursery where they must eat strawberries and read Barney to three year olds. The one who signs an agreement to disavow violent imagery and become the new Mister Rogers first, is the winner.

The Original Channel A whole channel devoted to series’ by clever young writers and TV serialists who think they are making great new original TV series. What they don’t know is that their mothers sprinkled old videotapes on their Fruit Loops when they were kids. The results, while perhaps being original to them, are hardly original…

  • Seinfold – A quartet of cranky origami artists always seem to let the folds get the best of them.
  • House of Farts – Political intrigue and high-flying ambitions at a nursing home.
  • The Tenors – The mob makes patsy’s sing on a lower note.
  • Spar Check – When the USS Enterprise loses its main boom, Dr. Spock sets off on an adventure through the Whole Mast Catalog. When they send him rocket parts instead of the spars he ordered, he gives birth to a whole new Enterprise.
  • Al in the Family –  A bigot named Al, who is a penniless pauper, happens to knock on a working class, single mother family’s door one night, and is taken in by the family when they realize that they don’t have a bigoted father figure at their center.
  • Gomer Pyle CSI – Gomer and Aunt Bee track down Opie in the crack houses of Miami’s South Beach to investigate the death of innocence. Gollee!
  • The Gilligan Files – Agents Mulder and Scully investigate an island crash site where alien life forms are mixing martinis and putting on skits.

The National Fireside Dims

It was that moment I’d been waiting for. The big event. When together, as a family, we could share at the national fireside, (the TV) something we could all experience–our family and one billion others.

I’m not really a football fan or a Super Bowl fan, but there are so few public moments we share together. In my youth that’s all there was. Gathered around the television with Ma and Pa, drinking Diet Rite Cola and eating bags and bags of barbecued potato chips, we experienced something like national unity, night after night. “That’s the way it is, ” said Walter Cronkite each night, signing off.

That’s the way it was.

So now my teenaged children, who don’t get many chances to sit at the national fireside to experience this kind of family unity, would at the very least, if they’re not football fans, which they’re not, watch Katy Perry and Lenny Kravitz for the half time show. At least we would have that.

“It’s on,” I yelled as Katy entered on an enormous mechanical tiger singing, “Eye of the Tiger.”

“Look at that! Wow girls.  Look at that Hunger Games-style fire dress! Girls! You’re gonna miss it!”

Nothing.

“Whoa now she’s dancing with silver chess pieces doing backflips! Girls!!?”

“Oh my God, she changed into a beach dress in 5 seconds and she’s dancing with sharks and palm trees. Come down and watch!”

“Okay, in a minute!” I finally heard from one.

“But it’s on now! It’s gonna be over!”

“Okay!”

Katy jumped around a stuffed dancing palm tree and my heart sank. They’re gonna miss it. This moment. What iPhone video game, what FaceTime phone conversation, what  Instagram photo share could possible be more important than this? I started to feel the blood rush to my face. They’re missing it.

I ran upstairs to my 17 year old daughter’s room. She was watching “Being Human” on my laptop.

“I hate Katy Perry,” she said, “She doesn’t stand for anything except crass American commercialism.”

“But this isn’t just Katy Perry, this is a global moment! The technology, the dancers, the pure bubble gum poppiness of it all. It may be popular culture at its crassest, but it’s worth seeing!”

“Not interested,” she monotoned.

I held my tongue and ran downstairs to ferret out my 13 year old daughter. She. Surely she would share this moment. She was on her iPhone with her friend.

“Don’t you want to see what all your school mates will be talking about tomorrow in the halls at school,” I ask.

“Not really. If I have to I’ll Youtube it on my iPhone later.”

“But you have to,” I demand.

“What?”

Stumped and stymied I blurt out, “Come down to see the end with us or I’ll give you a consequence!”

She looks at me quizzically, shrugs her shoulders. “Alright Dad.”

“It’s on now,”I emphasize.

“I’ll be down.”

I return to the family TV, Katy is rapping about pedicures with Missy Elliott…but the joy has gone out of it.

“It’s almost over,” I yell. “You’re missing the best part,” I exclaim knowing that in this five minute tech orgy there really can be no best part.

Finally my 13 year old appears. Looks. Katy has silver eyeliner on and is flying around the stadium on a star crane with sparks coming out of every possible stadium orifice.

My 13 year old shrugs her shoulders. “Is there any cake left in the kitchen?”

So much for national fireside. Not Obama, disasters, moon landings, wars, peace, or as it turns out, Katy Perry being flown around a football stadium, can bring it back.

Apps for 2015

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vectorstock_920968 New Year, New Apps. Well, it’s one way to think you control the world.

