Wednesday, October 31, 2007

Poilice to use water boarding on Prince Harry

"Detectives who questioned Prince Harry during an investigation into the illegal killing of two rare birds of prey over the Queen's estate at Sandringham are to send a report to the Crown Prosecution Service." Guardian Unlimited

"Unless there is substantial evidence, it is possible to escape conviction by maintaining that the bird was mistaken for legitimate quarry." Times Online

So far the Prince is not talking. The only witness is one of the staff. He'll keep his mouth shut if he knows what is good for him. Perpetrators can be fined 5000 quid and face 6 months in prison. An anonymous member of the Crown Prosecution Service has let it be known that they will use water boarding interrogation techniques on Prince Harry to determine his guilt or innocence. There are no bird carcasses. Maybe they should look in the Prince's stomach.

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A Lesson For Mukasey: Why I Had Myself Water-Boarded {link}

I have never seen or experienced water boarding - until now. I have strong feelings against forced interrogation. Only in a spiritually dead culture can it exist. Please click the title {link} and you can see what water boarding is.

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Daily Show: Al Qaeda infiltrates FOX News

Yellow Lines Flower Painter {art of the state LINK}


Monday, October 29, 2007

Optical illusions {youtube vid}

Sunday, October 28, 2007

Bill Maher Interviews Ralph Nader {youtube link}


Gnarls Barkley vs the Avalanches - crazy psychiatrist mashup -- {vid link}


Saturday, October 27, 2007

Fantastic interview of the author of: "The Story of Tibet" {link}

In this interview I[Adam Elenbaas] talk to Thomas Laird, a longtime photojournalist in Nepal, about his new book, The Story of Tibet: Conversations with the Dalai Lama. Laird's book is unique; it is the first history of Tibet to be written with a Dalai Lama since the 1600s—and it couldn't come at a better time.
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Waimea Bay

Photo by Bri

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Thursday, October 25, 2007



Wednesday, October 24, 2007

Wild turkeys enjoy citly life {link}


Monday, October 22, 2007

Kid Rock battles band of rogue monkeys

Last night, Kid Rock performed in front of an empty arena in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. Oh yeah, it wasn't complerely empty, there were some crickets. Afterwards, Kid and his musical partners decided to get a bite to eat at a pancake joint. This is where the trouble took place. A band of monkeys followed Kid and company inside the restaurant. Some theorize that the monkeys were offended by the music and rode on top of the tour bus waiting for a chance at revenge of justice - take your pick. These clever little monkeys seemed to have a plan. First, they attacked by air. They thru wads of butter, french fries and shot spitballs thru straws. Kid Rock never stood a chance, you see, he became enraged and started to chase the tiny wiley primates all over the place, knocking over other folks tables and spilling orange juice and milk. One primatologist surmises that Kid made himself a target because he was wearing a t-shirt with his own face on it. "This kind of thing really sets monkey's off." He told us in hushed tones. The monkeys wrapped up their coup d'état with teamwork: one monkey snuck up behind Kid, got on his hands and knees, then another monkey pushed Kid over. Then, while Kid lay sprawled on the ground, another monkey spilled syrup on to his hair. The monkeys quickly scurried out the door leaving a confused and bedraggled Kid Rock behind. These monkeys are still at large. They were last seen heading North with a stack of flapjacks. Please let us know if you see them. Thanks.

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Smoke and barrels

Yesterday's long awaited giant swell happened to coincide with a Santa Anna event where the winds were gusting up to 40 MPH. I managed to get a front row parking spot, stepped out of the black Beam and watched as various hard core surfers braved the extreme conditions. Many were actually somehow managing to catch and ride these bizarre waves. "Oh well" I think to myself, "drove all the way here, might as well paddle out."

