American Satanism, Minstrelsy and the Queen of Sheba

So, you keep up with the news there? You keepin' up with the news? Yeah? Whaddya gonna do? It just happens, like magic beans ... you wake up, and half the world is gone from a mudslide, there are three new countries, there's a new disease called Possum Flu and Angelina is pregnant again. No wonder they call him Brad Pitt. God, man, give it a rest. She used to date Billy Bob Thornton, think about that the next time you get amorous.

And then, speaking of sex, you got the church in an uproar over whether or not this is a Christian nation, when the entire board of the owning company of Random House/Doubleday is German. That's right, my friends. I believe in equal opportunity for all people, all races ... but when you stack the deck, I mean, and you do it with people who have no sense of humor and think they're better than you because of their eyes and hair, who now own your country, along with England and France ... Get ready for the children's pop-up edition of Mein Kampf. It doesn't matter anymore, because the powerful men in England and France are fascists, too. Could you pick a worse political position to take than the one that would have steamrolled your country if it not been for the sacrifice of Americans. And now, the European satanists want to collect the debt we owe them. They've already marked up Washington, with various points of buildings in Washington on straight lines that intersect with the Eiffel Tower and places like that. No wonder I hated geometry. It was the devil's favorite subject, apparently. Still is.

I don't know ... what I'm hearing about Ben Franklin and George Washington ... was that they were a little more on the atheistic side of deism, actually more on the satanic side of deism, which oughta be a wakeup call for somebody, whoever's left.

Now if my grandfather were still alive, and he were to hear that what the history books didn't tell us was that the founding fathers were wearing aprons for reasons other than to wipe their hands, it would have been a stroke and not his ticker that would have killed him. The star to those powdered wig, panty-hose wearing freaks, what we would call a star today, was turned upside down dripping with blood. There's you a new image for the Fourth of July. Maybe there are other things symbolic about Old Glory that we haven't given any thought to. There's not a thousand, but there're fifty points of light. And thirteen colonies, thirteen stripes of red and white. Who knows what all that represents in reality. In real life. Lord, there's no telling how many skeletons are gonna fall out of so many closets up in politico country. This is, after all, the revealing, the disclosing. No longer the time of grace, I don't think. As you see things being revealed to help you in making a decision, you won't be accorded as much grace and mercy as have those people who have been reading a flawed, error-riddled, highly edited holy word of God.

That's just me thinking out loud.

I have a rabbi friend who doesn't believe in evil, not in a single entity who represents evil, he just thinks that people make bad choices. Well, with all this precision which has stood the test of time, over three centuries, and now they intend to come over here and say the devil said they could have it ... somebody is calling the shots, rabbi, and has been for a long time. And, of course, we're right on pace for history to repeat itself.

Anyway, whichever way you look at it, the Jews have to come out of this next one smelling like a rose, because they've surely paid their dues, and they keep coming. Beautiful, I say. The last time I looked they were chosen, sort of, anyway, so who would you expect bigots to go after? The Germans proved the Jews point: those who don't want salvation and going to try to kick the shit out of the people who delivered it. And they're holding a losing hand. You see the Ten Commandments? They've been made righteous by their suffering, which is the paradox, which frankly can kiss my ass. I don't like suffering, but I know it's good for me, because I had a Jewish nanny. She was always complaining about something. But she'd work real hard for two hours, and then moan about her back, have us bring her tea, and dare you to mess up anything. And that's not a Jewish thing, when my mom got home real early one day from work, she saw what was going on and gave Golda a raise and a certificate.

No, it's the Christians who get it this time, I think. Why? Look in the mirror, if you're an American the Europeans hate you, and if you're a Christian most Americans hate you. We're the new Jews. I could get used to thatJewish nanny like I was ... yeah, we said grace after meals. I also felt like Golda was hedging her bets, you know? I mean, if she throws up or gets food poisoning or something, she doesn't have to pray. More efficient that way. More just.

Hey, don't talk to be about justice. Cause I won't know what you're talking about. It's the Christians in this Christian nation who are gonna catch hell. Crucifixions wouldn't surprise me. But I pray that doesn't happen, but, you know ... I read the scriptures, I know the story. I'm not a big religious fanatic or anything, not a holy roller or a snake handler or poison drinker ... now I used to be, but that was before I started going to see a doctor. But I believe in God ... hey, the same to you, you fuck.

Yeah, to hear the Europeans and the pagans in this country talk, Jesus was not the the redeemer of the Gentiles, but some bum like everybody else tryin' to make it with your sister.

So, whaddya think about the latest with the Queen of Sheba, huh? She never existed, that's that they're saying. Why they're saying that, I forget, maybe it's because she doesn't have a first name. Her name would be like calling Prince England or something, and, I'm sorry that doesn't make any sense. That whole story has never made any sense to me. First of all, we're talking 1,200 miles to go find out if some guy is smart. There's not a woman ever, now or then, alive, ever, who would do that. My wife won't poke her head into the next room where I sleep and ask my opinion about how she's going to spend my money. Let alone endeavoring to find out how wise I am. I can already tell you that, anyway: Not very damn wise. And how wise could Solomon have been? He couldn't keep his pants up. He kept sleeping with women and becoming seduced with the thrill of going up on a high place and burning some incense. I'll bet you there's more to it than that. Maybe Solomon got into satanism, too. Or maybe he didn't. Maybe he was too wise for that ... and somebody just embellished the story about the Queen of Sheba and Solomon, which would have been a fabrication to begin with, I think, because Queenie never lived.

So why would someone say that the Queen of Sheba had once really lived, when she didn't? Where was she from? Saba or Saban was southwest Arabia, but the trek was made from there through Yemen into Ethiopia. The Abyssinia tribes which the queen was supposed to have ruled is located in Ethiopia. So she's Ethiopian. Why is that of any concern, especially? Other than the fact that Ethiopia is the source of the Nile River, with water flowing from Lake Tana in Ethiopia, but the nation itself where the lake is located sees the water leave them and go to Egypt. And the presence of water guarantees a civilization's success. The lack of water dooms a society. But at one time there were great riches in Ethiopia -- diamonds, gold, onyx. It is the most ancient nation in Africa, the only Christian nation in Africa, the supposed location of the mysterious evangelist king Prester John, which never panned out, and a nation which bears within it a town named Magdala, which is another one of those stories which, curiously, has not been made into a film, or written as a novel. Not even a documentary, I would imagine. If they wanted to blackball such a project ... I suppose they could.

-- Eliakim

Look Young, Speak British, Dress Italian, Think Yiddish

BOB: So give me a for instance. Whaddya mean stand-up comedy ain't what it used to be? How old are you ... ten?
BILL: Seventeen.
BOB: And you're some big authority on why stand-up comedy will never grow? Grow? Whaddya nuts? I got people standing in line over here, to get in this line. Okay, so what don't you like?
BILL: You want me to act it out for you, right here?
BOB: Sure, kid, knock yourself out.
BILL: Well, you know, what I hate most is when they do like this, okay ... So, you fool around with computers? You fool around with computers much? Yeah, me, too. And you know what I think about it, computers? They're driving me nuts. It's like sex, you know? When you first get on it, you know, you think, God, I wanna do this all the time. But it is a fleeting thrill, my friend.
BOB: Excuse me, kid ...for interrupting ... but you had a laugh set up there ... and you blew it.
BILL: Blew what? Your wife? ... Now when I get on the computer, it's a battle between me and whatever nerd out there has had a productive day, being all of four-hundred pounds, with a storage cabinet filled with Twinkies, and he's surrounded by General Electric, for cryin' out loud.
BOB: Wait a minute, kid. You didn't understand what I was saying.
BILL: Yes, I did, you were raggin' my act.
BOB: I thought you were going to show me what you don't like about standup comedy, and you're doin' a freaking bit. What the hell's up with that? It wasn't all that great, you know, but you're close. More of a Will Rogers thing ... than in your face comedy. But interesting. Kid, are you from Chicago?
BILL: North Carolina.
BOB: Why do you sound so much like some Chicago mug? That's weird.
BILL: 'Cause I'm from there.
BOB: I thought you said you were from North Carolina.
BILL: No, that's an exercise I do to clean the palette.
BOB: Clean it with what ...? The palette?
BILL: Yeah, my comedy vibe.
BOB: Get the fuck outta here! ... Come back here! Your what? Vibe? You clean your comedy vibe by washing your palette with a redneck state.
BILL: As in groove, you know, niche?
BOB: So what you're telling me is you say the words North Carolina, when you want to switch gears in a comedy routine.
BILL: Yeah, more or less.
BOB: Well do me a favor.
BILL: What?
BOB: Keep your state fantasies to yourself. Err on the side of much, much less. If you do something weird like that again, which can cause my flashbacks to reoccur, you can go peddle this esoteric comedy college kookarama carp somewheres else.
BILL: Does that mean I have the job?
BOB: Yeah, whatever ... but on one condition.
BILL: What's that? Anything ...
BOB: You have to do a kind of ... comedy favor for me. Okay?
BILL: A comedy favor? What's a comedy favor?
BOB: Hey! What you give somebody at a party to make 'em laugh. Hey!
BILL: Hey, you just kneed me in the groin.
BOB: Did I kid? I'm sorry. No harm done. You don't use any of that down dere, anyway, do ya?
BILL: Says who? Your wife?
BOB: Okay, okay ... you were doin' the computer bit, and it was ... okay. So, keep goin'.
BILL: So, I'm like ... what other device would I ever sit down in front of for half the night fighting with spammers so I can actually used the thing to send email? I read where, in a magazine, not online, that the problem with a lot of these virus type things you get, is that when you buy the software to take out a file, there's another file on the computer, which is activated by this, to reenter the information you just paid good money to have taken off. And this is just in your den. It's like a fucking war just to send some pictures to my mother.
BOB: That's good, I like that.
BILL: No it isn't good ... it's fucking bullshit. I'll bet the companies who make a fortune selling all of this software for viruses and that, go out and recruit people to write more viruses so you will still need their product, only upgraded out the ass. If the aliens are responsible for the Internet, which Al Gore almost confirms all by himself, then they can't be liking the way it's going ... because the technology is eating itself, it will implode, you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear over and over again. Globalism, schmobalism.
BOB: Hey, you know, that's a good point.
BILL: No it isn't. It's stupid. I hate standup comedy. I hate it ... why did I have to be so damn good at it? Fuck Will Rogers and the horse he rode off with.

