Jesus Is Cooler Than Houdini

The Game of Picaroons

2009-04-24T17:57:00.001-04:00

I have an idea for a board game which could make me a million bucks, if it is worth a flip. The problem is ... I haven't finished developing it. I haven't got the bugs worked out, and I was terrible in math. The game is called Picaroons. A Picaroon is another name for a spy. I'm calling the game that because I like the name, and, because, I'd like to create a board game with spies in it; but so far, all I have is a game of checkers in which you use the flip side of the checker pieces, and you get to re-enter captured pieces in the light-colored squares, which don't ever get used. And that's as far as I've gotten. Actually, I have gotten slightly farther along than that: I bought a cheap checker set and painted the flip sides of all the checkers red, so you could tell the Picaroon side from the regular checker side. The Picaroon side, or red side, is the flip side of the checker which no one ever cares about, but me. Think of it as a game of Othello or Reversi, with Risk mixed in ... if I can get the cards to fit in somehow. Right now, all I have is twenty-four checker pieces, painted red on one side, and all the cards which one uses in a game of Risk, which I raided. On the cards are horsemen, a cannon and infantry. And there are two wild cards which have all three categories (horsemen, cannon, infantry) on one card. I'm surprised there aren't more wild cards, but maybe the further I get along in this game, that will make perfect sense. For the time being, I think I have a great idea, but I haven't got it developed yet, but using the other side of the checker pieces seems like a very logical variation, so I'm going with that. Here's the object of the game: you play a game of checkers and get captured or you capture. Every time you capture a checker piece you get to draw a card. Let's say the cards are divided into three categories: paper, rock, scissors. There are 13 of each category in Risk, that's what I have in cards, so I'm dancing around that number, more or less.

And two wildcards. The way the cards will be used is ... as you're accumulating cards after capturing your opponent's checker pieces ... you hope to get three of a kind -- three rocks, three sheets of paper or three scissors, or, a set of three, with a rock, a sheet of paper and a pair of scissors. Once you have three of a kind or a set, you can snatch one of your captured pieces from your opponent and enter it Picaroon side up onto the board in the light-colored squares. That's sort of as far as I've gotten. I know I'm going to have to take into consideration what happens if you capture a king, or your opponent captures your king, but blah, blah, blah. The end part I have worked out: The thing you want to accomplish is to get your Picaroons in the two light-colored squares in the center of the board. I've thought about the fact that both games might compete with one another, that is, while you're still playing checkers, if you have re-entered a Picaroon (flipped piece) you are also playing the Picaroons phase, so I figure on each move, if you have at least one Picaroon on the board you can move your Picaroon one space and move your regular checker pieces as you normally would. I'm thinking that Picaroons can only capture other Picaroons, and they do so by moving in an adjacent space, with rock beating scissors, scissors cutting paper, and paper wrapping the rock; except, I'm looking at water, fire and stick. Stick floats on water, water puts out fire, and fire burns stick. Whatever. What I'm thinking is you have to move the Picaroon pieces safely to the far corners, at which point you acquire a little flag, which means that piece can begin moving into the center of the board, but the only way it can move to the center squares (there are four, obviously: two light and two dark) is by rolling a pair of dice. Then the game becomes like Risk, sort of. If you catch my drift.

The trick will be to land your Picaroons in the four center squares, having to land exactly on the square with the roll of one dice or two die. For instance, you roll a four (either one dice or two dice totaling four), and that piece, the Picaroon with a little flag, can be moved onto the square. I'm thinking no one can capture a Picaroon with a flag unless you're a Picaroon with another flag on the other side, and then ... I dunno. Anyway, You roll a six and a five, say, you overshoot your target, so then you gotta roll a two or a one to come back and land exactly on the square. Boring, right? Well, then the game becomes like Risk, because you can take over the square from your opponent if water beats fire, fire burns stick and stick floats on water. You see what I mean? So, you're dealing with luck and some skill, but not a lot of skill. I'm thinking about what I could do while the Picaroons are rolling from the squares on the corners to the center of the board; in other words, will there be a checker game still going on, and is that going to be confusing. I dunno. I need to play it, but no one will play with me. I feel like Henny freaking Penny, or Ducky Lucky or whatever the hell it is ... which is the animal which wants to bake the bread, but nobody wants to help, but they all want to eat the bread after it's baked, so it's a little moral. Which has nothing to do with anything, except that's how I feel. Or Chicken Little, with the sky falling. I always get those confused.

Anyway, I'm typing this up, so I can say I have my board game copyrighted, it being in the public domain with a date on it, so that if anybody steals Picaroons or the concept, I can sue the pants offa them, even though I have never done well when it comes to legal matters. I'll come back and add more once I have beta tested what I have so far.

Peace, out.

"The question is," said Alice ...

2009-01-29T08:07:00.002-05:00

We found this description of Gnosticism on the Gnostic Society Library website. At least the guy is honest.

The random projection of contemporary fads and enthusiasms (such as feminism and the Gaia hypothesis) onto Gnosticism might also have to be controlled. But all of this seems like a small price to pay for some order and clarity in this field. We might have to take to heart the ironic admonition of Alice in Wonderland:

"When I use a word," Humpty Dumpty said, "it means just what I choose it to mean - neither more nor less."

"The question is," said Alice, "whether you can make words mean so many different things."

To which we say ... Precisely.

It is our view that there are no mysteries, no secret mysteries that secretive and mysterious people would like to believe that they know. The truth is what it is. The truth will set you free. The truth has clearly been revealed by God -- his name means Salvation. Can you guess who that is? It's no mystery.

Suspect Fragments of Papias

2009-01-16T12:05:00.000-05:00

The fragment X of the Roberts-Donaldson collection of fragments is considered to be suspect as the alleged words of Papias.

Schoedel writes about Papias (The Anchor Bible Dictionary, v. 5, p. 140):

According to Irenaeus, our earliest witness, Papias was "a hearer of John and a companion of Polycarp, a man of primitive times," who wrote a volume in "five books" (haer. 5.33.4; quoted by Eusebius Hist. Eccl. 3.39.1). Eusebius already doubted the reality of a connection between Papias and the apostle John on the grounds that Papias himself in the preface to his book distinguished the apostle John from John the presbyter and seems to have had significant contact only with John the presbyter and a certain Aristion (Hist. Eccl. 3.39.3-7). Eusebius' skepticism was no doubt prompted by his distaste - perhaps a recently acquired distaste (Grant 1974) - for Papias' chiliasm and his feeling that such a theology qualified Papias for the distinction of being "a man of exceedingly small intelligence" (Hist. Eccl. 3.39.13). Nevertheless Eusebius' analysis of the preface is probably correct; and his further point that Papias' chiliasm put him to the same camp as the Revelation of John is surely relevant. It is notable that Eusebius, in spite of his desire to discredit Papias, still places him as early as the reign of Trajan (A.D. 98-117); and although later dates (e.g., A.D. 130-140) have often been suggested by modern scholars, Bartlet's date for Papias' literary activity of about A.D. 100 has recently gained support (Schoedel 1967: 91-92; Kortner 1983: 89-94, 167-72, 225-26).

Schoedel writes about the comments of Papias (op. cit., v. 5, pp. 141-142):

What the fragments have to tell us about Mark and Matthew is information that Papias himself traces to "the presbyter" (Eus. Hist. Eccl. 3.39.15-16). Eusebius separates the statements about Mark and Matthew, but they may have originally followed one another and certainly seem closely related. Perhaps the simplest reading of the statement on Mark is that Mark served as Peter's interpreter (possibly in the role of methurgaman, or oral translator) and wrote down what he heard Peter say of the words and deeds of Jesus and that his writing is defective in "order," though not in accuracy or fullness of recollection, because Peter naturally referred to the Lord's logia in a random manner. Some have suspected that Papias did not have in mind the gospel of Mark that we know, but the arguments are tenuous. On another point, Kurzinger has attempted to show that Papias was speaking not of translation from the native language of Peter but of presentation of the reports of Peter (an interpretation which he applies also to Papias' statement about Matthew); but this seems to push a rhetorical approach to Papias' terminology too far (Schoedel 1967: 107; Kortner 1983: 203-4). On the other hand, an interpretation in rhetorical terms is somewhat more likely when it comes to the suggestion that Papias meant to say that Peter spoke "in chria-style" rather than "as needs (chriai) dictated." But the point that is debated more than any other is what Papias had in mind when he said that Mark did not write "in order." It is perhaps most likely that Papias was measuring Mark by Matthew (who is said by Papias to have made "an ordered arrangement" of the materials) - or perhaps more generally by Papias' own conception of what ought to be included in such an account - and that he had in mind completeness of information as well as "order" in the narrow sense of the term. In any event, Papias is defending Mark in spite of perceived deficiencies.

Papias attests the role that oral tradition continued to play in the first half of the second century. Papias himself preferred "the living voice" to what could be found in books. Nevertheless, Papias seems to have known the Gospels, and he provides the earliest tradition concerning the authorship of the Gospel of Mark. The testimony of Papias concerning Matthew is more problematic. Eusebius says that Papias also "made use of testimonies from the first letter of John and likewise from that of Peter" (Hist. Eccl. 3.39.17).

Gnostic Society's Translation of Secret Gospel of Mark

2009-01-16T11:58:00.001-05:00

Gnostic Scriptures and Fragments
The Secret Gospel of Mark

Archive Notes

This document was found by Prof. Morton Smith in 1958 at the Mar Saba monastery, southeast of Jerusalem. In the document, authoritatively attributed to Clement of Alexandria, a "Secret Gospel of Mark" is mentioned. Clement presents fragments from the text of this secret gospel which he claims is in the custody of the Church in Alexandria, but which is kept secret. Perhaps the most important issue confirmed by this letter is the fact that in Clement's time "hierophantic teachings of the Lord" and Gospel texts now lost were still transmitted within the church to a select group of Christians. Fragments attributed to the Secret Gospel of Mark are shown below in italics.

(An excellent summary of scholarly and popular responses to the Secret Gospel of Mark is provided in an article available in the Gnostic Society Library: The Strange Case of the Secret Gospel According to Mark: How Morton Smith's Discovery of a Lost Letter by Clement of Alexandria Scandalized Biblical Scholarship, by Shawn Eyer.)

A Letter Attributed to Clement of Alexandria

To Theodore.

You did well in silencing the unspeakable teachings of the Carpocrations. For these are "wandering stars" referred to in the prophecy, who wander from the narrow road of the commandments into a boundless abyss of the carnal and bodily sins. For, priding themselves in knowledge, as they say, "of the deep things of Satan, they do not know that they are casting themselves away into "the netherworld of the darkness" of falseness, and boasting that they are free, they have become slaves of servile desires. Such men are to be opposed in all ways and alltogether. For, even if they should say something true, one who loves the truth should not, even so, agree with them. For not all true things are the truth, nor should that truth which merely seems true according to human opinions be prefered to the true truth, that according to the faith.

Now of the things they keep saying about the divinely inspired Gospel according to Mark, some are altogether falsifications, and others, even if they do contain some true elements, nevertheless are not reported truely. For the true things being mixed with inventions, are falsified , so that, as the saying goes, even the salt loses its savor.

As for Mark, then, during Peter`s stay in Rome he wrote an account of the Lord`s doings, not, however, declaring all of them, nor yet hinting at the secret ones, but selecting what he thought most useful for increasing the faith of those who were being instructed. But when Peter died a martyr, Mark came over to Alexandria, bringing both his own notes and those of Peter, from which he transferred to his former books the things suitable to whatever makes for progress toward knowledge. Thus he composed a more spiritual Gospel for the use of those who were being perfected. Nevertheless, he yet did not divulge the things not to be uttered, nor did he write down the hierophantic teaching of the Lord, but to the stories already written he added yet others and, moreover, brought in certain sayings of which he knew the interpretation would, as a mystagogue , lead the hearers into the innermost sanctuary of truth hidden by seven veils. Thus, in sum, he prepared matters, neither grudgingly nor incautionously, in my opinion, and, dying, he left his composition to the church in 1, verso Alexandria, where it even yet is most carefully guarded, being read only to those who are being initated into the great mysteries.

But since the foul demons are always devising destruction for the race of men, Carpocrates, instructed by them and using deceitful arts, so enslaved a certain presbyter of the church in Alexandria that he got from him a copy of the secret Gospel, which he both interpreted according to his blasphemous and carnal doctrine and, moreover, polluted, mixing with the spotless and holy words utterly shameless lies. From this mixture is withdrawn off the teaching of the Carpocratians.

To them, therefore, as I said above, one must never give way ; nor, when they put forward their falsifications, should one concede that the secret Gospel is by Mark, but should even deny it on oath. For, "For not all true things are to be said to all men". For this reason the Wisdom of God, through Solomon, advises, "Answer the fool with his folly," , teaching that the light of the truth should be hidden from those who are mentally blind. Again it says, "From him who has not shall be taken away" and "Let the fool walk in darkness". But we are "children of Light" having been illuminated by "the dayspring" of the spirit of the Lord "from on high", and "Where the Spirit of the Lord is" , it says, "there is liberty", for "All things are pure to the pure".

To you, therefore, I shall not hesitate to answer the questions you have asked, refuting the falsifications by the very words of the Gospel. For example, after "And they were in the road going up to Jerusalem" and what follows, until "After three days he shall arise", the secret Gospel brings the following material word for word:

"And they come into Bethany. And a certain woman whose brother had died was there. And, coming, she prostrated herself before Jesus and says to him, "son of David, have mercy on me". But the disciples rebuked her. And Jesus, being angered , went off with her into the garden where the tomb was, and straightway, going in where the youth was, he stretched forth his hand and raised him, seizing his hand. But the youth, looking upon him, loved him and began to beseech him that he might be with him. And going out of the tomb they came into the house of the youth, for he was rich. And after six days Jesus told him what to do and in the evening the youth comes to him, wearing a linen cloth over his naked body. And he remained with him that night, for Jesus thaught him the mystery of the Kingdom of God. And thence, arising, he returned to the other side of the Jordan."

And these words follow the text, "And James and John come to him" and all that section. But "naked man with naked man" and the other things about which you wrote, are not found.

And after the words,"And he comes into Jericho," the secret Gospel adds only, "And the sister of the youth whom Jesus loved and his mother and Salome were there, and Jesus did not receive them." But many other things about which you wrote both seem to be and are falsifications.

House of Virgin Mary in Ephesus ... is a FRAUD!

2009-01-16T11:55:00.000-05:00

BLAH, BLAH, BLAH ...
The Virgin Mary never lived in Ephesus ...
She was buried in Jerusalem ...
What elaborate lengths the enemies of Jesus, God and man have gone to to hide the truth about the racial identity of Jesus, our Savior for all races and all nations

Located on the top of the "Bulbul" mountain 9 km ahead of Ephesus, the shrine of Virgin Mary enjoys a marvelous atmosphere hidden in the green. It is the place where Mary may have spent her last days. Indeed, she may have come in the area together with Saint John, who spent several years in the area to spread Christianity. Mary preferred this remote place rather than living in crowded place. The house is a typical Roman architectural example, entirely made of stones.

In the 4th century AD, a church, combining her house and grave, has been built. The original two-stored house, which consisted of an anteroom (where today candles are proposed), bedroom and praying room (Christian church area) and a room with fireplace (chapel for Muslims). A front kitchen fell into ruins and has been restored in 1940's. Today, only the central part and a room on the right of the altar are open to visitors.

From there one can understand that this building looks more like a church than a house. Another interesting place is the "Water of Mary", a source to be found at the exit of the church area and where a rather salt water, with curative properties, can be drunk by all.

Paul VI was the first pope to visit this place in the 1960's. Later, in the 1980's, during his visit, Pope John-Paul II declared the Shrine of Virgin Mary has a pilgrimage place for Christians. It is also visited by Muslims who recognize Mary as the mother of one of their prophets. Every year, on August 15th a ceremony is organized to commemorate Mary's Assumption. Especially on August 15th, 2000, an organization has planned to celebrate also Jesus' 2000th birthday.

The visions of Sister Emmerich, as recorded by Brentano, occupy several volumes and are mostly concerned with events from the life of Christ and of Mary. Only a few are devoted to Mary's final day in Ephesus, and those few follow no logical or even chronological sequence, tending to be circular rather than linear, creating and then clarifying ambiguities, so that in highly condensed version that follows we have taken the liberty of reorganizing and summarizing Sister Emmerich's visions to help you see more clearly exactly what she saw.

THE LOCATION OF THE HOUSE
"Mary did not live in Ephesus itself, but on a hill to the left of the road from Jerusalem... Narrow paths from Ephesus lead southwards to it... It is a very lonely place, but has many fertile slopes as well as rock caves where several Christian families and friends of Mary already lived... John had a house built for her here...

It is on an uneven plateau near the top of the hill, overgrown with trees and wild bushes... There were Jewish as well as Christian settlers here, living in caves fitted out with woodworks or in huts or tents... It was like a scattered village... Mary's house was the only one built of stone... A little way behind it was the summit of the hill, from which one could see Ephesus and also the sea with its many islands... Near here is a castle inhabited by a king who seems to have been deposed... Behind the house Mary had built a Way of the Cross soon after her arrival...

It had twelve Stations... Mary paced out the measurements herself... At each Station she set up memorial stones - eight smooth stones with many sides, each resting on a base of the same stone... The stones and their bases were all inscribed with Hebrew letters... These Stations were all in little hollows, except the Station of Month Calvary which was on a hill... The Station of the Holy Sepulcher was in a little cave over this hill..."

THE HOUSE ITSELF
"It was built of regular stones, rounded at the back, and had a spring running under it... The windows were high up near the flat roof... The main part of the house was divided into two by the fireplace in the middle of it, sunk into the ground, facing the door... There was a deep channel in the wall, like half of a chimney, which carried the smoke up an opening in the ceiling... Behind the fireplace, the apse of the room was curtained off and formed Mary's oratory... In a niche in the center of the wall there was a receptacle like a tabernacle and in it stood a cross about the length of a man's arm...

To the right and left of the fireplace were doors which led into the black part of the house... The door to the right led to the bedchamber of the Blessed Virgin, which ended in a semi-circle... Her couch, which was placed against a niche in the wall, was the length and breath of a narrow plank... Through the door to the left of the oratory was a small room were Mary's clothes and other belongings were kept... She lived here quietly with her maidservant, a younger woman who fetched what little food they needed... John would visit them when he was not away on his travels..."

MARY'S DEATH AND BURIAL
"I saw her lying on a low, very narrow couch in her little sleeping alcove... Her head rested on a round cushion... She was very weak and pale. The assembled Apostles held a service in front part of the house... Peter stood in priestly vestments before the altar, with the others behind him as if in a choir...

I saw the Blessed Virgin being lifted up several times a day by the women to be given a spoonful of juice which had been pressed from a bunch of yellow berries... Newcomers tenderly embraced those who were already there... After their feet had been washed, they approached Mary's couch and greeted her with reverence... She could only say a few words to them... Towards evening she realized that her end was approaching and said farewell to the Apostles, disciples and women who were present... She lay back on her pillows, pale and still... Peter gave her Holy Communion... She died after the ninth hour, at the same time as Our Lord...
Matthew and Andrew then followed Mary' Way of the Cross until the last Station, half and hour's journey from the house, which was the cave representing the Holy Sepulcher... Here they worked to enlarge the tomb and to built a door with which to close the entrance... Women came to the house to prepare the body for burial, bringing with them clothes as well as spices to embalm the body... The house was closed and they worked lamplight... Two women washed the holy body... John carried a vessel with ointment...

Peter dipped a finger of his right hand into it and anointed the breast, hands and feet of the Blessed Virgin, praying as he did so... Bunches of myrrh were laid in the armpits and bosom and in the spaces between the shoulders and the neck, chin and cheeks... They wrapped the holy body in a great grave-cloth and placed it in the wicker coffin which stood near... On her breast was laid a wreath of red, white and sky-blue flowers...

The coffin was then taken to the cave where she was buried." The date of Mary's death perhaps fades in importance when Sister Emmerich tells us that after Mary's entombment St John took St Thomas, who had arrived late, to see the Virgin one last time. Once inside the cave, they knelt and St John opened the lid of the coffin. Mary's body was not in the burial shroud, but the shroud remained intact. They carefully covered up the entrance to the cave and left.

Morton Smith's Secret Gospel of Mark

2009-01-16T11:53:00.001-05:00

The Secret Gospel of Mark

In 1958 at the Mar Saba Monastery southeast of Jerusalem, Professor Morton Smith made an amazing discovery while cataloging the library there. He found a letter written to someone named Theodore. The letter is believed to be by Clement of Alexandria. In this letter, the author makes mention of a "Secret Gospel of Mark". The author of the letter goes so far as to quote two sections from the gospel. The author also alludes to a complete text which is in the possession of the Church at Alexandria but is kept secret. Below are the two sections (and where they belong in the Gospel of Mark) that we know about, followed by the fragment of the letter thought to be from Clement.

The first fragment is to be found between Mark 10:34 and 10:35 -

And they came into Bethany and a certain woman whose brother had died was there. And, coming, she knelt down before Jesus and said to him, "Son of David, have mercy on me". But the disciples rebuked her. And Jesus got angry with them and went off with her into the garden where the tomb was. Right away there was a loud cry from inside the tomb. Then Jesus rolled away the stone from in front of the tomb. He went in where the youth was and stretched forth his hand and raised him up. The youth, looking upon him, loved him and began to beg him to be with him. They they left the tomb and went to the young man's house, for he was rich. Six days later, Jesus gave him instructions of what to do and in the evening the youth came to him, wearing nothing but a linen cloth over his naked body. He remained with him that night, for Jesus thaught him the mystery of the Kingdom of God. And when Jesus woke up, he returned to the other side of the Jordan.

The second fragment is to be found between Mark 10:46a and 10:46b -

And the sister of the young man whom Jesus loved was there, along with his mother and Salome, but Jesus did not receive them.

The Letter Attributed to Clement

To Theodore.

You did well in silencing the unspeakable teachings of the Carpocrations. For these are "wandering stars" referred to in the prophecy, who wander from the narrow road of the commandments into a boundless abyss of the carnal and bodily sins. For, priding themselves in knowledge, as they say, "of the deep things of Satan, they do not know that they are casting themselves away into "the netherworld of the darkness" of falseness, and boasting that they are free, they have become slaves of servile desires. Such men are to be opposed in all ways and alltogether. For, even if they should say something true, one who loves the truth should not, even so, agree with them. For not all true things are the truth, nor should that truth which merely seems true according to human opinions be prefered to the true truth, that according to the faith.

Now of the things they keep saying about the divinely inspired Gospel according to Mark, some are altogether falsifications, and others, even if they do contain some true elements, nevertheless are not reported truely. For the true things being mixed with inventions, are falsified , so that, as the saying goes, even the salt loses its savor.

As for Mark, then, during Peter`s stay in Rome he wrote an account of the Lord`s doings, not, however, declaring all of them, nor yet hinting at the secret ones, but selecting what he thought most useful for increasing the faith of those who were being instructed. But when Peter died a martyr, Mark came over to Alexandria, bringing both his own notes and those of Peter, from which he transferred to his former books the things suitable to whatever makes for progress toward knowledge. Thus he composed a more spiritual Gospel for the use of those who were being perfected. Nevertheless, he yet did not divulge the things not to be uttered, nor did he write down the hierophantic teaching of the Lord, but to the stories already written he added yet others and, moreover, brought in certain sayings of which he knew the interpretation would, as a mystagogue , lead the hearers into the innermost sanctuary of truth hidden by seven veils. Thus, in sum, he prepared matters, neither grudgingly nor incautionously, in my opinion, and, dying, he left his composition to the church in 1, verso Alexandria, where it even yet is most carefully guarded, being read only to those who are being initated into the great mysteries.

But since the foul demons are always devising destruction for the race of men, Carpocrates, instructed by them and using deceitful arts, so enslaved a certain presbyter of the church in Alexandria that he got from him a copy of the secret Gospel, which he both interpreted according to his blasphemous and carnal doctrine and, moreover, polluted, mixing with the spotless and holy words utterly shameless lies. From this mixture is withdrawn off the teaching of the Carpocratians.

To them, therefore, as I said above, one must never give way ; nor, when they put forward their falsifications, should one concede that the secret Gospel is by Mark, but should even deny it on oath. For, "For not all true things are to be said to all men". For this reason the Wisdom of God, through Solomon, advises, "Answer the fool with his folly," , teaching that the light of the truth should be hidden from those who are mentally blind. Again it says, "From him who has not shall be taken away" and "Let the fool walk in darkness". But we are "children of Light" having been illuminated by "the dayspring" of the spirit of the Lord "from on high", and "Where the Spirit of the Lord is" , it says, "there is liberty", for "All things are pure to the pure".

To you, therefore, I shall not hesitate to answer the questions you have asked, refuting the falsifications by the very words of the Gospel. For example, after "And they were in the road going up to Jerusalem" and what follows, until "After three days he shall arise", the secret Gospel brings the following material word for word:

"And they came into Bethany and a certain woman whose brother had died was there. And, coming, she knelt down before Jesus and said to him, "Son of David, have mercy on me". But the disciples rebuked her. And Jesus got angry with them and went off with her into the garden where the tomb was. Right away there was a loud cry from inside the tomb. Then Jesus rolled away the stone from in front of the tomb. He went in where the youth was and stretched forth his hand and raised him up. The youth, looking upon him, loved him and began to beg him to be with him. They they left the tomb and went to the young man's house, for he was rich. Six days later, Jesus gave him instructions of what to do and in the evening the youth came to him, wearing nothing but a linen cloth over his naked body. He remained with him that night, for Jesus thaught him the mystery of the Kingdom of God. And when Jesus woke up, he returned to the other side of the Jordan."

And these words follow the text, "And James and John come to him" and all that section. But "naked man with naked man" and the other things about which you wrote, are not found.

And after the words,"And he comes into Jericho," the secret Gospel adds only, "And the sister of the young man whom Jesus loved was there, along with his mother and Salome, but Jesus did not receive them." But many other things about which you wrote both seem to be and are falsifications.

Picaroons

2008-12-27T14:05:00.003-05:00

The Heckled

2008-11-22T23:03:00.005-05:00

I never wanted to be a stand-up comedian. I hate this stuff. I am deadly serious. Death, there's a funny subject. See what I mean? I hate it, but life doesn't ask our permission, ever. You have to eat. You have to be something. I just happen to be good at writing jokes ... and telling them, but it's a curse, really. I'll tell you what I hate most about stand-up comedy -- I call it the "what's up with that" syndrome. You know, where someone comes out and reflects on something that happens to all of us, usually, and then the comic says, "What's up with that?" ... and the crowd just roars with laughter, while everyone is nodding and looking at the person with them, as if to say, You know, I can relate to that. Isn't that amazing? Well, it isn't amazing. Hey, breathing ... what's up with that? You see? I hate this stuff. And the thing that everyone can relate to is always something stupid, like, you know when you're putting on a pair of socks, and your toenails need to be clipped, and invariably a toenail, either on your little toe or your big toe, catches a thread of the sock, and you end up nearly tearing your foot off just to put on a damn sock? What's up with that? See what I mean? But people love that. But, damn it, don't laugh at that. Really. They love to go, Hey, that happens to me. I'm like the comedian. But no you're not. Nobody is like anybody else. What is so funny about relating to what someone else does in his miserable little life? Did you ever try to do a good or a funny dive or trick into the water, and you bust your ass in a way that you just land smack on your stomach or your back, and it hurts like hell, and you know that everyone around the diving board is just groaning or laughing, so that while you're underwater, for a split second, you think about not coming up, and you have this little argument with yourself, which can only be as long as you remain underwater, because when you come up, you have to say, Hey, I meant to do that. It didn't really hurt. That red splotch on my stomach or back or face is a birthmark that always shows up when I'm swimming. Did that ever happen to you? So what if it did? So what if you know what that form of embarrassment is like? Big deal. Get a life. Stop pissing away your money going to see somebody whom you think does just what you do, because you have a meaningless little life and you're trying to connect with humanity. You know what I mean? So what if we all fart, and yet you can't imagine other people being gross and farting, but you know they do, so you don't feel so crude afterwards, but you know that you are. Farting. What's funny about that? Kids love it, farting and farting jokes. You know what that's all about? Running out of things to laugh about, so you tell a fart joke, and everybody laughs, only nervously. You know how there are categories of farts. I don't even want to go there, because I hate bathroom humor, and it is gross. Dogs fart, but not much. You never hear a dog farting. You smell them farting, which is foul, because it's a dog fart. Horses fart like there's no tomorrow, but dogs as a rule are not farters. You know how you might fart around a dog, your pet, and they look at you like, Aren't you just the crude bastard, but I can relate to it, the earthiness of it, at least that's what you imagine your dog is thinking, and it's good that your dog can't talk and that he or she smells other dogs' butts, because with all the farting that people do, if your dog wanted to leave, he or she would have a good reason to do so, because you're uncouth, and the dog thinks you're trying to do it to punish the dog, only the dog likes it, but not in any delirious kind of way.

Hey, if you don't like stand-up, why are you freaking doin' it?

Stand-up? Freaking? Why do I stand up? Because I'm not a couch potato like it looks like that you are. I stand, rather than lay or sit, because I get paid to do this. What's your excuse?

I'm sitting because I'm drinking and eating, and listening to your stupid ass.