So there I go, paddling in the giant washing machine. Managing to get outside wihtout too much punishment, I sit on my board that is like sitting on a randy horse, surveying the chaos. I notice my eyes and lungs are burning. I realize the fog is actually smoke from the Malibu fires. The swell is the biggest since last winter but the winds are flattening and squishing the mega ripples into quite unusual constructions. The waves seem to try to rebound back into shape and so the shoulder keeps shifting and it turns into this Jedi Zen exercise cartoon because the peak is continually and eratically moving both horizontally and forward. Somehow, my timing puts me in place and a big crazy wave looms towards me, jacks up and so I paddle and kick and pop up just as it goes verticle, and flicks me like I flick ants off my finger. I land on the board and then the wave, flying down the face and the wave's shape morphs with a powerful gust of wind and it is like I am riding over a giant speed bump. I slow down and the wave jacks up again crashes on me and I lose my balance and plunge into the brine. Next second I am paddling back outside feeling a bit jazzed.

"That was gnarly!" I look thru the spray and am able to recognize Rob Robe.

"Yo Rob! yeah, this is nuts!"

That was yesterday. Today I get out in the ocean once again. Winds are only around 10-12 MPH and the swell is less crazy. Alot of it is closing out but when it doesn't it is giving fast overhead walls. I spend nearly 2 hours out in the 55 degree water before luck finally smiled on me. A wave came along that did not seem like much. It was on the inside and I easily caught it and made the head hight drop. It started to flatten so I cut to the left and rode the white froth until it started to wall up like a mofo and then I'm in this quick little overhead barrel which kisses me on the head like a big dog. I can't help but scream out after that one. I end up paddling around for another thirty minutes but lightening does not strike again. Oh well, I got mine.

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Plastic garbage island will be my new home {link}

I've recently decided that the continent-sized island of trash that is floating between San Francisco and Hawaii will make a great place to live - even though it is a product of ocean currents, Dupont and humans acting like insects. I am accepting donations and grants to make this transition financially viable. According to marine biologists, this humongous heap of floating refuse has been doubling every decade and now is twice the size of Texas. Since there actually is no such thing as garbage, only unlocked potential, then it is safe to say that my future home has strong investment potential. I want to call my new island Texas but I am afraid that name is already taken and calling it New Texas just won't work. Some in the press have been calling it Gilligan's Island which is good for a chuckle but certainly not where I want to live. "Du Pont Us" has a karmic ring to it but I'm going to pass. Garbageland might work but I think that Texas is already nicknamed that. How about Plastica? Let me know, leave a comment for once, it won't kill ya - just click 'waves' and don't be shy.

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Saturday, October 20, 2007

The Wounded Healer {link}

"The wounded healer only becomes able to heal and help others (which is to simultaneously be healing and helping him/herself again and again in the form of seeming “others”), when instead of being resentful, bitter and feeling victimized by their wound, he or she recognizes their wound as a numinous event, an archetypal moment that seeks to make them participants in a divine, eternal happening." --Paul Levy

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Wednesday, October 17, 2007

Corruption {link}

I can smell corruption
you know its in the wind
its everywhere you look these days
which ever way you spin

I can feel the anger
of a world consumed
there is no rhyme or reason here
That is why it's doomed

I can taste the plastic
Its part of the foodchain
common sense has gone away
Nutrition is arcane

No more time for what you need
No more time for you to care
You cannot scream
You cannot dream
Just close your eyes and disappear

I can touch the color blue
It feels just like you want it to
Cold and dry broken sky
Fix it with some home made glue

I can see futility
in almost everything
Is it the way it really is
or is my soul just freezing

I can hear the way you feel
In the way you use your voice
Doesn't matter what you say
Do you have a choice

No more time for what you need
No more time for you to care
You cannot scream
You cannot dream
Just close your eyes and disappear

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Tuesday, October 16, 2007

Bardo Surfer prank of the day {link}


Monday, October 15, 2007

Hot feet

I am walking bare foot down Rice Road with my surf board riding my shoulder in its silver and grey bag. It is July 4th and many cars keep driving by and it seems like each one is a SUV. They are all ignoring my outstretched thumb request for a ride. The black asphalt keeps getting hotter and hotter. More often then not I end up having to walk on the black griddle with the sun over head and very little shady respites. The temperature is over a hundred degrees in the shade and I don't want to know how hot the road has gotten since I started walking on it 30 minutes earlier.

