Three Muskrats

The last time I saw Weeb was at the end of an arduous search for a guy who didn't wish to be found, particularly, especially not by me, for health-related reasons. But Muley and I had made the trip, one which innocently enough started out as a junket with the singular purpose of showing Muley the Grand Canyon and hitting all the cheesy sovenir shops and diners along Route 66, those battered buildings which had not already served their purpose and been left slouching in the heat like a carcass of something that used to run in a stampede. There was a certain mystique I associated with Route 66, one of my own making, which involved fast cars, good-time girls, slicked back hair for the men and demon beer, which came in convenient pop-top cans. In fact, all of my images had been shaped by movies ... so it wasn't of my own making, not entirely, but I assembled all the images into montages. Route 66 seemed to me to have been one long stretch of pavement and fun, with diners every few feet, just one more reason to admire America, until I read Bury My Heart At Wounded Knee in the service, and, for some reason, as it perplexed me at the time, I just got mad as hell. Maybe because I grew up in Colonial Virginia, and sensed the hypocrisy of people talking about freedom out of only one side of their mouths. Now I realize that I have been mad as hell all my life, in defense of the little guy, because I was one. In this case the American Indian, I fantasized then as I fantasize now about confronting the big guy, not guys, but guy, for what he did, what he inspired genocidally ... and making him pay for all that he has encouraged and tempted natural assholes to do. I suppose I would confront him by throwing things, rocks, perhaps, unless I manage to acquire some mystical powers for a western-style showdown, which, of course, is just more brain candy. I go and get brain candy now whenver I want, my days and my nights finally being mine and not those of whatever employer I feared at the time was about to let me go.

So, I realized I'd been fooling myself about going to see Weeb, because by the time we picked up the route outside of St. Louis, I had decided that yes, of course, we were going on to southern California. If Muley was still willing, and Muley is always willing. A natural speed freak. The ability to enjoy simple things, which many of us, at least in America as I have observed things, can't or won't do. And the rest of the world hates us for it. I suppose because Americans have succeeded, come to Jesus and lived well, despite the very apparent fact that the United States, from the get-go, was shackled to evil itself -- that is, I believe America was sold by two of the three most familiar and revered founding fathers, comprising the American trinity, to the same serpent who appeared in the first Eden, the real one, which I believe we're all headed back to. Jefferson, to my knowledge, was not a Freemason, but the other two were, famously. Franklin became a Freemason while in Paris, if I'm not mistaken, and achieved every degree and jumped through every weird little hoop the brothers erect for you. He came away from Paris with some elaborate title like the Grand Poobah. It's a shame that when he did return to America he was seeing his common-law wife Deborah and their children for the first time in seven years. Deborah eventually died of a broken heart, some say, because the Poor Richard stuff "Lightning Man" wrote pertaining to honor and duty and good character was never anything Franklin had any intention of abiding by himself. Hypocrites are dangerous men.

Why are hypocrites dangerous men? Because they are, I submit, to a person ... pathologically sick puppies, perhaps being genuinely deluded as to who they really as opposed to who they think they are, and all that they do which identifies them as a walking paradox.

Getting back to the demonic inclinations of these two American folk heroes ... one has to ask who would make a deal that substantial -- involving a whole nation, for Pete's sake -- and make it far in advance, as it appears the French and the two apron-wearing Americans apparently did while celebrating America's victory over the Redcoats and their newly accomplished independence ... to do whatever the hell the founders wanted to do with Eden, which apparently was a deal to turn it back over to the serpent after 250 years or so. Of course, that is purely speculation. It is purely speculating that the French are the national equivalent of Mephistopheles and George Washington and Benjamin Franklin, representing all the Americans who would ever live, playing the role of Faust or Daniel Webster, who made a deal with the devil for which we, me and you, even if you aren't an American, will one day have to pay. It is all rather dizzying, this new paradigm, one of the many which have created themselves in my head based on my experience and my personal makeup. It must be an individual thing to be me, and to think such thoughts as these, which seem outrageous to almost everybody. What does it mean if you're set apart, a person people either love or hate, and if you accordingly entertain thoughts and form conclusions that seem very logical and rational, but only to oneself? I'll tell you what it means, it means that the half of the potential "universe" of people who like me -- and that is a gross exaggeration, 50 percent -- will end up hating me, laughing at me, shaking their heads ... like everyone else ... if I ever attract any attention or fame.