Oh, yeah? Big deal. Everybody sits. And freaking ... why do people like this moron say freaking instead of fucking. Fuck you, pal, and the horse you rode in on.

I don't do stand-up, and neither do you, so get off the stage.

What's up with hecklers? Everybody wants to kill a heckler, including the heckled, until the comedian dresses the heckler down, and everybody laughs at the heckler, so that he's waiting for you after the show? Unless you're bad, and you don't have a comeback, and then people hate the comedian. I'll kill you first, before I look bad, and pretend it's part of the act. Girls don't heckle. Guys heckle. If a girl heckled, nobody would like it. They'd think she was crazy or sexually confused. You know what I mean? Heckling. I'd heckle myself if there was any money in it.

You're an idiot.

What would be a good comeback for that? Anybody? I heard George Carlin get angry once at a heckler on a comedy record, and he just went ballistic, worse than Don Rickles, told the guy he hoped his family died in a car crash. Way over the top. I stopped liking Carlin after that, though he was brilliant. He was sick, too sick. I can't imagine his spirit floating around in a timeless state. He'd be lost without an audience, you know? Rickles always acts like he's really a good guy and he just pokes fun because he's really a great actor and likes to get outside of himself and act like an asshole. No he doesn't. He's a real asshole. Don Rickles is an asshole, but after he has been an asshole, he tries to act kind and unassuming, like, I just do this for a living, but he is so unbelieveable that you feel uncomfortable for him, and invariably, Rickles cares about being caring for only so long, before he launches into another tirade of how black people talk, or how goofy a Chinese man looks when he talks Chinese with squinty eyes and his teeth stuck out.

Get off the stage!

Okay, I will, because I hate this stuff. But I hate you more, so I'm going to kill you, but first, I'm going to have a comeback. Hey, asshole you come and get me off the stage, but let me remind you, I have a chainsaw backstage ... and I'll cut you up into little pieces and show everybody what your bowels look like. Ha, how's that? ... Wait, everybody ... comeback ... that's part of the show. Screw it, I'm still getting paid.

No, you aren't. Leave now, you're terrible.

Gee, boss. See what I mean? I hate this stuff.

We hate it more.

I'm getting my chainsaw.

The hell you are. Get out of my club.

I'm going to kill all of you. You too, boss. No, I'm really not ... that's part of the show.

Show's over.

Rickles does it. Why can't I do it? I hate this. I hate you, all of you. I hate myself, so I'm going to kill myself and blame it on you. Ha, what's up with that? I hate this stuff. You, too? You're all a bunch of freaking bastards. Don't you know how to laugh?

Reflections on a Bittersweet Return

2008-08-11T17:28:00.004-04:00

Relieved ... and yet anguished? Broken, furious with nowhere to direct my fury. I don't know what specifically I felt as the time neared for my departure from Asmara, Ethiopia. Maybe that's an angry response at having to think about how I felt. It was dreamy, in a way. But it was horribly discouraging, tearfully remorseful, and unnecessary disruption of a life that had been going well, socially, but granted with no direction. I was in college, and I intended to graduate. But I had wasted a year of my life, and there were more ahead, accomplishing nothing, increasingly a stranger to myself with no way that I was aware of to arrest these feelings. Home wouldn't do it. It felt like the end of being ill, or deeply asleep, awake but weak -- unaware of just how weak I was, uncertain, not confident and already resigned to having a disasterous rest of my life. But not once did I feel suicidal. Never. I was cynical, dark and bitter, but I would take a slow death fighting madness over checking out without a fight to the end.

I didn't hold out much hope that I would fare well matching my new personality with those of my family members, which would not have changed, not to the unraveling degree mine had. I dreaded them seeing me like this -- and it would not be a matter of willpower to put my best face forward, because my mind had a mind of its own, at this point; if it felt fear, my mind wanted to race with it as fast and as far as it could, as if to push me down just a little bit further. But, I was actually getting stronger, as I have seen the progress, and who and what I am now.

The thought of leaving was reassuring, yes, it was exhilarating, but always there were the dampening feelings, so agonizing that should feelings should emerge. A part of me hated me for being such a wimp. Almost intolerable melancholy, until I could get stoned on whatever was available. I missed life as I had enjoyed it, which seemed more than two years behind me. It seemed an eternity since I had been happy. Join the crowd, you might say. Everyone was unhappy. I only know that I saw none acting like me, but that means nothing. Nobody was happy. Words are insufficient; speaking in cliches, one hopes, will be enough. I miss the beautiful weather and the amber afternoons, which felt like early autumn, and the mornings which felt like early spring. It was barren and stark, but unique enough to hold my attention.

I never wanted to see Asmara again, at the time, though parts of it were beautiful and unique. There is a charm to a stripped down society, third-world living, but with a broken heart, alone, there was only dull interest, until next when I was drunk. I felt in a way I had never felt before, and I was sure I would never feel that way again. I'd never found myself away for so long, preparing to may a return which would be almost as traumatic. My life was enriched, but ruined. I felt a part of me had died, if not all of me but the breathing and thinking part -- and with that part which died, all of the happy memories I had ever created with my fiancee died. It didn't matter whether she loved me anyone, or if I loved her, we had not weathered fate or love well -- she much more than me.

I was not the same. And I couldn't love her in the way I had loved her before. She had revealed herself to be selfish, flighty, immature, cruel, with no forethought of the consequences and no apparent conscience. I was being forced to start over, with my return to the United States ... and I was still in the Navy ... with advanced mental illness, which was problematic, but I didn't have a name for it. I was ashamed that I had experienced a form of death, the death of my personality and soul, of my hope, of my confidence and general outlook, whatever that means. I felt doomed. And I was scared to death, though I didn't want to be. I kept telling myself I had no reason to be. Except going through what other men had gone through.

The S is Harry S Truman ... stands for "Satan"

2008-08-09T18:19:00.004-04:00

How efficient Babylon
Clean and spotless, bums are gone
Starve the poor and feed the rich
Lead the blind man to a ditch
But for mercy, there go you
One day you'll have holey shoes
And the difference 'tween rich and poor?
Those boners lie, "There is no more."
Do you believe that of the poor?
In fact, they're slime, Budsters and whores
You're not so mean ...
And so what for? ...
You've got a boyish manner and grin
What have you placed your confidence in?
What does the S in Harry Truman's name mean --
The 33rd president, big deal Mason?
"Sorry, Japs, we double-crossed you bad
"We did Pearl Harbor, but that made us mad."
It wouldn't be sorrow that Truman felt
The world was made to melt
Did the buck stop where it should
'Twould do old Harry good

The great horned beast threw back his head
His hooves dug in the rock
And pulled S closer toward him
And crowed out like a cock
The task 'twas given to S to do,
"He's done it so damned well:
"You mocked the false creator.
"And sent the rest to hell."
He did it without conscience ...
So is he psychopath?
Can one kill without madness?
Can one kill without wrath?
What motivates the warriors ...
Have they been told stay cool?
Must we be at the mercy of
Gnostic, Satanic fools?
The stupid man will listen
When dazzling his eyes
"It must be God," little Harry S said.
"Just look how fast he flies."

-- Simon O. Seuss

Shrink

2008-08-06T04:36:00.004-04:00

Dr. Saul Lieberman would have made a great pediatrician because of the way he talks down to everybody. I don't want to say I feel like a child when I go in for a session with Dr. Lieberman, because I'm 55 years old. But I will be the first to admit that I caught myself sucking my thumb, twice already this month, while gazing at his photograph.

And I don't wish to infer that Dr. Lieberman is anything but the town's best psychological counselor (excluding just a handful of others) for the money, with the good doctor holding his own in the very important area of affordable rates and promotions, topping himself this year over last by incorporating bargain basement days and a redeemable coupon system, with the chance to earn sky miles, if, you have the closest guess of how many orange slices are packed into the huge jar he brought from home.

Looking back, as Dr. Lieberman has repeatedly, forcefully asked me to do, I realize now that as a teenager and an adolescent, even when I was a child of 5 or 6, if my memory serves me, I possessed and maintained a fairly sophisticated spiritual world view, in which the Jews take the lead at the end and hold on, just nosing out their millions of competitors before the ground finally opens up and swallows the enemies of Israel and her God, who is God. How do I know this, how does the "gentile dog," as Dr. Lieberman refers to me in jest, have such a fucking corner on truth? Well, if he could actually relate to insanity, which he swore he could while huffing his brains out on his days off. I told him though exercise would make him forgetful and irritable at first, with the telltale blue lips, he ought to stay with it while he "cashes in all the chips" and with God's help elevates his fucking mood.

I, for one, commend my friend, Dr. Lieberman, for such dedication and persistence, though he has a long, long way to go and miles to go before he gets to go to sleep, unless, as he said, he decides to take a few shortcuts to resolve the black dilemma of life and the accompanying voices of his guardian angels in leather, one of which he said broke the skin, rather badly, in an experimental new technique called self exploitation and then finally peace. I can't wait to get started.

A feisty man, when he isn't worn out and slightly bluish from his growing participation in Huff-a-thons, Dr. Lieberman has questioned my take on Christian hope as it is found in the Torah, rather strenuously, always playing the devil's advocate to piss off the stragglers, he says, to push them, which I applaud. He calls it his small contribution to overcrowding, which, again ... shows how plugged in he is to current events and the special needs of prison lifers and rape victims, whose present lives, he very astutely and compassionately notes, are shit. With Dr. Lieberman, honesty and an absolute devotion to low-voltage remedies, especially in cases of chronic greed, paper-retention disorder and non-compliance.

He asked me what I thought the number one problem with Jews is today, always while standing with his hand resting on a big lever, a gift, he says, from former colleagues whom he said one by one must have given into their shared wanderlust. My answer perplexed him, as it was one he had never previously had to endure. I told him the devil was real, that evil was real, and that people with mental illness don't see and hear things from God because they're mentally ill, but because they have suffered and become humble and God would help them and use them, in their dreams -- which is a remark I have heard, one which is usually accompanied by explosive and extended laughter, sometimes he explained was a method to disarm the client and have them find humor in life, just before he releases the trap door to allow in a much larger and non-nonsense version of the smaller monkey.

Their feces jungling was my favorite stunt of the day.

"Is that the only problem you have with Jews?" Dr. Lieberman asked recently. I could tell he was holding back his emotions.

Three Muskrats

2008-08-02T22:23:00.007-04:00

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.

Mindf***

2008-08-01T04:43:00.005-04:00

Do you remember the final scene, the final shot in the somewhat cheesy film The Planet of the Apes, the first film in the series, with Charleton Heston on the beach when he makes a stunning discovery? Moses had gone from deliverer to hybrid-monkey fighter, and Heston looked surprisingly spry and fit in this late-Sixties picture, I believe it was. As for the hybrid monkey people, they came off worse than Yoda in Star Wars for fakiness. The rubber used to build the actors faces into monkey faces completely ruined the picture for me, and I never wanted to see another one. I've forgotten how the plot precisely goes, but the bottom line is when Heston is walking on the beach at the end of the film, he has presumed up to this point that he has been on a monkey planet, and not earth. Obviously time has gotten out of whack, somehow. We see his horrified expression as he looks up to see the unthinkable (but not anymore, perhaps): buried in the sand up to her chest or so in sand, is the Statue of Liberty, Isis herself, a gift to the United States from the French, like the pentagram and the layout of Masonic buildings in Washington, D.C., which are reportedly aligned with other points on earth. What do you believe the intention was of the screenwriter and/or the director, or the author of the novel, if that came first? If you had to summarize the meaning of Lady Liberty swamped on the beach like this in one sentence, what would you say?

I say it means that we have somehow evolved back into apes, with the ability to speak, after so many years ... and this transformation has indeed occurred on earth after the passage of tens or hundreds of thousands or millions of years, and probably a good whack from an alien spacecraft is what beached the old girl. Heston's character goes through some real changes in a hurry, as he wears his best Twilight Zone/Outer Limits expression of twisted horror, as if to say ... everything ... is much different than what I thought; it's upside down ... and boy, I'm an idiot.

And I say the person who wrote the story or screenplay was a prophet, probably without knowing it.

-- Randall Carter Gray ... to be continued

Super Psych and Prozac the Wonder Dog

2008-07-24T01:38:00.007-04:00

A lot of people think I'm crazy -- but what can I tell you? Looks are deceiving to all of these people, probably. Or maybe they're nuts, though they won't have the documentation that I do. First impressions are rarely flattering ones, you know? And they are rarely true impressions, because when you don't know someone and you're about to meet them for the first time -- a room can become electic with nervous energy. I mean ... the buildup is almost overwhelming. Before the person finally walks into the room and actually gets around to greeting you is almost overwhelming. Though I was not always this way, I must tell you. I used to be cocky, suave, charming, funny, clever, really. And popular with the ladies, whom I always felt sorry for. But those days are gone, or were gone, in 1973, two years after I graduated from high school. Weird way it happened, too, the way it reared its head. They're not gone as bad as they used to be, but I will never be the same. However, I've been like this for so long ... I guess I am the same, with more years like this than not. After the service. I'll never be that person again, though I would like to be ... just to see how I might have turned out. What I mean is I'm still sick, though I couldn't see it, involuntary denial ... but I'm just more philosophical about it now.

I've come to be aware that social situations don't bother other people like they bother me, or really used to bother me. When I was in high school, it used to be me looking at all the nerds who couldn't bring themselves to speak confidently, especially not to females, and thinking to myself ... you poor bastard ... you don't know what you're missing. Now I know. I was practically overbearing, most certainly obnoxious to some people at school, being as cocky and good-looking as I was. But even that was a mask ... that I didn't know I had, from childhood. I didn't know a lot of things about myself ... until I had to. Or couldn't live with my family if I didn't. Talk about a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turnaround. It would be interesting, if it wasn't so sad. Socially speaking ... I went from the penthouse to the poorhouse. And being drafted and injured on active duty, my head, did a number on my civilian career, too. And I had one -- I was quite successful; but I couldn't sustain it, I would have just gotten one boss broken in, when that boss would leave and another one would fill the void. I ran out of psychic energy. And finally I crashed and burned, but it wasn't all that unpleasant, actually. It was like eating ice cream, but so much of it so fast ... that you give yourself a headache. It was wonderland, really, and still is, when I discovered who I was and what I was, and what I had always been meant to be. Though, until only the third blue moon in November since 1906, which in my case was November 30, 2001, I was in a fog. In a dream. Dead, though still walking around. Going through the motions. Doing reality as it looked like it needed to be done, based on what everybody else was doing, but in the process not being myself, and freaking out when everyone realized it ... and it would send me packing ... and me and my wife and family deeper and deeper into debt ... though I was sure one day that I was gonna be somebody and be a good, super good provider.

Now I have a new mission, in addition to my original mission, hoping that I can somehow bring the two together. I have no choice. I will die trying. Firstly, I am offering myself to the Tri-State Police, Highway Patrol, county, whatever, you name it, with my gift, which must be put to good use. And, at the same time, I'm offering myself to clinical psychologists, paranormalists, fortune tellers, whatever, but mostly academia, to learn from me about the things which I see that I do not believe are manifestations of madness ... but really going on in another dimension.

And thirdly, there is the matter of this leather satchel and what's in it -- which I brought back from the land of the gods, where I used to believe I had contracted evil spirits, and may yet have, but I think the possession thing is more in our minds, which can cause things to become manifest physically. I think when we wrestle with sanity, which is all about guilt and fear, or when we are being tempted to do something that we shouldn't, but we need it ... I think all these messages come not from within, as we have been misled to believe, but they are beamed into our dimension, mental telepathy, quantum mechanics, entanglement, altering light to hide in a wrinkle right beside you, though you can't see it ... at least not if you're looking right at it. You have to learn to use your peripheral vision ... like a snake has.

... to be continued.

It Appears It Would Not Be In Wal-Mart's Best Interest To Kill Me And The Rest Of Their Customers

2008-07-23T23:27:00.010-04:00

How much does providence have to do with chance? What are the odds -- I'm asking because I don't know -- of having my birthday, which is July 21, written or typed on a piece of paper, wadded up and stuck in a big red capsule, being drawn fifth out of 365, or 366 (considering Leap Year), other birthdays? What are the numeric odds of being drawn fifth when the cut-off point for being drafted in 1972 was sixth and above? I mean, what are the odds of cutting it that close? ... always being the loser, coming in second, never first, nearly getting the girl, but in the end ... just getting nudged out. Am I feeling sorry for myself? No, I am not. A Jewish man, a former beloved boss (though to his sons he was just dad, with baggage, like every father has), once observed in a sympathetic though blunt and direct way that I was a schlemiel. A sad sack. Though I was a nice guy. So, it's not just me saying it, and it's not just a matter of me now trying to gain sympathy or admiration or both by saying that someone else has thought it and said it.

I'm saying it ... because it's hard to analyze oneself, to diagnose one's former self, and make a judgment in the present as to what the hell your problem has been ... without some help. If I wasn't taking some very helpful drugs, I wouldn't want any help. I wouldn't care. I don't know where I would be without love, drugs and people who didn't have to care about me, but did, and subsequently saved my life and kept me as part of my very closeknit, loving, but now traumatized family. If it weren't for the drugs and my recuperation I wouldn't be able to say my case seems to be rather fascinating. But since I can, it is.

I have seen this photograph of Queen Elizabeth II, Prince Philip, Laura Bush and President Bush standing in formal dress several times. It is one of those ... here we are at a formal event in the White House, standing in a pre-designated spot for this kind of crap again, which would be photographs. At least one. And it is a doozy. And the mainstream press would probably be saying the same thing, and having a field day with it, if this was thirty or even twenty years ago. But, you see, now we have reached a point of critical mass, where everything is converging, where history is, where current events are, where the future big time is about to be decided ... as if it were not already decided. Because it is, it already has been, by virtue of the timelessness required to forecast of all these things in advance. Which has been done, but not by the bad guys -- not by the people or creatures or creeple who probably imposed time on the earth, thereby creating aging and death -- but by the good guys. The timeless one and all of his angels. And, because we have reached a point of critical mass ... we can expect the press to be in the pockets of the monopolies, which laws used to prevent, which is only one part of the big converging picture ... or pregnancy. At any rate, any president shooting the el Diablo in public during the taking of a formal photograph would have been fodder indeed for the media. But we have reverted fifty or sixty years, and even further back than that, to the days of the Bay of Pigs, times and events when the press cooperated with the government and didn't write or say certain things, because it would endanger national security or something.

No, I suspect, by the press not pursuing the Bay of Pigs story, that is, on the front end, when causes and hoped for effects were bouncing around, they may have been succumbing to pressure from the exact same people who are applying pressure to the press once again ... incredibly for the same reason: the New John Birch World Order Society. Who they hell was John Birch, anyway? From his name he comes off sounding like some kind of Johnny Appleseed figure, a folk hero, who may have adopted his last name because he loves trees, but I freaking highly doubt it. That's not to say that the Texan firing the el Diablo is necessarily on par with the Bay of Pigs or the assassination of John F. Kennedy, which followed, but I have a real funny feeling that all of these things are related. That all is one. Like history has been planned, designed in advance to do just what it is doing ... and nobody can stop it. No one can stop the narrative, the cosmic drama, which people have been talking about for centuries. And that's a hoot: they used to burn people, I suspect, for always talking about the end, or the beginning, depending on your perspective, or fate, or the matter of your accountability; it once was that people in every century would have a go at projecting the end, or the beginning, and they were all, of course, outrageously and embarrassingly wrong -- and some Elmer Gantry types never lived it down. I guess not.

As for me, I don't have a following of people, at least none that I can see, and I don't have desire to make predictions or forecasts about anything, except to say that critical mass has been forming since the events of September 11, 2001, and if you don't think so ... you're not paying attention and/or you're easily conditioned or densensitized to just get over it. The Apocalypse. A word that I really hate, but it's the word we all know. It means revealing, disclosing, unveiling, the breaking of the hymen, perhaps, or the mother's water? So, people, one I can think of in particular, a guy named Miller who is responsible for the Seventh-day Adventists, God bless 'em, have not been afraid to go out on limbs when it comes to the second coming. Or the Parousia. All I'll say is that it looks like the pregnant lady is about to go into labor ... and that her water is going to break ... and cleanse the birth canal. Like the one David climbed up in to take Jerusalem from the Jebusites. But I have digressed badly. You should have seen me before the drugs. Psychotropic drugs, the stuff that crazy people take.

If you don't know what the el Diablo is, well, it's like two other popular gestures, and then again it isn't anything like them at all. The el Diablo is something even the Europeans have seen President Bush do, and they have taken note of these hand gestures, salutes or signals, whatever, and not been kind, according to one report I read. Can you imagine the Europeans being shocked by anything smacking of satanism (sorry)? I don't know with any certainty that the foreign press run this photograph or commented upon it, but if they did ... talk about a 180-degree reversal of fortunes: the Europeans are getting excited about newfound success and the United States of the Planet that they'll largely be responsible for (which the prophet Daniel foresaw), while we, where Old Glory waves, where patriotism and nationalism are religion for some people, where we had the freedom and the prosperity and all the reasons to gloat, being the bastion of liberty and democracy, a shining city on a hill, go to hell in a handbasket. Or fall into the sea. If the Mississippi widens, and one bank pushes further away from the other one, cutting the country in half, I wouldn't be surprised. There has to be some overriding, driving reason, other than greed, for the robber barons of today to have turned traitor on us and jumped ship. It's not merely treason they're guilty of, but being practical in a most impractical, ultimately destructive way.

God will get you for oppressing the poor. He has like Muhammad Ali used to start out most of his fights, I think, throwing left jabs at those who have oppressed his people -- and who knows what happens to them after they die. They've gotten tagged; the rich have to take their lumps, occasionally, but not like me and you. But you know that right cross is coming. That's the punch that knocked out George Foreman, and nobody thought he could do it ... in the most amazing and thrilling sporting event in the history of competitive sports, in my opinion. Normal Mailer and George Plimpton did a movie on that fight, called When We Were Kings -- and it is a magnificent treatment of this unparalleled event, a real-life version of the fox and the hound, the pupil and the master, the old, but hungry wizened tiger, who waits for his moment, all night and day if he has to, the dope on a rope. Greatness versus youth, inexperience and pride.

The el Diablo is not the Hook 'em Horns salute, but it's similar; and it's not the same as flipping someone the bird or giving them the finger, it's worse, in the estimation of some, including yours truly. And it is at the same time fascinating, because it is a highly telling gesture by a sitting president, in formal attire, standing beside Queen freaking Elizabeth II and Laura Bush, with black eyes, for some reason, who looks a great deal like the Joker, in this shot. Frankly, the Queen looks like hell: her dress doesn't fit, she is the definition of frumpy and out of date, though the Prince, her husband, still looks the same -- robust and handsome, and appearing to me to look a little bit like George Martin, the producer. The el Diablo is a satanic salute, firstly, involving horns. The Hook 'em Horns salute is done with the pinkie finger and the thumb sticking out, and the three middle fingers being folded down. It's a good rallying symbol or signal -- it looks like the approximate shape of a Longhorn's head with horns sticking out. But the el Diablo is made with the pinkie finger and the index finger, and the thumb is used to clamp down on the two unused fingers. And so the president is obviously doing it, looking off camera as he does at someone, with that little kid who just farted look on his face. And I have concluded that this very inappropriate gesture, in more ways than one, was made for one of the following reasons:

1) The president doesn't know why he is flashing the el Diablo, so he is not only an imbecile (and most likely a puppet of ill Uminotty), but he is a satanic imbecile, and he just got an overpowering urge to make the sign of el Diablo with his left hand, his arm hanging straight down; so, while he is doing the el Diablo in a most brazen manner and in the worst possible public setting, perhaps to say hi to dad and mom, or to inform the prince of darkness he won't be joining him for dinner, he is at least being discreet enough to keep his arm and his hand by his side;

2) The president sees the prince of darkness dressed in a disguise to crash the party, and is giving him hell's equivalent of thumbs up;

3) He is slightly, childishly embarrassed in this particular setting, with these particular people around him, for some particular reason pertaining to his private image as a satanist -- an image with which the Queen of England may be familiar. What would cause a person being photographed in formal attire, standing formally with the Queen of freaking England posing for the same photo, when one happens to be the president of the United States, to make a gesture that? From his expression, the president as if he is making light of that which has embarrassed him ... and his response to that stimulus is to make a gesture of admission -- like the devil made me do it. He looks as if he has just gotten chewed out for being a little devil by England's monarch.

Why would Queen Elizabeth II has confronted the president and said things to make him behave in the way he is behaving in this photograph, which might be a photo that has subsequently angered the president and truly embarrassed him; but something tells me he doesn't really care.

... to be continued

-- Randall Carter Gray

The Disciple Whom Gnostics Hid

2008-07-22T11:54:00.013-04:00

I.
The Disciple whom Jesus loved,
Whom we presume wrote John;
‘Twas John’s name on Revelation,
A writer of Hebrew, Greek and Latin.
Classical Greek and Latin phrases
Are found in Peter’s letters;
What scribe accompanied Peter,
Who might have written better?
There is one man named John,
One of Jerusalem,
Who knew Annas and Caiaphas
Because he worked for them.
The night of Jesus’ arrest
Therein lie ample facts;
Though we must read around
The tamperings and redactions.

II.
So many unnamed people:
“The other Mary,” somebody’s mother?
“A certain youth,” who was this man,
“The other disciple” and “another?”
These latter two were with Jesus,
While Zebedee’s sons, they fled.
When soldiers entered Gethsemane …
They lost their sleepy heads.
“The certain youth” appears,
Wearing priestly white
Of linen like that of Jesus.
Which youth was stripped that night?
Or was one stripped at all?
In the Upper Room was a youth,
Who asked Jesus, “Who will betray?”
“One of the twelve, not you.”
Peter nudged the beloved disciple,
Who had strong ties to Jesus,
Peter ...did he have strong self doubts ...
Like so many of us?

III.
Was there a thirteenth disciple?
Another man named John?
A certain youth, an apostle,
Whom Jesus leaned upon?
Where was the Upper Room?
Clearly, near Gethsemane.
But others place it in south Jerusalem
Which cannot rightly be.
And what of the Virgin Mary’s tomb …
Was it in Ephesus?
No, Mary was interred in Jerusalem.
Has someone lied to us?
If Mary died in Jerusalem …
Did she ever live in Galilee,
Or even visit her sister and nephews …
In the home of Zebedee?

IV.
The question that confronts us:
The Disciple whom Jesus loved ...
Was he "the other disciple,"
Is he also "another?"
"Another," "the other" whom Jesus loved
Are they one in the same ...
Who stood before the high priest
To clear Jesus' name?
While Peter, friend of John,
Who fled from Gethsemane,
Stands outside denying Jesus,
Saying, "It wasn't me!"
Would John, the son of Zebedee,
Fare better than the Rock?
Did he confront the high priest ...
While Peter heard the cock?
So, who proceeded to Golgotha,
Which man named John was following?
Not John Mark, exclaims Papias ...
Though Mark indeed was covering ...
Simon of Cyrene,
From North Africa,
As Roman soldiers seized this man,
En route to Golgotha.
Mark wrote every detail,
He, the only man named John,
At Golgotha, 'neath the horrid cross
Jesus was nailed upon.
But early Christian fathers ...
On this were led astray ...
'Twas "John the Presbyter" ...
In the first century ...
Who told Papias of Mark:
"An interpreter," a scribe, a youth ...
That he never heard or followed Jesus ...
But that is not the truth.

V.
Ask yourself why Simon ...
Why is he here in this scene ...
Because he was John Mark's homeboy ...
Both hailing from Cyrene.
Simon was from out of town,
Minding his own business,
Not even among the throng
Hurling insults at Jesus.
And Mary at the Upper Room,
In Jerusalem for Jesus’ ascension,
Her other sons were there for her!
Yes, there are contradictions.
And the all revolve around "others,"
And at Gospel conclusions.
Four gospels and four endings ...
They add to our confusion.
Yes, there are errors, indeed —
Gaps, which make no sense.
How should a Christian answer these?
What should be their defense?
The answer lies with “others” …
“The other disciple,” “the other Mary.”
Despite efforts to hide these two …
Some fingerprints we see.

VI.
At Golgotha, they left …
The beloved disciple and Mary …
That very hour Jesus spoke to them.
Did they go to Galilee?
If so, how did "the other disciple"
Run with Peter to the empty tomb?
Did "the other disciple" remain in Jerusalem?
Perhaps, he and Mary got a room.
Or perhaps the John and Mary at Golgotha
Lived in Jerusalem
She, a refugee from Africa.
It was she whom Jesus called "woman."
And her son with Paul a pillar,
A keeper of the documents.
The only John (Mark) Paul places in Ephesus ...
Is he whose face was dark.

VII.
If these have been hidden,
And awkwardly at that ...
God's holy word is corrupted
As creation is, in fact.
Which parts therein are true?
Where lies the hidden art?
In parables and poetry,
Too deep for Gnostic hearts.
All knowledge and no art,
No symbolic representations
No metaphors, so we'll understand,
Life's strange machinations.
'Tis bigger than all of us combined ...
Unto infinity
And man's wisdom is foolishness
So he lies and deceives.

VIII.
Who is "John the Presbyter"?"
Is he also "Prester John"?
And what is so divine ...
About a martyred fisherman?
Presuming John was martyred
As Jesus said he'd be;
Herod held Peter in prison
And beheaded one son of Zebedee?
When did you ever see
These two brothers apart?
Would Jesus have given his back to one ...
And to the other cousin his heart?
And keep in mind that James and John
And Salome were convinced
That Jesus was truly the son of God
Though only nephew and cousin.