It was only the day before when I'd gotten out of the cool ocean after catching killer waves on my fish. The sunlight was golden and the breeze a cool caress as I walked up the smooth round river rocks. "Hi, fire blazer, would you like some freshly squeezed orange juice?" The asker sits on a lawn chair in front of his 25 year old Krishna mobile, he smiles and I see that his teeth are rotting out of his mouth. I am so thirsty and haven't eaten much food in the last couple days and am flattered with his introductory compliment, so I drink a glass and thank him.

SUVs keep driving by and my feet keep getting hotter and hotter. I start to wonder if they are blistering yet for they surely will before I am thru.

I arrive at the showers, wash the salt off my board and wetsuit. In the shade of nearby trees a homeless man calls me over. I'd been listening to him talking about Jesus to a man with deaf ears, unable to listen to someone dirty and dissheviled. So he begins to talk to me and stops and says: "You are a very special person. I am being directed to tell you some things." He then draws me a rough map on ripped off piece from a brown paper bag. It shows directions to three corners which happens to be on a reservation. He tells me that I must walk bare foot for 30 minutes to get to this cave that is actually a natural sauna. "The cave is a sweat lodge and a man can only survive 20 minutes in there."

"So, I should go there soon."

"Yeah, in the next couple days. If you can stay in there for 20 minutes, it will burn off anything."

After 40 minutes or so my feet are on fire, the sun is higher no rides have left me only with ire, so I turn around. The street get hotter and I realize that there will be no waves for me today. Black Beam is in the shop and after several days of elation, high altitude feeling, my airship had been punctured and I had begun to descend, forced to accept the presence of gravity once again.

Somehow, I make it back on my aching feet. The first place I go is to Farmer and the Cook. It is closed but Steve Sprinkle is up on the roof cleaning dust off his solar panels. I call up: "You need some help?"

Steve pauses, thinks it over, stares at me with those laser beam eyes of his. I wonder if he has X-ray vision and then he says "Sure".

I remember running into Steve a couple days earlier. He's standing in the edge of the ocean in his wetsuit with his long board under his arm and he reminded my of a killer whale. I look down at the t-shirt I am wearing: killer whale. The water feels cool and oh so refreshing on my damaged feet. They will end up hurting for the next 6 week or so and then thick layers of skin will peel off but they will be fine after that. I grab a broom and brush each group of panels while Steve hoses them down. We work on each group of 5 before moving on to the next. And then start over again at the next row. We finish up and I say my good bye, happy to help.
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David Byrne on a Bike in New York City {vid link}


Sunday, October 14, 2007

Persephone's Dilemma

The hot spring must be 120 degrees. I soak in it for 5 minutes before it becomes unbearable. For the last couple hours or so I have been chanting various Tibetan Buddhist chants if not out loud then in my mind. I've spent the last week or so driving around the town in circles. It seems like I am being followed. I can see the Ebola Virus people. They have been infiltrating the valley in big dark sun glasses, pale motley skin and black clothing. When I pass by them, they grow tense and when I am out of range, they involuntarily shudder and release a rush of air from their lungs. They mostly come out at night. Even when we pass each other in cars, I know they know it is me. I am glowing and they see and feel it. Their music is too loud industrial garbage. I think I may be infected so I cook my self in temperatures which destroy any possibility of this virus surviving in my universe. My body has become the battle ground. My immune system is the lab and my soul is as big as the Solar System.