... to be continued

Andy Moto

You know, it's a war out there. In here. Everywhere. Especially in Cybernia, what's left of it, bobbing over there in the darkest corner of the room, alone. Unless I am mistaken, the Watchers are still watching me and doing a victory dance. After having got the best of me online, zapping me at will, seemingly, although I'd managed to get things up for people to read. I have a loyal subscription base, or I did. They're all hanging on, fighting to keep their heads above the water, before the thing is filled with water from God knows where and falls to the bottom of an ocean floor, which consists of cobbled tile and brick. The Watchers finally killed two computers, a Mac and a PC ... though there was no one around to care. And then this she-devil from the west coast of Africa, traveling perhaps along the same route the slavers once took as they were headed back east, into the Gulf of Mexico, came to punish the saints right along with the sinners.

I had a cousin, several leap frogs back, whose name was Katrina. Deceptively beautiful, even as a girl, by that I mean on the outside she was perfect, but that girl could be rotten to the core. I don't suppose you could ever become unrotten to the core -- so, like I said, she was deceptive. Mean, but gorgeous. But the time she was well into puberty ... well, let me put it to you this way, when everybody gets together for the holidays, like Thanksgiving, and there is someone like Katrina in the family, and she walks by, every single man is undressing her with his eyes ... while he pretends not to look. We're a sorry lot. Not just the men. We find a way to beat ourselves up, or get ourselves in trouble, for thinking that Katrina was looking at you and smiling, because she wanted you, and not because you had half of a banana cream pie on your jacket and pants. And had you not realized that you were wearing part of the festivities, you might have embarrassed yourself, or worse been caught. She might not tell you that she had slipped that pie underneath you, just before you sat down, until she had lured you somewhere, unbuttoned her blouse and screamed rape. That could happen with Katrina. Things often are not as they appear. If Katrina was punishment, it was evil doing the punishing.

Sex. If we can figure out sex and why it makes us feel guilty while it creates babies at the same time, we could beat the devil. God said to Adam, "Who told you that you were naked?"

That's a profound question, more profound, I think, than we realize. For therein we can learn how much evil had to do with creation ... and how they attack us, psychologically, using our own bodies against us. Evil attacks with guilt with regard to sex, because making a baby is contributing to God's creation ... and the devil, like any good fascist, is trying to make population growth go the other way. Ultimately, evil wants to destroy God's entire creation, but it doesn't tell that to its human accomplices, the high rollers, the corporators who are ready for some big numbers! No, evil in any form it chooses tells them that this global thing can work, that it will work, that it will be better than Goony Golf ... if they will just stay focused on killing people. And success will be more, it will mean more, more than they could ever have dreamed possible, streets lined with gold, if they can just get rid of all of these useless eaters, these drags on the system who are going to die anyway. So put a bullet in their heads.

Does anybody remember the little girl in the red coat in the black and white picture Schindler's List? All the significance of that came and left with the wind. Ooo, a masterpiece, and just riveting, hard to watch ... but here they come again.

I think I understand Jesus' crucifixion and resurrection better these days. If Jesus gave up his life, went powerless, when he could have saved himself, and died to redeem me and all who wish to be (except the Jews who are already in, if they're observant) ... if I get into a spiritual fight with evil ... am I gonna have power, power to withstand death, power to fight ... with lightning bolts. Maybe that's just wishful thinking. I don't think God is engaged at all when lightning strikes, especially not if it does any damage or kills anybody. He could stop it, and he will. In the meantime, we're drowning over here, Lord.

They stand behind me ... in another dimension. Or, I'm nuttier than a fruitcake -- much, much worse than I thought. And now my mind has a mind of its own. I like the sound of that, but it's weird. In fact, it's more complicated than that, in all seriousness. Pardon me for trying to be funny, the sides to myself are in and out. I am what I call a baptized-by-fire philosopher, with various frequencies always squealing in my ears. You think I'm kidding? Would I kid you? You, I might kid. But I'm not kidding. You see? It's maddening, really -- and here's the kicker I'm a blue-collar Southern boy, who can become a Jewish person -- snap! -- like that. Not just any Jewish person. Not your run of the mill Jew. I'm talking ... the finest, warmest, most generous people I have ever known. And do Yiddish comedy to boot, with the accent and everhthing.

I should just get on with this. I've been fighting it ... there, you see, you made me lose my place. Anyway, I should get on with this, which I intend to do, after injecting something here into the monologue. I intend for this to be some honest fiction you're about to read -- in other words, the names have all been changed, but I'm innocent. I'm sitting in a completely dark building which happens to be a Catholic church as I am writing these words by candlelight. I've gotten a bad konk on the noggin' (what the hell is a noggin', anyway? I mean, besides your head), and there are lines down and about three feet of water in the sanctuary of the church where I sort of work as a lint supervisor and live. Wrath of some kind has been brought to this place, and I timed my entry into it smack dab perfect. I have never dealt at all well with accusing the Creator who made flowers of also creating the forces which will tear them out of the ground.

In fact, I am ready to go on record right here and now, though my white cat is floating on black water and a pretty floral print mattress, and say ... damn! You made me lose my place again! Go on record here and now and say, oh yeah, that you realize of course that back in the days of ancient Canaan they seemed to know who these weather gods were, and for some reason they had this hang up with El. Like, I dunno, El Toro, or El Vis, or just El, Bael, Baal, Beelza ... something, anyway, they all have the same name! Hey, I'm doin' apocalyptic stand up comedy. Like Andrew Dice Clay, Cassius' fourth cousin, once removed. If you know what I mean? But that's my name, too, Andrew, but most of my friends call me Mojo, cause that's what I've told them to call me in honor of a fallen friend. So, anyway, I'm determined to get through this ... and you don't have to like it, or read it, but I'm writing it, because if I don't stay busy writing I'll think about how bad it's gonna suck -- eggs, wind, whatever, creek, a place near me; freaky place, really. We'll talk about it further on). Surely they have a way to drain this off, otherwise, we're awaiting a boat ride, Slick, my man.

Anyway, it isn't the first time I've been slammed in the head with a blunt object about ten times as big as a bread box. Speaking of cats, I'm down to at least one, maybe two lives, but who's complaining. I've dodged the old bullet so many times -- I mean, mystically dodged them, as in angels pulling me out of the water -- and you think I'm kidding you. But I'm not. It has become sort of my most favorite thing to think about, that and the cloud, because I think there's a connection, only I don't what it is yet. I just hope there's a way I can ... get out somewhere dry.

Slick and me waded down into the kitchen to see what we could see with regard to edible food products, and we hit the jackpot, or maybe just the pot, because we have plenty of meat, but we need some fire, which we also have, but we need something to apply the fire to the meat with. A frying pan would be splendid, but we were lucky to get out of the cooler, which is on its side, partially submerged in the water, where it has torn itself away from part of the wall. Sacks of potatoes thick with a coating of ice, but turning to slush. Those sacks may have been in there for years, decades, a century or more. This is an old church. Slick will eat raw meat and maybe puke a little. I could go into a coma, so we're going to cut this meat, while I'm sitting here trying to think where some more matches might be. I have more candles going in this place than you can shake a stick at, or me. Hundreds. Maybe a thousand or more. I figured ... what the hell, if I'm going to need some light, and if I'm going to run out of matches, I may as well light every candle that I can find and find a place for it so that it doesn't become a casualty of St. Mary's Black Lagoon. Or something like that. Am I delirious? I'm suddenly feeling creepy, because I feel like I'm in my own Blair Witch project, you know what I mean? I mean, I'm fairly new to New Orleans, and when you say voo-doo down here, don't nobody start laughing one bit. I'm from Tennessee, originally from North Carolina, then Virginia for a while. You can't hear this, I know, but while I'm writing this ... every time I write a line, or two, I say it to myself in a different accent. Yiddish, British, Finnish, Frenchman: C'est la vie! See what I mean? That's the French for you. Schizo, right? You're damn right, and proud of it, too. Love it or leave it, I say ... both of you, the whole lot, okay, let's go. I've never trusted the French or the Dutch, and one reason must be because of that annoying "ch" at the end. But they both seem to be cut from the same cloth, silk, like what a worm spins. And I can't be positive on this, because who can, but I believe the Norse, who I have tried to like, but everything is just so damn cold around them. Everything you touch is cold. Everything looks cold. The snow even looks colder than I've ever seen snow look. And they're used to it, though at night, if a little thawing has taken place, it becomes a wasteland all over again, bound for the night in a little crusting of ice, but not much. And everything looks stunned. That must make for very hearty, globally consciousness people. I can see why they'd like to own a part of Florida, maybe the whole Panhandle. Maybe everything from Daytona south, and if you get lost you can punch in your longitude and latitude, with your sensoring device, which also works as a phone while it's giving away your location.

But I thought it was brilliant, not the filmmaking, or the verite, she said, with her pinkie in the air, but the warping of reality for all of the rest of us, like we aren't warped enough already. Course, I've been smacked around a little bit, ya know? Once tried to stop a pavement floor with my forehead. And everything went red ... and that was the last thing I remember ... until someone started tugging at my leg through the bars. Drafted in 1972 with the number 5. That's right, 5, viewers, that will be your lucky lottery number for this evening. If you forget it, look at your hand. Which means I was pulled out of a glass or clear plastic cylinder, in a red capsule, bigger than a horse pill; maybe they were horse pills with the medicine dumped out, and in each capsule was a birthdate, or, actually a day of the year, so that if your birthday was that date picked in order, that's what number you were. Does that makes any sense? It didn't to me either. Because they said only the first six days of the year would be drafted. Five. Five big ones. Five-a-roonie. Mr. Five. Greater than four. So, what was I to do? I wanted to be a poet and a painter and marry my high school sweetheart, and make babies and starve. And she wanted the same thing. She's always had a thing about her weight. But she was going to nursing school, and I was going to learn to be a commercial artist, a draftsman, maybe an architect.