IX.
There is art here, which reverberates,
And confirms history repeats --
Types, forerunners and Antitypes ...
Of which wrote Simon Peter. ...
But could Peter read and write?
Otherwise, why take John Mark,
Who wrote so beautifully 1 and 2 Peter ...
As he slaved in the dark.
A scholar, a poet, a prodigy ...
In whom Jesus confided
Brilliant, but a man of sorrows,
Hidden and derided.
The one whom Peter called "this man,"
Too impersonal for Zebedee's John;
"This man" was "the disciple whom Jesus loved" ...
Whom "Saint Paul" railed upon.

X.
John Mark, he simply had to leave,
To do as Jesus instructed ...
To look out for his mother in Jerusalem.
Paul killed, and Paul obstructed.
Though surely God forgave him ...
For the good works which Paul did ...
The guilt which plagued Saul also Paul
Caused him to blow his lid.
And there stood three strong pillars
All running for their lives
To flee from persecutors and murderers
And the schemes that they contrive.
And as the last few helpers
Are abandoning Paul
Just Timothy is left
And a man who's getting old.
Paul writes to bring the man
When Timothy comes to Rome
Timothy was in Ephesus
So where was John Mark's home?

… to be continued

— Randall Carter Gray

Deception Would Steal You Away

2008-07-22T00:17:00.006-04:00

If someone's lying to you
If you are being deceived
If there are lies that could hurt you
Do you want to believe?
Frauds and hoaxes, forgeries
To prove Jesus is true?
No, 'tis just the opposite
Who lies to me and you?
The enemies of Jesus
Those who exalt mere man
Who stress knowledge as the serpent did
This is their crafty plan
For if a man will trust himself
And not trust his Creator
The enemies of mankind
Will own the world's theater
And tempt imaginations
And take psychic control
Are our brains like receivers
Just waiting to be told?
Quantum physics says yes
Brain waves can transmit data
Quantum computers prove that's so
Like the miracle of broadcast radio
Every man judges himself
Given the right to be free
Freely we choose our behavior and will
And so there's accountability
God is a liar to some
Others say he's far away
Some say the Bible is filled with errors
The latter wise to say
If all the errors are lies
Who is to blame for the errors?
Is there no truth in the world?
Are we doomed to live with terror?
Fear and guilt go hand in hand
Some guilt we ought to feel
The guiltless are narcissists
Fearlessness, pride never kneels
Guilt for the proud causes anger
Anger, not fear or remorse
If we are angry, insensitive, proud
Then we're not humble, of course
Angry, insensitive, proud people lie
To get the things that they need
Assuming that everyone lies to get by
Is there no one to believe?
If there are those who tear down ...
The message of love, peace, redemption
Will they see God, our Creator, redeemer
If they choose lies and deception?
Where are the biblical lies?
Where are the questionable verses
If one possesses freedom from death
Does he speak anger and curses?
Jesus' foes don't deny he arose
They left this miracle in
If he was killed, though an innocent
Who then is guilty of sin?
Jesus was filled with compassion
Joy and love did he bring
Would he reprimand friends in anger or fear
If only good news did he bring?
If Jesus did not fake his death
If he rose, being heaven sent
Would he rebuke friends with hostility*
Or offer encouragement?
The story of Jesus is beautiful
Who then would take it away?
Who would replace the defeater of death? ...
We'll choose our Messiah one day;
Deception would steal you away.

*The most reliable early Bible manuscripts and other ancient witnesses DO NOT contain Mark 16:9-20, which follows:

9 When Jesus rose early on the first day of the week, he appeared first to Mary Magdalene, out of whom he had driven seven demons. 10 She went and told those who had been with him and who were mourning and weeping. 11When they heard that Jesus was alive and that she had seen him, they did not believe it.

12 Afterward Jesus appeared in a different form to two of them while they were walking in the country. 13 These returned and reported it to the rest; but they did not believe them either.

14 Later Jesus appeared to the Eleven as they were eating; he rebuked them for their lack of faith and their stubborn refusal to believe those who had seen him after he had risen.

15 He said to them, "Go into all the world and preach the good news to all creation. 16 Whoever believes and is baptized will be saved, but whoever does not believe will be condemned. 17 And these signs will accompany those who believe: In my name they will drive out demons; they will speak in new tongues; 18 they will pick up snakes with their hands; and when they drink deadly poison, it will not hurt them at all; they will place their hands on sick people, and they will get well."

19 After the Lord Jesus had spoken to them, he was taken up into heaven and he sat at the right hand of God. 20 Then the disciples went out and preached everywhere, and the Lord worked with them and confirmed his word by the signs that accompanied it.

DAMNED LIES!

-- Randall Carter Gray

Gospel 'Errors' Due to 'Racist Edits,' Writer says

2008-07-18T10:19:00.002-04:00

by JANET DEVLIN

JULY 18, 2008 -- First-century unauthorized editing of the original New Testament gospel manuscripts accounts for the puzzling scriptural passage involving a woman named Mary and a man named John at the foot of Jesus' cross, says a Bible researcher and writer, who has identified racism as the source of these and other "confusing errors and contradictions" which plague the New Testament gospels. "The real mother and son named Mary and John, of Cyrene (Libya), have been replaced," says Randall Carter Gray, "and clearly because they were African."

"At the heart of this cosmic drama involving good and evil is racism -- and this passage is the equivalent of the holy grail," says Gray, admitting he hates "that term," which he believes is "another way of saying that they have Jesus' DNA-rich blood in a cup for genetic experimentation."

Gray pointedly alludes to this "odd scene" in John's Gospel when a dying Jesus instructs his mother and a disciple named John to behold and embrace one another in a new mother-and-son relationship. He claims the mystery and puzzlement over John 19:25-27, which "still stumps Bible scholars today," cannot be solved without first admitting "the Bible has errors, big ones, and many of them -- that is, edits and alterations due to tampering.

"Shrewd enemies of Christianity have clearly made these changes, which dominate the gospels of John and Mark, all to hide John Mark, or St. Mark, and his mother Mary."

Why this and other tamperings in all four gospels have been performed is "profoundly significant," the writer says, "with mankind's redemption on the line."

The former daily newspaper religion writer and editor said John Mark and his mother Mary "almost certainly hosted the last supper" in their home with an upper room, being people of wealth. He says the pair is also missing in Leonardo Da Vinci's "The Last Supper," which accounts for "more errors, the causes of which are racism and deception."

"Three verses, two in John's Gospel and one in Acts (1.12,14)," says Gray, "unlock the mystery." John 19:27 tells us that Jesus' mother Mary, presumably, and the apostle John, the son fo Zebedee, presumably, "leave that very hour for John's home in Galilee, in Capernaum, after Jesus' instructions." But, as Gray points out, John somehow apparently "makes it all the way back to Jerusalem" from Capernaum, some 200 miles away, in time to visit the empty tomb of Jesus with Peter on the day of Jesus' resurrection.

And, he adds, we see "the disciple whom Jesus loved" in Galilee "cavorting with his old buddies, fishing, in John's final chapter -- while Mary, for whom John is supposed to be caring, is nowhere around. "But the kicker," Gray said, "comes in Acts 1.12,14, when we see Mary in Jerusalem for Jesus' ascension, and she is being attended to by all of her real sons, Jesus' half-brothers, among whom would have been James, the eventual head of the church in Jerusalem. "Mary didn't need a new son, nor a new nephew, which Zebedee's John very likely was by virtue of Mary being the sister of Salome, the mother of John and James, the sons of Zebedee and of thunder."

The writer said the "strange scene at Golgotha," when Jesus refers to his mother not as mother, but merely "woman," has long been "a thorn, a mystery, but not without a clue: "Jesus simply isn't speaking to his mother Mary and the apostle John, the son of Zebedee." The real pair are found in Acts 12.12, Gray said. It is their home to which Peter runs after escaping from Herod's prison.

"So, if anybody wants to know ... of course the Bible, the New Testament, has errors," Gray acknowledged, "but they are all intentional errors, or edits, alterations, tamperings. As creation has been corrupted, so has God's holy word been."

Gray strengthens his case by referencing "the obscuring of another mother and son," Bathsheba, of Ethiopia, and her son Solomon. Incredibly, he said, "these alterations ultimately were also meant to hide Jesus' racial identity. "The David-Bathsheba-Solomon saga, appearing in the Hebrew Scriptures, was recorded nearly a millennium before the birth of Jesus," Gray said, pointing out that "Bathsheba is curiously missing from the genealogy of Jesus in the first chapter of Matthew, though her husband's name, Uriah, is listed." In most manuscripts, the removal of Bathsheba's name in the genealogy is apparent and leaves an awkward gap. But why? Because it was imperative that Solomon, the son of David, not be seen as the forerunner of Jesus, who was also called the son of David ... for racial reasons.

"The hiding of all of these African folks and their kin must have messianic implications ... with this master-race nonsense about to be foisted upon us once again by the Europeans and American Nazis," namely the administration, he said. "Grandpa (Prescott) Bush was a Nazi big time ... didn't you know that? I, therefore, don't think Mr. Bush is a Christian at all -- and, I suspect he will betray Israel, as Judas betrayed Jesus."

Gray's popular blog "TANATA: Things (often) Are Not As They Appear" can be accessed at http://tanata.squarespace.com.

Of Riots and Near Riots

2008-07-10T11:28:00.017-04:00

I hadn't heard anything like it before, and I haven't since. I was 12 years old. It sounded like a high-school football game, the stands packed with girls, with someone scoring all the time for 30 minutes. Controlled bedlam. A cultural happening, a social bellwether which outsiders who didn't understand or cared to were bound to exploit. On the inside was the obligatory law enforcement, Atlanta's finest, ready, they hoped for anything. The cops who didn't look amused, or angry, looked concerned. They could handle one or two crazies, but if all 30,000 plus up and decided to jump the barriers and make a dash for nirvana at second base, the women against the men would win, and the city Sherman torched would come to be known as the city which had failed to honor and protect the new gods in velvet and blue sharkskin.

There must have been boys and men there, besides all the policemen in a row and the three of us -- me, my father and my older brother, who'd been bought a ticket by my father, or mother, out of protocol, but I don't recall seeing any other males. How could I? The distraction was much too intense. The half of a stadium filled with young women, many still clinging to the fading bouffant look, from an era their mothers introduced, was a living work of pop cultural art. A true phenomenon. And at times unnerving. Young females as part of a global community gathered at these staged rituals to let the world, or God, or their parents, or somebody know that they were ready to let their hair down.

A Beatles concert was the cultural equivalent of dropping of an atomic bomb, only in reverse, with the pleasant effects lasting than two full years after the Ed Sullivan Show. Electric. All of it. I ponder it now, often, this concert I attended and what came before and after -- and I feel led to compare the significance of these things against current events, confident somehow that there is a big metaphor that someone intended.

On our planet there can never be what there once was; there can never be innocence turned rowdy and unvoluntarily (at first) defiant; there can never be the gulf which was breached electronically, when we saw the future in black and white, and then it turned colors for us. There can never be another artistic explosion of such spontaneity and brilliance, for we are too sophisticated and lazy in our tastes to be young and idealistic again, to open our eyes for the first time, to turn on, tune in, drop out and drop back in; and, of course, the Sixties were in truth the flowering and blooming of the folk or beatnik era, which became manifest in direct response to human fear over thermonuclear war or just plain war. There can never be another first time when a sitting president, caught in a cross-fire, gets his head blown off in broad daylight ... in the home state of the vice president, which always felt strange. And still does 45 years later.

And there can never be another Beatles, nor the reaction by girls and women, which greeted them wherever they went. What did they have? They themselves didn't know what had caused the kids first in Liverpool to rush the stage, at a town hall event, they just off the boat from a rawkus stint in Germany, where they had learned to "mak show," to have a stage presence. At the Litherland Town Hall a worldwide movement was announced when John Lennon introduced the night's entertainment by shouting, "Get your knickers down!"

What did the females think these four people possessed which incited hysteria? You don't have to like the Beatles's music to wonder about and admire what it was about them that triggered such a tidal wave of frenzied love and devotion. It was idol worship, a lot of people said. And, of course, that sounds unhealthy. But all things considered, I believe the emergence of the Beatles and the music which followed, the cultural changes in fashion and attitudes, are the best things that could have happened at the time when it did. And we may say that again, from a different perspective, one day, looking back to look forward, as the prophet Isaiah reminds us always to do. So was this Romanesque, perhaps, with mostly women, and few men, being the coliseum spectators who would pronounce judgment?

Surely there were some fathers and brothers there. But all I recall seeing were girls, all around me, absolutely frantic, nervous wrecks. Unable to hold a camera still to take a photograph. Clutching themselves like they needed to relieve themselves, but they didn't dare step away. Or maybe something else was going on. Everyone hoped each opening act was the last. These poor girls, some in their mid-teens and quite handsome, didn't seem at all to be having fun, but they rather appeared distraught, overwrought, disoriented, with twitches and rapidly darting eyes. And then sudden bursts of giddiness to realize where they were. And they all had down the scream.

You could have powered Atlanta on that night if there was a way to harness all of that energy. Female energy ... a rather stimulating thought. A beautiful thing, really. Imagine if you could bottle a tonic like that. Pure female animal lust, or I presume it was lust. They didn't take up guitar playing -- but the guys did ... in very good attempts to tap into that energy. How do you scream for that long and not hurt yourself? Girls?

And why? Why did the girls scream so at Beatles concerts, and even in the theaters where the Beatles films played? What statement, conscious and unconscious, is a girl making when she is compelled to scream, upon hearing a song title, or a quip at a microphone, or a Beatle nearly stumbling over some electrical chords? In a subtle way, because we were in an enclosed structure, it was just beneath pandemonium. But it was weird, because it was like a sporting just all wrong. But fun. These girls were entranced. And frankly, I couldn't see why, and I still can't. Why do girls fall so easily for male musicians? Because they pour their hearts out to women, while they're making big money? Does a girl scream as if to say, "Pick me!" or "I'll never know you, or meet you, and that is breaking my heart?" Girls had screamed before, for Frank Sinatra and Elvis, but neither of these artists (because Elvis and more importantly the Colonel didn't try) played and packed Shea Stadium with upwards of 70,000 females present. And reports from the largest concert to date, the first big-stadium venue for any entertainment act, was that the sound was eerie, like a jet taking off.

What the hell was up with all of that -- within the context of society at that time? What was being said by these girls, and why? Did they know? Did they feel repressed and too restricted, so that they wanted out of conventional conservative living? Or were they dying for someone to ravish them, deep down inside? Or was the screaming behavior a release that came in the aftermath of the death of President John Kennedy, whom women automatically loved, and over whom women grieved most deeply when he was killed; unless you were my grandmother, who, for some weird reason, really detested the Kennedys, and yet she could be a really sweet lady. She simply hated them. She wasn't alone, certainly. But I thought they were quite nice, young, full of energy, all the things my grandmother admired in me. I don't know if there is an explanation for people adoring or hating certain public figures, whom they have never met, who are a positive, creative force with no desire to hurt anyone.

No explanation has not prevented people from deceitfully offering one -- and that is that the Beatles had clandestine aspirations, that they were not genuine, because they had not written their own music, by a German musicologist hand, that they had been trained to do what they did, that social engineers in an English think tank had conceived all of this and planted the first screamers in standing-room-only theater crowds in England. There are people who actually believe that the Beatles were a sinister force, British spies whose sole responsibility was to corrupt, to let loose desire for pleasure's sake, for drugs and sex, to initiate a postmodern Babylon around the world that would make the youth, what, more manageable? More easily subdued and controlled with telepathy? Leave it to someone like Lyndon LaRouche and right-wing idelogues with Nazi and fascist leanings to try to say the Beatles were the product of some shadow government which kicked ass whenever the Beatles came to town and left restless women and girls writhing with passion, unsatisfied, determined to get their hands on something to kill the pain, so that youth would not be a force to be reckoned with in the years to come. If that was the goal, it didn't work. Tavistock (the alleged think tank responsible) took a bath, and it set back the New World Order by at least a decade. And then it came time to begin killing public figures, one in particular who would have spit in your face laughing if you were ever daft enough to call him a spy. John Lennon was the antithesis of spying and deceit; he was the last person you would expect to sneak around underground, taking orders from British intelligence, doing the bidding of people who hated people.

Of course, where we're concerned now, we know that when the new millennium rolled around, before our eyes ... the presidency was transformed, as were the views and confidences of most Americans who were in the position of recognizing that their government could hurt them, badly, and would neglect them, and cooly say of the peasants: let them eat cake and drink sewer water, and Hurricane Katrina was the proof of that. Fresh water was all anybody wanted, and we're a country surrounded by it. They were sandbagging in Washington, D.C. Why? Because they, the no-nonsense, behind-the-scenes shapers of human civilization believe that human populations are no different than animal populations, which need to be thinned out every now and again. And the only people who are guaranteed not to die in these approaching days of turmoil, of necessary global adjustment are those who are better, those who were specially bred and trained for this moment of transition, eight, ten, 12 years into the new millenium. The truth is that the deceivers have been deceived. They have been deceived into thinking that such engineering is necessary and will work ... when that thinking comes darkly from on high, urging the faithful to lie if they have to, whatever it takes to destroy what God has lovingly made. And the globalists, those who have been visited by our multiple "creators" and instructed what to do, are dumb enough to think more of the same of what has already destroyed us ... is going to help, is going to take a sad song and make it endurable, so to keep those worth saving alive for years to come. Kill to live, make war to make peace. And some people, the proud and powerful who can be corrupted, and suckered, to do the most damage are -- killing themselves and everyone around them, when they will have believed that they were ensuring their survival.

But this was only 1965, and we were all clueless. But we had great music.

Because I never had a sister, I was fascinated by these electric females, I was aroused by them, dumbfounded, amused and toward the end of the concert, irritated by them. They'd scream a little, then gaze toward the stage and grow quiet, and another girl would scream, and then the gazer would scream, and it would cause a chain reaction, and everyone would look around to see if a Beatle had appeared. But no, it was just girls being girls on a sultry August night in Atlanta. It was only 1965, but we changed a lot in a year -- and it bloomed and began to die before Beatlemania had really gotten off the ground. A crash landing loomed in the summer of 1966, just as the Beatles were getting ready for another U.S. tour. Statements perceived as anti-religious and anti-Christian, when they were off-the-cuff banter in a bar, off the record, incited the people who didn't understand or care that Jesus would be more impressed if they did nothing, than if they did what they did do, in pockets of ignorance, mostly in the South, a couple hours drive south of Chattanooga, in Birmingham, Alabama, which is burn Beatle records in protest of free speech, when John Lennon had been largely right in what he said, and when he had the right to say it, at least according to the American Constitution.

The specter of death began to hover over a band of musicians who exactly a year later would release a record, the cover of which looked like the Beatles having a funeral by themselves for themselves.

Puberty was doing some weird things to me, but it was tame compared to what it was doing to the opposite gender in 1965. Witnessing this spectacle, this rite of passage that the Sixties brought about, one would be inclined to think that if there were any girls on the cusp, of puberty, that by 10 p.m. on August 18 their systems were so jacked up with female hormones mixed vigorously with adrenalin, with probably a lot of male ones thrown in for good measure, that they were rocketed past that threshold, turned into women in the span of two hours, and escorted out into the streets with all the juices still flowing.

If I'd been a cad, an older one, I might have made a pass at one of these young ladies in the throes of Beatlemania, hoping to catch some abandoned, unbridled passion. But they were so undone that romance would have been unthinkable. Flirting, paradoxically, might get you killed in this crowd. Not even a kiss, lest one of these delirious debutantes should miss seeing a Beatle. Besides, the mouths of many of the girls were filled with jelly beans. Why jelly beans? It was one of the more whimsical aspects to the whole colorful affair: candy in the shape of eggs being thrown at men, with long-necked instruments, drums pounding, in lieu of panties or hotel room keys. And the men who were the focus of adulation were not just men, in a sense they were not men at all, but neither were they feminine. They were creatures from another planet, almost. England was that to Americans 40 years ago, but the Beatles changed all that. They single-handedly made globalism look possible, at least in the eyes of businessmen, who will be the kiss of death for what they're trying to accomplish.

And the people who killed one of them, allegedly, but very, very likely, has been and is right in the thick of this new medievalism, of the callous plans for martial law; this one high-ranking person is right at the center of this notion of destroying to create, of salvaging diminishing resources to be sure the right people live on; he above all people, probably, on the planet has helped to get things ready for a new sort of invasion, after which the process will begin to try recklessly and brutally to build onto what four Englishmen did for art, for global culture, for music, for love. Globalism can only be possible if someone does it like the Beatles did it -- without trying to do it, by being talented and enjoying their natural gifts, being free so that others can adopt, if they want to, the same freedom for themselves. Of course the Beatles had to be demonized as social engineers -- of course they had to be smeared as calculated and part of the status quo, because love had brought color and blown the blue meanies, for a time, off the map.

Fascist globalism, if that's what we're confronting, will never work -- and it is in fact not working now, already -- because people are smart enough to know when someone is lying to them, someone who is dumber than them, and people would rather die than submit to stupid people who think they know better, but don't, who think they can strong arm people to submit, to die willingly for the rights of others to live on. He's wrong, they're all wrong, as wrong as he was when he tried to guess what a gallon of milk was going for these days, as indifferent as he was when he was caught on camera glancing at his watch, no doubt believing that there were other things more important that he could be doing, like practicing his boyish grin without anything protruding.

They were as original as Elvis times four. They struck me in the early days as being almost androgynous, sexless, too playful to think about girls, nowhere close to anything resembling the arousal of their fans. But, of course, there were the girls who slid in, or were slidden in, and I've often wondered if these little teenyboppers knew that sex might be on the menu, and if they were surprised or offended or receptive that sex should even be a consideration. I mean, wouldn't that have ruined it? To have a Beatle looking right through you as he did what any normal man would do if given the chance. They hated the Beatles for the same reason they hated John Kennedy -- the women loved them.

As I have observed, sex ruins a lot of things -- and girls who suddenly find themselves ruined are not a lot of fun to be with. Not for a while. And sometimes, often, they aren't a lot of fun to be with if your intentions are good, to lovingly ruin them, pleasurably, or to ruin them as far as they're willing to be. This was true at least where I was, in the so-called Deep South, while I was in my early teens; many girls would simply not stand for any sexual advances at all, much beyond a kiss. Anything else would make them angry, or falsely angry, and you'd slink away like a miserable, diseased snake. However, add four or five years to a 14 or 15 year old girl ... and if you're lucky, it can become a downhill ride you never thought you'd see. And that was always a little sad to me, as one who wanted desperately to ruin a girl without ruining myself. They were in a no-win situation. But in truth a good guy only wants to love them and tell them they're pretty.

Girls want to be above sex, because their mothers and fathers tell them to -- but females, pretty ones, young ones, are constantly under surveillance, being perceived in ways that would shock them if they knew. But in truth a good guy only wants to love them and tell them they're pretty.

Ruination is in the eye of the beholder. Once a girl was ruined, or deflowered, she would go through a period of mourning, and then it was Katie bar the door, in many cases, at least in my experience. It may not have been so dramatic for guys in other parts of the country or the world. A girl losing her virginity was always a big deal; but after being trashed, most girls were prepared to lose it completely, to keep it lost, to pound it into submission, so they never had to think about it again.

But, of course, they carry chips on their shoulders for the rest of their lives, unless, superficially, you happen to be a gorgeous man, and then a guy has to wonder, who's trying to ruin who? I was never a gorgeous, alpha male, some Adonis figure, tall and muscular. I actually was rather girlish just before puberty, big eyes and eyelashes, which attracted both sexes for different reasons, especially once I got drug into the state of Tennessee by my parents, or rather my father, a retailer looking for work. There were always models in those days, backstage, getting dressed and undressed for fashion shows. And he was a handsome man, charming, well-dressed. And, of course, by the age of 25 or so, all of these models were well past the feelings of remorse for being ruined. Hot women, ruined, could impress you by how much they wanted to ruin something themselves. After all, when you're bleeding, there appears to be something wrong with you, which has to be fixed, if you're bleeding from anywhere. God bless and have mercy on the women, especially those at the mercy of men. Bad men.

So, the Beatles for me, while I loved their music, especially their harmonies and arrangements, their diverse use of instruments and new sounds, were most fascinating as a rags to riches story, as once-scruffy pool hall singers made good, the way the latest big thing transcended borders and languages, and the affect that unequalled success had on them and the rest of us. The Beatles were a social phenomenon, with which nothing before or since can be compared. Elvis was only one, and he didn't do much but sing and pump his knees, hardly sexual. He rarely played an instrument, and when he did in those dreadful films, it looked as if he was only pretending to play. He wasn't funny; a sycophant, really, a bootlicker, especially where adult stars in the business were concerned -- it was yes sir, this, and yes sir, that, and thank you, sir, and thank you, ma'm. With the Beatles it was a clever wisecrack, a quick comeback, a play on words which would send them all into hysterics. And they wrote their own music. They were almost the antithesis of Elvis, in that their hair went forward, not back, they never took themselves so seriously, as Elvis did himself. Elvis could get wound up and go off like a spring, but the Beatles were precise, even to the point of bowing in unison after every song, which caused them to resemble butlers, servants ... or marionette puppets, eager to please, but untouchable, not real, in a world of their own.

But for all the fun the more than 34,000 girls had that night in Atlanta, plus the three of us, and more men and boys, surely, there were different, contrary and violent forces coming to the surface elsewhere, breaking out like wildfires, as riots and marches, movements accompanied by brutal beatings, and bloodied faces in Life magazine, where the blood was always black. While the young women of America, and elsewhere, appeared to be frantically in search of their feminine identities, thanks to four intelligent, zany men, whom certain other men hated, who called them sissies, though they were very happily heterosexual; those who hated the Beatles wanted to kill them and threatened to kill them. In 1965 the Beatles were in Atlanta, which was shamefully making national and international headlines thanks to Lester Maddox, a redneck racist and owner of the Pickrick Restaurant who refused to serve food to black people. When given the choice to stay open and serve black folks, or close up, he closed. And a new folk hero was born to a lot of very angry men in the American South. A year later, in 1966, they were in Memphis, the home of Elvis, and my home state of Tennessee. When any of the Beatles returned to Tennessee it was to record in Nashville as solo artists, or, to attend the funeral of rockabilly pioneer Carl Perkins at a Jackson, Tennessee church, where George Harrison, without shyness or pretense, sang a Perkins number, "True Love," with three locals, ladies, trying to sing backup and not doing a bad job of it by the time the song was over.

It was not a good time to be a black person, or a hippie girl, and especially not a hippie guy. A black hippie, an activist, was most loathed and feared. Freedom was tenuous. Those who wanted it absolutely, were violently and hatefully opposed. All the girls were perceived as being sluts by men who dressed up in white hoods and capes; they were girls who would "put out" for anyone, when in fact they were not at all. A man with long hair and the tattered Bohemian clothing, which was acceptable garb, was a threat to these "real men," somehow. Because the sensitive, intelligent men were getting all the women. While the more ignorant men, the men with little to no future, just wanted to stop everything they didn't understand and just fucking kill it. In August of 1965, one kid who lived in Decatur, Georgia, which is really a suburb of Atlanta, born in Dallas, Fort-Worth, would have been too young to know or care what was going on not far away in the former home of the Braves and the Falcons, Fulton County Stadium, in which no games had yet been played when the Beatles performed, the stage on second base. Their invasion of Atlanta, their concert would not have impressed him; what impressed this kid most as he grew, was what a loser he was. He was the sort of person who might do anything to achieve fame, even something horribly wrong, because he was that much of a loser ... and because he was surrounded, apparently, by men who wanted to kill things they didn't understand.

As it turned out, this patsy, one of many, too many, in the Sixties and later in the 80s, who has found himself on murderer's row, in a rogue's gallery, where he probably doesn't belong, didn't shoot anybody, though he may have fired shots. But given the angle at which he had been standing in relation to the victim, at best he might have hit the poor man in the right arm or side. John had already turned right, to go up a small flight of steps, into the lobby of the building where he lived with his wife and son. The shots came from behind, not at an angle -- and the three or four bullet holes in the glass door, which he would open for the last time, clearly proves this -- unless these were heat-seeking missiles and not hollow-point slugs, and they were the latter. None of it adds up. None of it made sense, or it didn't make sense for a long time. We had to wait for the future, the dreadful future, to catch up, after being pushed back elections lost, by presidents being shot with a metal disk but surviving, by being on the receiving end of much-deserved opposition and protest.

From the moment, as a newspaperman in those days, that I saw the photograph of the poor man giving an autograph to the patsy, on the night the poor man died, I instinctively knew something was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. It didn't compute. Fans don't kill heroes. A crazed fan is a crazed fan, not a homicidal one. There are a lot of crazy people in this world, a murderer will tell you that. It's the murderers who think everyone else is crazy, though they are the biggest nuts of all. Monsters. Soulless. Convinced that the law of the jungle rules ... and people are no better than animals, a herd of deer or buffalo, the populations of which occasionally need to be thinned out.