Cell phones do not work here in the canyon. Out of range and off the grid I am sweating out pounds of water and heating my body past the point that most could survive. Making my way to the river, looking up, the clouds are like Playdough and I shape shift them into rabbits and squirrels and I am the nut. The water feels icey in contrast to the steaming sulfur water and is just deep enough to allow me to completely submerge.

A week earlier, I am walking the dog, Jenny. There is a white string tied to my index finger and the other end is tied to Jenny's collar. My feet are bare and everything feels preordained and spontaneous at the same time because I never know what I am going to think next. It has become my dream and on some level evryone knows it. I am not supposed to know but I have figured it out. I let my self think it and then I cancel the thought out using its reverse configuration, bouncing it off the ionosphere, thereby negating its existence. This is how I stay invisible.

I climb out of the river and make the short walk back the to hot spring, where I find a wooden bucket floating. I slip into the hot, hot water and reach down to the muddy bottom with my hand and begin to scoop up the rich black earth and dump it in the bucket. Now I am standing up on the deck which half circles the man-made pool and I am covering my body with the sulfur infused mud. Coated from head to toe, I lie down in the sun on the wooden lay-down-chair. This chair has arms and legs and a head and is made from tree branches. The soak-mud-dry process makes me think of Persephone's dilemma.

Pluto made the Earth swallow Persephone up and he took her across the rivers Styx into Hades until she was able to negotiate her way out back to the surface, the sunshine. But because she ate the food of the dead she could only leave six months out of the year. Before she could leave she had to take off her skin and hang it out to dry for three days.

And so I am hanging my skin out to dry. I have so much mercury poisoning in my body after having four fillings removed from my mouth. But I do not know this. My jaw is hurting and I have hemrhoids that are so painful that it is much easier to just not eat. Fruit hurts my jaw. Everything else hurts my ass. Movements cause me to scream. I am more skinny thant I have ever been. Convinced that people are following me. No one can be trusted. A blue dragon fly lands on my toe and it makes me smile. After the mud has dried into a tight brown skin, I slip back into the 120 degree hot spring. This time I am able to stay in for over 10 minutes. I have not stopped chanting. Part of my brain makes plans, part of my brain reviews the last several months trying to figure out what has happened to reality and when the fracture actually began. It is all so seamless, I am unable to figure out when I died. When the dream began. When the universe became a figment of my imagination. And all the while the chanting continues, outloud for stretches and then in my mind like uniterrupted radio.

After several hours of going from the hot to the cold and coating my entire 2 square meters or so of epedermis with the rich clay like mud, I begin the exodus on my Fire Blade. Everything that I've brought has been soaked in the hot spring for over an hour - even my helmet. I have a full tank of gas but do not know where the next gas station is. I don't bring any water or food. I don't bring any changes of clothes. I am wearing black leather pants and a t-shirt. It is a scorching day. I keep my face shield up and the wind is hot on my face. This is the only way to get to heaven. I have figured out when I died. I have been in purgatory for six months. It is time to go. Nothing is real. If I stay here any longer, I will be consumed for ever like Prometheus.

Eventually I meet up with other bikers. They are like a pack of guardian dogs with their screaming motorcycles patroling the countryside. They pull over on the shoulder and so do I to get some bearings on the distance. One of riders takes charge. He is with four others. They are on Ducatis and Hondas. They make a point of taking pictures of all the bikes. I request not to have my picture taken. They comply but the leader/sweeper makes a point of looking at my license plate and says: "That will be easy to remember." And then he sees that I have a small trunk and says: "That's an easy place to hide one of the little people." I do not say anything. It is such a bizzare statement. My dehydration has not kicked in too badly yet. He talks of how some riders had just died having driven over the edge on the next turn ahead. One crashed into a sheer wall of rock and the other went tumbling into the canyon floor hundreds of feet below. I ask where the nearest gas station is and no one knows. After confering, it sounds like some do not have enough gas to continue on. I try to fire up my bike and it will not start but it pop starts after building up some momentum down the road and soon I am off - alone again.