And in 1971, April 21, I believe it was, my picture was on the front page of The Chattanooga Times standing in front of the Federal Building for peace. And I accomplished absolutely nothing, but I was trying to get to know this ... girl, and well, I wanted peace, too. But I wanted a piece more. Both of good. Anyway, they started screaming one, two, three, four ... we don't want your fucking war! And they were screaming it, these 50 freaks that I decided to tag along with, with very angry faces, even at some of the passing motorists, which, I'm sorry, did not compute. I didn't suppose I could go one, two, three, four ... grandma didn't start the war. But I'm sure they would have drowned me out. So, I was not protest material, but the war, the whole charade, just made me sick to my stomach. I was buying the domino theory, until we started brutalizing civilians, us, that is, and then I thought, how many dominoes have we knocked down in the last week compared to the Chinese? The it was a very lopsided number. So, we lost that conflict, so what, we just turned around and sold ourselves to them decades later, and, everybody's happy, except the descendants of the people who honestly built this country.

-- by the soon-to-be famous and best friend Randall Carter Gray ... to be continued. J.D. "This one feels right," he says. If not, he'll just change point of view, or the narrator, or formats again.

Quasi Mojo

Earlier in the day Andy Whitman had been asked how it was that Andy knew what he knew. And Andy had been prepared to answer straightaway, because he enjoyed knowing what he knew, what he thought to be true. In these very unique times. He felt privileged; it felt perfectly natural and comfortable to Andy knowing what he knew, the fates of certain types of people, so he thought he could answer, he thought he could, but he couldn't. When he thought about the question later at length, he managed to come up with an answer -- a long, rambling one, and the truth had been in there somewhere, about how he had grown up and come to realize certain experiences had been unique to him, that he had been exposed to things and processed them in his own way, and reached conclusions. But the real truth was that Andy didn't know. Not succinctly. He life, his personal history had been revealed to him to be a story. A story, within a story, within a larger story still -- so that the early years, his early childhood, had suddenly rushed forward from the past, in a way that had nauseated him, and joined with his present.

He'd grown up a lot from the experience of having a nervous breakdown, which was not what it was at all; it was a convenient term, that's all. He hadn't been nervous and had broken down. It anything, he fought more than he believed had been possible, ultimately to no avail. He was still the scapegoat he had always been -- now he was unnecessarily smeared, but the principals knew the truth. What had happened was betrayal, by a group of people he thought were his friends and Andy assumed admired him. They hadn't. They'd suspected the worst, at a point when Andy had tired of living that way; but they had never let on. And never bothered to get to know Andy, before they had begun playing group psychologist, which by their admissions, they'd never known how to do, and had proceeded to plot, to intervene most recklessly in Andy's little life. Which was not marked by sin, not inordinate sin, but trauma. Physical, organic, emotional, psychological ... spiritual markings.

In effect, Andy had been punished by Christians ... for having been punished.

But he was sure the way it had all happened was intended, because now for the first time in his life, at the age of 54, he had purpose. But no family, because as a mentally ill disabled vet, he couldn't afford them, and they couldn't afford to be with him anymore, not now. He was another mouth to feed. A useless eater. And spoke unpredictably, which he acknowledged. Andy would rather see them go, than to drag them down to wherever he was headed, or where he thought he was headed, which would be an asylum, a cheap one ... or on a holy mountain, wielding a lightning bolt, which was fanciful, ridiculous thinking, though he could imagine it. His children called him and loved him, and wrote to him, especially his daughter Samantha. Ethan hadn't called as much; he was taking it harder, because they had a unique bond; when Ethan called, they talked sports, to keep the conversation going, and Andy could hear the love in his son's voice. As for Suzanne ... she was worn out. He lived for those brief, inadequate but meaningful contacts. And now he could correspond by email. It infuriated him to think that he died a little more every day, when he was certain that he had died already, several times emotionally, psychically, neurologically, being trapped in a body with a mind ... which had a mind of its own. And people hated someone who didn't have their act together, regardless of the excuse.

But much had changed. Andy had a few remaining classes, and then he could teach. And there could be reunion and reconciliation, and a way to afford to take care of himself and them, more so than now. It was all he could do until he got word from the state of Louisiana, or Washington, that he was entitled to some benefits, as an injured vet, who'd never sought treatment, and had never been debriefed or processed back into life from the Vietnam-war era. But he had been out so fast.

Andy reached out with his bad foot, performing an exercise he used to be encouraged to do for physical therapy. With his toes he attempted to open a small rectangular box. He'd already turned on the television set, using his big toe to hit the power button on the remote and press mute. A black and white film was playing on a black and white TV. Fog. England. Dark figures slinking from place to place in the night fog. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde? At any rate, it was a film he had never seen, and in black and white it looked like all of the old films he had meant to see, but had never seen.

There was no other explanation for the turning point events in his life, but providence, because of how it was that it had all seemed timed, to converge to a point of critical mass, in a way that was dizzying. But also exhilarating, with a year or two under his belt. He felt chosen, and there had been visible, tangible proof of this, seen, of course, only by Andy. He described to his new friend Brian the feelings of satisfaction at this point in his life, and that he was looking forward, he thought, to the future, to see how things were going to turn out, if he was lucky enough to live so long. But there was some trepidation. But nothing that his "other sides" couldn't handle. He could become angry, and he felt comfortable with that, and coping skills he didn't normally have surfaced. He'd owned his military past, milked it really, after the events of September 11. He possessed a dark side in contrast and in addition to his normal genial, good-natured, child-like, friendly nature, all due to uncharacteristic good moods, which were aided by prescription drugs and occasional non-prescription drugs. And a sense of relief that people were at least trying to empathize and agreed he had a problem, or several, which were clinical in nature. Organic. Andy knowing who he was and what was wrong with him ... meant most of all.

But beyond all this that he knew, beyond what just came naturally out of his mouth, that was it -- he couldn't say. He could say divine providence was why he knew what he knew and thought to be true, but such talk was never appreciated by those who didn't feel providentially guided or directed themselves, and that was virtually everyone in his sphere of people. He understood that. What he enjoyed talking about was what he did with his day, when he wasn't doing custodial chores, which was to avail himself of his church's library, the church where he cleans up, and the Internet access his work affords him. He even has his own computer, which was set up and running when he moved into an older secretarial office. Less staff now. Less parishioners. Less people altogether in New Orleans.

Because Andy was beginning to come out with all sorts of things, things which purely because of experience he knew were true, answers to long-standing questions, rational conclusions to the way things are, why they are the way they are, and what's next. He felt obligated to explain, because people ought to know these things, but he'd failed thus far, with those whom he loved most. He couldn't do it any better than he had, which had brought abyssmal results. At least Brian wanted to know how and why he had come to the conclusions he had -- why he saw the things that he did, now, in the same way he had seen things as a child. He was solving mysteries, he thought, but no one most close to him cared, because Andy was Andy; no one ever gave him much thought or seriously considered what he said, apart from that was just Andy being Andy, and that's no good, because Andy is crazy. But his seminar students didn't think that. They knew he struggled, but he wasn't crazy, not crazy crazy. But even Andy argued with himself on this point. If Andy was crazy, he had been born to be crazy, to be made to be crazy -- to face adversaries, to really face them. It was his nemesis, the master of time, aging and death, the one who made these things so. The master of time surely was trying to convince others that he was God, but God is timeless. Andy had only met him once. Recalling the childhood experience ... was like trying to see through gauze.

He is floating, as if ideas are passing clouds; he may seize one and play with it, or let it pass. What he sees in the dark at night, he sees because the images on the other side naturally borrows light from this side or dimension and applies it to this one. He tells himself this as he stands behind his home in a place which once was a pit for Andy, for one general reason. But it had been over this point, and over the end of the house where he once slept and worked, that the cloud had appeared, hovering about five feet off of the roof of the home he used to own. It had been there when he got there around 2 in the morning. It never changed shape, and it didn't move until Andy had.

Andy is still moving, because it's hard to hit a moving target. But at least he has a place to stay, until something divine happens. Time and light are on his mind. He realizes it is time which our enemies possess that we do not possess. They can manipulate time, space, matter and light, but they can't create it. And it's hard for Andy to know if they know this and are just going through the motions before their demise ... or if they actually believe this -- at least everyone but one. Because the one must know, the one must know who has been rebelled against. The one who knows the truth, who may simply be going about the task of committing a very elaborate suicide, which will take a lot of people with him. But this person is not a person, not a real person, but an angel. Sexless? Andy can't say, but there won't be sex in heaven, and if the enemy is an angel, he, she or it would be sexless, without a gender. But that is purely speculation. In time he will know. But he does not know now. Enough thoughts on the subject have not worked themselves through his mind, for which so many ideas are vying for attention.

Noah and the rainbow may read like a children's story, which is probably why it was left in, by those whom Andy believes have tampered with the Bible, both the Tanakh and the Christian New Testament, the Gospels, especially the gospels of John and Mark. But it is only a hunch. It is also a hunch that the rainbow is significant, because Andy believes the Bible is a divine and very powerful book, but like humanity, it has been corrupted, it's become like a sick friend, not by man, not solely, but by the freedom to love or hate, by the messages men have received to do what they must do. The source of the message, the messenger, is most at fault, but what of those who receive and act on the message, as if it is their own thoughts? We don't make these things up. They are accomplices, then, potentially, who own fully the consequences of their actions, having been given the freedom to decide yes or no.