God damn the murderers ... these redneck wizards, too small minded to know that evil will always be found out, rooted out ... and exposed. A person can hide love, and it will stay hidden. But a hater, a person willing to do evil things to achieve an objective, they are out of step with reality; they have an alternative plan for salvation. It's not just that these people are Godless, or that they pay no attention to the strong appearances and the likelihood that there is a God. What has happened, in the cases of such men, and a woman or two, is they have allowed themselves to be tricked by evil forces who, shrewdly and rather ingeniously, have come up with a way to make God's goodness and mercy work against him.

It is God who is cruel, not these deceivers. It is God who kills and destroys ... but the crucifixion should have put that to rest a long, long time ago. And, in the end, it is Lennon the prophet who is right about Christianity, as someone who read the Bible and understood and appreciated the teachings of Jesus toward the end of his life. It is he who said that this faith which has often been accompanied by violence, paradoxically, and soldiers going forward on the mission fields, settling lands for Jesus where killing was just an act of necessity ... it is the clever Beatle who said Christianity would be misused, corrupted, that it would shrink and cease to be relevant.

It is irrelevant to many who claim it is relevant ... but, in truth, they serve another god, a tangible god, a messiah, made to order. Their messiah is whiter.

Perhaps it was because the Beatles unabashedly sang "nigger music." Not the gospel-flavored country that Elvis did, and did well for a time, but songs by black girl groups, the Ronettes, the Shirelles, Martha and the Vandellas. They did quirky songs; the Beatles preferred to perform the B sides of records, to be different; they were highly creative and musical, but technically none of them, with the exception of Paul McCartney on bass, stood out as a stellar musician; though Harrison's style of playing was often pedestrian, he generated some of the most memorable country, rockabilly and rhythm and blues licks in an era when guitarists far better than he waited in the wings. Eric Clapton, for one, Jeff Beck, Jimmy Page, all Englishmen, all guitar virtuosos at playing pop-influenced blues, and, the first psychedelic rave-ups were a Yardbirds signature, in which all three performed.

But the Beatles stood out -- even though at one time the were considered the most dreadful, ill-kempt, lackadaisical band in Liverpool.

NOTES and LAGNIAPPE:

Rock 'n' Roll Case Study: A 38th Anniversary look at The Beatles concert at Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium, August 18, 1965; a Hard Day's Night In Dixie

By Donnie Thompson
On August 2, 1997 the Atlanta Fulton County Stadium was demolished. Although the concrete crumbled to the ground in less than 30 seconds, certain events within its 32 year history passed on into perpetual legend at that moment. Hank Aaron's record breaking 715th home run in 1974 occurred here as well as the Braves 1995 World Series win, but one of the most fabled events happened just four months after the stadium's completion when the most famous band in the world came to pay a visit to Atlanta.

The date was August 18, and The Beatles were on their 1965 nine-city North American tour. The first date had been their legendary record-breaking Shea Stadium concert in New York. Next were two shows were at Toronto's Maple Leaf Gardens after which The Beatles headed south. The tickets for the Atlanta show had gone on sale a couple of months prior. The field level seats (which sold out) were $5.50 and the upper level seats $4.50. In the days leading up, The Journal and The Constitution had been featuring articles on the upcoming show as well as advice on stadium parking and comments from Atlanta teens. The August 17th edition of The Journal even had an article showing how to give A "Beatle" haircut.

The 18th was a muggy ninety degree day and at 2 p.m. The Beatle's chartered plane arrived from Canada at Hartsfield Airport and taxied to a remote part of the field, out of view from the fans that had turned up at the terminal. Safety concerns now rarely ever permitted The Beatles to disembark while greeting the crowds as they once had. By 1965 the intensity of Beatle mania had increased to a frightening and dangerous point. They discreetly boarded a group of three limousines and headed for Atlanta Stadium.

At the stadium, a locker room was set up as a dressing area and make-shift headquarters for the Beatles and their entourage. Paul McCartney requested a giant fan for use in the un-air conditioned stadium vestibule, while Ringo Starr wishing to wash his hair, requested a hair dryer. The concert promoter hastily supplied a stand-up model commandeered from his wife. Some tables, chairs and half dozen cots were placed in the changing area. The British refer to these as "camp beds". Ringo, upon hearing them referred to as "cots" humorously, climbed onto one, curled up and began sucking his thumb loudly much to the amusement of everyone in the room. The caterer hired to supply The Beatles dinner, inquired if it was true that they prefered hamburgers. The Beatles quickly shot down that rumor and asked if he could get them "corn on a stick" otherwise known to us as corn on the cob.

Outside the stadium the fans had begun to gather waiting for the gates to open, some walking around the perimeter of the stadium, kissing their tickets. Two fifteen year old girls from Florida arrived at 4:30 a.m. that morning. Fans were also arriving from near-by cities not included on the tour schedule. Inside, the giant fan wasn't doing much good and George Harrison had given up hope of getting his guitars tuned properly in the clammy Dog Day atmosphere. Many VIP's dropped by to visit The Beatles who graciously posed for photos and signed autographs. McCartney, never far from his camera took quite a few shots of the proceedings himself.

Right: Atlanta Press Conference

Approximately 150 reporters (many from high school newspapers) had gathered for The Beatles press conference which began just after 5 p.m. The Beatles answered questions about the tour, their musical tastes and about Paul's girlfriend, British actress Jane Asher. Mayor Ivan Allen then awarded The Beatles the key to Atlanta and proclaimed them honorary citizens. Later the musicians dinned on their catered meal consisting of Top Sirloin, Leg of Lamb, and Pork Loin along with the requested corn on the cob, pole beans, fruit and Apple Pie. The Beatles, so used to surviving on cocktail sausages and soda while on the road, considered this the best meal they'd ever had on tour, So much in fact that they autographed their four china plates for the caterer, John signing his "Thanks for a flat wear".

Out on the ball field the as the daylight began to fade, the stadium's giant floodlights were switched on. The digital clock high above the stands read 6:21 as the gates were opened and the fans began to trickle in. Mal Evans The Beatles roadie, climbs up onto the stage to do his equipment check. The stage, made of scaffolding, boards and white canvas material, is uncovered causing a potential electrical hazard in the event of rain. Baker Audio, the Atlanta company hired to supply the sound system, had no way to estimate how loud the audience was going to be and hauled in every speaker they had. Placing large clusters of speakers at first and third bases, they were able to create about 5000 watts of amplification. Three lines of police barriers had been set up between the stands and the field. Some of them painted bright yellow read; POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS while others simply said BUREAU OF SANITATION.

Down in the dug-out, un-noticed by the fans, John Lennon peered out to inspect the pre-show situation. He was soon joined by George and tour manager Neil Aspinall who gave the two Beatles their instructions on exiting the tunnel and crossing the field to the stage at show time. They are told that there will be a vehicle behind the stage with the engine running for their hasty exit after their final song. There are to be no encores or delays. George and John then retreated to the locker room until show time. Once back inside, Mal hands The Beatles four freshly-pressed white shirts for the band to wear under their matching blue suits. Paul comments that the suits are more comfortable than the "military" type jackets they had worn at the Shea Stadium show.

At 7:30 the audience witnessed "The London Look Fashion Show" sponsored by Regensteins and featuring music by local band The Atlanta Vibrations who had recently won a "Beatle Battle Of The Bands" contest. By show time the crowd swelled to approximately 30,000. The show's emcee's were Tony Taylor and Paul Drew both of WQXI - AM ("Quixie In Dixie") who introduced each act preceding the Beatles. The first set was by King Curtis who was followed by a go-go dance troop called The Discotheque Dancers, then Cannibal and The Headhunters, Brenda Holloway and finally Sounds Incorporated.

Right: This humorous ad from the Atlanta Journal (August 18, 1965) reads:
"AN INVITATION TO THE BEATLES
Boys, what you need is a good old-fashioned non-English Dinner of Pot Likker, Cracklin' Corn Bread, Streak-O-Lean, Turnip Greens, Barbecued Spare Ribs, Picnic Fried Chicken, Hot Biscuits and Sorghum Syrup. It's on the table now waiting for you, Tax and Duty Free. Guaranteed to grow another mop on your chest and lower your YEAH! YEAH! YEAH! Two octaves."

When the stadium clock read 9:37 Paul Drew introduced The Beatles who suddenly appeared from the third base dug out and sprinted to the stage. The crowd erupted into one continuous earth-shaking scream and the stands lit up with camera flashes that sparkled like fireworks. A Beatles stadium concert didn't need a light show or special effects; instead there was the awe-inspiring spectacle of their fervent audience. The Beatles plugged in and launched into their hit "Twist and Shout" followed immediately by "She's A Woman". As Paul began to introduce their third number, he stopped apparently amazed that he could hear his own voice and commented "It's loud isn't it? …Great!" Over the last two years of Beatle mania, the band had grown accustomed to being drowned out by their audience and could rarely hear their own music. McCartney in particular seemed to be delighted with the sound at Atlanta Stadium and Baker audio was later approached by The Beatle's management to consult on some subsequent U.S. shows.

The show continued with "I Feel Fine", "Dizzy Miss Lizzie", "Ticket To Ride", "Everybody's Trying To Be My Baby", "Can't By Me Love" and "Baby's In Black" which John humorously introduced as "Baby's In Black…Pool". The next song, featuring Ringo's only lead vocal for the night, was "I Wanna Be Your Man" during which Paul broke a string on his trademark Hofner bass guitar. After Paul swapped his bass for another, they played "A Hard Day's Night". The crowd showed no signs of calming down. The six first-aid stations filled up with girls who had fainted, overcome by being in the same stadium as their idols. Girls at field level threw themselves directly over the railing into the arms of the 150 policemen hired to keep the fans from charging the stage.

The Beatles gave a very energetic performance and seemed (possibly because they could hear themselves) musically tighter than at the Shea Stadium Show. After singing "Help" (their newest hit then) John switched from his guitar over to a Vox organ, Paul thanked the audience for coming and then belted out the opening to their final song "I'm Down". A few seconds after finishing, the Fab Four were down the stairs and into their limo. Accompanied by a police escort, they made tracks for the airport, with about 30 fans chasing behind. The Beatles plane took off just before midnight, bound for Houston where they had a 3:30 show the following afternoon. In just less than ten hours after they had arrived, they had already gone.

The August 19th issues of The Journal and The Constitution featured photos, articles and comments about the show and reported the attendance to be 34,000. It would turn out to be the only concert the Beatles ever played in Atlanta as the group ceased touring the following year. Mayor Allen was Quoted: "they're excellent boys, the only improvement I'd make, I'd cut their hair a little bit".

The above article is from MELODY HILL issue #6, used with kind permission by the author and by Circle Sky Records. To find out more about this fab record store in Atlanta, visit

Redneck Wizards

2008-07-09T17:23:00.007-04:00

There is a photograph which exists that depicts Queen Elizabeth II and her husband Prince Philip standing alongside Laura Bush and her husband, whom you might think has just farted judging from the apparent expression of seeming embarrassment on his face. Mr. Bush may perhaps even be blushing, as he appears to be grinning like a child who has just gotten a tongue lashing, and is looking to his right at someone who would understand his embarrassment. All are dressed in formal attire, the queen in her crown, the men in tuxedos, and Mrs. Bush, with black eyes, looking a great deal like the Joker. The four are standing inside the White House with the flags of both nations officially positioned. (We're in the process of tracking down this photo. If you have it, email it to me, and I'll email back and say thank you.) In all honesty, Her Majesty the Queen has most certainly seen better, more collected days. Her dress does not fit, and me lady is holding a stunning black, patent-leather purse, of all things. And she always is. One can only assume that she carries in the ever-present black purse England's version of the "football," and if there is any button pushing to be done, she gets to do it.

"The Button" is perhaps hidden in a compact which has a mirror. Nope, that couldn't be it.

At any rate, there is one aspect to this photograph that exceeds even the queen's disheveled appearance, which makes it a photograph, this writer believes, to be as meaningful and historic as any photograph ever taken of a president in the history of the American presidency.

It is a gesture being by the president with his left hand, which, viewed along with his expression, provides tangible proof of several troubling possibilities: one, that gestures in previous photographs depicting the president, when he only seemed to be making the hand sign for el Diablo, were, irrefutably the president in fact giving the el Diablo sign; also, the appearance that Laura Bush and the Bush twins as they have been photographed greeting friends in a crowd likewise were apparently making the el Diabo sign. This is not your run-of-the-mill "I love you" salute the president is making, nor is it the "Hook 'em Horns" hand signal so often given by University of Texas Longhorns fans. We must presume that if the family is doing the el Diablo then dad has shared with the family what is supposed to be his secret.

Maybe they are doing the "I love you" sign, after all -- girls (the Hook 'em Horns sign is done with the pinkie finger and thumb, not the pinkie and the index finger); if they are not, if they are in fact making the sign for the devil ... boys and girls, friends and neighbors we have done let loose the rooster and the fox, the mongoose and the cobra in the hen house, which is us. And you can expect the pop-up versions of Mein Kampf and the satantic bible any day now.

Whatever else you might happen to think of Mr. Bush, which might be very favorable, he is indicating, very, very likely, if not irrefutably, his ties to the occult. Many, many allegations have been made against Mr. Bush Sr. and his sons, and other family members, pointing out the depth to which certain secret societies have impacted or influenced their lives, their thinking, their approach to governing and their concept of and possible connection to any spiritual or supernatural forces which may exist. This picture is not only meaningful and historic, if this is actually what it appears to be, but madness, which goes beyond troubling. If the Bushes are in fact satanists, then any kooks whom you know who has alleged such things which seemed to be nonsense ... are entitled to an apology, or, perhaps, a note of thanks.

If you haven't seen this photograph, ponder it, think about our reaction to it, and then judge for yourself what this indicates. It clearly, one would think, not be anything that the president would do under normal circumstances, but he has had things said to him, very likely, which have called into question just how evil he may happen to be. And then queen herself is alleged to be mixed up in the ill Uminotty, or something, where they're all related, or are at the very part of some clandestine behind the scenes organization which has globalism as its goal. And globalism means fascism. What do you imagine was said to Mr. Bush? Maybe nothing. What chance is there that the queen was a John Lennon fan, and had just heard the rumor about the doorman and World Vision. And the Hinckleys and the Chapmans, and the darker side, the true side, of the globalist movement which the Sixties set back by at least a decade.

-- J.D.

Out of Quebec

2008-07-09T16:52:00.003-04:00

Riders of the Fleur de Lis
In Cajun country
Losing yet another hand
Without the fleet

Bullied by the other boys
Their lands to protect
So we load a plane with poison
Out of Quebec

American Satanism, Minstrelsy and the Queen of Sheba

2008-07-08T16:51:00.005-04:00

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

2008-07-08T15:45:00.005-04:00

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: All the great old comics like, I dunno, Jackie Mason, Shecky Green, Woo Amai.
BOB: Woo Amai?
BILL: My new bitch. Bend over.
BOB: Hey, yeah ... that's funny, as long as you're not talkin' to me.
BILL: Maybe I was, and maybe I wasn't
BOB: Hey, maybe I'll give you one of these here! Speaking of Jackie Mason. You got a lotta nerve, you little prick.
BILL: Man, cool off, I was just doin' some schtick. Don Rickles is my hero. You want me to act it out for you, right here? What I hate about stand-up comedy, how they always ask these lame questions and then answer them for you. And they all open the same way. I wanna come out with a tube sock on my yah-ha, nothin' else, and sparklers attached to both of my nipples. They're pierced, you see?
BOB: I don't know what it is with you young people and the piercing. Is there any kind of statement you're making there?
BILL: Yeah, look, I have something to put my sparklers in. So you want me to act it out for you, right here, what I hate about stand-up comedy?
BOB: Yeah, 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. It's bait and switch. Microsoft will shut your computer down ... until you buy the new software that everybody hates.
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 writing code to eat my code, the bitches, no doubt all of four-hundred pounds, with a storage cabinet filled with Twinkies, and 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 it wasn't bad, 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 crap somewheres else. We had Lenny Bruce in here one night ...
BILL: Who's Lenny Bruce?
BOB: You gotta be kiddin' me? You don't know Lenny Bruce, the great satirist?
BILL: Whaddya mean, like, with whips and leather, smackin' people around? A satirist. Yeah, I heard of that.
BOB: What a putz, but, you know, I like you kid. You have a presence.
BILL: I like to think of it as an aura.
BOB: Yeah, well, aura this ... I don't want the high-brow, shit, you know? Like Bruce did. He was okay for a while, but when he started smokin' dope and poppin' pills, his shit got really heavy, you know. You're more ... I dunno, easy to listen to.
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 running all my virus software, doing nothing, just to send some email? Bill Gates can drink my bathwater. 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 get rid of the file, there's another file on your computer which is activated by the one you just bought, and the bad file reenters all the information you just paid good money to have taken off.
BOB: No shit.
BILL: It's a war, 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. You see what Microsoft has been doing?
BOB: No, what?
BILL: They're pushing this new software, an add on, that nerds can use to connect to the aliens, who want to turn all the street addresses into longitude and latitude.
BOB: This is still your comedy material, right?
BILL: No it isn't. I don't know what it is. It's stupid, okay, I admit it. 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.
BOB: Wait a minute, kid. ... You got a problem with flyin' off the handle.
BILL: That's what my mother said just before she died.
BOB: Of what?
BILL: Third degree burns. I was cooking up a pot of cheese grits, and I stepped on the cat. I fell backwards and dumped the whole thing on her upper torso.
BOB: My God. So she died of being scalded? Man, that's tough.
BILL: No, she started screaming at me, and I hit her with the pot. You think I might be a satirist?
BOB: That's great, kid! You're a riot. Keep that in. Yeah, you got the job. You're a natural. Now ... the favor, could you play an old Jewish guy who does Yiddish burlesque.
BILL: Burl who?
BOB: Esque. Vaudeville, you know slapstick. Where you hit ... people ... with a pie, or something.
BILL: Tell you what, if you let me hit people in the face with a pie ... I can do Jackie Mason better than Jackie Mason. I do Rickles the best. What kind of crowd is this going to be?
BOB: Well, it's recent widows support group. I thought, you know, since my sister was in it, some jokes would cheer her and her new friends up.
BILL: Oh, I got a lot of material on dead husbands. We got a deal? Pies ... and I do the widows gig?
BOB: Well not pies with the widows.
BILL: Why not, give 'em something to really make 'em laugh, take their mind off of their problems. Pies are great. I like pies. So pies?
BOB: Yeah, I guess so. But just shaving cream.
BILL: Oh, I can whip up just the thing.
BOB: Yeah, well, go on home, kid. You're kind of freakin' me out.

... to be continued

Andy Moto

2008-07-07T20:19:00.007-04:00

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

2008-07-06T04:00:00.009-04:00

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

2008-07-03T13:52:00.006-04:00

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, but because an orgasm happened with the same part from whence a man urinates, typically, it belonged in the bathroom. And certainly not in anybody's mouth. Jeez, that where my pee comes out. I feel back enough sticking it in there. 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 Andy 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, 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. And sometimes Andy was just out of his fucking gourd.

"Just what the hell happened?" Andy said one day to his mother-in-law. "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, floating around your privates, 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 that. Andy believes that the Nephilim, 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 about the size of a breadbox. What he gathered was that his dad had gone and whipped up the Sixties pastiche as if 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 ... 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 she had finally seduced him at Woodstock, crawling through the mud, among tents and lean-tos to find him, cuddled up to a big dog. Neither Flopo nor Smoothie could handle it when their parents blurted out sex stories. Andy's for some reason always involved urinating. 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 had been painted black. Andy had hoped to get his car up the mountain, next to the Pit, so that he could actually drive 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 a wee wee just to get back at my father-in-law. 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 embarrassed, stomach, lungs, heart, kidneys 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 number two 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. Lennon, whom Andy thought almost certainly had been knocked out, which Lennon actually did report, after he had been greeted at the door of his Dakota apartment a bright light followed by little bug-like creatures 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 that Uri would know what to do with it.

And Andy knew what that was. All he had to do was steal it, without Uri expecting
him in advance.

... to be continued

Waiting and Watching (Who Are The Watchers?)

2008-07-03T07:52:00.005-04:00

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!

2008-07-02T18:40:00.006-04:00

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

2008-07-02T00:44:00.009-04:00

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

2008-07-01T15:28:00.012-04:00

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

2008-06-30T22:24:00.004-04:00

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 by an oilman president who has been caught lying, and, is allegedly profiting from the war and the rebuilding contracts even as the war is being fought. He and his vice president. I don't know if that is true or not, but people who do know, whose jobs it is to know, say the two men are even doing business in Iran via the velociraptor business group Halliburton. It makes my skin crawl to think that it may all be true, that we have social engineers for presidents, who are merely doing the bidding and the dirty work for other social engineers with more money. It sounds like a plot out of a Batman comic book. Can imagine what those meetings must be like.

Okay, who ordered the pastrami on rye, and, hey, get Baal on the phone and see if we can do those tornadoes tomorrow in China?

Preposterous. Television and radio, the technology, is preposterous, the presence of social engineers in our own government who would Kamikaze his own nation is preposterous. Communicating with supernatural forces which can whip up storms is not so preposterous. If one day we will be able to turn on a computer ... with the thought wave that instructs the computer to turn on. It reminds me of Hal. Hello, Hal, I'm reading your thoughts. Are you reading mine? So why are we meeting? I'll be in the pool if your need me.

They call it entanglement and quantum mechanics, and what-not, but electromagnetic waves and thought waves which travel from transmitters and our wave-generative brains, is not science fiction. Nor is mind control.

Why is there war? What's wrong with prayer? 'Cause you'd be a damn, fucked up fundamentalist if you did all that shit. Really? You don't believe in thought waves?

Now we know, those of us interested enough to check, that the two wars launched by members of the Bush family cost hundreds of thousands of collateral damage in the form of people. If these lives have been lost and invested to do social engineering for the hiearchy to whom presidents report, there has been no more despicable people on the face of the planet, in the history of mankind, than the United States of America and its men of war.

It was because of war and "counting" Israel, which means drafting its men, that God judged David ... and forbad him from building the temple, God's holy house, and instead giving the plans to Solomon.

Gee, speaking of Solomon ... is there any chance that Random House/Doubleday/Bertelsmann AG is holding Dan Brown's new book until some magical, special date which was determined in advance, maybe even in advance of 9/11 and the publishing of Mr. Brown's first book. I believe the whole Da Vinci Code spectacle is an example of social engineering, which has apparently really paid dividends. But me and Muley ... we haven't had our turn yet. We know a little something about haints and codes.

JEEZ-A-THON

2008-06-30T18:07:00.006-04:00

DARRELL: Dang, I done told ya Jimmy, I ain't never done no dad blame announcin'.
JIM: But, the people love you on the radio.
DARRELL: Different demographic. In person, I'm playin' beneath myself, Jimmy. The most these people have ever seen is the backside of Kenny Rogers through a curtain. I knew somebody who swept up back stage, you know a gopher, and he was a gopher alright. He skittled right out under that partition like he was one of Hank's kids out there a'killin' cold-blooded, airplane-stealin' and a'flyin' killers. And, on top of that Mary Lou drank too many Coca-Colas, which she ain't never had in her life. She was puking so hard, she coulda knocked your hat off at three paces.
JIM: Not easy on your esophagus, let me tell you that. My weakness is a food which I am allergic to.
DARRELL: Like asbestos or something? Ha.
JIM: No, like seafood.
DARRELL: Seafood? Shoot, I can suck up a whole plate a raw callie maary ...
JIM: What? Did you say something ...
DARRELL: I said I could suck up a whole plate of callie ...
JIM: Bubba, if you don't mind don't scream that out when Callie's walking by.
DARRELL: I didn't see her, and I was talkin' about another kind of fish anyways. Ha.
JIM: Anyway, I hope our little chat has calmed you down.
STAGE MANAGER: Ten minutes, people.
DARRELL: Jim, dear God in heaven, Jim ... don't make me. I'm a damn gospel singer and guitar player.
JIM: All you have to do is read these words.
DARREL: I'm not as good a reader as I said.
JIM: Too late now, padre. You'll be fine. Remember, every chance you get sell Jeeezus!
DARRELL: Sell 'im what?
JIM: No, push Jeeezus ...
DARRELL: Push 'im where? Yore spiritual life is a lot more developed than mine is, and I ain't even seen ...
JIM: And pronounce the new name we're using very distinctly. Jeezus needs to be upgraded, people are leavin' the Christian faith in droves.
STAGE MANAGER: Five minutes.
DARRELL: What if I shit in my pants? What kind of Christian witness will that be? Poopin' is evil anyway.
JIM: Okay, stand up straight. Just walk out there to the microphone, announce yourself and start reading.
STAGE MANAGER: Places.
DARRELL: What the hell is her job anyway? A'callin' out the time and talkin' up some kind of Travelogue, I reckon.
STAGE MANAGER: Cue drumroll.
DARRELL: Hi. I done lost my place. Places! They say that back thar. Just a minute. I'm sorry I'm new at this.
JIM: Speak into the microphone when you're talking.
DARRELL: Well they don't want to hear all that. I might have said a cuss word.
JIM: Well, let it fly, we're goin' after the hard-core, younger pagans, remember.
DARRELL: I don't even know what a pagan is. Reckon you folks do, which is why yore all a laughin' yore fucking asses off.
JIM: Holy cow, Darrell. ... Don't use the F word, for crying out loud. Some people are starting to leave, and you haven't even announced the first act.
DARRELL: But you said to let fly with a cuss word, if I had a mind to. You know, if satan put one in my mind which I couldn't restrain. Besides, that the best cuss word I know. They're laughing again.
JIM:I know, you're doing fine. Keep going. Hold down the one-liners ... but keep reading. Distinctly.

DARRELL:

A Flaming Fruitcake, Yessiree

2008-06-30T16:00:00.004-04:00

It has always been hard for me to be political around people, though I am fascinated by politics, and have been since the age of 6 or 7, when my mother and her across the street lady friend took us, one of her children, and us three brothers, our mothers behaving like two schoolgirls, to wave at John Kennedy as his motorcade passed near our home in Norfolk, Virginia. Squealers were in back in the 50s and 60s, a phenomenon about which I know a little bit about, having seen not only John Kennedy but the Beatles, and the sound at the Beatles concert blew the other experience away.

Two Johns ... two assassinations. Coincidence? Or incidental? Was it meant to be, that these two men named John died for some divine person, like it was meant to be? Was either man punished for something they did grievously wrong, so that God should allow them to be humiliated by being murdered out in the open air, where people could watch both of them die from their wounds? I believe if evil wants to show in the context of time that there are weird mysteries out there to be associated with evil acts, I believe that evil would pay attention to dates and other significances to trick people into thinking that such control, even of a gruesome sort, is what God is cruelly best at doing. I used to think that until I read a fascinating passage from the Dead Sea Scrolls involving Abraham and Isaac.

It felt weird to be political around other people, because my mother was always very reserved. I would watch the Jerry Lewis telethon, because I loved Jerry Lewis, and by the end of the show on Labor Day ... I was all misty-eyed, and my mother would get mad at me for showing some emotion, I guess about something touching. Her mother had been a paranoid schizophrenic, the same malady with which I deal. One of them. But I'm good. Don't cry for me, Joe Salinas, Dulcinea, whatever. Eva. I've never been happier for a sustained period in my life, and that's a good thing. The medicines I take help greatly, which I can measure as an adult with and without these medications. There are good things, albeit dehabitating in the long run, which can help you maintain a quality of life for as long as you have it -- that is, of course, if you have a health plan. Imagine what the people who can't get the medication I get have to go through; I know what they go through. And I believe they suffer from outside interference as well. There is nothing in them that can hurt them ... it's all an outside game to be blamed on, in my view, the dark forces which invisibly surround us. I have drawn that conclusion because I know they exist, because a child around 6 doesn't have enough experience, stimulus, input to output the mental images which were output for me of a very elaborate, lucidly dreaming nature. In other words, I couldn't get away from them. If I'm lyin' I'm dyin'. I don't feel proud of that, Any Whitman, Esq., It just happens, like it once happened when I was much younger for up to a year.

But now, as I said, these visitors are different. They are, I believe, the Watchers that we have read about, ome of us anyway, in the book of Enoch. They are what we see as ghosts. Their spirits I believe are still with them, but they have carried a part of their bodies with them, because they are not wearing white, they are not translucent, as what I experience outdoors. Indoors, when I am stationery, Watchers, and outside, angels? They are clearly flying images, or standing beside me. I can compare it to rippling displaced air, of the sort we see at the end of a long stretch of road when it is very hot. That's the best way I can describe it. They are so translucent that even as you see their movement, they are barely visible, at times like plexiglass with just the slightest frost on it. I believe I am seeing something, and not operating on general nutiness, because of the cloud which appeared just over my house, roughly five feet off of the roof, at the southwesterly end of my house, just over the room, my bedroom where I do most of my writing.