Eventually, I find a some civilization. There is a diner where I park my bike. A youngish man walks by and I see that he is wearing a baseball hat with a cross on the front. "Do you believe in Jesus?" I ask him.


"Well, I'll tell you, I stopped believing 28 years or so ago, but some things have been happening and now I believe again. I see why He did what He did and I am so thankful that I don't have to do that."

His face lights up with a smile and he says: "Wow, I have never had any one come up to me and say that around here. Most folks don't understand at all."

"Yeah, well this is California. Is there anywhere nearby where I can get some gas?"

"Sure, just make a right there, go for a mile and then your next right and it'll be about a quater of a mile on your right."

"Hey, thanks."

"Do you have a place to stay tonight?"

"Not sure. Figured I'd just stay in a hotel."

"Well, I've got a friend by the name of Tom. He's got an extra room. He lives about twenty miles from here. let me draw you a map." He hands me a piece of paper with the directions. I am unsure about going there. Have no real plan. Just going on whims. Then he says: "Just tell him you're a bum."

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Saturday, October 13, 2007

Check out this amazing house {link}


Surf Sesh Saturday

After 4 days in a row surfing. My arms, chest, shoulder and lats are sore. This is the best kind of sore. Rob and I surfed for three hours yesterday. Today, after just an hour and a half, I knew I'd reached my limit. Rob rides a 9 footer and started a half hour before me. He felt it as well. My first forty minutes were golden today. Glassy water, blue sky, minimal surfers and classic shoulder to head high waves, walling up and many with peaks all contributed to a memorable Saturday. Rob and I both kept on marveling that this was a Saturday. Where was everyone? Maybe the rain last night kept them out of the water. I concluded that it was not enought rain to poison the ocean and I still feel healthy a couple hours later.

The fish is really working out for me. Sliding accross liquid walls standing on a 5'11 stick, cariving, making turns is an overwelming feeling. It just resets my brain and leaves me in a state of peace. It feels so much like a skeateboard. Its width gives a great deal more stability than I thought. All that one needs is the strength to pull thru the wave. At times I feel that I have it, other time I don't. After just 40 minutes today, I started to lose the power needed to catch these slopers.. I started falling off the end again due to fatigue. But nothing could take away those first 4 wavess. The noise this board makes as it shoots over the water mesmerizes me. Hynson has designed a masterpiece. His fish are legendary, magical and more fun than anything I've ever surfed.
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Friday, October 12, 2007

Alienation, Neo-shamanism and Recovered Animism (2002) {link}

by Bruce Charlton

Fantastic article. This is required reading for all aspiring Bardo Surfers, free thinkers, cultural anthropologists, philosophers, social biologists, artists, aliens, free radicals, video game addicts, gamblers and singers.
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Tuesday, October 09, 2007

Human catapult 2

Please do not try this at home.

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Mirror Neurons, politicians and gender {link}

Last night, I sat propped up on cushions surfing the various nooks and crannies of the internet, when I heard the familiar noise of Joseph opening his door. "What are you doing?" He asks me in his slightly intense way, "Are you busy?"

"Just composing a quick email... what's up?"

"I was wondering about what you were telling me about earlier - mirror neurons. What do they do again? How do they function?"

I pause for a second or two and quickly read the abstract of our previous conversation in my mind. "Yeah sure, hold on a second, just want to finish this little note."

Joeseph sits down on the chair across from me and waits for me to finish typing. Upon completion, I close the PowerBook and look up. "I like what you were saying earlier today and I was hoping you'd refresh my memory. What do Mirror neurons do? What do they act on?"

"I'm not sure what they act on. What it sounds like they are doing is: focusing on the facial expression, body language and tone of voice of other humans around us or maybe even the folks on tv. The mirror neurons take in all this data, determine the emotional state and then allow the observer to actually feel what the other person is feeling."