So, of course they would know how to teach time, if they are the shapers of it -- somehow, with their sacred geometry, a subject Andy had detested in high school, and gladly flunked -- but what is time in comparison to timelessness? He who controls both time and timelessness is superior. Those who control time only have stuff made and provided by God to manipulate, to toy with. Time is nothing more than setting boundaries. Time is shaped like a corkscrew, Any has surmised, because it is going around and around, even as it is going forward. The merry-go-round is tiresome. But here's the funny part ... these creatures waiting in the wings, who may wish for us to think they have evolved to the point where they are, are efficiency freaks, obsessive compulsive, high achievers, and they intend to come back -- not that they ever left -- and when they do, they'll bring all their efficiency, their technology, their time clocks, so that people can start punching in, not to earn a wage, but to keep themselves alive and fed, to keep themselves from being killed. Because, if you don't work, you don't eat. They won't be wearing crew cuts and white shirts with skinny ties, but they ought to be. They could be, with an animal's head sticking up. With a tie on! Evolution or bad genetics? Inbreeding, with everything sleeping together. These creature haven't evolved, and neither have we, Andy has concluded, but they want us to think that. They want us to think they were born intelligent, and having evolved into all that they're going to be. But all they are is circus freaks, the product of mad science, humans mating with animals, and vice versa. And que sera, sera. If that's anything -volution ... it's devolution. Just begging to be discarded. Imagine the horror and the agony of being a little bit of everything, and not enough of one good thing.

What a wondrous thing it was that Katrina should have given a mean old woman the chance to be on television bemoaning the plight of those displaced, or, rather, those who See and the rest of Houston were having to put up. She mocked them, saying that they seemed to be doing okay now, now that they were sucking off someone else's teat. But madam speaker, Andy thinks to himself, these people have never known a warm teat full of milk. Andy has a milk memory which he does not like to think about, but which he does think about every time he withdraws a carton or a jug of milk from the refrigerator and drinks straight from the container. It had been a symbolic situation ... him in the belly of the beast, tasting different teats, to see if any had gone sour -- being given the job of tasting milk which no one had tasted for weeks, but paying for it, because sometimes the white tube Andy would suck from, after he cut it, carried milk which had gone bad.

That will tell you where they are, where all of them are. They think that those who don't work, shouldn't eat. And they believe that they have worked hard for everything they've gotten, and everyone else should do the same. Fine. But they've been rich, dishonest and rotten to the core. Even the playing field. Take away any of those three, any one, not even all three, and let's see how wise, correct and practical and successful they are or would be ... about who should eat and who should not. If a fascist had to live a day trying to live like Jesus said to live, with generosity and honesty, not hurting anyone, not wishing to, but as a person who gives but doesn't take as he makes his way or her way down the road, avoiding becoming roadkill, the bastard couldn't make it. He would fare worse. In fact, most of the super rich are so fucking dumb that they would be the first to go. That's why we're in the position we're in, at their hands. The lifestyles of the rich, dumb and powerful. The biggest tool the devil has in his drawers.

But money, privilege, clout is what they call hard work. Taking the silver spoon out of one's mouth long enough to load it up with cocaine is nothing they will admit to, even as they bemoan the drug problems and pregnancies among teens today. Andy knows from having raised his own two children that the days today at college, or anywhere else, are like summer camp, compared to what they were back in the Sixties. The Sixties had some debauchery goin', but it was also a beautiful time, a dress rehearsal, though not too many people would agree with that. But as the older generation dies off, we're what's left What went through the Sixties, a naturally occurring phenomenon, which the social engineers tried to take credit for. But God had done it; God made the Sixties. But, there you go, once again, Andy is thinking these thoughts, and just naturally does because that is how he has processed his life through his life and his own eyes and brain. And when he comes up with a solution to anything, a thoughtful piece of writing, it is because all the pieces just come together, in the fullness of time, and all of his experience and every part of his life up to that point is brought to bear on the work at hand.

And yet, by the definitions of the fascists, who the good guys apparently didn't kill off, not entirely, or the flood, because some weren't wearing uniforms and some weren't Germans, but living right next door ... by the definition of fascists, someone whose time has come, who has worked himself into retirement, early retirement from the marketplace, although he works still as a custodian, someone like this would be told to step it up and be more efficient, or don't eat or excuse yourself while we take you and throw you into a furnace. And most certainly wouldn't be able to eat without having a bar code stuck up his bum. But Andy isn't worried -- he has guarantees, and there are people who have guarantees, who don't know they have guarantees, but they do, Andy believes. But Andy may decide not to use his, so that he can remain and watch reality begin to kick the shit out of the bad guys. And when nothing goes right, who is going to catch hell?

Or who would have caught it? Not the people with guarantees, a redeeming coupon -- the observant Jews, big brother or big sister, one or the other, the stick of Judah in the hand of Jacob, or is it the other way around? Salvation is of the Jews. Jesus said so. The people who still bash Jews don't understand the simple truth, the inescapable truth in life, that every group, every people, every segment of society, has bad eggs, or a bad egg, that's what a Zionist is, one who is willing to cheat and kill if they have to ... to make Israel numero uno. But, you see, Andy thinks to himself, as he sits in the darkness, his bad foot playing with a deck of tarot cards stacked on a crate, it will be God, the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, Esau, too, who will save anyone, those people with redemption coupons for either doing the word, the law, or from knowing it, from believing with no history of belief, man traditions, no history, like the Jews have. For a Christian, it was just man against book, which has been infected, and one man's word against another's, with no absolute position in the argument, no ultimate awareness if someone is dead-on correct.

If we act now, we won't have to find out, what wants to kill us, fool and deceive us. Evolution. Ha! If they have the bodies of people and the heads of a dinosaur, if that's what you call a god, when they already got the shit kicked out of them when the Exodus of the Jews began? Doesn't mean that they can't throw the switch to off on the sun. Ra, the bird-headed sun god. God doesn't make freaks. God made human to love human from the start. If sex and our nude bodies make us feel guilty or embarrassed, who is it who told us we were naked? Andy, of course, lives out in the middle of nowhere, hundreds and hundreds of miles from New York City, where he could find an agent and sit down and sign a contract for any number of ways to communicate this stuff ... if he didn't live in a haunted little city, working and sleeping at a church. With his constant companion, Mr. Tippytoes, which Andy immediately changed to Rocket. "Mr. Tippytoes? I wouldn't give a name like that to my worst enemy," Andy had told his daughter Sam, as she delivered Mr. Tippytoes a.k.a. Rocket to Andy, she no longer being able to keep him and her college roommates at the same time.

Now Andy was having roommate problems, because of Rocket and a whole lot more. The class he had taught for ten years was being threatened. His job, his livelihood, all which he had left, his living space, all he possessed, maybe even Rocket, if not himself, were in jeopardy. As was Andy's access as a church employee now to the library and the computer. They were essential. It was the information superhighway, upon which people would move to and fro, which Daniel had written about. Daniel was wise. Daniel knew history repeated itself. Daniel knew that there would be a miraculous reversal of fortune. Andy knew it, too ... in fact it had already begun. All he had to do, was keep his nose clean.

A door opened, and a piercing scream filled the cavernous sanctuary from the rector's office "complex," new additions and all. Television, which Andy kept on with the sound turned off. Old habits die hard, but Andy was a sound man anyway.

"Oh good," squealed the newish rector Rev. Jacques La Farge. "I'm glad she got it. She had it coming to her."

He and Chad were up early. Or they'd never gone to bed. Sometimes they slept at the church, too, because Chad was married, and Father La Farge was afraid of the dark, because of the things which had been happening, weird things, in the church, sounds, music coming from different places, weird haunting music, but Fathers La Farge and Chandler had not been able to find any sort of electronic speakers, wireless of otherwise. La Farge was on the verge of calling in an acoustics man, or a .. "I don't know, shit! Who would I call, Chad?"

"How about ghostbusters?" Chad said smiling.

"How about if I kick you in the groin?" came the serious reply.

"It wouldn't be the first time," Chad said.

"Oh, but you love it." La Farge sounded villainous, so much so that the newish rector at St. Mary's Catholic Church in New Orleans could sound and look like a cartoon villain, way over the top. When he was feeling his oats.

Now comes the music. What is it? Something ... by Stephen C. Foster. "Beautiful Dreamer."

"My mother loved that song," La Farge said, his voice shaking with fear. "Mother!" The word echoed and fell flat in the nave. Throughout the church, where sound travels so well it's scary sometimes.

As for Andy, also known as Mojo to his friends, back in his room, on the bed where he had been half lying, half sitting ... he is gone. And one tarot card has been turned and left on the top of the deck. The Fool. Had that been what had roused Andy to begin his chores earlier than usual. Was it an omen? The Fool? And who did it represent? Hell, no. Andy didn't believe in any of that shit.

"My God, Chad!" La Farge screamed as he re-entered the outer portion of his new office. "What the fuck is going on!"

Chad was silent, listening. Like a cat ... trapped in a dog's body. "It's weird. Tonight it sounds like it's coming from all directions."

"Great, dear God! Someone's trying to drive me mad! Harold, if this is you ... I will never speak to you again ... even though you're dead." La Farge was nervously twisting his mustache when Andy rolled up.

"Stephen Foster," Andy said nonchalantly, as he pushed his cloth covered broom, with no dirt on the cobbled floors which shone like glass. "I had a friend ... where was he? ... Over in the Horn of East Africa, it was, who thought Stephen C. Foster was murdered. Allowed to bleed to death. Because he wouldn't write the racist crap anymore that they wanted him to write."

La Farge wheeled on Andy, his face red to blue. "God damn it! Who's doing this?! Is it you, you ... is it?!"

"Is it me?" Andy said innocently. "Does it look like me? Why does everything bad ... always have to be me, Father La Farge? I think it's pretty, myself. And you shouldn't use the Lord's name in vain. Imagine if the bishop were making one of his surprise visits ... and caught you speaking like that, Father La Farge? He'd have your head."

"Fuck you, you little mite!" La Farge said with an abrupt wave of his hand, which almost hit Andy in the face. "Go scrub a toliet."

"I could begin with you."