Does that mean anything? To family and sort of friends it means I am a flaming fruitcake. Flambe or whatever. With those nasty little citron fake fruit nuggets that must have fallen in the candy apple goop, before being dried and actually sold. Distasteful, yes. Just too much and way over the top? Yes. Like a fruit cake that can move as fast as Powdered Toast Man, with plenty of gas to spare. ... By the way, I just got up to run to the kitchen because of the time I'm spending with you, even though this site get no hits. None. O -- which is a lot like when I was a kid and fancied being a disk jockey and taped open a walkie talkie, so that the button to transmit was always pressed, and preceded to do a radio show, with the schpeel or spiel and playing records and everything. My general thinking was, because of the magic of radio, all the frequencies flying around out there, that someone somewhere my pick me up and just really did the selection of records I was playing. That is one hopeful, electronically challenged kid, but I only did it a couple of times. The last time was when my brother quietly walked in on me. I was so embarrassed, which was a signal to me at least that I really didn't believe that I had been communicating with anyone. I was pretending, in the hope that somehow my show would get out. Feels a lot like now. A whole lot. Zero hits. None. Not even one. Not even half of a hit, or a whoosh by on the way to some other thrilling Blogspot site. Zip. I wonder what the percentage is for people who have web pages somewhere with some service like this one, a free service, who have never gotten a single hit. I get quite a number of hits on my website with the Squarespace people, but Google's Blogspot, nothing. Either that or their analytics have been rigged, and I am the target of a conspiracy, whereby the conspirators will one day appear and flail themselves at me shouting, "We're together, we're together." I don't know why anyone would want to block the truth. Ha ... see, I gotcha.

Where was I?

Oh, I remember, I'm the fruitcake who is seeing stuff of a paranormal nature, which is only paranormal, in fact, where the angels are concerned. They're different. But the people inside have dark and light shading, in shades of gray. They aren't physical present, it has occurred to me, but trapped somewhere. Why do I believe they are trapped, because they seem to be very interested in what I write, which gets posted on my websites, this one I share with Janet Devlin, who also helps out with TANATA, when she's not in class or chasing men. Why would they be watching me and what I write, why is there such a thing as Watchers, and where are they, and are they happy or sad? Or scared? I get the sense that some of them are angry, some threatening and some are genuinely interested in what I am writing. I should get some T-shirts and caps made us with some acronym like TAPS, which stands for what I don't know, but the ghost filmers wear them. Maybe I could put revelee or old soft shoe. Or a raven ... yeah. Or just my last name "Whitman," like the sampler, which has always been a weird name to me for a box of candy. Here ... sample this. You're not really sampling, however, you're eating the whole piece. If you were truly going to sample ... you'd take a little bite or nibble and put it back. Or you'd stuff yourself with piece after piece, if you're like me, sampling the entire stock of chocolates on hand. Speaking of that, I have a dark side. Or, let's say an avant garde side, which I am somewhat proud of, because I think Jesus was weird, or, he felt weird. I don't think he was cocky about what he could do ... I think it flipped him out as much as it flipped out anyone. We know from the remark at the wedding in Cana, which is near Galilee, the sea of and location, where Jesus says that it is not yet time for him to begin performing miracles ... and yet he does it anyway. That has always struck me as odd, just as it has that Jesus sort of chews out his mother. However, I can understand the latter better that I can the former.

Now there are some visitors, and they are apparently of a much different sort. Looking at them straight on, I see nothing; it is only out of the corners of my eyes, by peripheral vision, which allows me to see to the side, slightly in front of me and slightly behind me.

and not out of the corners of my eyes, I can't see them.

Return To Magdala: new musings

2008-06-30T14:01:00.006-04:00

It was all brand new to me, horrifying, and, as far as I'm concerned, feelings of dread and doom that must have been the result of outside "interference." When I was a sufferer of panic attacks, it was not because of anything I was doing. Or wanted to do. It is illogical for an organism, or a set of them, such as I am, suddenly to produce the feelings of fear if there is not a cause for the fear. In other words, if I'm at a card shop versus being in a foreign country engaged in an anxiety-producing set of circumstances, my body is going to do what it naturally should do in either circumstance; but especially where my browsing a card shop is concerned, with all the humor and pretty colors, it would otherwise occur to me that I was about to have a panic attack.

Anyone who has ever suffered an anxiety attack, one which doesn't involve three days of drinking and popping speed, and then trying to run a 100 yard dash without exploding, but involves simply being, breathing, minding your own business, with none of my own body engaged in assaulting me; in other words, if I am so sick because of what is going on with my pounding, rapid heart rate, then I should be dying ... but I was not dying, I was living/dying. Super high-powered fear that suddenly comes over a person involves ... well, it's maddening. So, not only did I have my sinuses pushed to one side of my face which doesn't show, by the way, and which was still causing me major problems until about five years ago. The polyps which formed in my sinuses and the scar tissue from the beating remained and grew, so that certain points of my sinus, cartilidge, brain, skull, whatever you want to call it, hit a particular nerve when it swelled due to changes in the weather. Usually in winter when a high pressure system was blowing out a low pressure system of high precipitation sinuses jumped for joy. Those little polyp monsters could and did turn a 225 pound athletically built guy, which I am not so much anymore, into a wimpering bowl of jelly. I mean, that was maddening too. I used to have headaches so bad that it was not worth living, because I'd get a headache, and it would go for three days, or at least a whole day, and the next day I would still be wiped out, largely because of the Advil I would have been popping like M&M's (which, by the way, though a household word, is the dumbest name for candy in my life. The English call their version Smarties. And that ain't much better. I have a dear English friend, who I believe is working for some spy outfit call Kirklees, because he can't take email from me, or a call, because it's always bounced back, that is when he's at work. I would normally call him at home ... but Mr. Kirklees or whomever if I could get through the bloody impenetrable wall of fire long enough to ask David what his bloody home phone number is, I would never have to try again to storm the Kirklees fortifications, complete with sand bags. So my guess is that David, as I suspected all along, is slipping on a tux at night and getting some action while he is on his way to deliver the microfilm or whatever.

And how do I know this? He works for a BLOODY PERSONNEL OFFICE. If I were them, of course, I would do the same thing, really. I mean after all, you can never be too sure. I would also place snipers on the roof in case any people who showed up for interviews misplaced their resumes, which is a sure sign, laughably certain, that your interviewee is at least a double agent. I've seen triples, believe me, or read about them, which always involves a decision made by the agent, which means one guy gets the girl, and one guy get the lead. So, Dave ... if you should ever come up for air, and if you haven't sided with the globalists and the fascists, please give us a shout. I'm sorry I lost your number, after calling you twice in two days after having not spoken to you for five years. And then the paper in my hand on which your number was listed, not being able to compute the law of averages, exploded into a burst of flames ... and that was that. But I have. If you are stuck with the choice between ignoring me or turning me over to an English assassination team, just say we were never really that good of friends and don't call out Scotland Yard or the Knights Templar, whichever is up on that particular week. I'm pulling for the Scots myself.

Anyway ... where was I, ah, yes ... and we need to start getting serious, because I'm about to share with you a dream, a recent dream, which tried to reach back into my past to reproduce the visions I saw as a lucidly-dreaming child. How's that for a hobby? And I don't think God thinks it's a good idea for me to pursue it any further, perhaps not yet. That is a call basically based on being just as wigged out as you might be about the whole thing. None of this makes any sense, or, at least, that was the case until just recently. The last piece to the puzzle I was looking for, I finally found ... or rather it found me. It's told me that such a thing as Purgatory exists, and the magical vision has returned. This is an interesting point, even though I don't know what it means ...

I not so long ago went to have my eyes tested by the wackiest professional I believe I have ever ... no, no, he's the one. He could do his job as an eye tech, and examine me, but he was highly, chronically insecure, but had overcome it apparently with constant talking, saying the most mildless, hard to understand things very rapidly, and then laughing at his own jokes ... like you had heard every garbled word. I was just in there for my eyes, but I have expected him to pull out a big wooden stake and mallet. He was normal enough looking, but he was the King of Bonkdom, hands down. I say all that to prepare you for what he did when he started looking with a tiny light into my eyes. And he became very, very serious. All I could make out, in truth, was Glaucoma ... and that I should be blind, because it was a chronic case. And it really shook him up, and he just sort of staggered out of the room when it was time for me to leave.

Just tell me, would that a rattling experience for you, or perhaps you live with someone like that, so I take what he said with a grain of salt or a whole heaping chunk of it, as much as I can eat without gagging, let me say that ... For all I know he was looking into his own brain from another dimension or something; but I presume he actually saw something and that it was in me. I mean he really freaked out, like, I studied this in college ... but I never thought I would actually see one. So anyway, a true story ... now where were we? Oh, the visions. Maybe I had that Glaucoma-like condition as a child, and maybe I still had it as an adult, but it had remained dormant until just recently, within the past three years. Whatever the case, I didn't tell the guy that I had a damaged sinus from my military days, because that might have pushed him over the edge. So, I don't know what caused what he saw and how long I have had it, but it may or may not have something to do with the headaches. Which brings me to a question: Do I believe that everything that is bad, including a common cold, is caused by an invasion of evil into our lives?

I have a rabbi of whom I became quite fond after spending several lunches with him. He has since moved on from Chattanooga to the Midwest, and I wonder about him often these days, because he and me had some weird stuff a'happen, and I don't know whether he was impressed or freaked out when certain things of a weather variety involving us occurred, but he was something. I had an unpersuadable urge to go and meet this rabbi, who had recently performed the funeral for one of my favorite bosses of all time ... and I've had a few ... too many. But Julius Parker took me under his wing as a newspaperman, and just told me to lay low and keep my mouth shut at the right times and open at the right times and just keep writing. I began to turn out some feature articles that drew the praise of most of the top guns at the daily newspapers where I worked, before I took off on a wild goose chase ... for what I did not know.

blah, blah, blah notes

. were and badly sprained and fracture my left arm catching my self or warding off blows, I can't recall, I broke my arm, or had it broken for me, , which is look at cards and not have any problems at all. Being anywhere and having a panic attack kick in is not logical. It doesn't follow a cause. To become suddenly anxious, in my view, is the allowance of that which has always produced fear to slip slightly into your life.

Can I get an amen?

It is unnatural for me suddenly to become

The feelings of panic returned as I stepped into a long, long corridor and began walking to find the room number 22.

Return To Magdala: New Intro

2008-06-30T08:49:00.015-04:00

I spent last evening trying to explain my hypothesis to two of my colleagues, and I think I failed miserably. With them, George Mankin and Xavier French, two bona fide Bible scholars, even if one should manage to convince them of something, it is rare that they will let on that you have given them anything useful and correct in the form of information, at least for several days. Once they have had time to ponder new material -- and this is new and groundbreaking material, revolutionary, actually -- they will add their spin to it, owning that part of my hypothesis, and return the serve, sometimes effectively and helpfully. Sometimes not. I began by proposing the idea that good and evil have been involved in a media war since the the fourth to second century B.C.E., when the Bible that we have today began to take shape. But the real kicker was when I suggested that the King Solomon and Queen of Sheba affair never, in fact, occurred. That, of course, brought howls of laughter, although I don't frankly see why.

It will be a hard thing to convince people that the Bible is still a mystical and unequalled book of power and truth that contains the inspired words of God, while it has nevertheless been tampered with, evidently; and this evidence is prevalent in both the Hebrew scriptures (Tanakh) as well as the New Testament. The kicker, indeed. I nearly had to throw them out of my log cabin for being so rude. I live in the cabin, now, so that my wife and children can have a rest from me. They are staying with Suzanne's father in north Chattanooga, while I remain on the mountain, which is actually just an isolated, finger-shaped ridge, with an elevation of 1,800 feet, that juts out from the end of the Cumberland Plateau in southeast Tennessee. The name of the mountain varies, and I would answer to Walden, Tennessee, as my locale, but for practical purposes I am a resident of Signal Mountain, formerly a Confederate stronghold and supply point, which was once known as Furtop Mountain and which is still haunted, in my opinion. As all of this area is, which, though beautiful, has its share of haints, translucent specters, the souls of fallen brothers in the War Between the States, and the Cherokee and Creek tribes who were packed up for the Trail of Tears, those who were not butchered by Europeans.

I am ... I forget the fraction ... but my great great great great grandmother, I believe, if I have the number of greats right, was a full-blooded Iroquois/Cherokee Indian named Juda, who married a man named John Carter before moving South into Virginia and North Carolina in the early 18th century. Beyond that, I have to go to England and the English records, which are also, in my opinion, to my great chagrin to have to say so, haunted. Of course, everyone would say that it is I who is most haunted, and I suppose that is because I might have brought back some evil spirits with me from the Land of the Gods. Or gods. There is only one God, of course, of which I'm quite sure; it is illogical and disingenuous, in my strongly held view, to say otherwise. Oh, by the way, I am Andrew Whitman, born in North Carolina, and these are my memoirs, as much of them as I can get written before someone, friend or foe, mortal or specter, comes to take me away.

I am frightfully inadequate, if frightfully is the right modifier -- woefully might be a better word -- inadequate, at any rate, where it comes to previous studies on the topic which has chosen me, which requires some explanation; but I do struggle with terms and prior scholarship, as I have read virtually nothing of scholarly value on my topic, excepting two articles, the best of these was written by Pierson Parker and published in a biblical journal in 1960, the name of which escapes me. "John and John Mark" is the title of his essay, and he makes the rather bold statement -- and correctly, I'll happily defend -- that there is greater proof that John Mark wrote the Gospel of John than there is evidence that John Mark wrote the second gospel, the Gospel of Mark.

It was a Eureka experience for me when I finally found an article which agreed with my hypothesis, sort of. I'm reluctant to say so, because Parker does not come right out and state definitively this, being unwilling, as he would have been in those days, to make a call and name John Mark to be the writer of John's Gospel, as well as the second gospel (though it is nevertheless a great mess), as well as the Apocalypse of John, also known as the book of the Revelation of Jesus Christ to John, which, I will hasten to add, also makes John Mark the holder of the title "the disciple whom Jesus loved." And on this point, I must assert, I cannot be outargued, for John, the son of Zebedee, shows no indication that he and his brother James were liked by the disciples let alone Jesus. While Zebedee's John makes no sense as Jesus' best friend, because he and James are already Jesus' cousins, I'm prepared to go out on a limb and say.

But how can I be so bold as to say such a thing, which has been kicked around by scholars for decades, centuries, all the way back to the times of Martin Luther and all the way back to the first century, when the early church fathers wrestled with John versus John Mark, albeit not very aggressively? It is not good play, not honourable scholarship, to state definitively that this or that point or thesis is correct, and there is no need any further to discuss the issue.

Indeed, Papias, one of the first writers of patristic material in the early second century, rather oddly but obviously effectively, finally comes down on the side of the writer of the fourth gospel and the writer at Ephesus and Patmos as Zebedee's John, having been a disciple of the apostle, which, to my mind, is preposterous. Papias may have entertained someone whom he thought to be the apostle John, the son of thunder, one of two, the other of course being James; but it is not reasonable to put much weight on the suggestion that Papias entertained Zebedee's John, but someone who merely said that they were the apostle John (the two being the same man, of course), and Papias believed them. However, ultimately I come down poorly, negatively, on the notion that Papias is himself shooting straight with us in his writings, only fragments of which fell into the hands of Eusebius and Iranaeus, who commented most extensively on the work of Papias as regards the identity of "the disciple whom Jesus loved," but they make no call either.

Papias' writings were either edited, or, he intentionally meant to mislead his subsequent readers by saying that he was in fact a disciple of Zebedee's John, who, among other things, informed Papias that Mark, or John Mark, was a dutiful "interpreter" of Peter. And these is only partly true, which I believe I can prove, as I do suggesting that "interpreter" is suspiciously vague. What John Mark was, whether he was with Paul and Barnabas or Peter, was a scribe, a keeper of the documents, a job which I believe he previously held in Jerusalem and walked away from when Jesus was crucified, all points that we will come to.

The closest any of the patristic writers comes to supporting John Mark as the writer of the Gospel of John is Dionysius of Alexandria, the papal authority who ultimately rules out John Mark as the fourth gospel's writer ... because John's Gospel is written so well and John Mark's is written in such poor Greek, comparatively speaking. Granted, because, as I said, the second gospel, the Gospel of Mark, is an absolute mess, and it is a notorious mess, if that is the right modifer, nefarious, obviously corrupted, particularly the book's final chapter, notably the added verses nine through sixteen which have been tacked on in some manuscripts after verse eight in the sixteenth and final chapter. It is in Mark's Gospel that we find the greatest distortion of the person of Jesus, the largest gaps, the most ludicrous of statements attributed to Jesus that it would be a good idea to handle snakes and drink poison in obedience to the God who created them. And so, Dionysius alas remnains convinced and refuses to acknowledge John Mark as anything but some kid.

On the famous snake passage in Mark's Gospel, to suggest that any disciple or apostle actually wrote such a thing or that Jesus ever said such a thing is outrageous, to say the least, and the remarks of a poorly read scholar of the teachings of Jesus. Jesus reminded his disciples not to put God to the test -- if Jesus didn't, then someone did -- and tempting fate or providence by fooling around with poisonous snakes -- for what purpose? -- big rattlers, in many cases, is not only testing God ... but is making a mockery of the substance of Jesus' teachings. And I believe this is the effect that the writer of the snake handling verses in Mark's Gospel is after, frankly; and, at least in the South, where I was born and raised, if one can call Virginia, the South, which it only somewhat is, where snake handling used to be a page one feature and photo which ran in the local papers in haunted Chattanooga, Tennessee where I make my hope at present. Christians, real ones, have always cringed at seeing such nonsense written about and displayed, particularly since some of these people often if not usually died if the rattler or copperhead got good penetration with their fangs.

Although the time for me to leave may be soon and rapidly approaching, as my "psychoses" have gotten worse, and, as a result, I'm afraid I have put a strain on several important relationships within my family. And, of course, the squabble came with regard to my work and my speaking of it, when I should not have.

What happened in a nutshell ... is my son's new wife looked at me like I was a crackpot, or so I thought, when I expressed my feelings that I would soon be published. I have laid out before, and since that first time, my views in little snippets, hoping that small bites would be easy for someone to take, couching my remarks within the context of indiputable history. For example, while I have a tendency to overwhelm people, with talk of my material, I have learned to say as little as possible, offering only one liners like the patron who comissioned Leonardo Da Vinci to paint "The Last Supper" had the nickname "the Moor." And then, as best I can, in a way that I think would win the applause of Socrates, I ask questions. The problem is ... no one wishes to answer them. This is where I get into trouble, but I believe that defining John Mark, of Cyrene, in these times, is frankly a very crucial, critical matter. However, I find few to agree with me, though I have done my best on my less than trusty, always about to crash, PC, which I've come to believe stands for "prepare to crash."

Of course, I have attracted the attention of Europeans with my writing on line, and they're just getting into the swing of being the new America, which is ludicrous, and, which is prophetic.

Does Europe Want To Kill Us? Become America II? A New Eden? Suckers!

2008-06-30T00:21:00.004-04:00

I feel a little bit like Robert Stack, Stack, no ... that's not it. You know, the guy who played the young time traveler in H.G. Wells Gone With The Time or something like that. Time Machine! that's it. And the actor's name. ... Seriously, I am strugglng with this at this very moment: think, think, think. As I'm in my neo-Rousseau phase, which is abbreviated "Neorous," with the stress on the last syllable. I'm entertaining myself as I think. Whaddya want ... my medicines are kicking in? And then euphoria for about, ten minutes. And a superclear mind. Needless to say, because it's a synthetic substance whipped up by HUMANITY's best paid chemists, it will work, but it will also kill me.

But I'm like one of my heroes, Muhammad Ali. I can still dance. I still have the left jab and the right cross. Well, I can dance a little. My point is I'm shootin' for some equal time. I had a crazy first half of my life, so the way I figure it, taking into account the Christian notion of karma, and yin and yang, good and evil, what have you. I should have a happier go of it when the reversal of fortune takes place, and the valleys rise into mountains ... and the mountains fall to become valleys.

Do I believe that is going to happen? I didn't believe or I wasn't sure that there was any significance when I was experiencing my nervous breakdown and 9/11, and a reckless Christian sting directed at me, which hastened my nervous breakdown, until later as I have thought about it. I believed that one day, without prodding I believe this, Jesus would return to earth. The Jesus story was too beautiful for him not to do the climactic final scene. However that plays out, which I couldn't really say, but my gut feeling since things have only become more revealing -- I mean big time; don't you think? Just finding out that the WTC was very probably industrially brought down by us, because we're fight us, ourselves, in a war. Does that make any fucking sense? But, as we say, the greatest deceivers are the most easily deceived, because they believe that anything is possible, because they will kill to get it and not bat an eyelash because God, in their opinion, has been telling these people who to kill and when, whether it be wars or assassination of one's political opponnent. Don't tell me the thought hasn't crossed Bill Clinton's mind. He was devastated when Hillary lost. Worse than she was. He wanted to be Secretary of State in the worst way, I think, and if he believes he is so valuable that the ends justify the means, lookout, baby. And I think the Texas crowd would help him.

Take that for what it's worth. But there's a lot of death in the wake of these folks, as much as we don't want to come to grips with that. Which is part of the reason we're in so much trouble to begin with. God bless the Irish. God bless the English. Most of them. If we in America had the chutzpah that the Irish and the English have when it comes to holding their government accountable for what they do, or else, we would still have jobs and education in this country to make us competitive. But we pissed it away.

Why have we just pissed away so much money when there were and are some good people who could really use it? So that the Robber Barons could do the will of their master, which is break America's economy and shift America, part II to Europe. Like, now it's our turn. We didn't get you before, the Eastern Europeans mostly but all of Europe saying to themselves, you fought us off. But now we get revenge on your decadence society ... and we'll take all your stuff ... because we already own it. Are you aware that the publisher which published The Da Vinci Code, that its leadership virtually from top to bottom at the corporate level is German. The Germans decide what the Americans will read, as least where Random House/Doubleday is concerned. Abner Doubleday, of course, invited the Great American Time baseball. Ah, it was good while it lasted. The lull in a suburban community at night when the only sound is the crickets, squealing tires and a train who knows how far away.

I never believed, could not fathom the idea of living to see the quickening of events, the birth pangs and their contractions, and ultimately the reversal of fortunes, which the first are last and the last are first. Justice, baby. But I have lived that long, and you are living in very momentous, historic, mystical times. When fantasy will become fact. Where we will see how uncannily films have been made which depict, I believed, the way it's going to be with the earth cracks open and Minotaurs, real ones, come running at you. Invasions kill things. Even when there are only pretend invasions like during the Cuban Missile Crisis ... and I was ducking and covering with the best of them. Robert Taylor. I find myself speaking and writing in first person, like a film noir film, which Robert Stack might have made. I believe the voiceover in The Time Machine is the most effective feature of that film.

later alligator

Meeting It

2008-06-29T22:54:00.002-04:00

Do you remember the TV show "The Addams Family," not bad for a few seasons and then the morbid jokes started getting stale. Then you would remember Cousin It. Meeting the devil would be a lot like meeting Cousin It, I think -- because of all the deception, you wouldn't know what you were looking at, black, white, man, woman, sinister or pleasant. Or maybe Pat on Saturday Night Live. You never found out who or what she/he was, and that bit used to crack me up as much as anything they ever did on that show. Anyway, I was thinking about meeting the devil. ... And I thought it might go a little something like this:

DEVIL: You're fatter in person. You bum, don't you know how to take care of yourself? Go to a Greek gym, a Hellenist trainer, fix you right up. You ought to be ashamed of yourself ... and you got fat not eating good foods, but eating garbage, so inside your body is collapsing from all of the abuse.

ME: Mom?

to be continued

My Nickname for God is "Sparky"

2008-06-29T20:51:00.001-04:00

They've seen the big picture which we haven't seen. But I saw The Ten Commandments starring Charlton Heston ... and that was pretty big. They've apparently viewed the world's vistas in the same way which Jesus might have been shown the world, an entire planet that he could possess if he would worship Satan. Or satan. I don't capitalize certain things. And Jesus said no.

I would imagine that it is a place of unusual lights. Because time, light, space will have been transcended to get where Purgatory or hell exists, because I believe they exist and that they do in another dimension ... which occupies the same space we do or can. I see them peripherally, quite well, but I cannot look directly at them, because if I do ... they're not there. But facing light reveals them, any sort of light. Not just the light from my computer screen.

Let's say Purgatory and these are the Watchers. I watch them watching me. They are watching me now, and I can see them, mostly to my left, and always behind me. I don't favor my right side, but the right side has just made its presence known as I type this, and so I have to include them.

Those who say yes to the world and no to the part of them which is spiritual are free to believe as they wish, obiviously, but I am free to remind them (even though my hits show zero hits. No hits at all. A kid down the street with a science project gets a couple of hits, maybe a lot. I haven't gotten a single hit. And I intend to take it up with Google and Blogspot, because something is very wrong, man. I mean TOTALLY wrong. 'Cause we're just tryin' to tell people about Jesus) ... to remind them that when they sleep perchance to dream ... they enter a spiritual realm over which they have no control. Hello?! And then there is the life flashing before you, the near-death experience, with which I have some experience. which convinces you your life is orderly and focused on other people, how you treated them.

Jesus is cooler than Houdini. He could do stuff that Houdini only dreamed of. Which is transcend time and space. And, to do that, also light. I believe Jesus manipulated the light, and that it was this ability to alter light instantaneously which caused him to become invisible. Ghosts are trapped in another dimension of time, I believe, and I believe they are lost souls, They're not demonic, but people just like you and me, just in a rotten state, where I believe they are for the purpose of making a decision to go with Jesus or with his opposition.

I don't know if Jesus dematerialized or not, so that he could pass through a door, but I would imagine he simply walked through it in another dimension and instantaneously entered our dimension. So it's all about the light.

Let's get a good look at Jesus. Not the goofy one, the mystic. And definitely not the Brad Pitt one, either, or Fabio. Remember that Jesus was someone who was depised ... because of his appearance. He was an outcast, a misfit, as he was told he would be almost eight centuries earlier by the prophet Isaiah. Jesus was told people would look upon him and reject him, want nothing to do with him. Let's see ... was that because Jesus had a third eye in his forehead or an arm growing out of his head? Because of the findings of my research, I have had to return to my former home of Ethiopia and learn things, historic things, which I had never known, did not know while I was stationed in Ethiopia in the mid-70s. And what I have found is a mosaic.

There are some really freaky passages of scripture in the Hebrew scriptures, otherwise known as the Tanakh. There are many weird things period in both the Hebrew I believe people who do not embrass their supernatural, spiritual side are going to be missing out, or will miss out, perhaps, on some interesting things coming up. I don't know what they are, or how they will manifest themselves for you or anybody else in the future, if it becomes manifest at all, but I am having spiritual experiences, and can every night if I want to, which I can only believe somebody else is going to witness. Because I'm not crazy. Do I sound crazy?

Do you think it's going to be enough if the people who will say God told them to kill ... blame the blood they have been responsible for shedding on God? ... the God whom they will say threw them a curve, or, rather, God's opposition did? God is merciful, but, well, I dunno ... good luck and God bless to all who have to wrestle with must be a gut-wrenching thing. It's no fun being an outcast, being someone whom so many people will shun and never pray for, who screwed up royally, as they say. But that, I believe, is what has happened.

In comparison to God, whom I believe is thinking atomic energy, all of it in composite form, the illumined human being is a lightning bug compared to the sun. How's that for hyperbole. Hey, I'm not your average Christian, whatever that is.

I'm a freak, once called a baby killer in an airport, when I had been in Ethiopia passing out some change for beggars to get some tea and a hard roll. Baby helper would have been more accurate, but because I had short hair in those days ... and people loathed the military, I felt the animosity ... even more so when I got out, because then I had to try to find work.

So God ... atomic energy, all things, including reality itself. My guess. That's how he answers prayer, I think. I would call him Sparky, but I don't know him that well. Remember, I can say these things because I am a freak, I have been unconscious and conscious and seen the other side. I have had and am having things happening around me even now. If I'm right, that everyone is going to share in these types of experiences, then I won't be crazy. I hope I'm right ...and that none of ye ever has the stiff wind up his nose.

Don't Vote For Any Christian Satanists, If You Don't Mind

2008-06-29T19:18:00.007-04:00

One of the beauties of life is that everyone is a unique individual, no two people are alike. But none of us is ever so unique that we don't look something like our parents. (Not too unique that we don't all look like cannon fodder to someone who took an oath to protect us.) It's a very fine line to walk -- which, frankly, still causes me to be incredulous that he has gotten away with it. A Christian satanist. Do you think there could ever really be such a thing? Sounds like being thrown into a black hole, if you ask me -- a paradox which would not compute and cancel itself out.

I wonder what the first primates thought when suddenly one of their babies began to look a little, well ... humanish. Well, dang, the father and husband primate would say, what the hell's been goin' on Beulah?

To which Beulah would reply, Don't look at me ... it's just in my genes.

To which the the father and husband would said, That's what I'm a'talkin' about.

I'm a frustrated comedy writer, in case you're wondering. It is a hobby of mine, probably an annoying hobby, which is to practice writing set-up lines and punchlines, and to do it right in the middle of an essay or poem. And why, because you are a guinea pig. Although I love you as a fellow human being, whoever you are. This is my sandbox for polishing certain projects. I figure I might as well let people read what I'm doing as I'm doing things in sections while I'm doing it. It keeps me on my toes, although the Googles analytics show that this sandbox of mine called "Magdala is in Ethiopia; and Mary Magdalene Never Existed" has not registered a single hit, ever. Zero, goose eggs. Zilch. Even though I have reasons to be suspicious. There's a Dr. Web out there who knows what I'm talking about.

But, I digress, which is my privilege, because blogging and sending email are little more than writing a note on a paper airplane and sending it flying to Peggy Sue, if you think about it. The Internet is alive and well-ish, I guess. Some folks are making money, which is what will keep it alive ... until THEY decide differently.