Habitual Light App My older European friends still behave like they live in a world with candles. Stand outside their homes at night and you can always tell which room they’re in. When they walk into a new room, they turn out the light in the old room. They have this strange, old-fashioned notion that light exists to illuminate the darkness. So this app makes you faux European. As you travel from kitchen to bedroom it automatically turns the lights out in the room you were just inhabiting. Simple, right? Go ahead, run through the house. It’s a light show all by itself. And, with the plus version you can add fans, TVs, computers, electronic meters, even plug in toys. Imagine the planetary savings, all for power you frankly aren’t really around to get the benefit of. If your chandeliers and power fans are playing to an empty room, this app is for you.

Saha App Points out negativity around you that you might have become inured to but which affects you nonetheless. For an extra $1.99, the Super Saha App points out the basic human fear behind each negativity so you can (1) ignore it if you’re a wallflower prone to depression, (2) do something about it if you are in a transformational stage and want to change your karma, (3) point it out to the source of negativity if you’re ready for a good old fashioned confrontation, or (4) pray for the negative source to change and recognize how human the fear is that the negative source is dealing with.

Anti-Saha app When you need to be entertained, and you’re willing to admit that negativity, though it is all around you, is rather entertaining, particularly in other people; turns off the Saha App so you can have a good laugh.

Seed Plant App Remember Johnny Appleseed? This app re-seeds the bottom of your shoe soles with seeds on a daily basis. That way whenever and wherever you walk, you’re greening the planet!  (Turn off app in suburban malls, movie theaters and performing arts auditoriums, car washes and for that matter in any auto at all, as it will inhibit operation of a motor vehicle. Or you could just tie your shoes on the door handles of your car as it drives and re-seed major highway shoulders and interchanges.) Climate specific seeds are perfect for your neighborhood! Choose from grass, marijuana, bird, sunflower and pomegranate.

Micro Macro This app sends a signal to your brain when your world balance tips too micro. This could be while studying any body part, or doctor’s report about a body part, looking in the mirror for longer than 60 seconds or feeling a complaint coming on. Automatically projects an image of the horse head galaxy, Milky Way (not the candy bar), Martin Luther raising his eyebrows, or other religious icon of your choice onto the Imax screen of your brain. Reminds you that the macrocosm is the Whole Earth Catalog and you are just the cat on the log (usually in mid-lake). Don’t jump to conclusions, just wait it out and watch the moon rise. Sooner or later the log will float close enough to shore so you can jump off without getting your feet wet. It just takes time. Pretty good for an app, right?

Goodbye Kiss Repeater Isn’t that goodbye kiss nearly always the sweetest? Even if you’ve been fighting, even if you’re dying to get out of the house. There’s something about the goodbye kiss that packs all the joys of the love, the parting, the bittersweet nature of life, etc. into one special moment. Don’t you wish it could go on forever? Now it can. Tap this app and any kiss can turn into a goodbye kiss. Fools you into thinking that you’re going on a long trip (maybe permanently) so that you can enjoy the moment that much more.

Facebook App No, not the one you have already. This is the new and improved one. It intuits your mood and suggests books you might want to read. In other words it’s time to face books. Remember them? Believe it or not there’s good therapy in them pages. Trouble with Mom? How about facing Joan Crawford instead? Mommy Dearest is still a pretty awesome reality check for Mom problems. This app doesn’t mess around, it gets you right to the point that will make you think your mom is Mother Teresa. Thinking of enlisting? Suddenly your Facebook app has plunged you deep into the heart, guts and sarcasm of Catch 22. Troubled by your parents divorce? Let Hamlet soothe your pain as he screams at his mother not to sleep with his uncle. Thinking about retiring? Don Quixote should put that need to rest. Want to be part of the 1%? Time to face The Great Gatsby. No matter what the personal problem or ambition, there’s a book to face that will cure it. This app is worth it’s weight in pixels.

Claptrap App Turns words you string together into something with actual meaning, no matter how inebriated you are. Go ahead, turn it on at a party and watch the reactions. You may go home newly accepted to Harvard. Click it as you read this…and it turns this blog into the Declaration of Independence.

In-the-Kingdom-of-the-Blind-the-One-Eyed-Man-is-King App Finds better glasses.

13 App When your formerly loving child is dissing relatives and giving you the finger both literally and subliminally, allows you to muster the fun and energy to be their bff, making fart jokes and bouncing soccer balls off kitchen walls until the microwave breaks. Turn on this app and it makes you think like a 13 year old. WARNING: For use ONLY by parents of 13 year olds! Dangerous in any other context!!

Worst Year Ever App Works for pessimists of all stripes. Fast forwards to next year so the worst year ever is always in the past.