"Me?" La Farge said, uneasily.

"Yours, I meant," said Andy correcting himself. "Everything spic and span in your neck of the palace?"

"Go to hell. Chad?!" La Farge was striding now toward his office. He had made a decision.

"I want ghostbusters, whorebusters, the lady from Poltergeist, whoever -- boy, was she spooky or what? -- to get their asses in here and find out where that God-forsaken music is coming from."

Chad was shaking his head, looking over a list on a clipboard, pretending to be calm in his superior's presence, when he wasn't at all. "What's got you so stirred up, Jacques? There's a reasonable explanation. We're picking up a radio signal from somewhere."

"Which has a format devoted to playing all of my dead mother's favorite music!"

Chad chewed his lip, while his insides churned. "No," Chad said, "I forgot about that. Coincidence, maybe, but ..."

"I'm leaving for the day." La Farge had grabbed his coat, keys and a book from Chad's desk before Chad could speak. "I'm leaving, and when I return tomorrow or whenever, maybe never. But if I return the ... next day and this fucking music is not out of my life. I swear to God I will put a curse on you ... and you, too, Mr. Mojo, or whatever the fuck your name is!" With that, La Farge was on his way out, not out the back way, but through the Nave, the sanctuary, down the long shining middle aisle, toward the open double doors of oak, with the morning sun obliterating some of his form.

La Farge turned back abruptly, before continuing on, nearly catching the corner of a door jamb. "And keep these doors closed, as I have asked umpteen thousand freaking times!"

"No, reason to keep them open, Mojo, you think?" Now it was Chad's turn to look unglued. "People have stopped coming in those doors in droves. You've been here a lot longer than I have, Mojo, do you have any thoughts ... about that?"

Andy hadn't moved since La Farge's last outburst. It was almost as if he was waiting for the music to stop before he began speaking. "Apostasy?"

Chad laughed explosively, insincerely. "You have to be a believer and going to church before you can become an apostate, Mojo." Chad's tone was somewhat condescending, but Andy cut Chad some slack, often. Though he, like La Farge, was walking on thin ice. Giving Andy disapproving looks, when he used to be Andy's friend, chess opponent, lunch partner ... were unsettling. Andy would lose what he had remaining in this world, at a point when he was trying to rebuild at 55, if La Farge ever got enough traction and if Chad finally went all the way over to the dark side, though he was married with beautiful children.

"You know best," Andy said testily. "But I imagine some people are just born apostates." With that, Andy was off. And Chad sniffed at him.

Andy stands before a classroom. "So, we've gone over this list of problems just in these two gospel accounts alone, that is, we've identified the problem areas. And based upon the types of problems we find, can we draw a conclusion as to the intent of the tamperers, if we agree that the New Testament has been tampered with?"

A young man raised his hand. "All the confusion really begins with the night of Jesus' arrest," the young man said. "From that point forward, everything is very convoluted. Up to this point in the gospel of John, especially, there have been no striking errors. But the night of the last supper is in question. And looking at the map, over there, which shows two locations for the upper room, that's in question, too."

Andy nodded his head and grinned. "The Gospel of John is the key, supplemented by the Gospel of Mark, but mostly we see the most problems in John. Why do you think that would be?"

The class was silent. Brian thought seriously about raising his hand, but heard barely, in the distance, but no too far away, the clacking sound of La Farge's shiny black shoes on the shiny cobbled floor, as he walked slowly, doing what Andy didn't know, and Brian wouldn't wager a guess, although he suspected it was to let everybody know, which involved all of five staff people, that he was present and watching. And occasionally he mumbled to himself, as if he was speaking to someone else. Click, clack, click, clack. But Brian didn't raise his hand, though he thought he knew the answer. Of course he did, recalling his earlier discussions with Andy. Did he dare ... speak over the footfalls of La Farge. He hadn't seen Brian yet, but Brian had seen him, and felt as if he already knew the priest just from Andy's hostile and exasperated description of the man of the cloth. So Brian kept quiet, and finally a young woman raised her hand.

"John is the most important gospel, right?" she said.

Andy nodded in agreement. "It is the most eloquently written of all of the gospels," Andy said. "It is very poignant, in comparison to say, Mark, which is abrupt, the Greek is not so good. But John even contains some Latin phrases. So we are dealing with a scholar here. Not a fisherman, but a scholar. Has anybody ever heard of the University of Galilee?" No one spoke up. "Neither have I.

"However, I don't wish to bash anybody, just yet, none of the candidates for the disciple whom Jesus loved, who is presumably the writer of the fourth gospel." Andy turned up his head in thought. "What does the descriptor 'the disciple whom Jesus loved' ... tell us about the individual who wrote the Gospel of John, the person who gave himself this title?"

"He was modest," said an elderly woman toward the back of the classroom. Brian smiled and nodded as he looked at her.

"Modest how ... and why?" Andy threw his right leg up and brought it down on the small raised platform, twice, like a 2-year-old horse telling his age. Some laughed. Andy was used to it. But a gimpy leg but better than missing one, or having none. And there were plenty of those, those who have gutted it out, and probably reached a point like Andy that they're looking back nearing the winter of their lives ... and wondering "How did I get sucked into something so outrageously blunderous and cruel as a war over in Southeast Asia, of all places, into which I was drafted, and from whence I have brought home no legs and not much of a mind. And now it is getting worse, the ordeal of living. Henry Kissinger is still alive. As is Robert McNamara. And maybe some others. But Nixon is gone, so is Johnson ... but where? Truman is gone. James Vincent Forrestal ... is gone. John Fitzgerald Kennedy is gone. And the other John.

A distinguished gentleman raised his hand and stood up, as Brian heard La Farge's footsteps closing in.

Dog God

The only thing that Andy Whitman could compare it to was an orgasm, and that disgusted him slightly, and it did because people with "bathroom humor problems" really got on his nerves, to no end. Even though an orgasm was a thing that technically belonged in the bedroom, or a car, or in the woods, on the floor, or in any other part of a building, because an orgasm happened with the same parts from whence one urinates, typically, it belonged in the bathroom. It often had been in the bathroom for Andy, who now was wringing his hands, as he pondered what ought to be changed about himself, his clothes, his name, his facial hair, should he get a haircut if he was going to represent mankind and go and meet face to face with the devil?

Of course he couldn't ask anyone else's opinion, not even the family member who was closest to him, his son Flopo. Flopo, which is an abbreviation for Flower "Power," would not be able to hear something as outrageous as that and give his dad a thumbs up. He would get this mournful, "Oh my God, my dad's crazy" look on his face, because he was a Vietnam-war veteran hippie and that spelled fried cerebellum sandwiches for all.

"But only because that was my era," you know, Andy explained once. "I didn't ask to be born during a time when this period in the life of American society would rise up and try to eat everybody's brains -- which the government had a hell of a lot more to do with ... than the Beatles. Hail Mary."

Flopo thought his dad often made good points, and that at times he was brilliant, offering observations about sociology and psychology, being none the worse for wear, but being happy enough now so that he can reflect not on the war, never on the war, but on the Sixties as they happened over here. Just what the hell happened? One could say that a million people as one had experienced an orgasm together, as one, which gave rise to the Sixties. "The Fifties don't even compare with the Sixties. The Forties, who gives a shit ... it was like a Godzilla movie. But the Fifties and Sixties, when Disney began to be not only in movie theaters and on your new television set at the same time, but Disney was also in your bathtub with you, and brushing your teeth, and caressing your family jewelettes, in which you used to have an occasional accident. But Mickey and Donald, Minnie, Goofy, Pluto, talking animals except for Pluto, all of them never seemed to mind. Andy believes the denizens of hell will be like, . Andy believes that the Noahites, the fallen angels, whom Andy believes have never seen an orifice they didn't wish to penetrate, "like a horny worm," have "interbred with one another -- humans, animals, whatever -- to the point that the Egyptian bird-head styled people seemed not only plausible but passe.

In short, Andy believes that the whole Disney franchise, from Oswald to now, has been a tool of the devil to get humanity ready for their new "creators." "Or, sons and daughters of creators, like royalty, which would be like Julie Nixon and David Eisenhower showing up, when their two dads were supposed to have been there." Flopo took his father's observations with a grain of salt. Though he remained on the lookout for a gem, because one would could come flying at you and go right past your head if you weren't thoughtful and paying attention. So, Flopo had taken this one with a grain of salt the size of a breadbox. What he gathered that his dad had done when he whipped up the Sixties pastiche was to say the corporations and the government have been more in bed with one another than the average person realizes, and that this had given rise to those who have naturally risen to leadership positions. And "the highest of the high -- which some people thought for a time could be Regis Philbin --is sitting in the catbird's seat," Andy had explained. "Like a general manager listening to the owner, except the owner of the Mephistopheles Martins has one extra horn than Tommy Steinbrenner."

"George." Flopo knew his baseball. It was the one thing that they shared together where they were on even ground, and it was their favorite thing to do.

Flopo did not disagree with his father on this point. In fact, he thought it was dead on true.

But none of this deterred Andy, who, in his private moments, when he wasn't trying to make Flopo laugh ... he was deadly serious, stern, focused, almost like he was a different personality. And he was rich, because of the close proximity of the deaths of this parents and his grandparents. And what Andy had done with the money was build a beautiful but very unusual home, partially beneath ground with giant boulders as part of the house. Flopo loved it. Smoothie hated it. She was cold natured, and the damp conditions made her sick and if not sick, whiny, which is worse. Smoothie's name was the nickname his mom Sue had given Andy, and which she called him for weeks," after he had finally seduced her at Woodstock, crawling through the mud, among tents and lean-tos to find her, cuddled up to a big dog. Neither Flopo nor Smoothie could handle it when their with blurt out with sex stories. Thinking once that Flopo might be getting a little too addicted to online porn, Andy and Sue, at Andy's suggestion, began speaking more openly about their sexual past hoping by grossing Flopo out he would lay off the smut.