Who is they? Or rather THEY? Creatures I have met, I feel pretty sure, which exist in real time, and are not figments of your imagination. Or mine. You can't have a figment of your imagination on your own, I am convinced. And, of course, there was a reason for my supernatural fun house I found in my bedroom every night for six months to a year. And me doing this, whatever this is, is the wondrous result. Regurgitation. Therapy. A way to kill half a day. Kind of a cheap carnival in your face, whenever you want it ... unless the hackers are winging you.

Once more, digression for which I apologize ... but I don't really care. You think I care? I don't know anything about you, whoever you are reading this, although there are none of you. Not on Blogspot. We'll take this, with Janet's help, over to TANATA later on, where it's a hot place. You dig?

Of course, when writing a script, a screenplay, you're focused on nothing but dialogue at first, I think, if you're any good. Action sells, but dialogue is what makes a great film great.

Is that a fact?

Yeah. Oh, yeah, and I happen to be schizophrenic, and I have rapid mood changes, not as badly with medication, and sort of multiple adapting personalities, which I had never thought was all that uncommon, until my psychosis because the focus of a church sting. They were sure that I was as weird as I was because of sin. I looked guilty, when I had the least reason to feel guilty between them and myself -- them being preachers and Christian businessmen with whom I had worked. They revealed themselves out of their reckless stupidity to be struggling more with their faith than I was with mine. It was a table turner for sure when these fellows discovered that what made me weird, as I revisited my past after 9/11 and rediscovered, was my military experiences, which included a beating and significant concussion, after kissing the pavement with my forehead. I'd never been knocked out before. I was in a coma for a week. I recall when I finally came to ... that while I was back ... something was different. My thoughts did not go as deep. I couldn't think abstractly as I once had, and I was suffering on top of that with crippling panic attacks that came streaking at me from out of nowhere.

And I played around with that for 20 years, off and on. Am I crazy? Do I seem it? I am clinically 100 percent psychologically disabled, according to the state of Tennessee and the federal governments, for which I receive disability checks, praise God in the highest. Had it not been for that help coming in when it did, I'd have lost everything, because the stress was starting to wear me down, and the kids didn't want to, nor should they have to watch me as I worked it out. They all came through with flying colors after my nervous breakdown and finally begin diagnoses with loss of brain capacity. So why am I still here, and why do I write lucidly, at least? It is by the grace of God and my awareness that the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob is God that I am made new everyday when I wake up. Those doesn't mean I'm not aging. I'm 54. But hope when you have had none and loving what you do, which is research and writing, is a wonderful thing indeed.

And every person, every individual, is entitled to know that feeling because God made it possible for that person to be born. Anyone who robs another person's hope ... is asking for it.

Because I busted my ass when I got out of the service to make something of myself after first getting a college education, I learned a lot, but had no interpersonal skills to make a lot of what I learned; but, I did okay for a while. I overstudied, fearing that I would fail and my past would have won. But I got two and a half degrees, the latter one being half of a graduate degree in Christian counseling, a program which I never finished. I worked as a journalist at two daily newspapers ... and excelled. At least far beyond my expectations. I was deliriously, unrealistically happy. While, at the same time, my debt was growing on account of my meager salary and that of my wife, who was a nurse. Raising two kids in a wealthy and wealth conscious community like Chattanooga and the two mountains, Signal, where I live, and Lookout, was not at all a piece of cake. In fact it contributed to my disintegration. I couldn't keep up with the Joneses ... and didn't want to.

I'd have preferred to move into a log cabin out in the sticks anyway.

Inadvertently, we tried to keep up, thinking we were just as smart as these rich folks, if not a little more so, though there are no jobs in Chattanooga, except tourism related and professionals.

I didn't run out of gas ... so much as the gas ran out of me. I'd have kept going on the fumes, after being fired from 12 jobs because while I was talented, often overqualified, I was very shy and unsociable, I suffered with obsessive behaviors on the job, to the point where I was a pinball. The Pinball Wizard. By that I mean, I just bounced from one interpersonal disaster to another. I wasn't mean, or unwilling to try, I wasn't cruel ... I just wanted to write and be left alone, so that I wouldn't have to do two things at once and blow it. And I always looked anxious to my colleagues, who noted that I was trying too hard and working too hard, but you see, if I didn't compensate in some way to have a chance of supporting a wife and a family, all that I had wanted before I was drafted ... and Susan had been my fiancee would have been unattained. And that just was fucking not going to happen. I loved too much. It has always cost me.

But now I'm new, because I understand myself, and I've been to the abyss at least twice ... it was nothing like Gandalf's experience. It is frankly too hard to describe and too chilling to try. Honestly, it left something in me ... and I do not wish to acknowledge it. But it surfaces ... and that's when I become a different person. I go from being very childlike and artistic, sensitive, to a person who would not hesitate to take out anybody if they tried to hurt one of my family. I will not hesitate. Because I was trained, albeit briefly, that if there are enemies and weapons involved and the situation gets out of control ... you match whatever your opponent is doing ... and try to do to him what he is trying to do to you. Unfortunately, none of that does you any good if a part of the Second Division Ethiopian Army ties and blindfolds you and treats you like a spy ... because, I sort of was. I was trained to be a military intelligence specialist, doing cryptography and teletype work, and field work ... in a pinch.

I had joined the Navy not to be in combat in Vietnam. I was promised a ship on the East Coast, so I could get married. Instead, I was trained stateside and shipped with a top secret clearance to the highlands of Ethiopia. A virtual Eden, in many ways, for reasons which I will explain, but a very dangerous place with civil war raging all around us, not out in the open, but house to house, guerilla warfare. Totally unexpected. Young men garroted with piano wire and killed in their sleep because of their political affiliations. Eritrea was seeking independence from Ethiopia, which would give the former province the Red Sea coast, and access to a very important and ancient seaport called Massawa, while landlocking, in effect, Ethiopia.

more to come

Talks With Hell

2008-06-29T05:36:00.009-04:00

The story I am about to tell is true, but I have changed my name to protect the innocent. You may call me the Goat Formerly Known as Scape. The irony, the sense of paradox is almost too great for me, but I have learned to live with it. It's a dilemma.

It is a crazy-man's dilemma with which I am living and dealing: if given the chance I could weave a yarn, a tale of speculative fiction which could bring tears to your eyes, but instead I am patted on the head and given a basket to weave. How ironic this is.

Allow me to use an illustration to explain. Let's say I have a friend who has had a nervous breakdown, that is, he has experienced more than his share of emotional exhaustion, more in one person's life, his life, than a normal person can biologically tolerate, with a family history of paranoid schizophrenia, to boot. His life reached the point of a major transition on November 30, 2001, the night of which there was a blue moon, only the third blue moon in the month of November since 1906. The second one in recorded modern history occurred on November 22, 1963. This story is a doozy.

This individual was born on July 21, 1953.

My friend knew and knows that he is at the end of his rope, incapable of working and supporting his family, because what caused him to have his nervous breakdown, or, rather, what it was that was the barbell that broke the camel's back, was being hired under false pretenses in a ministerial job where he believed he had finally arrived. This friend believed he had landed finally in a satisfying job with good pay in which he could serve the Lord ... only to find out that the job was a trap.

He'd always thought he was different, but didn't wish to call attention to himself. Now he knows, at the age of 48, which he was at the time these events occurred seven years ago, that he has been and he is different; and now he knows that he was not the only person who thought so. To hear the conspirators tell it, the guy acted like he was some kind of nut, or something. He acts like a disabled veteran, for Pete's sake, you know -- PTSD, post-traumatic stress syndrome, psychotic, shy, withdrawn, often depressed, clinically depressed -- and we know he's not one of those, a veteran ... so he must be a sinner.

No, he is a veteran. And I have brain chemistry which has been altered by stress and organic brain damage. For which I take medicine. Lots of it. And it works ... but for how long?

The crazy-man's dilemma is being diagnosed as crazy, after finally being isolated out on a ledge, with no one who could understand enough to help you in your darkest hour ... and so they put me away. And the crazy-man's dilemma is ... he legitimately sees real things, but because of a damaged brain, or, providential favor, or both? The latter it would seem. But because he has been diagnosed as crazy ... no one believes what he has to say. And he's the only one around who can say it. But even his own family won't help him get out his good message, but the person who has it is just ... dad ... or somebody's spouse ... and what can God want with dad? He's just an average guy. Who happens to be crazy.

As a fox.

The question is: Does the crazy man see what he sees because no one will believe him -- in other words, the mysteries are safe with him, because no one will believe him -- or does he see what he sees, that which he has providentially been permitted to see, because he has earned the right to see it? Or is he really seeing anything at all? Or is he really seeing anything?

If he is, why is he not being given better confirmation ... and why is there no one to help him distribute his message? And isn't it ironic that at one time, when he was not aware of anything about himself worth telling, when he was a journalist, that he had access to page one of a daily newspaper and contacts in the business, extending to wire services? But now has access to none of these things. It is ironic and maddening. It will cease to be the moment I hand off the baton, enabling me finally to stop running and catch my breath, perhaps, before the next part of my story begins to unfold.

So, while I am telling you this story, it is unfolding as we speak; and while it can be done, purely from an artistic perspective it is difficult to tell a story in first person, in real time, as it is occurring. And because all of these apocalyptic things are occurring, will there be an economy left within which to work, a nation, a publishing industry which has not disintegrated, not yet, so that I can have a best-selling "Chick Little Wittenberg Door experience" on a mass media scale that everyone will want to read, will need to read?

And why do I care ... why do I care as much as I do?

Now, onto what they know ... how it is that they have come to know it ... and why it is they who have been chosen to know it. This too is ironic and very paradoxical, because the most important people in the world, who believe they have been specially chosen by fate and God to lead mankind into the future, these are the ones who have been told what they most exclusively know, or believe that they know; in other words, they can tell no one, even as they are helping to carry out, as they act upon what they know. Which is the abandonment of America. You'd think someone would tell us, but those who know have been told that we cannot know, because we could not handle it as well as they, they being so damned smart.

When, in truth, they aren't -- they're corrupt ... and they have been corrupted by their own personal legacy; they've never known a time when they were not thinking falsely about themselves, when they did not feel shrewd like father and his friends, when they were not in a position of being duped. It has been their role to play in a story which has already been told, written and printed.

What the powerful elite have done is fallen into is a trap. Their out-of-sight advisors are so unusual looking -- very, being bad geneticists and transplant specialists, shall we say -- that they must lay back and wait, wait until we need their help ... and then they become ... our creators. And some of us are glad to see them, foolishly. Really, all they have really wanted all along, was a way to round us up, and control us, maybe so that they can mate with us and feed on us.

Way to go, George!

And they say, "Hey kid, come eh." And the kid goes there.

"We wanna show you somethin' that nobody knows about but you and the people who already know," the tall stranger says. "Dat is if youze want to see da ting." And the kid wants to see it. And the stranger takes the naive kid to an entrance, perhaps where it is cold and not hot, and they enter, and the stranger gives the kid a perspective like he has never had of the world ... and he is invisible. What's happened apparently is beings have found an alternate reality by going the speed of light cubed, and a little faster ... and they've showed this discovery to naive humans, a lotta power, not a lot of smarts, and the humans have said, "Which ring do I kiss first, Mr. God ... this is awesome!"

It seems awesome even when death, as in killing people, is brought into the question. Because the rich, famous, powerful and stupid go right along with the idea that, what the heck, God kills people ... why shouldn't I ... especially if he tells me face to face that I can just kill away, assassinate, do all kinds of wars and stuff. Shoot, I have God's permission. I have a hunting license guaranteed by God. Hey, what am I gonna do, argue with God?

And they've fallen for it, believing these freaks can help us, having had it explained to them that the world is in trouble with short supplies of everything, that we have to kill, so that we'll be able to survive.

And behind the backs of these people ... these demons are laughing their asses off.

By telling these people that they only need "God's help," reinforcements to turn this thing around, the dim-witted politicians and military men have gone along with it -- hand-picked no doubt ... because our enemies know just how stupid these people are. In fact, they're like children, they're childlike, naive, because they've been pampered like children all their lives. And now ... it will be their types ... which will have done us all in ... in the end.

It's dangerous to have anybody think that anyone is expendable, that life is not a gift. Not only are these people not anti-abortion, pro-life people ... but they believe in killing whole groups of babies, and their siblings and parents, they are willing to kill babies after they have grown up to become fathers and mothers themselves like over in Africa, where Americans are convinced the poor people over there are cursed. And then there are all those who have been killed wearing the uniforms of the Armed Forces, who, while courageous, were no more and no less intelligent than those who sent them off to be needlessly killed.

I lived and worked in Africa, in Ethiopia and Eritrea for a year ... and you know what, it's we who are cursed.

Our being wedded to efficiency and competition, precision, mankind providing for man ... is what made the appeal of the Babylonian gods so convincing.

Talks With Hell

2008-06-29T00:51:00.011-04:00

HEBREWS 12:1: Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us.

I have often wondered how truly corrupt people, criminals, somewhat to very guiltless people have come to be the way that they are, and whether at any point in a truly evil person's life, he or she may have had any actual, direct, physical, face to face contact with old Beetlejuice himself or herself. And I have wondered if these meetings have satisfactorily assuaged their guilt about war, murder, crime, rape etc., saying to the important questioners, perhaps:

"You understand that all is fair in love and war, don't you? Of course you do. And that whether we wish to admit it or not, we live in a jungle where the law of the jungle is ... 'the most fit survive.' Well, if we are depleting our resources ... what options do we have? We can't go on like we are.

"But, of course I'll help you. That's what we do. We're very efficient, no-nonsense, no-dissent-allowed, break a few eggs when you have to ... we're like that, and we are because we understand the world we're in ... the reality we're in. We would love to live in peace and harmony, but you can't trust the criminals, those poor, blue-collar, jackleg, no good white and black trash out there. It's dog eat dog, so you have to eat the other dogs.

"If they want to be equal, they must fight, which is what made America great. You have to fight and kill to win wars, to shape society. So, don't you worry about that. How's that? A soul? What about your soul? You're not serious. You don't know ... it goes on forever. That is, unless you'd like to hang out with us, and we'll keep you alive with whatever spare parts we need to collect. From where? Oh, anywhere.

"Otherwise ... it wouldn't be prudent."

I can imagine the conversation roughly going that way, because I have said to myself: "Okay, we have wars and assassinations, as sanctioned by some, and it would appear that 1) they make no distinction between assassination and war, and 2) they believe that the deaths of others who die in assassinations or on account of war ... that all these deaths are justified, logical ... just a fact of life, and, alas, necessary. What governs these animalistic creatures is, they say, the law of nature, the idea that natural selection, evolution are in place and functioning. These things are critical to their argument, or his or her argument. It would appear that Hitler and other Fascists with clout have had the same speech. They aren't the most evil people for nothing.

And so what we have is ... what ... existentialists? Or do we merely have liars and deceivers, who know that souls exist ... and they wish to possess it. Why? Maybe to borrow it when possible. And they also know, but don't admit, that God exists and that he is more powerful than they (otherwise they would have no opposition, which they must be aware of), and, they know it's a lie when they say they can keep alive their human accomplices indefinitely.

I'm sure to them I am an odd duck, because I am a Christian ... and that is apparent ... and it is apparent that my arguments have strength. It is apparent that I am beating down their objections with my rhetortic and my personal experiences and what has come of them.

If I have been chosen to be watched by these creatures a dimension away, these ghosts in their own world, do they hate me ... or see someone as somebody who can help them? Or a little bit of both? Do they like where they are? ... and don't want someone telling them that heaven, true heaven, exists someplace else, in a spiritual realm. And how do I know this? It was taught to me, and it feels right. My intelligence, ability to communicate, if I have any at all, these have been invested in defense of Jesus, he being a very unique man, who possesses as Adam did the blood of all races, of all cultures, of all people, as a true Everyman. And there has only ever been one ... at least in this span of time during which we have lived and in this realm within which our reality in time is physically contained.

QUESTIONS
The cloud of witnesses, it would appear, is not rooting us on, per se. They're not saints, people who have entered heaven, but people in another dimension who are watching us ... who need to make a decision, perhaps.

And are they watching from Purgatory? Hell Lite?

Do any people alive today have access to this place? Which people would you guess?

If the cloud of witnesses is the saints of heaven ... why would they be watching us? And why would we need to lay aside every weight and sin?

We believe we have seen the Watchers. They appear not to be in spiritual form, but in a dimension one step, one shift over from ours ... made possible how we don't know. They need a reason to believe that Jesus is their only hope.

But they can stay where they are ... if they choose, if they are wedded to the earth.

The Custodian

2008-06-28T23:22:00.013-04:00

FADE IN

INT. ST. MARY'S CATHOLIC CHURCH, NEW ORLEANS -- DAY

FATHER JACQUES LA FARGE, 50, the rector at St. Mary's Catholic Church in New Orleans, is strolling slowly, thoughtfully, wearing a scowl in the empty sanctuary toward the altar.

CUT TO:
We see JOSEPH MORRIS, "MOJO," 62, a church historian and custodian standing at a blackboard at the church teaching a class.

MOJO
So we have a discrepancy, here, don't we -- actually several.

STUDENT
They're piling up.

MOJO
Yes they are. Well, as we've said, the Bible, especially the New Testament, is filled with errors, only, I prefer to call them edits ... some of which are glaringly apparent.

CUT TO:
LA FARGE is standing outside a small living space, rather messy, with books everywhere. A large print of Leonardo's 'The Last Supper' has been unrolled and weighted at both ends on a table. In red chalk, someone has circled a hand gripping a knife which floats in midair behind Judas' back. We LA FARGE inspecting a custodian's closet. He pulls up a mop out of a bucket of water, sniffs it with disgust, and lets it fall back in. We see LA FARGE stroll up to the class where MOJO is teaching and stop to look in.

CUT TO:
MOJO sees LA FARGE looking in. LA FARGE continues walking. Written on the blackboard are a list of questions: "How lovable is John, the son of Zebedee?" "Was John Jesus' cousin? Is that a conflict of interest?" "Which John stands with a woman named Mary at Jesus' cross?" "Who is buried in the Virgin Mary's tomb?" A large print of Leonardo Da Vinci's painting "The Last Supper" is taped to the blackboard.

MOJO
So, if this person is Mary ... then we have only eleven male disciples. So, which of the twelve is missing?

CLASS
(in unison, monotone) John.

MOJO
Which one?

CLASS
Son of Zebedee

MOJO
Besides John the Baptist, name another John

CLASS
John Mark

MOJO
What if I told you that there may have been a thirteenth disciple, who is not present ... either? And what if I told you his name was John.

The class is completely deadpan.

BLACK STUDENT
Is that the African ... John? Boy, y'all gonna learn some shit now.

CUT TO:
BRIAN MCADAMS, 45, who is attending the class, sees LA FARGE at the doorway. When LA FARGE passes, BRIAN looks at his watch, stands up and exits the classroom.

CUT TO:
LA FARGE, outside his office, speaks to assistant rector FATHER CHAD PRINGLE, 30.

LA FARGE
What are we doing letting a custodian teach a class? And in what, pray tell?

CHAD
As I've said Father La Farge ... Mojo is not just a custodian.

LA FARGE
Says who? He's dirty, he limps ... what more can he be?

CUT TO:
BRIAN is striding toward the church's administrative offices.

CUT TO:
CHAD replies to LA FARGE

CHAD
He has several degrees, Jacques. He's a decorated veteran, Vietnam era, and, a church historian.

LA FARGE
Oh, for shit's sake, Chad! This is not a summer camp or a vacation Bible school, or whatever they call those things down south.

CHAD
Things?

LA FARGE
Yes, things, Chad! Things! Things. They make the children do arts and crafts for Jesus, or whatever.

CHAD
Oh, Vacation Bible School, yeah ... you had it right. VBS.

LA FARGE
Yeah, Vacation Bible School ... very big shit.

BRIAN
Are you Father La Farge?

LA FARGE
Do I look somebody! Dear fucking God, you scared the bee-bee Jesus out of me.

BRIAN
The B-B Jesus?

LA FARGE
The big bad Jesus ... out of me. It's a punchline for a joke. So, may I help you ...

BRIAN
You were going to teach me the difference between the Episcopal church, the Anglican church and the Catholic church and how they feel toward one another.

LA FARGE
Why, are you out on some crusade to burn Catholics at the stake?

BRIAN
I ... can't believe you just asked me that.

LA FARGE
You didn't hear it! Let it relax and float downstream.

BRIAN
Let what relax and float downstream?

LA FARGE
Why, you, you twerp! ... You big ol' twerp. Just relax. I'll ring for room service. Chad!

CUT TO:
A STUDENT with his hand raised asks MOJO a question.

STUDENT
So, you're saying that the people who actually hosted the lord's supper in Jerusalem ... were named John and Mary? And that they've been hidden ... obscured? And most likely because they were ... African? Who obscured them?

CUT TO:
LA FARGE
Well, no one's perfect. (chuckling) But I can assure you, Mr. McAdams, the Inquisitions are well in the past.

CUT TO:
MOJO answers the student's question.

MOJO
Unless the Coptic pope in Alexandria, Egypt is pulling our leg, yes, John Mark was an African, as was his mother Mary. And they hosted the last supper. John Mark would be the thirteenth disciple ... the second man named John missing from Leonardo's The Last Supper.

BRIAN
Now Constantine ... what kind of a person was he?

LA FARGE
Oh, a super guy. Without him ... we're nowhere.

CHAD
He's teaching a class on eschatology, as he has every year for the past ten years. ... There's someone here.

BRIAN steps into the reception area.

LA FARGE
What does a custodian know about the future?

BRIAN
Hi ... um, Father ... father.

CHAD
There's only one of me. May I help you?

BRIAN
I have a one o' clock appointment ... with the head ... father.

LA FARGE
Rector. Are you Mr. McAdams?

BRIAN
I am

LA FARGE
Well, come in. Thank you, Chad. ... So, you still believe you'd like to convert to Catholicism?

BRIAN
It's a fascinating, um, denomination. But, from my reading of the history books, well ... there have been some problems.

LA FARGE
Tell me about it. You don't have to work with these people. I mean ... they're okay. They're just unpredictable.

BRIAN
Mood swings and inquisitions ... a volatile situation, don't you agree?

LA FARGE
No, not entirely. Some people deserve to be punished for what they've done to the church. Disgraceful. At the time the inquisitions were going on, it was something that those societies needed. It put them on the right track.

BRIAN
I thought the Reformation did that.

LA FARGE
Fuck the Reformation! And the horse it rode in on!

BRIAN
I've learned enough. Say hello to the Mrs.

LA FARGE
Right! Give one to yours. Ta ta. As in trouble, trouble.

CHAD
As is double trouble?

LA FARGE
Shut up. Go out and look through the courtyard toward the street and see if this man is still parked there.

CHAD
Parked where?

LA FARGE
Wherever he is.

CHAD
Well he's talking to somebody.

LA FARGE
Who?

CHAD
I'd better not say.

LA FARGE
He's finished. If he isn't giving that big prick directions ... he is in so much trouble. If they're together, in league against me, I'll rip their throats out, do you hear me! Chad!

CHAD
I did until just now. Holy shit, calm down, Jacques.

LA FARGE
Don't call me that. I need a new name. A handle.

CHAD
How about Mr. Cranky?

LA FARGE
Chad!

CHAD
Mr. Grumpypants?

LA FARGE
Perfect! ... The Black Rose.

CHAD
Dusky Dawn.

LA FARGE
Get out of here, I need to think.

CHAD
About what?

LA FARGE
How I'm going to make our custodian regret the day he ever made this church his home.

CHAD
How?

LA FARGE
Alchemy.

CHAD
Voo-doo, too.

LA FARGE
Why do you hang all over me. ... Oh, now, I'm sorry. There he goes ... watch him!

CHAD
Why?

LA FARGE
I need to know his movements. Hurry, go get some!

CHAD
Some movements?

LA FARGE
Watch him! Where he goes.

CHAD
But he's sitting down.

LA FARGE
So, take a break.

... to be continued

Why Men Are Better, and Women Suck

2008-06-28T02:08:00.005-04:00

Mel Maxwell knew he was supposed to be writing something, but he couldn't remember what it was. Forgetfulness at the age of 54, which is Mel's age, is not uncommon. But Mel's forgetfulness was not due to his age, per se, but because he was ripped out of his ever-loving mind. Pondering this sentence and his circumstance, Mel proceeded to think about the terms that people use for becoming intoxicated on marijaynyua. Fucked up was one. High was another one. Loaded, stoned, toasted, fried, ripped, blasted, blitzed. Mel counted nine terms. There weren't anymore. Mel had just rattled them off. He defied anyone to come up with another term for getting intoxicated on marijuana.

Mel could be defiant when he was alone. He could get himself so worked up that he would get up a big head of steam and go running out of his apartment and go from apartment to apartment, on every floor of a five-story building, and saying when the tenant opened the door, "I defy you." Almost two days were required for Mel to get to every door of every apartment in his building, knock on the door firmly, reservedly, but loudly, and say his "piece." The reactions by the tenants ranged broadly, from drugging him, tying him up, and giving him the spanking of his life to a philosophical discussion on obsessive behaviors which led to, you guessed it, more spankings, but with the benefit of being alert and conscious. This second round of spankings facilitated insights which had been lacking during the previous thrashing. And then he began to wonder why men were so special, but hated by nearly everybody. He would never say it in mixed company, or, in unmixed company, for fear that a man would run home and tell his wife, who might come looking for him, but men had a lot more going for them than people gave them credit for. But men were noble people, the deeper of the two genders, apparent by the fact that nearly all the great poets, the great musicians, the great artists, the best orators, the most revered novelists and writers of prose were men.

Exceptions, yes. But 99.9 percent of the time guys kicked girls' asses on being the more sensitive and the more expressive when it came to expressing his love for his lady through his art. When was the last time anyone ever heard of a girl beneath a man's balcony serenading him? Or writing sonnets till your back is killing you? Women aren't moved to pine over other women, to elevate women, to put them on a pedestal and admire them. But a man will make her pine. And will pine for her and pine more for her. Women do not have the same passion in their hearts, minds and souls to pine for the female body, the delicate folds of skin, the color of a nipple, the big V, because they have all of those things, Mel mused. And they're insensitive for having lost so much blood.

And then he threw it into high gear and asked himself just what good women were if they were always being abused by men and didn't have man's depth to write poetry for his love or be in a band. Girls aren't in bands. Guys don't show up and scream for female acts, unless, of course, it's Cher. Of course, the terms men and scream are relative terms: male and screaming to one can be virtual lightyears from what another man would consider male screaming. And then he took it a step further and asked himself why women, ladies, young ladies and girls had sometimes screamed hysterically, shaking, fainting, releasing bodily fluid, which is in abundance. What statement had been made when women screamed, for instance, at the Beatles, for the Beatles. Even the thought of the Beatles made some girls scream. What a tragedy, Mel thought, for the female fans who suffered from obsessive thoughts. A girl could find herself screaming day and night.

-- Randall Carter Gray

Who Does the Projections for ill Uminotty? And Why are They So Confident This Can Go On Much Longer? Or Forever?

2008-06-27T19:45:00.008-04:00

A recent swing by the MSN game section left me very dissatisfied, like you care. Granted, it was the free stuff, the free game downloads, but all I wanted was chess. And I couldn't get it. And how long have we had this insignificant little time-killer of a game around? They could get chess in the 7th century, boy. But now? Forget it.

But do you care?

I recall a time when people did kind of care, when that kind of conversation, or this sort of insignificant conversation, was done in person, you know, neighbor to neighbor? Like da Fifties, daddy-o ... when people interacted like people. You'd see your neighbor and moan and gripe about some commercial snafu, getting "robbed blind" by some supermarket that went back up on their artichokes, and maybe my mother would invite the lady over for coffee, and they'd talk for hours about being dissatisfied with things, or not being dissatisfied, but having it better than their parents who lived during the Great Depression, about not getting the quality and the value for their dollar to which they were entitled for the investment of their hard-earned money, doggone it.

But you don't care whether I get to play chess against this love/hate relationship with a screen and speakers I have going on, do you? No. Maybe if you knew me, you would care. Well, if you don't know me ... why are you reading this? It's because you're a spaced-out, Cyber clod like I am with nothing better to do.

We won't survive the next recession, my fellow Americans. We're not strong enough to pull out of it. So, what does that mean? America is finished? A Great Depression that we'll never be able to slow down let alone have a chance of stopping is on its way? The prophets Jeremiah and John Mark describe in the prophetic books they wrote the falling of the Great Babylon -- the Hebrew scriptures agreeing with the New Testament. (Lagniapppe: Jeremiah might have been an Ethiopian, too, as was the man who pulled him out of the pit. Just as John Mark was African.) Do the big dogs know we're going to get clobbered? Have they told us what they know, all they know? Well, what do they know? They know enough to have jumped ship and gone to manufacture and sell overseas.

And how would they know? Projections? Sure ... but how else? How would ill Uminotty know things about the future more so, more in depth that we could, better than the best numbers cruncher in the world can determine and project? Well, Uminotty is illumined, right? And who would be the angel of light who would have sold these big dogs on the idea that this can go on forever around the world, if we'll just run and not feel any guilt about letting countrymen get clobbered with no warning?