I don't want to be famous. Like Frodo, I just want to send the ring back from whence it came -- and, that is, in my case, to return the salvo, or salvos, which have broadsided the Hebrews, the Jews, the Christians and the blacks of this world from the very beginning, in an attempt to eradicate us, so that we don't usher in the "eschaton," heaven on earth, before anyone else, who, I dunno, would very probably have to be one of the many names that we call the devil. Lucifer? Lilith? I don't like the word or name "satan," and I don't use it; but when I do, when I must, I don't capitalize the word, which translates "devil's advocate" -- that's what a satan is, someone who argues against the case God has made to demonstrate that he is God, in a nutshell, in the broadest sense. He's been doing that through history, and succeeding. You would think that the Gnostics by now -- the Luciferians, to use a more specified term for them -- would have read biblical history, that which hasn't been tampered with and altered, and seen that proving that he is God has pretty much been God's modus operandi throughout human history. And, at least according to the Holy Scriptures, which heaven's enemies have tried to falsify, he ain't lost a match yet.

I am the guru now, not Weeb, although he doesn't know it. I certainly don't intend to verbalize that point, because proud talk expressed by someone, when one ought to know pride is an illusion, and unattractive to anyone who hears it, is delusional. Human pride, it seems to me, is the flea standing up on the dog's back and saying, "Okay, I'm taking over. Where's my chewbone?"

So I wouldn't say anything to the Weebster about gurus or thinkers who have paid their dues unless he brings it up. He could barely talk when I saw him in La Jolla, to which I flew for a conference seven years back for the primary reason of seeing Weeb for the first time since we parted ways, rather awkwardly, I must add, in the Philadelphia airport in 1975. If it hadn't been for the Internet, I'd have never known that Weeb was still alive, let alone doing what a lot of the rest of us who served at Kagnew are doing, which is revisiting the place in our heads -- "the island in the clouds," "the pleasure dome" -- as we're, incredibly, pushing 60. I used to feel like 38 at the age of 22 or so, I occasionally used to remark. By 48 ... I felt 70. But now at 55, with many, many things in my life, thankfully, gratefully, having been put right, I feel much younger than my age. It's got to have something to do with my Hunter S. Thompson approach to living, or "Thompson lite" -- because there's no way that anybody ever did all that shit. I used to think I was having a heart attack when I would take a decongestant -- and pills like those have actually killed people. I ain't goin' till I'm done ... but if I go before they start loading the mothership for Pleasure Island, I want it to be while I am laughing defiantly at my killer or killers, they way Peter Pan gets the goat of Captain Hook over and over again. But, hey, Peter doesn't die a martyr ... nor does he ever grow up, did he ever grow up ... unless you count that dreadful Hook movie, with Robin Williams playing fucking Peter Pan -- an attorney, dear God! -- with his pointy ears hidden behind his longish hair.

I don't know who wrote that screenplay, but he obviously didn't grow up with Peter Pan, as I did, even though Peter stayed the same age, and still has -- not the Disney feature, when it first premiered, or the musical starring Mary Martin, which has its moments ... if you don't mind a girl playing Peter Pan. I frankly did, and largely because Miss Martin sounded as if she was a smoker, her voice being Kathleen Sullivan raspy and deep, though in those days nobody knew who Kathleen Sullivan was. Peter Pan. I hope that's who Weeb reminds me of ... but I have a bad feeling. He was always a great-looking guy ... and some people just naturally age well. But Weeb didn't sound like himself anymore. Although I imagine neither did I. But I was just a person -- Weeb was a living cartoon character, one of those unique souls which enters your life and that of everyone else around you and turns up the positive energy by 50 percent. Two-hundred percent.