This was a private moment for Andy ... and he was in command central, which he called the Pit. It was a room made almost entirely of boulders as they were actually set naturally in the ground, and they were painted black. Andy had hoped to get his car up the mountain, next to the Pit, so that he could actually drive from down from the Pit, instead of having to go through the laundry room, when something big broke in any one of three cities in the Tri-State area in southeastern Tennessee -- unless the Pinscher didn't have use of the Pinmobile, for whatever reason.

To recap the evening thus far and any progress he had made, he pulled out his easel-sized blackboard and, wielding a piece of chalk, and began to write: 1. It has taken some getting used to but I think the family is beginning to understand who I am and what I am, and go with it. As it is ... I get no respect, zero, and last weekend at the dinner table I made my new daughter-in-law cry, because I was raising my voice, and my heart is still broken over that, because I think so much of my son. 2. We're going to need clothes. Black. Basic black. No embellishments. I don't know if I can find some hair shirts ... but it doesn't matter. 3. We need an assistant, not Flopo, but someone who can absorb some of my energy without me hurting him. 4. Need to set up rendezvous points so that we can show that we are interested in making contact. My place or yours. I know some good street corners. 5. Shave your head. 6. Prepare for nothing in advance and have fun.

Whether Andy would finally late in life bloom into something as a result of his work remained to be seen. Certain very important people knew of him, which caused him to say, "Great, I can get the Illuminati on the blower or by email, but I can't get somebody to call me back to tell me I got the job. Maybe I should charge these people if they want to talk to me. If they're talking to me. A consultant's fee makes sense, if they're consulting what I know about what they know, and how I wouldn't do that, just speaking one human being to another."

In other words, Andy had concluded that the Illuminati, which he sometimes called and wrote "ill Uminotty," had not realized that they were interacting with the enemy, and consequently they were shitting their pants wondering what to do to save themselves, unless Andy wasn't telling the truth and then he would be boiled in oil one limb at a time. But somebody out there believed in him, believed him, or they were interested in kidnapping him for his testicles, of which he was rather proud, stomach, lung, heart kidney to keep all of these whiny humans alive like they promised. But Andy happily ruled kidnapping out, although they might try to get a semen sample from him like they did from John Lennon while he slept next to Yoko, probably for cloning purposes. However, Andy would not be able to grow, would not be ready in time, obviously, unless they have a quick-development machine or something. But either way the truth about cloning was this, as far as Andy was concerned: It's wrong, it's not at all comparable to a natural birth, cloned creatures live a much shorter time than their human semen-donating counterparts. such as John Lennon, whom Andy thought almost certainly had been knocked out, which Lennon actually did report, after he had greeted at the door of his Dakota apartment a bright light followed by little bug-like creature scuddling at him. And then that was the last thing he remembered until he woke up in bed next to Yoko ... with a golden egg made of stone, which Uri Geller said John had given him after the event happened in, and if John

Waiting and Watching (Who Are The Watchers?)

I resent the idea of having to wait. Even if the reason for his tardiness, or her tardiness or that of a member of his or her entourage is legitimate and justified. I realize I have given away control of things, which I needed to maintain for my sake and that of my message. But then ... I am not in control anyway. It is only grace that has brought me to this point, not the mettle I have or even any intelligence. I was in the right place at the right time ... perhaps. Because why would it be me who finds himself in this situation? Why would it be me who is to confront the darkest of lords, who may be a beautiful woman of light? What is it about me that makes me the person for this task ... as we come to the eleventh hour, eight years into the new milennium? Unless it is because I have the fascination and the anger enough to proceed with all of this. As I think this thought, I realize that this would have been installed as well, God being sovereign ... and in my case, confident that I will do enough of the things right that I have to do.

And I have prepared nothing, written nothing, thought nothing in advance of this meeting, honoring the advice Jesus gave not to do so ... "if one of you sould ever be drug before kings."

The central and abiding question for me ... is who would want to make an enemy of Jesus ... and why? Who would want to be Jesus' enemy, one who offers eternal life in a timeless state, one who is perfect, one who is himself creator along with God? Is it because he is too good to be true?

All that is legitimately known of him is positive, positive to the point of being unmistakable. And yet here I am, where they probably wear "I Hate Jesus" T-shirts behind the scenes. Here, hatred runs deep. I can feel it. I would have felt it more, if the people I passed, employees of this grand place, had known what I was thinking or had gotten advance warning somehow of what my intentions are.

Why would anyone wish to be an enemy of Jesus? What's the beef? When so much is known about him? When he is the hands-down favorite of anyone who is asked to venture a guess as to who the Messiah most likely will be? The only other gods who would apply for the job ... is who ... Krishna or Mohammed? Ishtar or Isis? Perhaps a reincarnated Antiochus Ephiphanes, or Herod or Hitler. Jesus has stood the test of time -- even some Jews are even starting to say, Well, if there is to be one, a Messiah, a future king, a son of Israel, it may just as well be Jesus. The Jews like him more than they like Christians, for obvious reasons, I think. And that may be where the answer to my question lies ... who would embrace Christianity and Jesus, if the people who do and who have are hypocrites, in-your-face evangelists who mean only to satisfy themselves and, sometimes, earn a living? There is hostility toward Jesus because there is hostility toward the church and his professed followers. But they have been corrupted, as all things have been.

Who really believes a new order of any kind is in the offing? Who does not see that life is winding down? Only people my age and older, who know how it used to be ... and having lived through the transitions, know that we are failing as a society, becoming lazy, fat and sickly. And so now it will become Europe's turn, which they always wanted more than anyone else anyway, to be the United States of Europe and the world. They couldn't get it like their forebears, by going to the New World themselves ... they stayed back and waited for things to improve.

We cheered when communism fell like it was some kind of indication of how much better we are, how much better our systems of government are ... when in fact the Native Americans were doing democracy and had it right long before the Europeans came, with the seeds of weeds on their feet. No system of government made by man, no tinkering with creation, with genes, for good or for bad, can compete with Isaiah 9. No one can offer a righteous government and be called wonderful counselor, mighty God, everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. Too good to be true? Too good for this person to rise from the ranks of those obnoxious believers who believe the wrong things.

So, the odds are good that it is him, they would presumably say, that it will be Jesus who will play the messianic role, owing to the fact that there aren't any other candidates vying for the title. So why would he have any opposition ... and by who or what? Who is that bold ... unless they have been told a different story, unless they have a champion waiting in the wings who is their own superman, because a creature they raised, a composite, using the DNA from Jesus' blood. Of course that's what they did! Otherwise, why would anyone be so bold as to oppose the one who could save them?

But who am I to say I have the truth ... when other scholars, important ones, do not? I was due, and still am due, but that doesn't mean anything ... unless I can parlay this into some kind of ... work. But what? A project, a best-selling novel, a film, a series of speaking engagements, a TV special ... a weekend radio telethon? No one wants to hear my message, because it is too bold, and therefore it is weird, and I am weird. No one should know any of this, they say. He's a nut. And sure enough, his background proves it. And so I look for my allies elsewhere, among those who do not know me, but only online. I've not been willing to call, believing that when the right person will get in contact with me ... when it is time ... it can and will happen by any means. Or is there more that I can and should be doing ... to warn people ... of what? The great switch ... to do away with all racial prejudice for their own good ... to pray without ceasing ... to ask God's mercy ... to explain that everything has been corrupted, everything, even corruption has been corrupted, for the sake of deceiving, clearing out the useless eaters, the surplus population which threatens the world and all of its supplies.

This is how evil has enlisted and recruited people for war and assassinations, this is how people who are evil with pride are evil. Certainly, some of the instructions for what we do comes from telepathy. Some comes from memory. But some people can only be inspired with face to face meetings ... like this one.

Especially in this day and time ... when we are all privileged to access documents and information instantaneously, and when Jesus has been known to be who he is for as long as I can remember ... why is he so hated by the lords of hate, and why would it be so easy for them to motivate anti-Christians? I'm the exception, perhaps. But the moment that thought crosses my mind, I realize that now, more than ever, that of course Jesus would have enemies today, should have enemies; it is most likely Jesus will have enemies now than before, because of what Christianity has so brazenly accomplished in some cases, which is putting non-believers directly or indirectly within the confines of hell for eternity. Unless there is Purgatory, which I believe there is. Unless these are the watchers ... who get a second chance to make the right choice. For the second death. How many good could be lost?

Well, not on my watch. What's keeping this bitch? I've got things to do. Like find a publicist, to work pro bono. Like take some hostages, and demand that my message be read to the world. Like read and write ... ad infinitum ... ad nauseum ... until all of this is over. Like rob a bank to launch a media blitz of my own to compete against Random House and Doubleday and Bertelsmann AG, all the others, who provide America with its reading material, that which is heavily promoted with slick campaigns, all with one purpose in mind. And they are all Europeans. They never left. They just regrouped in Canada, where the French were and are, and further back east. And they've never stopped hating people of color. You can thank Karl May for some of that, much of that. I must be sure to include him on my list of rogues.

-- Randall Carter Gray
... to be continued

The Beatles Are Coming! The British Are Coming! And They Want Revenge!

Why would people make claims that the Beatles were British spies, expertly trained social engineers, brought on board by an English think tank, which instructed the Fabs, after telling them how to dress and sing, to go forth, first to Hamburg, then starve a while, come back to England, make all the girls scream, and then proceed to corrupt the youth of America and the world?

Maybe the spy thing ... but how to you get a theater full of girls to faint, scream and wet themselves on cue, unless it's the real thing? And I have often considered this a very intriguing ritual which the Beatles perfected without trying. McCartney, when asked upon arriving in the States why they were so popular, Paul says, honestly, "We don't know, really." That was a genuine response. It was magical was what it was ... and the only thing that I can figure is the Beatles did globalism first, without hardly trying, and the Gnostic globalists must have hated it. And still hate it. And then, because of the Beatles, the nation bounced back from JFWho's? assassination, the record business got supercharged overnight in February of 1964. The Beatles did with love what the Blue Meanies, the real ones, had wanted to do with New World Order fascism ... which is takeover the world. They killed John, but they didn't kill Reagan, and that the plans back. Nixon losing the 1960 election set them back. Soon Eisenhower would be gone, and then the chicken hawks could get down to business ... tinkering with the present and the future with the help of their teachers. And then, of course, there was the hideous discourtesy of exploding a president in broad daylight, a popular, good-looking president.