Anyway, so here I am moaning and griping to you, a complete stranger, most likely, somewhere over in Timbuktu, or, you know, Australia, which is the same thing. And even if you read all of this "post toasty" also known as blog blather, you really could not care any less, could you ... you swine? I have feelings, too. I bleed. I'm not just another pair of hands, two thumbs and eight fingers here, I have a face, and I drink when I'm dry. But, so, anyway, you don't care, the person to whom I am communicating. And you know what, that bothers me, man! I mean totally! Because, like, dude, we used to sit around and talk for hours with our friends, our neighbors who weren't strangers ... so that some people begin to get a little paranoid about the people whom might be living right next door.

In other words, some bloke in Sydney, Australia knows about my beef, but the next-door neighbor might actually try to shoot me if I came onto that property to discuss freaking MSN games and how they suck.

And the ill Uminotty or the Wizard of Oz or the knights of the roundtable, take your pick, are so impressed with life today as we're living it that we just want to keep going forward ... because, damn, we're getting good at this communicating business.

No we aren't.

However, I have never learned so much, so fast in such a short amount of time. We, I do, take old Netty Belle for granted sometimes, but I'm able to access information instantaneously which I only used to wonder about as a kid. When I was growing up with the Beatles and the British Invasion, if you saw The Ed Sullivan Show when the Beatles first performed on that program ... wham, bam that was it. And it would have been unthinkable to get your hands on a copy of that telecast. So, you remembered how different and unlike Elvis that they were; they looked like they were from another planet. It was really a cultural phenomenon to see everything change so dramatically commercially, musically, in terms of fashion and what you talked about at the water cooler. Whether you liked them or or like them or never did and don't, you have to note with some amazement how their music threw pop culture in a totally new direction overnight.

And whatever they wore or said they liked to eat ... girls would go out and buy something as close to that thing as possible. If it was a pair of Beatle boots, she might even consider sleeping with them. It was the craziest thing you ever saw. And scream like banshees, as if to say what, I want some nookie so bad that I'm going to scream until I get some?

It is actually still quite baffling, mindboggling to communicate as we do over such long distances with such apparent ease. It is indeed amazing to see the advances in communications which have occurred since the days of black and white TV and the transistor radio ... with an earplug, and earwax in it. Now with blogs and email we can hook up with someone, a total stranger, and say, hey, you know what, I'm really dissatisfied with the little trip I took recently to the MSN Game Symporium, where I tried to download a simple game of Chess, which an hour later still hadn't downloaded, but an ad for Spraychel for President, Spraychel being a teeny-bopper anime ... cartoon character, of whom I have never heard in my life. There was a time when all of the cartoon characters you knew or had ever heard of you could count on two hands. Mickey Mouse, Bugs Bunny, Huckleberry Hound. Cartoons on TV were a big dea.

So Chess is apparently out, which is discouraging, and Spraychel, a Betty and Veronica sort of person with a bigger head, who is running for president, but not really, dominates the page where my chess board was supposed to be showing up any second. So, what did I do? I went out and got loaded ... and came back and grooved on Spraychel. When it began to seem like she was talking to me, I clicked outta there. So, I'm tooling around, jumping from page to page, now that I have a registry cleaner, and I come to the XBox site. And I am blown away. XBox is Microsoft's version of Playstation, which you wouldn't known unless you'd just gotten out of a cave after 10 years. So, the site is spectacular: the opening screen shows a green army man parachuting to a white surface ... and it happens over and over, and finally you to say to yourself ... once, twice maybe, but enough already. And you're supposed to guide the army man to his drop off point by clicking the mouse. A ha. I'm in superficial hell. I'm not really having fun, but I'm interacting with something, and it's better than getting hit in the face with a shovel. Or standing outside to collect all the dirty looks from the neighbors as they come out of their shells, see you, sneer, and go back inside.

And then there was this Mass Effect game, which involved codebreaking. So, having been a cryptologist at one time in the Navy, I thought, hey I'll download that and play around with it. It downloaded like a charm, and it is the first time I've seen a gadget or widget directly on the desktop, with a shadow no less. But I do everything to this thing, and there are no codes to solve, nothing spitting out at you, just a logo with a button that allows you to type as you would on a Sticky Note. And then you press buttons, and nothing happens. You don't get a code, you don't see a code, nobody's interested in decrypting any of your codes ... this box that says Mass Effect just sits there and looks at you.

At least I got somebody to look at me today ... and not sneer.

-- rcg

The Strange Case of Dr. Morono

2008-06-25T03:06:00.007-04:00

I make my living tracking people down,
And telling them the jig is up.
Exposing them for being such fools ...
To drink from evil's cup.
This case is the strangest I've ever worked:
It took me to the underground.
Led on by clues and a battered map ...
Oh, the horrors that I found!
I'll not speak yet of these foul sights ...
Nor Genesis Chapter Six ...
Nor the clues just yet that gave me hope ...
Though the unseen world is sick.
Here's where my job bites.
Here's where it gets tricky.
The AC's on the fritz.
It's sultry, hot and sticky.
I'm leaning on the window sill,
Watching time go by ...
When this perfect dame in Capri slacks
Catches my stinging eyes.
Maybe she's a vision.
May be my lucky day.
Cause this dame is comin' up.
I doubt if it's my way.
But then I hear the knock;
My heart begins to pound.
I open up my office door ...
But there's no one around.
"A ghost," I says to myself,
"Or maybe wishful thinking.
"This case of bio-madness has me on edge.
"It calls for some hard drinkin'."
The neon sign is flashing --
The theater next door.
Maybe she made a wrong turn ...
I hope too much for more.
But Madge's gettin' no younger;
She says her back is sore.
I spend too long on Google Street, she says,
"Looking for dinosaurs."
I tell her it could be worse:
Instead of dinosaurs
I could be on the vice squad
Finding and busting whores.
"You're the whore," she says. "You're no damn good.
"Come here, give me a kiss."
I tell her there are places unspeakable,
Where no morals nor love exist.
"I've lived in that world all my life.
"So what, people turn tricks."
"But these ain't people," I say to her.
"Go read Genesis six."
She laughs and stops lovemaking.
"You gettin' religious on me?"
I tell her she'd give up the holy ghost
If she saw things I must see.
"Like whores in bed with junkies?
"And pimps beatin' little girls?
"God never did anything for me ...
"But put me in this world."
I shook my head and finished ...
And told her she don't know ...
What ancient bio-science has been cooking up
With the help of Dr. Morono.
"Who the hell is Dr. Morono?
"I've heard of Dr. Moreau."
"This man I think's a pupil ...
"Of alchemy and woe ...
"The fallen angels of heaven ...
"You won't believe what's in store.
"I pray, dear Jesus, there's an ark for us ...
"So we can flee the spores."
"The spores, now what are they?
"A new band on the scene?"
"Hybrids, mutants, crossbred by evil ...
"And they're creations are mean."
Just then a knock at the door.
I swung it open wide.
Hopin' to catch a glimpse of
Whoever might try to hide.
This gorgeous dame is standing there.
She says, "Do you remember?
"The campaign to desensitize ...
"Which starts up this September?"
I tell her, yeah, I'm up on it.
She hands a note to me.
"Morono's looking for you," she said.
"Perhaps you'd better flee."
"Sister," I says, shakin' my head
"I've got assets and more ...
"I've got a network all around the world ...
"We'll be ready for this thing called Spore."
Madge jumped up ... all huffy.
"How do you know this tramp?"
Madge has the tact of a raging bull ...
Goin' to summer camp.
"My boss is Noah," she said.
"And I work in a zoo ...
"Holding together God's creation ...
"Is all that I can do."
"The days of Noah," I said to Madge.
"Go read what Jesus said."
She figures it's okay if Jesus is involved ...
And smiles and nods her head.

to be continued

The Patriot Liar

2008-06-23T16:56:00.003-04:00

With ax and hoe they carved it up
For Eden they sailed the sea
Then met a man and filled his cup
For that was all his plea

He spoke to them so eloquent
Of home so far away
And was it really common sense
To honor and obey?

A favorite of the general
Good judge of character he
He let Tom Paine seduce him
And so on Christmas Eve

The Englishman, new patriot
Spoke of the trying times
And how blood spilled as sacrifice
Turned living souls divine

The turning point, a paradox
The ragged men replied
They slipped across the Delaware
Their hearts and souls refined

The spy thought surely ... this will be the night
When they are overrun
And England she'll achieve her lofty goal
To make the world as one

To celebrate the baby's birth
Peace born in Bethlehem
The Hessians were merry to celebrate
The colonists slipped in

The blood ran freely in the snow
From throats and feet unshod
And Trenton fell to Patriots on Christmas Eve
Their battered souls for God

Painters and writers inspired
Made Washington royalty
Though he missed the spy within his ranks
And near lost liberty

Did we know there were plans
To draw us into war
Before colonials trained?
Paine's Common Sense -- the door?

A publishing sensation
The friend of Franklin he
Paid copies found in every hand and home
Of the sons of liberty

When Paine went home to England
When all his ink was dry
The war was lost, but he was paid
A traitor or a spy?

No demons in the new world ... not a weed
Till Europeans came
And brought with them the seeds and smallpox germs
Their boots and hands were blamed

Meanwhile Paine dispatched to France
To help them with their cause
To rally with his words the Third Estate
And win the Crown's applause

Instead he won a cell in Luxembourg
His head would soon be lost
But Jefferson, the statesman, intervened
And paid the scoundrel's costs

In bed with he who would have killed them
American Trinity
Washington, Franklin and Jefferson
Despite you ... liberty

And Paine who had extolled man's reason
And cursed Christ he once praised
Reconsidered that ... and died alone
No friend of liberty

We want to think the best of us
And praise these noble gents
Who courted a spy from England
While they feigned providence.

We want to think the best of us
By demi-gods inspired
An infant drew for Washington a pentagram
Naive and evil ... the patriot liar.

by Randall Carter Gray

Build Two Altars In Israel

2008-06-22T19:50:00.013-04:00

From way back, early on
The ancient ones of time
Prepared their strategies
To stage the perfect crime
To gain control of earth
To rule with iron fists
No-nonsense, work, no play
Some people call them fascists
And here's the mystery
Who thinks they can succeed?
Do corporate heads, politicos
Not see they've been deceived?
They wouldn't hear of it
They haven't and they won't
They've never tolerated:
"You can't do that or don't."
They live in ivory towers
They have contempt for men
They think that they were born to lead
That they're immune to sin
They've never missed a meal
They're at the gym at dawn
Hard bodies, fit and lean
What are they leaning on?
Death, the equalizer,
Ought to humble us
Have powerful men been told
By their personal Jesus
Who's white and not "some black"
That they will never die
Because we have spare parts
To which we say, go take a day
Behold the most foul art
See what you will be
If you become like them
Half animal, half man
There's Jesus, turn to him
The rich cannot abide
They cannot tolerate
Most notably the Europeans
Us folks they love to hate
American successes
The Christian blather, too
They can't endure another minute
The faith of me and you
The false humility
The crazy histronics
Hypocrisy is all they see
Their need to blame is chronic
Who do the miserable hate
Why do they need to shame
The happy, prosperous Christians
Jews always get the blame
Our chosenness repulsive
They think we make this up
They think their god is God
They've got blood in a cup
They must think Jesus special
In the brotherhood
Or they would not want Jesus' blood
Of course, it's done no good
They've tried to make a master race
Superior bio-freaks
Postmodern Frankensteins
Are their legs going weak?
Is what they've tried to hatch
Just melting in their hands
Yes, cloning is quite real
But makes just half a man
Without the living spirit
Clones live but just a while
Not like life given to us
They never learn to smile
Made in their creators' likenesses
They're searching for alternatives
Another way to grow
Becomes imperative
So, enlightened, in the know
They look at their projections
And travel back in time
They might have met Ben Franklin
Just raised up from the slime
The future, yes, looks bleak
And so what do we do?
Their god, a killer, a murderer,
Said let me talk to you:
"You see the death around you
"You see what God has done
"He's good and evil both
"The great unreliable one
"To make the future happen
"Listen to what we say
"We've got to weed some people out
"To reach our brand new day
"So we'll plan wars, you fight them
"We'll pick who to elect
"And help wipe out the blacks and Jews
"Sub-human, grotesque insects."
That combo's found in Jesus
He's African by blood
And he'll save every nation
An ark above the flood
Who wrote these words of Jesus
Who made this analogy
Not Peter, but another
Whom they've hidden from you and me
If their ways are the best
Let's put it side by side
And put gods to the test
Two bulls we could divide
The way Elijah did
When he took on the Baals
Each side built up an altar
The Baals began to wail
They cried out to their gods
They begged and beat their chests
To burn the prophets' altar
And show which god's the best
One minute went by, ten
Ten more ... then twenty more
And Elijah turned to them and said,
"Maybe your god's doing chores,
"Perhaps your god is sleeping,
"Let's try to wake him up.
"Perhaps he's running late
"Or drunk from too much cup."
Elijah's face grew stern ...
As he turned away from them
The skies began to boil
The sun's light grew quite dim
And then maybe Elijah winked
Perhaps he turned and smiled
As he instructed his helpers
To dig around the pile
To dig a trench around it
A trench dug like a ring
And fill the trench with water
"Step back ... behold this thing."
And fire came from heaven
Not manmade torches, flames
But the sum of atomic energy
Toward the place it came
And burned the sacrifice
On the altar in short order
And turned the wood to ashes
And even licked up the water.
Our enemy's a killer
To killers he appeals
And surely has impressed them
They've made a rotten deal
Appealing to their hate and pride
And their contempt for men
Their god has preached deficiency
Is worst of all the sins
And so the powerful have blamed
The consumers who consume
Who've made these people rich
Now the elitists want more room
They'll kill the sons of God
Or try most mightily
But humble men belong to God
When they die, they're set free
Pollution, economic ruin
We see what we've become
And they blame the consumers
For all the bad they've done
Their god has used the oldest trick
And whispered in their ears
And filled their hearts with hatred
But soon they're filled with fear
There's one way out ... it's Jesus
The Godman ... Everyman
If they're up to the challenge
Let's do the thing again
Winner take all in a showdown
Round up your strongest men
And build two altars in Israel
We'll stand there foes not friends
We'll do the thing in the same place
Mt. Carmel, as before
And take turns calling God
Then tally up the score.

-- rcg

The Torturous Life of a Successful Comic Genius

2008-06-22T18:37:00.007-04:00

The last thing in the world Joey Migliori wanted to be was a damn stand-up comedian. He hated stand-up comedy. But he was good at it. The owner of one the clubs where Joey headlined and entertained standing-room-only crowds took the young very reluctant, but brilliantly funny comic aside one night after a show and poured him a drink. What Joey needed, Marv thought, was the "raisin extra," a reason for being, realistic thinking, meaning, purpose, none of which Joey very surprisingly seemed to have or want, though he was enormously popular and seemed all but headed for the big time. Marv started out the conversation trying to use some reverse psychology.

"You're not happy, Joey, I can tell," Marv said. "But hey, you know, let's face it ... even though your material is good, hey, so what, if that's all you have? You can't make it in this business with just a bunch of good material. You don't have what it takes."

Joey looked up from the Scotch and soda he was nursing. "Hey, you really think so?"

Marv slapped the table and laughed. "Of course, hey you can't ride forever on the great material train. Even if you're pumping out great stuff for the rest of your life ... it's only be a matter of time, you know, because, in truth, and don't take this the wrong way, but you're not a good fit. You're too funny. You don't have what it takes to be in this business."

"But people seem to like it," Joey said. "I mean, I'm makin' 'em laugh, even all the people who have to stand up in the back."

"Hey, what do they know? They don't even know how to be somewhere on time to get a table. I get people like that all the time ... and they slip me a hundred bucks or so to get in. Fuckin' assholes ... I hate doin' business with people like that."

"Yeah, a hundred bucks is a lot of money," Joey agreed.

"A hundred miserable headaches," Marv said. "Joey, do what you love doing. Do what you do best. Do what makes you a miserable, low-life piece of shit."

"I can't do anything but this," Joey said, with exasperation, bordering on panic. "People are paying their money to come and see me, you know? And you offered me a raise, if I would do two more shows a week. ... God, it's killing me. I hate this point in my life ... starting out happy and beloved. It sucks."

"Tell me about it," Marv said. "And what's money? So I'll take some away. What's money? You spend it ... it's gone. And the whaddya got?"

"A lot of nothin' ... well, maybe a car?"

"Death traps," Marv said, standing up and patting Joey on the shoulder. "With the price of gasoline, and, as fat as people are gettin' because they don't walk anymore ... whaddya need all that for? You're dead before you know it with a lot of money. You think about it, kid. But ... being dead does have a certain appeal to it."

"Okay." Joey looked hopeful, but his expression soured as soon as Marv walked away whistling. "Yeah it does."

A man in a dark pin-striped suit sitting in the next booth, spun around and introduced himself once Marv was out of earshot.

"Hey, Joey, how ya doin'," the man said, getting up on his knees and twisting awkwardly to extend his hand to Joey. "Man, I'm one of your biggest fans."

"Look, mister," Joey said, an irritated tone in his voice, "I'm having a bad day, okay? So if you'll just, you know, make like a speedster on third base and go home, I'd appreciate it."

The man in the pin-striped suit jumped out of the booth laughing, which caused Joey to look up in disgust. "Really," Joey said, "don't make me call Marv ... or the cops."

"What's the matter, Pal?" the man in the suit said. "You look like your world is coming to an end."

"Thanks," Joey said. "This is the best I've felt all week."

The man in the suit was perplexed, but after eavesdropping on the previous conversation, he was beginning, he thought, to understand what was going on here. "Hey, kid, you don't suffer from stage fright, do you?"

"What do you care?" Joey said caustically. "The only thing I'm afraid of is true happiness. I promised my dying father on his death bed that I would do my best, try to do everything I could not to be happy."

The man in the suit reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. "What did you old man do, Joey?" The man in the suit tried to twist his face into a grim and foreboding mask of despair.

"Mr. Paradox," Joey said. "He was a Vaudeville entertainer, an insult comic, and he used to take me on the road. I sit back stage and listen to all the other performers, you know, practicing their acts. A lot of 'em were comedians, and my father hated them. He said people who did comedy, straight, legitimate comedy, ought to be the most hated people in the world." Joey began to tear up. "I feel like a whore everytime I got out there ... and get people rolling in the aisles."

The man in the suit rubbed his chin. "Yeah, that's a pretty low and slutty, pardon my French, thing to do. Have you given any thought to what you might like to do with your life?"

"Either a mortician ... or a sparring partner."

"What else?"

"Well, since I come from an entertainment background," Joey said, "as much as I detest it ... I thought I might get all the necessary surgery so I could apply for a job as a freak at a carnival. Those people always look so sad, miserable really. The bastards."

"Tell you what," the man in the suit said, "you come to my club and put yourself through the agony of doing stand-up comedy for me ... hey, everybody has to take the bad with the good ... and I'll pay for that operation. Whatever you want? You want your arms goin' around here, and your legs goin' up like this here ... you name it."

"I've really been giving a lot of thought to something like Turtle Boy, you know," Joey said finishing his drink. "I'll think about it."

"Well, don't think too long," the man in the suit said, handing Joey his business card, "I got people lined up at my place to become as deformed as the best of them."

"Yeah, well," Joey replied. "It would be just my luck. I probably end up making people laugh and making a lot of money ... and you'll have just fucked me up the ass. Again with the old shafteroonie."

"Nah," the man in the suit said, "I want fuck your ass ... I'll fuck up your whole life."

Joey looked like he was about to cry. "Man, mister, that would be great."

what has good material done for anybody in this business? So, you know, move onto something else. Go flip hamburgers, for Pete's sake. It'll be a big cut in pay, but you'll be doing what you want

You're not comedy material. You're not cut out for ityou don't really have want it takes really you make everyone happy around you. Hey, that's not the greatest thing in the world, though. You could have people trying to kick your ass ... instead of laughing at you."

Joey nodded. "So you understand? Maybe you don't feel the same way, but happy people give me the creeps. But I gotta eat."

Marv grabbed a bottle of whisky on a nearby table and two glasses at the bar. "No, I understand. A clown's life is a tortured life. Comedy comes out of pain. So, in a way you're in the pain business. The people who come in are in pain, you're in pain. I'm in pain, because you're in pain. And my wife ... is a pain in the ass."

Joey was suddenly thoughtful. "Did you ever wonder where that expression came from, Marv? Pain in the ass? Were they thinking about Thomas Paine poking people with his cane ... or that someone had a window installed in their butt?"

Marv exploded in laughter, unintentionally spewing whisky from his mouth all over the people seated at the next table. "God, kid, you're killin' me. You're a riot. You can't help it if you're funny. It's a gift. It comes naturally ... and you got it, baby."

Joey looked over at the people at the next table, expecting them to be angry enough to fight, but they were all laughing, too. In another moment, they were getting Joey's audience, and one beautiful female lingered, and asked if she could by Joey a drink.

"Hey, I got a bottle right here, on the house. You don't have to buy me a drink, I'll give you a free one."

The beautiful woman erupted in hysterical laughter and leaned back in her chair. She was laughing so hard, as was everyone else within twenty feet, that she fell over backwards, hitting her head on the bar, which knocked her out cold.

"Now I'm killing people," he said deeply concerned for the injured woman. "I'm killin' 'em, Marv." Marv was laughing so hard, as were nearly all of the people in the club, that no one paid any attention to the woman, which deeply upset Joey.

"That's the idea, my friend," Marv said trying to catch his breath, holding his side. "You kill 'em every night."

"Well, I don't want to kill 'em, kill 'em," Joey said, with the entire club hanging on every word, poised to scream with hystical laughter as soon as he completed his thought. "I don't even want to kill 'em."

The place was bedlam. People were having so much fun at Joey's expense, that they began clapping in unison for him to take the stage and do some more comedy. "Take the stage! Take the stage! Take the stage!" about 200 people were shouting as one.

Everything I say just turns out funny. I can't have a conversation without cracking up the person I'm talking to.

Dem Bones Ain't Mark's Bones! By Randall Carter Gray; Why would Rome lie?

2008-06-22T02:33:00.010-04:00

Dem Bones Ain't Mark's Bones
Dem bones, dem bones ain't Mark's bones
Dat boy's not martyr, dat's known
Dat's known by the liars ... in Rome
Now hear the word of the Lord:

9 Do your best to come to me quickly, 10 for Demas, because he loved this world, has deserted me and has gone to Thessalonica. Crescens has gone to Galatia, and Titus to Dalmatia. 11 Only Luke is with me. Get Mark and bring him with you, because he is helpful to me in my ministry. 12 I sent Tychicus to Ephesus. 13 When you come, bring the cloak that I left with Carpus at Troas, and my scrolls, especially the parchments. 2 Timothy 4.9,11

If St. Mark was martyred in Alexandria, what is he doing somewhere between Ephesus and Rome when Paul tells Timothy to bring Mark with Timothy when he returns to Rome? And who would lie about such a thing? John Mark was an African, and, apparently, Rome doesn't want the disciple whom Jesus loved to be an African. Well, tough shit, boys. It is what it is: John Mark wrote Mark's Gospel, and John's and the Revelation, perhaps also 1 and 2 Peter (in classical Greek), and maybe the letter to the Hebrews, as well as the Johannine epistles. The story below is bogus ... because the remains in box brought from Rome to Alexandria, Egypt are provably, definitively NOT the bones of John Mark. John Mark ended up on Patmos and in Ephesus. Why have John Mark and his mother Mary been hidden, when it was they who stood at the foot of Jesus' cross?

The Return of the Relics of the Great St. Mark to the New St. Mark Cathedral.

On this day, of the year 1684 A.M., that coincided with Monday the 24th of June, 1968 A.D., and in the tenth year of the papacy of Pope Kyrillos the Sixth, 116th Pope of Alexandria, the relics of the great saint, the beholder of God, St. Mark the Apostle, the Evangelist of the Egyptian land and the first Patriarch of Alexandria, were returned to Egypt. Pope Kyrillos had delegated an official delegation to travel to Rome to receive the relics of St. Mark the Apostle from Pope Paul VI. The papal delegation consisted of ten metropolitans and bishops, seven of them were Coptic and three Ethiopians, and three of the prominent Coptic lay leaders.

The Alexandrian delegation received the relics of St. Mark the Apostle on Saturday the 22nd of June, 1968 A.D. from Pope Paul VI. The moment of handing over the holy relics, after eleven centuries, during which the body of St. Mark was kept in the city of Venice, in Italy, was a solemn and joyful moment. The next day, Sunday 16th of Baounah (June 23rd), the Alexandrian Papal delegation celebrated a festive pontifical liturgy in the church of St. Athanasius the Apostolic in Rome. The ten metropolitans, bishops, and the priests accompanying the delegation, all served in the liturgy. Members of the Roman Papal delegation, the Copts who accompanied the Delegation, and those who lived in Rome, newspaper and news agency reporters, and many foreign dignitaries attended the liturgy.

The Alexandrian Papal delegation carrying the holy relics, on Monday the 24th of June, 1968 A.D., went to the airport in an official procession, preceded by the motorcycles and police escort.

They boarded a plane which came especially from Cairo. The plane arrived at Cairo airport at ten thirty P.M. of the same day. Awaiting the arrival of the relics were, Pope Kyrillos the Sixth, Mari Ignatius Yacoub, the Antiochian Patriarch for the Syrian Orthodox, a great number of coptic and foreign bishops, the head of various denominations and religions, Egyptian and foreign, and thousands of the Egyptian masses, Christian and Moslems. They sang and chanted enjoyable religious songs, waiting for the arrival of the plane.

When the plane landed, H.H. Pope Kyrillos went up the stairs of the aircraft, and received the precious box that contained the relics of St. Mark the Apostle, from the head of the delegation. Many, and especially those who were in the balcony of the airport, at this particular moment, saw three white doves flying over the aircraft. Since pigeons do not fly during the night, these were not ordinary pigeons. Perhaps, it was the spirits of the saints welcoming the relics of the great St. Mark. It is worthy to note also that the plane was suppose to arrive at five o'clock but it was delayed for no apparent reason till it was dark. Perhaps also, it was just for the spectators to witness and see these flying doves.

The Pope disembarked the aircraft carrying the box on his shoulder in the middle of the chanting and singing of the deacons, followed by a tremendous procession of thousands chanting with the deacons in joy and jubilation. The head of the Roman Papal delegation, Cardinal Doval, Cardinal of Algeria, was amazed by this tremendous religious rally. He also expressed that he was deeply touched by the devoutness of the Copts and their great honor and veneration for St. Mark. He said that what he saw far exceeded his expectations, especially that the masses had to wait from five o'clock P.M., the expected time of arrival of the aircraft, till ten thirty or even later.

Pope Kyrillos returned to the old St. Mark Cathedral in El-Azbakiah with the box of the relics. He placed the box on top of the main altar which was consecrated in the name of St. Mark the Apostle. The box remained there till the third day of its arrival, when the Pope carried it to the new St. Mark Cathedral in its inauguration.

"Flake" synopsis

2008-06-21T18:40:00.005-04:00

Cole Porter Woodall, 54, hasn't pitched competitively since he was 25, but lately he has been waking up in his Tarrytown, New York apartment with his right arm feeling like he has just pitched nine innings of baseball. This confusing development adds yet another wrinkle to an already troubled marriage ravaged by Cole's drastic mood swings. A man who has been in a coma twice in his life, Cole was at one time a blue-chip baseball prospect until a beaning in a college game shattered his skull and his promising future. Formerly an amnesiac, now Cole is a narcoleptic, which his soon-to-be ex-wife, the former soon to be once again Claire Morganstern, believes is related to his sore arm in the morning. When unusual inquiries for Cole begin arriving by mail, phone and email, Claire believes Cole is leading some kind of double life involving paranormal phenomena. But pitching?

Because the couple's marriage is on the skids, Claire doesn't hang around Cole's new apartment, nor does she sleep with him anymore, which she is considering doing only to observe her soon to be ex-husband so that he doesn't hurt himself. What she discovers about his past, Cole's mother's past, and Cole's mysterious biological father, whom Cole never knew, stuns Claire so badly she hires a second therapist. Then Claire finds steel balls, large ball bearings, the size of a small tennis ball in a satchel in the old barn of their former home. The satchel bears the logo of the New York Yankees, the team for which the former Jesuit ministerial student at Fordham would have pitched had he not been injured.

Cole's failed attempts to become a priest have finally sent him into early retirement. Cole's hobbies vary, because of his keen intelligence, but he most enjoys playing the banjo, driving his model trains and lately planning trips South to research his distant Native American roots and visit Virginia and Tennessee where he lived for brief periods with his mother as a youth. Claire decides to put off the divorce, take two weeks vacation from her job in New York City ... and accompany her husband south to find out what the fuck is going on. When Claire meets an unusual young man who is an assistant to her husband, whom Cole swears he does not know, Claire isn't sure she wants to know what the fuck is going on. As it turns out, Claire discovers that Cole and his young assistant are on their way to becoming heroes, but not before she experiences the supernatural, otherworldly scare of her life, involving, of all things, the things she hates most in the whole world ... puppets!

"Aa, they're a distraction don't pay any attention to them," says Cole of the puppets given to him which appear to have come alive.

"Well, fuck yeah they're a distraction," Claire responds, her hands shaking. "Did you marry me to satisfy some weird urge to make people become like you?"

"No, but some pet owners end up looking like their pets."

"We're not talking about happy, playful little frisky puppies, Cole," Claire says on the verge of screaming. "We're talking about pieces of freaking wood and string coming alive! I wouldn't call that a distraction, Cole. That sounds like to me two people sharing a fucking nervous breakdown."

Cole shook his head, holding up his banjo next to his ear and plucking a string. "That's just it, puddin'. They puppets aren't alive."

"I saw one on the toilet this morning," Claire said. "And ... the little freaky bastard waved at me."

"How did he wave without falling in?"

Claire was searching her pocketbook, looking for her pills. "Dr. Matthews told me that I don't have to even help you, though you need it ... if you are freaking me the fuck out. And you know what, bupkiss? I'm hurtling out of control straight for the little window on the Twilight Zone."

"Is bupkiss a Jewish word?" Cole asked, beginning to play.

"It means nothing," Claire said. "And it's Yiddish, you putz. I think."

"If it means nothing, Claire, why are you using the word?" Cole was making a fair stab at "Foggy Mountain Breakdown."

"I going to go be sick, if you don't mind, in your bathroom, maybe all over your bed in the more haunted portion of this charming abode de la hell. But before I do ... tell me why these puppets, which are standing, not sitting, on the toilet and waving are not alive."

"The spirits in Purgatory have them."

"So, we're in Purgatory, here, in this apartment, are we, Cole? Huh, Purgatory? You don't have a number for Ghostbusters or Exorcists R Us or anything like that? Why are you not freaking out, Cole? What do you know that I don't know?"

"Shit, Claire," Cole said blowing his nose on a shirt tail. "I've been seeing this kind of thing all my life."

"You're not only a flake," said Claire, heading out the door, "You're a gold-plated one, with Flake engraved on it, with diamond studs."

"You see, you're getting paid back, sweetie ... for all the times you've tortured me. If you'll play ball with me, I'll explain everything."

"And of course playing ball with you, means ... playing with your fucking balls, right?"

"You don't have to play with them, not if you don't want to ... just love me."

"Sexually?"

"Isn't that the only kind of love?"

"If you're ... twenty-five years old."

To which Cole replied, "Well ..."

Flake

2008-06-21T16:27:00.004-04:00

Cole Porter Woodall had seen better days. His arm was killing him. His soon-to-be ex-wife, the former Claire Morganstern, the love of Cole's life, told him that she would pack his arm in ice, but that was it. Cole, a former major league prospect pitcher, a blue chipper, but a badly injured man, wants to renegotiate his marital contract.

"I'll take less ice ... and more love," Cole said one day as Claire was heading out of his newly rented apartment in Ducktown, Tennessee -- "of all places," Claire had remarked -- near Cleveland, which is thirty miles north of Chattanooga.

"Your definition of love sucks the big wiener," Claire said.

"What do you mean by that? Why did you say wiener?"

"Because that's all men are, if they aren't tormenting you."

"So, then, half of that is a compliment ... the big wiener part?"

"Your head is a big wiener. The one on your shoulders. Wiener, wiener." Claire pointed first to his head and then his crotch.

"I should be so lucky," Cole said trying to make Claire laugh.

"You should take a cold shower, Cole," Claire said turning her head and the doorknob in Cole's apartment at the same time, trying to keep him from seeing her trying not to laugh. It took her a moment to collect herself, and kick into what she called her "preservation speech": "I don't love you at this time. I can't love you, if I'm not secure. It's hard enough being a woman than to have to keep looking back over your shoulder to see if the fucking love of her life is pouncing on her at that very moment, about to go postal ..."

Cole shook his head. "I'd say if you're in mid-pounce you're already postal," Cole said. "You wouldn't be about to go postal."

Claire would have laughed at that ... had she not detected how glassy and red Cole's eyes were. He looked horrible. He had gained weight, which was driving him crazy, because he thought Claire was leaving him for a man in better shape than him -- when the truth of it was, Claire was leaving to keep from being petrified of him. It was affecting her work and her relationship with peers, which was all beginning to snowball ... and she had called "time out. You're off fucking sides, pal." Several minutes after which Cole had chased her out of the house, with her screaming "Don't you hit me. Don't you hit me, you bastard!" The neighbors, who all hated one another, including Cole and Claire, shook their heads and cursed all the way back into their own homes, and sometimes arguments would erupt there.

"You oughta call the cops ... if he's slugging that bitch," Shirley Cunningham, whom Cole thought looked like a female version of Jackie Gleason, but not that fat, said to her second husband. "I think that's just horrible. You damn men are all alike."

"Aa, go fuck yourself," had been Paul's reply.

"You fuck your own self, mister!" Shirley screamed. "You said you were going to stop cussing."

Paul was a big guy. If he had any somewhat close bond with anyone of the street, it would be with Cole, because they had sports in common. But Shirley despised the man, both of them, because the Woodall's dog, whom Cole also hated, kept relieving herself in their pristine, manicured lawn. Cole barely regularly cut the grass. Cole's days, now that he was in early retirement after so many failed attempts at having a career following his injury, were spent doing two things, three. Hanging out with his dog, Rocket, getting high, driving his model trains ... and playing the banjo. Four. His train layout in the basement of the Woodall's Tennessee Appalachian home, was a dazzling treat for the eyes. His banjo playing wasn't as dazzling. But Paul had been impressed with anybody "who could just get a sound out of the thing." Paul loved bluegrass music. And that's what Cole tried to play. That and American standards, like those written by Stephen C. Foster, whom Cole could sit and talk to you about and very likely convince you that America's first popular songwriter had been murdered.

Shirley's first husband had died somewhat brutally in a strange boating accident on nearby Chickamauga Lake.

"Hey postal is postal, Cole," Claire said. "If postal is going nutso ... you're postal at least thirty percent of the time. Ten percent is too fucking much."

"If postal is going nutso, would I like what, like dress up like a letter ... and throw myself at you?"

Claire hadn't laughed so hard and as deeply in months. Of course she loved Cole. She would always love Cole. But Cole's moods took him from overly affectionate, to the point of being vulgar, as far as Claire was concerned, to becoming disoriented and flying into an explosive rage, during which anything in his path was as good as smithereens. Unless it's made out of metal, like some contemporary coffee tables are, with the angular steel and glass. That raging episode put Cole in the hospital for two weeks, where they sewed him up, having taken the shard of glass out of his leg, with nearly 100 stitches, and then opened him back up when the infection set in.

Despite his doctor heavily dosing him with antibiotics to stave off the deadly staph infection, Cole was sick enough with a high enough fever to be on the verge of going into shock and a coma. His respirations slowed dangerously. When Claire took his hand, within hours Cole began to make a remarkable recovery, but they kept him three days more to be sure the infection was gone after he'd had his best day in a week. Obviously, Claire was torn, good half Jewish girl that she is, and half the time wanted to run into Cole's arms like in a movie, which would only result in more blood, as Claire reflected to her girlfriends, while the other half would rather spend the day punishing herself. Or her vocal chords. She claims she learned her screaming fits from Cole. To which Cole had replied:

"We both brought the screaming mimis from our dysfunctional families when we entered into holy matrimony, so what you're saying is that I damaged your damaged goods?"

"Damage this," Claire had said, flipping Cole off.

Cole did an up yours sign which he knew had pain written all over it as his left hand raced down to his throbbing right bicep and shoulder. The howl, which she was used to from Cple's younger days, was not anything she expected or wanted to hear. Cole would be 55 this coming summer, and over and above any arm or leg problems was the head injury which happened when she and Cole were in college. He at Fordham University in New York, she at UCLA in Berkley. She was at the game, or arriving, when Cole's most intense competitor going all the way back to grammar school in Santa Fe, New Mexico threw a fast ball up and in, which caught a distracted Cole squarely in the left temple. Cole was in a coma for six months ... and remembers having a second life in heaven in little bursts. Some of what he saw wasn't pretty. Some of it was magnificently beautiful beyond description. But Cole survived. He fought back. He had a slot waiting for him with the New York Yankees as soon as he graduated college, where Cole studied to be a priest.

The pitcher of the ball is probably not as important as his father and his family. They were Yalies. And boners. And were staunchly competitive, to the point of all-out brawls, where one would be laying for the other all the time, for a time. They hated each other. Their families hated one another, although Cole's had been slimmed down considerably once he was old enough to pitch at 12. His mother Patsy, a former model, was a middle-aged Hispanic woman, at one time beautiful, now poisoning herself with alcohol. Her years in New York as a model took their toll on her. She named her son after the real Cole Porter, when the frail and enormously talented man had intervened at a party he was throwing in his New York apartment to keep a group of men from gang raping her. However, the third man had already finished, and the fourth was unzipping his pants when Mr. Porter burst into his own bedroom. He found four men holding her down, and she had been blindfolded and gagged. When she discovered she was pregnant, she moved to Virginia and then back to Santa Fe, never knowing with any certainty who her son Cole had been fathered by, though she knew well enough, but had promised herself and made her live-in friend Sadie promise too never to tell Cole who his real father was. As far as Cole knew, his father had been a Broadway producer.

Who Put All Those Things In Your Head?

2008-06-21T09:01:00.009-04:00

by Randall Carter Gray

Asmara, true to its nickname "island in the clouds," is too beautiful to bomb. Thankfully this jewel in the Horn of East Africa remains intact, no worse for wear or civil war, having been graciously spared in bombing raids over Eritrea by the Ethiopian air force several decades ago. Destroying even a portion of this charming, Italian-flavored, most unique East African city in the Ethiopian Highlands may have hastened the war's end and probably given Ethiopia victory over the separatists. But some wise Ethiopian warrior put Asmara's beauty above winning the civil war and punishing the Eritrean rebels and the innocent civilians who called Asmara home.

Would that all wars, if they have to be fought at all, could be led by gracious warriors and statesmen, patriots, lovers of freedom who know the true source of light and love. That grace doesn't exist in Washington, D.C. anymore, if it ever did. The closest it may ever have come in modern history occurred during the Eisenhower administration and the one that immediately followed, both led by gracious warriors, who were themselves heroes in combat, who knew what it was to suffer mentally and physically on behalf of this country.

With the exception of Presidents Carter and Reagan, in our view, all the rest and those henceforth have been and will be bad eggs. Ignorant. Greedy. Insensitive. Graceless. Godless. That's not to say that these leaders don't have a god, because they do, the have, and I suspect they've met him, that they've gone to where he resides in this world, and they've been impressed with what he has showed them in another dimension right beside ours. In view of this, it is worth remembering that when Jesus was taken up to great heights and shown the same things, he told the devil, in effect, to get the fuck out of his face.

Today Asmara is the capital of neighboring Eritrea, which won its independence in 1993 after 32 years of fighting between Ethiopian troops and Muslim-backed Eritrean rebels. But it is a tenuous peace. Who knows what the future holds for this place shaped by the distinctive architectural lines and curves of Italian art deco of the 1920s? Who knows if the efforts by "united nations" will be backed by a scorched earth policy at some point, and one of the most beautiful cities in all of Africa, if not the world, will be lost. It isn't beyond people who don't recognize beauty, or cherish it along with truth and love, to destroy everything in an attempt to start again.

But, of course, many of us believe that this maniacal approach to build up by destroying and to achieve peace through war will take us back to a point of starting again, back to the beginning. But neither these men nor their god will be part of this new world to come, which we believe will originate where it did before, in the beginning ... Eden ... somewhere in Ethiopia.
Until then, we must remember the many who have died, and we must prevent more from being injured, from dying from neglect, attrition and deceit, as "united nations" from Europe, China, Japan and America pretend to be helping the most impoverished and most populous nation in Africa, even as they are pouring poison into the soup they're serving. This is not a conclusion I would ever have reached -- that the West wants the land of Ethiopia and Eritrea even if it means methodically and steathily killing their people -- had it not been for two stories which came out of Libya and Chad in the past four or five years: in one case, six nurses from Bulgaria and a Palestinian doctor were caught injecting Libyan babies with the HIV virus. They got to 400 babies, over fifty died, who knows how many more will. Their explanation ... they wanted to find a cure.

They did jail time, and they were sentence to death. But the French president, his ex-wife, and this current president who mocked a woman in Texas as she pleaded not to be executed, worked a deal, involving big money and technology, to get these killers of African babies a get-out-of-jail-free card, when they had been tried and sentenced to death. Ghadafy caved, which is not surprising. The case in Chad -- and these cannot possibly be isolated -- involved a French "charity" called quaintly enough Zoe's Ark. The ark these followers of Zoe built was not for the purpose of saving children ... but stealing them. The children were dressed up to be disguised as wounded refugees, victims of war, so they could be loaded more efficiently onto waiting airliners. Zoe's people said they thought they were orphans. None were.

A trip around Paris, perhaps, was what laid in store for these children from Chad, do you think? Scholarships and a good education, put on a track to professionally and intellectually succeed? Hell no. A liar is hiding something. And when that is the case, somebody's gonna get hurt. Period. What we can speculate on if we want to is what can we imagine would have eventually happened with fifteen children from Chad, a place which is predominately black. Slaves? And what happens to slaves? Anything that the slaveowner wishes to happen. Maybe a trip around Paris. Maybe a trip to hell.

These sorts of people who believe they are building a new world order by destroying a vital part of God's world have been tricked by the god of this world, an angel of illumination, that this is an acceptable way to treat human populations -- like animal populations which must be thinned out, like overgrown herds of elephants or deer, to make room for progress. Or to intervene according to the law of the Jungle. George H. W. Bush is a goddam liar. He said in his famous "New World Order" speech on TV that the NWO would eliminate "the law of the jungle," out there, that ... thing" (italics mine). When the truth is ... natural selection, the law of the jungle, treating people like animals ... this is precisely what these elitists intend to do. According to whose plan, would you say or guess? My arch enemy and yours. How do I know that we have such an arch enemy. ... I have met him not in the flesh ... but in a spiritual, supernatural form ... as a child. Beyond that ... I have little to no recollection of this event or series of events. I experienced night terrors for, it felt like, a year or more when I was 5 and 6 years old.

When I would sleep with my mother, I would tell her that the terrors were beginning. And she would say, "Close your eyes." And I would say, "They are closed." ... In the darkest part of the room they would begin to emerge, and one by one they would enter and come right up to my face ... and scare the living buckets of perspiration out of me, which left my bedsheets, pillow case and pajamas saturated. Not only was it hard to sleep at night ... it was hell in school the next day after one of these events. I tried to get it, that which I could, but math, algebra and geometry, later in life, simply math earlier, has always just not computed. It does now. I'm about to be 55 years old. I went through twenty years of my adult life after being discharged from the Navy after two and a half years, which included being injured on active duty, a brain incident, off and on convinced that death was imminent, and my heart would explode any minute. Morbid thoughts. Very. Doom and despair, remorse and anxiety, And I would walk and talk to God. And I would reason with him. He had to exist, or I had no hope. None. Zip. Does he?

I can't say I don't know. But I wouldn't know how to begin to describe him, except to say that he is reality. We are the players, and he is the stage, props, set, everything else, in minute detail. Atomic. And so, God is the earth, in effect, as he is everything else in the universe, at once. That's a lot of atoms. Of course I can't even begin to fucking count them, let alone divide or multiply them, or find the unknown whatever. I think I tried to catch up on my sleep in math class, because it didn't interest me ... and I needed some freaking sleep. I wouldn't say I was sick, but that I was just sleepy.

And that continued throughout my life into high school. When it came time for math, I slept. Or I didn't pay it any mind. I'd do something else. Because when I did apply myself; and I mean sat down and said ... I am going to give this stuff my complete, total and absolute mental focus ... and I will even go to a tutor. And I so tried to make my mind function to just get it. Do you know what I couldn't get it? I think I do: It's because I had no foundation for the progressively more difficult material. And yet today, I can sometimes add in my head, and do multiplication and division faster than someone else who was pretty good in math -- which of course means jack squat, but something sunk in, because I actually enjoy math and logic ... up to a point. I can understand the concepts involved in cellular automata, a New Kind of Science, which has to do with the foundational building blocks of creation, which involves rules which do not deviate mathematically, computationally or fail to work -- no bugs, same graphic output every time -- but they are perfect rules. And do you know what the rules tell the computer to do? To simulate life occurring from the inside out by way of the placements, the graphically algorthmically the same every time placements, true or false, yes or no, black or white ... of black and white tiles. If black goes here, then white goes here. If no, then yes. If no, then no. If yes, then no. If yes, then yes.

And from this ... we get the complexity of all of the physical processes which exist in our known world. Exactly duplicative, every time the numbers or the loop by way a rules is run. And there are scads of rules. There is a rule for an oak tree leaf, a specific kind of oak tree, very precise, as it deviates from say, the leaf of a poplar. What makes each leaf special, is that you can tell one species of leaf from another, there is a constant at work, the oak leaf belongs to the oak leaf family ... but it is its own leaf. There will never be another oak leaf which looks just like any one particular oak leaf. And yet, this randomness, somehow, grows out of the very determined: If no, then yes. If no, then no. If yes, then no. If yes, then yes.

How does complexity of the sort which exists in nature ... come out of this simple equation? And the randomness, the individuality? I'm not just a member of the human fucking race ... I'm an individual and you are too. And anybody who wants to wipe us out, because they think we're expendable, isn't looking at reality properly ... and will pay a price they do not wish to pay. They may say, which is their right, that I am wrong; that my God does not exist, that their god is God. If you haven't already ... there's a story about a man named Elijah ... I'd like you to read. New topic for later.

Out of this you can see why the god of this world has pushed evolution to the outrageous extreme that he/she/or it has -- because if we're only descended from animals ... when the time comes that the elite want to start thinning us out, they'll be doing what their god told them to do ... and they won't feel so guilty. And so the Inquisition started and the Crusades. And what the fuck was going on with that?

Hey, I'm god, or a god, no I'm god and I want you guys to understand something. War is good. War is necessary. It is the natural order of things. It is the law of the jungle ... George. Call me. We'll do lunch.

These people will die ... and thank heaven they will not be any part, anywhere near the world to come. However, as long as they live ... there is always the chance of redemption, and there is only one person who can give you that one last chance. GODMAN!

A lot in the world has happened since 9/11; in political terms, and social terms, we have moved closer since 2001 to a centralized global regime, which anyone with half a brain can see will be controlled by the fattest of the cats and their "illuminating" handler and his/her/its minions, which always have an eye on the time. They apparently do because they had something to do with imposing time on us, and time brings death.

This only seems plausible, as does time travel, because these handlers are most likely responsible for teaching mankind how to tell time by increments of 60. The so-called Anunnaki also taught Babylon and Sumeria astronomy and math skills, including sacred geometry, and how to keep records, all skills which have been "invaluable, absolutely necessary," they would argue, for advancing civilization to the point to which it has come. But where are we? On the verge of doing more of the same, except more heartlessly? Capitalism is failing the United States of America and its people, because they have been sold out to the highest bidders, namely the French (who designed satanic Washington, D.C. (Devil's Cove?), the Germans, the English, the Chinese and Japanese, others in Europe. And capitalism, upon which these morons intend to build a new world disorder, per their god's deceitful instructions, is dead before their new order has even begun.

Time is death. Time is aging. Time marks the wear and tear caused by gravitational forces. Without time, none of us would ever die.

It's not going to be magic or hocus pocus, alchemy or any sort of harmonic convergence or spiritual union which will usher us into where it is all of us are headed. But rather God's removal of time ... which will change the natures of space, matter and light, according to people like Albert Einstein. Those are only educated hunches, but there is no denying that the international leaders of today including our president and the one who will be elected are in bed with these illuminated ones, and all that exists in the way of Masonic trappings in the nation's capital and throughout the United States, and Dan Brown's new book, if they ever finish writing it for him, proves it.
Life is but a dream. For some, the dream will continue. For those who do not trust Jesus as the Everyman who can save them (observant Jews excluded) the dream will become a living nightmare. And when evil has killed itself off and taken all of God's creation with it that it can, then the true God returns ... and we start again from the beginning, having gone full cycle, being the wiser for having had to coexist in the face of evil as ambassadors of love.

Who Put All Those Things In Your Head?

2008-06-21T07:55:00.002-04:00

Choosing the color red for the large capsules used in the Draft Lottery of 1972 was poetically apropos, I think, with blood still being shed in that mad adventure called Vietnam. The 366 capsules, each containing a different day of the year, plus Leap Year, were drawn one at a time from a clear glass or plastic cylinder in February of 1972. It would be the men whose birthdays were drawn one through six or seven who would actually be drafted. In 1973 there were 646 men inducted into the Armed Services as a result of the lottery. I was one of them. My birthdate had been chosen fifth.

I wasn't going to Vietnam -- so I joined the Navy for a four-year hitch, choosing radio and television as my specialty, believing I could use these skills as a civilian journalist after being discharged. I didn't like it, but I didn't fight it. I welcomed the guaranteed income, which would be more than sufficient to marry and support my high school sweetheart. But I got orders to East Africa, Ethiopia ... and I didn't see her for three years.

Dog God

2008-06-20T20:43:00.004-04:00

Jesus told stories to get his point across -- which works well, in the vast configuration of things, because that puts stories everywhere: you have a story, I have a story, the earth has a story, God has the big story, and then there is Jesus' story, which is the saddest story ever told.

Stories are necessitated by time; because there is time, a story has a beginning, a middle and an end, as a song does, as a life does. Stories are how we pass the time. We watch other peoples' stories, and when we get bored with those, we go watch somebody else's story somewhere else. And occasionally it becomes necessary to revisit our own personal story, because when you're on the inside of a story looking out, you don't see the boundaries or the parameters of your own story; you lack the perspective to identify the theme, the thesis of your own story, if it is pathetic, tragic or funny, or ironic. So you go and share your story with a therapist or a counselor to do talk therapy, which has organic benefits. And anyone who says otherwise is a dang fool.

Spirituality, if it's going to be any good and any fun, needs limits, but sometimes it needs to be let loose to run around. A pup can't grow properly if he is not given the freedom to stretch his legs and run outside the box. My daughter's neurotic little dog Harley, which she couldn't keep at college anymore, has happily taught me that lesson over and over, and I'm proud that I got to be a part of it. Because without me, my beloved daughter's awesome 15-pound Jack Russell-sized Chihuahua, who is built like a deer, and runs and jumps like one, would still be pissing on himself and liking it in the little cage she had to keep him in.

"Daddy, I need to get rid of Harley," my daughter said, after emailing pictures to us of Harley. He was the cutest college flunkie, the best little dog a person could ever want, sent back down to the farm. "Can you take him?" Now Courtney has brought home a lot of dogs, and all of them have been crappy. We're not mean to them, or haven't been; we feed them and pet them, and we're down to an old Chow/Lab mix that Courtney brought home about eleven years ago, and then there's Harley. It was my personal pleasure to pick Harley up in Knoxville in that little kennel cage Courtney kept him in, and where she rather strictly forced him to stay during car trips, and all but punt the cage down the hill. He came out, timidly, shaking, uncertain. But he hasn't seen the inside of that cage in almost two years. He digs and chases squirrels, and greets the kids walking home from school, and runs when there's and electrical storm, and hides, and finds cubby holes on his own, and snuggles in, and he eats the meat I eat, and, I swear, this little dog saved my life. My other dog's life, too. And about two or three other people I can think of.

All the best dog stories are God stories. And, if these are the so-called Days of Noah as some people have said, our concepts of spirituality are going to get a lot of exercise, I do believe. Ghosts and goblins. Zombies. People who are torn up bad enough to be dead ... but can't die for the life of them. Weird animals, half breeds, and not just different breeds of dogs with other dogs, but combining one type or species of animal with another one. And, sadly and grotesquely, horribly, humans, presumably with souls, have been introduced to living life as half animal, I do believe. When the earth cracks open, I believe we're going to see them, some of us, along with the ghosts, goblins and zombies, and the devil knows what else. I predict one day, perhaps not in the very near future, the people who have been slamming Jesus ... are going to be begging and pleading for him to please not tary but come now.

Dogs didn't evolve, just like people didn't evolve, and here's why -- 'cause if you're upset on account you're a good candidate for some visits by the Zombie Family. Nonsense, you say. God doesn't know me, he won't hold me accountable, he doesn't know me that precisely. Have you ever known anyone to have a scrape with death to the point where their life flashes before them, and every person they have ever encountered, flashes, almost instantaneously, but you know that that was all of them. That sounds pretty precise to me. We're going to be judged on how we have treated all of those people in our data banks. I think you'd have to include animals, pets, especially cats and dogs. The message of loyalty and unconditional love a good dog will bring into your life, will change it for the better. It'll help you to see the ratio which exists between man and God, I believe. It won't be exact. But the gulf between man and dogs, who can be sweeter and more loving than any old wife, is pretty close, I think, to the gulf which exists between dogs and men, boys, girls, women. And I'll take the rest of this piece to explain why I say that, and, of course, use Harles, whom I nicknamed Chewy, for some obvious reasons, will be occupying the spotlight. Choo choo ... you're up, pal!

Lest I start grossing myself out with this silly analogy, I need to say something about dogs which is more profound than puppies getting their exercise.

I don't believe dogs evolved. They're too naturally good -- like Christmas is naturally good, even though Constantine stuck it in the winter 'cause the devil told him to. The story of Christmas is so beautiful, it doesn't matter what season it falls in. It is a story, within a story, within a story, and on and on, ad infinitum. But at the very heart of the Christmas story is the poignant center, the core, the engine that makes everything else go, the seed, the kernel, the essence of God's message of love to us. And like a sunflower seed in the center of a sunflower, the seeds expand out to petals, and the sunflower seeds fall, or they fly. And the cycles continue, and the earth and all which lives in it keeps rehealing and recycling itself. If you want good health, ask God to allow your body to keep healing itself as it naturally does. And leave it at that.

I don't believe dogs evolved, because they have always been with man, and they have always been the companions of men. In their present form.

Pow Wow

2008-06-20T18:20:00.007-04:00

When you're afraid of your shadow longly enough and intensely enough at an age where you're saying to whatever adversary that you happen to be facing: "I'm just a kid ... kill me if you're going to kill me, but I just got to the party" ... when you're afraid like that long enough, afraid of your own shadow as a result of having to say those words ... shadows, shadows in general, begin to feel attractive. That is, you tend to overcompensate for your fear, having learned that your adversary can be frightened, and so instead of being afraid of your shadow ... you walk right up to it, or them, and say, "Friend or foe?

"If you hesitate ... I'll kill you. If you say foe ... I'll kill you. You've got one good option. If you're fool enough not to take it, you're stupidity might be taking me down with you. But let's do it, because if I wait, I get too scared ... and I know it has to be done." And, of course, after IT is done ... it doesn't hurt anymore, because it never does, or has, and that is a very, very good case for the existence of a just God. Creation is made to heal itself. Evil's job is to tear it down. One soul at a time.

I tend to think that we, you and I, have no control over a lot of what we do. I mean, we do it ... but we don't fully will ourselves to do it, I don't think. We will ourselves some to do certain things, but we are slaves, or so it would seem, to circumstances; they change, and decisions are made, options are weighed and chosen. It goes well or badly, and we learn from it. And we get better as we go, unless you don't have the mental capacity, experience, brain power, chemicals, natural chemicals, to get better as you go, but steadily worse as time goes on. We go right instead of left. We go upstairs instead of down. When these things are really, really important to some overall picture or plan. So, what we have is a battle between two plans. One wins ... and one loses. In fact, I think that the side that will ultimately lose knows that it is going to lose, it just wants to cut its losses. That is ... evil doesn't expect to win ... it just wants to take as many people with it as it can ... the way the cowboys grab all the whores at closing time. Except whores, real whores, female whores, are by and large not evil. I don't know if finding an evil whore is possible. Because whores often get the evil beat out of them. Once they're broken, they make for better lovers. But their souls are dead. And, the way I look at it ... they're already in heaven, if they're already dead.

I hope that makes some sense, because a big part of what I'm about to tell you is comic-book stuff, the stuff of dreams and nightmares. That is to say that it would appear that the subconscious world, which we wildly overlook, because we must, but probably not so much, at times, is pushing its way into our conscious world. And to quote a character written by a man whose little house I looked into as the sun was setting and as I was working on my ... (who's counting?) umpteenth beer: "Man of the worldly mind," said the ghost, "do you believe in me or not?"

To which I replied ... well, it would have been unintelligible, to be sure, but something to the effect of ... "Hey, baby. Don't you remember me? We go back a long ways." And though I don't remember what was said by everyone else, or done, I'm sure they would have laughed. Or they did laugh, if any of this actually happened, or I should say happened exactly in this way, because I was in and out, as they say. I had indeed been in London near Fleet Street, practically rolling on it, actually, and I had been drinking in a pub(s), and we did stroll by Mr. Dickens' home and peek in, as the last glowing rays of the fading light touched a few more objects in the place before the light disappeared altogether, but it's hard to tell when you have multiple personalities which one will be responding at any given time, especially when you're so many sheets to the wind, at which point all the numbers become very confusing. I remembered the quote which occurred to me. I must have been too worldly to say anything meaningful at the time in reply. But worldliness is okay, in my book, just as long as you don't hurt anybody else with yours. Your own. Worldliness. And so, the way I figure it, the worldly people, the most worldly people ... have already been visited by Jacob Marley. Only, instead of a "ponderous chain" forged over so many years of evil, this Jacob Marley ... would have had stretch limos and a chain of showgirls longer than anything Dickens could have imagined.

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to generate some appeal. After a while, the shadows begin to be ... shall we say, darker. A tad. Because you find yourself quite lucid in a dreaming state -- in other words, your conscious mind and your subconsious get together and have a pow wow.