Two of the goofiest looking and acting men ever to hold the office of president ... were Richard Nixon and Lyndon Johnson. They frankly were ugly men, and they had a chip on their shoulders about it, which led them easily to do the unthinkable. And then LBJ had the nerve to try to get in Jackie's pants, like that was what he had wanted all along. LBJ was a sick puppy ... matched only by Nixon.

No, can you imagine John plotting with a couple of stuffed shirts about how he and Dylan were going to get high in a year or so, and once Dylan had gotten them high, then the two of them were going cook up this "get the kids" scheme which would involve young people losing their minds and morals to marijuana and free sex?

I can't, can you? If you can, if you happen to be like some flake named Dr. John Coleman, who claims to believe this stuff, as does Lyndon LaRouche (eternal presidential candidate) apparently, who says much the same thing, you're either only saying you believe this for a purpose, when you really don't ... or you really do believe this ... and you can't keep your mouth shut, because you're a raving fruitcake. Fruitcakes I can understand.

But I can't understand the motive for sich disinformation, which, at least to handfuls of us, we know to be disinformation and outlandishly poor reality skills. Or they hate the Beatles, like the KKK did, the John Birchers, Richard Nixon, et al, which should have told you that the Beatles must have been doing something right.

Who would seriously allege that a little bald German guy wrote all of the songs attributed to John, Paul and George? And why? Surely not because they believe this is true. If it is true, is the little German musicologist responsible for "Woman Is The Nigger Of The World" ... and all of the other songs presumably written by the three and sometimes Ringo after the band broke up? And Yoko? You can't learn to scream like that, can you? I mean, either you have that in you, or you don't.

Why would the White House and the FBI re-classify files pertaining to John Lennon, claiming that these files contained material which could have a negative impact on national security, of all things, when it turns out after we've read these files released in 2006, that there was nothing whatsoever in these blocked files but a reference to a book store Lennon frequented and assisted with some finances.

What gives?

You've heard of such a thing as a double agent, haven't you? A distraction, loaded down with disinformation? Reading your adversary in advance allows a person to make him think reality is one thing ... when it is actually another way. We think like the enemy. We twist things to take advantage of their weaknesses. Presidential candidates have been doing it for years, with great effectiveness, especially with TV. You can make some people do almost anything with a TV. What about other electronics?

to be continued

Return to Magdala: The Lure of Eden

Our year spent in the Horn of East Africa from 1973 to '74 was as foreign and as unexpected as anything which might have happened to us. Though it was only me. The conflict in Vietnam, which we had angrily opposed, was winding down ... and a new, silent war in the Near East was building. Fresh out of high school and very intolerant of the military adventures of the United States in Southeast Asia, when we were one of the last few hundred men to be drafted and inducted in 1973 -- 646 to be exact -- the Navy and the water seemed a safer option that wielding a weapon anywhere on the ground.

I often think of Vietnam and the Vietnam era during which I served; I think of the justification for war in Vietnam in parallel to the justification for war in the cases of both Desert Storm ... and whatever this one's called. In the 60s, as preparations for war in Vietnam were clearly being made, it was the same sort of snow job that we've gotten for this war; and we really ought to ask what the motivations for both excursions really have been. Protection or profits? And if both conflicts are related in the sense that they were planned by ill Uminotty to keep things functioning in tune with and in time with the universe and its natural cycles.

Was China ever really a threat to the United States or was the so-called domino theory in truth what we ought to have feared in the United States, if we feared anything? As it turns out, certain people with projections on their desks thirty, forty years ago knew what others did not know. And there are those, many in and out of secret societies, who if they know the future, they've been to keep it to themselves. Or else. Do you suppose that is a human, a mortal making these threats, or some supernatural entity? If the people behind the scenes are being guided by Mephistopheles, they have fallen for the mother of all tricks, just like in the fairy tales. The emperor's new clothes. Pride exploited.

If Vietnam and the Iraqi wars were both planned, if 9/11 was planned, what circumstances would this fascinating arrangement likely present to us and what are some conclusions we could draw as to its meaning.

would have had data involving the selling out of America by corporations

Why do I say that? Because I believe the S in Harry S Truman's name stood for Satan -- and if you'll listen close to a recording of Truman discussing the significance of the S ... he almost says it. But forget about Truman, let's even forget about Richard Nixon for a while. Let's go right to the top as to where this nightmare to which Americans are beginning to awake began. Three generations: a senator and two presidents. There's an odd reference to third and fourth generations in the Ten Commandments, which we'll get to. Perhaps there's some connection. We're not math people at all, but we've worked up a little equation pertaining to the cycling of generations, three and four generations; we introduce Pi as a metaphor. And then we want to be sure and mention another metaphor, a real one, a living symbol, so to speak -- which has to do with a claim that there were no weeds in the New World, the Promised Land II, not a one in this New Eden, but that changed when the first settlers sailed to the New World with the seeds of weeds stuck to the soles of their boots. I don't know whether this is true or not; but the encyclopedia is a respectable one, though it was published in 1954. And it has been my experience, that in the good old days, the golden days of gluttonous indulgences and consumption in America (actually it was pretty wonderful, but I'm a nostalgic retro freak.), that folks were inspired by the Abraham Lincoln story about him walking such a long distance to return a penny, Americans were willing to try to be honest and good, and offer a smile with every sale and provide every customer with guaranteed quality, courtesy and value. The gas station attendants did your windows. Dime stores began to stock the coolest stuff for kids, things made out of plastic, a lot of it made in Japan. We gorged ourselves on ice cream, because our parents bought it like mad, being so fascinated with having the glutton's favorite snack around, keeping it in your own personal icebox. The sobering experience of growing up with parents from the Depression, caused my parents and others from their generation to be happy consumers, as a buck went a long way, and America's shining moment of helping win the second World War fostered a nobility, an arrogance in some cases which caused us to think that America is so great ... she'll go on forever.

Now, we know, many of us, but maybe not even most of us that the party is over. This country will have gone full cycle, it will indeed have been a lively experiment, like a culture set aside to introduce organisms into a mixture. Somebody, somewhere, somehow became obsessed with America being a metaphor for Eden or actually being Eden. Hopes of finding Eden was what was driving Christopher Columbus, Ponce de Leon, De Soto, and those who came west were looking to find Eden, which had not yet acquired weeds, reportedly, so no weeds, but lush forests and abundant furry little animals for eating. What is it with Eden ... somebody, somewhere, somehow has been distracting people from what may be the real Eden ... and for a long, long time.




. Like father like son has never taken on such a frightening, evil , except in this case, where things are done and vows are taken which would be foreign to most of us


Our Navy enlistment, which we had hoped would keep us on the east coast as promised, and on a ship often in port, close enough still to marry a fiancee, these best laid, chaotic plans led instead to a place in the civil war between Ethiopia and neighboring Eritrea, which borders the Red Sea. Ultimately, our plans to avoid combat or ever to be in harm's way led to a debilitating head injury, sustained while serving on active duty as an intelligence specialist and cryptographer with some field assignments. At the time, it was not a satisfactory trade off to have been where we were to witness a biblically charged event, modern history in the making, when the final Ethiopian king would fall with no messiah, though one had been promised.

But time, age and experience while they don't heal all wounds, not entirely, these things do permit the sad sacks or the sadder sacks of this life to see a bigger picture -- some of which is fascinating, but parts of which still produce deep feelings of remorse and anger. They could have done without me and allowed me to become married and enter college, but they didn't. So, it is now gratifying to get in one final shot at our adversaries, to report now on all that we learned from living and working in the Ethiopian Highlands, beginning with a military coup, backed by Islamic factions and the Soviet Union, caused the United States overnight to go from a superpower ally, to become the odd man out.

The man who commissioned Leonardo da Vinci to paint "The Last Supper" may have inspired William Shakespeare to write what is arguably his best tragedy, if not his best play, "Othello, the Moor," where an African, a black-skinned man, is married to the white lily Desdemona until jealousy, fomented by a deceitful advisor, causes the relationship to be irreparably torn and the play to end on a remorseful and deadly note. Such might have been our fate, as jealousy over any possible suitors while we were away continually plagued us, during or three-year absence and even after marriage to the high-school sweetheart, who, like us, but not as much, was deeply wounded, shell-shocked by the blast our government set off in our midst. We're reminded of the final fate of King David, whose decision late in life to "count Israel," that is, to prepare her for war by counting or drafting every male who could wield a sword, caused God to hand the plans for building the new temple to David's son by Bathsheba, Solomon.

The man or patron in question is Ludovico "il Moro" Sforza, a duke of Milan and Leonardo's boss for the 18 years while the master artist supplied the duke, truly an art lover, with exquisite works of art. The House of Sforza, an Italian dynasty we hear nothing about in the novel or film based on a certain code, does in fact play a role in the mystery, obscured by a certain code, which is much larger and much more controversial than a whole lot of people realize. As critical as this man Ludovico might be to our theories, a ruthless man rising up from the dynasty of the House of Sforza, he is only one of a virtual calvacade of of characters dating back to biblical times who form the basis of a code and a mystery with great and ambitious designs. What makes Ludovico such an important and fascinating figure to research and write about is a certain feature concerning him which poses so widely and persistently dramatically identifies posed a stumbling block for a global

The Code That Might Eat THE CODE

As a cryptologist, one knows that if any portion of a received message or code is missing, your success at deriving anything of real value from the encoded material is negligible. In fact, we intelligence specialists stationed in Asmara (then Ethiopia, now Eritrea) knew to toss a message which was even slightly garbled into the s*** can, and from there it was shredded and burned along with everything else of a classified nature in the middle of a desert. It was a very strange sight to see several sailors in uniform in a desolate sub-saharan landscape, a mile high in the Ethiopian Highlands ... as they filled the oven-like incinerator with all of those precious, meaningfully supercharged words, which can sink ships.

To hear some folks talk about it, no more than FDR with regard to Pearl Harbor.

What about that? Do you put any stock in that kind of alternative journalism? I believe it's wrong not to avail yourself of it and decide ... is this one a kook ... or is he a truthseeker. Or is this person very intelligent with a dark side. As psychology goes, inquiry into what makes the latter of these three tick is most rewarding. Because you get to meet villains who have been incarcerated, shall we say? In jail and Purgatory. And this latter latter group can't touch you, because they're like ghosts, or they are ghosts, and some people call them the Watchers.

I feel like an old Jewish man when somebody hits me with that: "Whaddya doin' scarin' everybody around here, you putz? You wanna watch something ... watch this. Always with the watching. I'm watched out, bubbe. I'm so sick of hearing about these Watchers that no one else can see. You know what your problem is? You watch too much of the Twlight Zone and the Outer Limits.

But I have seen them. In fact, I see them at this very moment as I am writing this. It must be them. So, you have to ask yourself, is this career journalist and published author crazy? ... lazy? ... nutso? ... sick or sane? It could be that I have different chemicals than a "normal" person does. A blow to the head might do that, resulting in brain damage, or trauma in childhood during key periods of growth and development can "juice" a little kid so that his brain chemistry is not good when he becomes an adult. Seriously, so many of our actions, I believe, have organic benefits. The puppies at the nursing home thing. Love heals ... and dogs are the most unconditionally loving creatures on the planet. No offense friends of felines.

So, I could just have bad chemistry, which will make you crazy and nutso or sick. The sick people are those who have bad brain chemistry and also lack any sense of guilt for what they do that affects and hurts other people. I mean none. Fortunately, I ran to the light. I embrassed the best deal, or, at least the deal that I had offered to me in my culture, like people do all over the world.

Do you know where I believe fascism came from? You know what fascism is? As it was in the medieval period, people today have the grotesque perception, flawed, anti-social thinking that people are no better than animals ... and weeding them out if the populations get out of hand ... is a necessary part of life, which a bad, mean old God sanctions. So, if God is evil, what the hell? He seems evil. I mean look at the world. So, therefore to play by the law of the jungle, dog eat dog, I shall succeed, always succeed, because I am great enough to succeed, and these urchins who are part of the surplus population can just die. Bah ... humbug! You recall who else felt this way, I presume. It may be closer to the truth by far than, for example, Dante's Inferno, which is far too complicated. Evil is stupid ... it would have to be to believe that it can defeat God, unless they don't believe in God at the demon shack way down below. James, the half-brother of Jesus, says there are demons ... and that they believe in God ... and shudder to hear his name.

An island in the clouds they called it. flat as a board, reddish brown soil which danced as dirt devils sprang up ... burning shredded paper and paper tape. The wind could be high, and sometimes so strong that the plume of white-gray smoke that poured out of the incinerator became horizontal. Special care had to be taken to be sure that not a scrap of paper got loose. It could be your ass or somebody else's.

If your message doesn't contain an arrangement of words Or it's worthless, depending on how many missing or garbled parts there are. An encrypted Navy message, for example, which has a very exact, precise arrangement of words, letters and numbers ... if any of these are garbled, you're not supposed to accept the message. The signal from the satellite has to come through crystal clear in the form of radio waves, or your teletyped "letter" is not going to be a true and complete Navy message.

Because the Da Vinci Code has so many missing parts, we don't have any business trying to solve it.

There are, in our opinion, a whole host of parts to The Da Vinci Code which are missing or were not addressed by Dan Brown, the author of the Code. We'll assume it was because he was unaware of what we believe has been a "campaign" since the first century to hide people in whose home "The Last Supper" was held.

The Code is more elaborate than we may have realized. Or we might say that our code is a separate code altogether, opposed one to the other, that our code can gobble up the other Code. We call our code the Moor's Code, because we believe that there were Moors at one time depicted in Leonardo's "The Last Supper." At least two people, and here's a hint: one was named John, which is a very important name to our hypothesis, or code, as we shall see.




notes
And one is left to ponder whether the creator (or creators) of the blockbuster Code were aware of that when the novel based on this on-again/off-again fictitious code was written. What we're getting at is another code, the "mother of all codes," which we believe we can prove the Da Vinci Code was expressly meant to hide.

And it's really big -- although almost certainly this larger mother code will never achieve the fame and distribution of the Code.

How big is it? It is so big that it proves the Bible is loaded with errors, especially the New Testament, but not errors so much as edits, in our view. After enough hoaxes and codes, fraudulent relics, money-driven indulgences, like the Shroud of Turin, which seems to be heresy ... in reverse, this awareness that something was newly fishy about the Code arose in us -- and did when we finally broke down and read the book. It was heresy, sure enough. So, we began asking what all of these presumed heresies have in common. And we allowed ourselves the luxury of thinking as big and as universally as possible.

But, of course, since 1974, we have had a lot of time to think about the back story to this conclusion and series of assumptions and convictions, 25 years ago, in fact, when we found ourselves in Ethiopia, where we witnessed the dramatic unfulfillment of an ancient Ethiopian prophecy. Not just any prophecy, but one involving King Solomon and the mysterious, no first name, Queen of Sheba. We should stop here and make a comparison which eventually must be made -- and it adds weight to our claim. For this writer personally, it was this event which revisited our thinking when the Code emerged in the media, and caused so many of us to to begin discussing bloodlines and knights and trips by Jesus and his disciples to London and elsewhere in Europe.

I'm sorry ... what?

The comparison, which involves Solomon and the Queen of Sheba, also involves Solomon's father and mother, who were, of course, David and Bathsheba. Bathsheba means "daughter of Sheba." Do any Sheba's come to mind who might be the mother of Bathsheba? We're stumped somewhat, because the Queen of Sheba's name is never mentioned. That strikes us as significant, because, continuing the comparisons, if we applied the Queen of Sheba's name as it is presented in a clearly redacted document to Leonardo Da Vinci's name, we would lose the "Leonardo" and call the master painter what Dan Brown has called Leonardo on second references during interviews: Of Vinci.

Hey, everbody, it's "Of" of our town. What's shakin' Of? You still thinking about applying to officer's training school? Of course, we're being silly (but no sillier than Mr. Brown), but to make a point: If Solomon's mother was Bathsheba, was Solomon's lover from Sheba ... his grandmother? Perhaps the two Sheba's are not related, but how could they not be? Sheba might just have been a little hoot and a holler, and everybody knew everybody and royal history, presumably.

.
about the Passover meal in the painting which is serving not lamb, but fish,

. And after the Gnostic media blitz which we have seen beginning in 2003 with the release of the novel, unless you're taking into account the events of 9/11

As a cryptologist and a veteran of the Ethiopia-Eritrea civil war, this writer, who happens to be an American, can honestly say that there are a lot of people who are missing from Leonardo's "sacred" painting profound mystery. And the Da Vinci Code is a related part of that mystery, which perhaps you can solve. It swirls around the painting nowadays, mystery, and some of us have to wonder why, because if it was truly the masterpiece as we have been led to believe Leonardo's "The Last Supper" is, ... was did someone go to the trouble of putting a door in the wall upon which the "dry-plaster fresco before restoration

Leonardo Da Vinci painted, in all likelihood, for his boss of 18 years, the Duke of Milan.

Mulely and His Haints

Mulely's haints were make believe. Mine were the real thing. His were animal eyes or the reflection off of a guard rail from a distant car. My haints got right in my face and said, "Guess ... are you nuts, or are we real?" And then you have to go through the whole thing of beating yourself up because of that acid you took in 1975. But you have healthy children, but, then, more that that you have the cloud, you see, to validate everything -- everything -- and one's perspective changes. It is my favorite thing ever to happen to me since my marriage to my wife and the birth of Thing 1 and Thing 2. A running joke with my kids where Pi is in the punchline.

Muley was a wealthy and a generous man. People talk about being gifts from God to mankind, or women, etc., very arrogant people do. Muley was more than a gift ... he was a shopping spree, where all the stuff you could grab in thirty minutes was yours. I would not lie to you about this. And so, you have to be shrewd to get the most out of your friendship with a wonderful guy who wears overalls and dips snuff. But he used to be a hippie, and still is, which means different things in different people's books. To me it was a very, very serious matter that I could be drafted and sent to Vietnam. My age added a little bit of an incentive to worry. I don't know what I would have done if I had been born one or two years earlier than 1953. But I would not have taken up arms against anyone in a wild excursion, which now we know was war for profit ... just as this one is. If a single innocent civilian, especially a child, were killed, and thousands were, maybe tens of thosands, for the purpose of pursuing a midguided, misrepresented conflict to hold China in check, that was one too many innocent people, as far as I was concerned. I couldn't respect a government which did not concern itself with the welfare of innocent human lives. No conflict between egos should ever result in the death of a child. And if our men have died as some people have said because the governments of Israel and the United States wanted to mop up the radical Islamic factions further east, and this could only be acceptable to the Amerioan people if a major tragedy struck to rally up the patriots, which proudly includes a lot of people. Patriots for war, people who don't like what they're hearing out of the confirming statements by Colin Powell, were motivated to get revenge. If this president and his minions planned a Pearl-Harbor like attack, or authorized it, or agreed to go along what was already set in place, every one of them should be tried for treason and dereliction of duty, the breaching of an oath made before God and man.

Will they ever be, whoever they are, made to confront their actions? Well, that would depend on if they're doing anything wrong. The Ten Commandments say thou shalt not kill, but presidents get around that by saying war is a necessary evil. But this one has been exposed as a social engineer, but men, in fact, father and son, and there is no doubt in anyone's mind, the large majority of Americans, that Washington had something to do with the events we call 9/11. War is being fought on foreign soil