Joe sits there taking it all in. It is around 2:30 in the morning but this doesn't matter to me or Joe. "What were you saying about politicians?"

"Well. basically, the folks making all of these decisions in the name of the 'people' for our 'protection' and all that, ha, ha, well, it is my suspicion that they lack mirror neurons or at least do not use them. Specifically, it seems as though mirror neurons, in males, are located in the temporal lobes, gray matter and the parietal lobe. I surmise that an MRI scan of Resident Shrub's brain would show that he does not use these parts of his brain. The abiity to kill massive amounts humans and then go on TV and swagger about requires a sociopth's lack of empathy."

"Wow, that's alot for my brain to take in. What were you saying about gender differences?"

"Oh yeah, it seems as though women use different parts of their brain when utilizing mirror neurons. While men appear to use the left temporal lobe, the parietal lobe and gray matter for empathy, women, in general use both temporal lobes as well as white matter."

"Huh, that's interesting. What do you think that means?"

The author of the article I read was quick to say that this doesn't mean that one method of brain activity is superior to the other. I find myself thinking otherwise. It seems obvious to me that using both hemispheres is going to give a more complete picture and thus is another example of where women appear to be more intelligent then men. Remember the heart, it is a brain and is running the limbic system located in the temporal lobes. Traditional Chinese Medicine considers the heart the center of brain activity because it regulates the cerebral cortex, the limbic system and the immune system. So, lets see, women live longer than men, are more empathic and more verbal. Thus it seems obvious to me that we want to be using the whole brain, not just half of it."

"Are there any examples of women being considered superior to men among the native peoples?"

"Good question. A great example that comes to mind comes from the Aboriginal people of Australia. Let me start with the Tibetan monks though. You know how they chant right?"


"Well, scientists have been measuring the thickness of the monks' brains and have found that they are growing millimeters of neurons on their frontal lobes. I am not sure if the temporal lobes were measured or not. Neural growth is triggered thru several mechanisms: bathing the neurons in oxygen, overtone vibrations and the circulation of cerebral spinal fluid just to name a few. The Aborigines somehow invented a device called the didjeridoo. I know from personal experience that it impacts my brain in very similar ways to that of Tibetan Buddhist chanting. In fact, I have the inclination and audacity to suggest that, in the right hands, the didjeridoo is far supeirior than simply chanting without it. Thus, that brings us back to the subject at hand - gender differences in brain activity. The Aborigines did not allow women to learn to play the didjeridoo because they already had too many advantages over the men. The male Aborigines thought of the didge as a way to correct an inate inbalance between men and women. I suspect the collective male fear of women's natural superiority drives the mysogynistic tendency of all the major religions such as Christianity, Islam, Judaism, The Church of the Latter Day Saints."

"Wow, that's crazy, I wish I was writing all this down. How do you remember all that?"

"I'm just making it up on the spot. Here's something more on the mirror neuron topic: Have you ever seen those photos of women in Japan wearing dust masks?"


"The reason they wear them, predominatnly is so that other people don't have to feel what they are feeling. They do it as a courtesy to others."


"Yeah. They don't want other people to feel their pain. This amazes me and I suspect that designer masks will soon be the rage in certain parts of the world."

"I'm gonna start a mask company."

"Good idea. I think we need to start doing MRI scans of anyone who want to control the masses. I believe we need physical evidence that they have a working brain system which allows them to experience empathy and compassion on a regular basis."

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George Saunders on Letterman

I like this guy. "The central premise of the title essay in my new book, The Braindead Megaphone, is this: Our cultural discourse is being dumbed-down by mass-media prose that is written too quickly, and therefore fails to due justice to the complexity of the world."
--George Saunders

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Monday, October 08, 2007

The only honest candidate: KUCINICH

Saturday, October 06, 2007

Sibu should move to Cali



The Eagle's knew what they were doing when they came up with the song Hotel California. Nearly a decade has passed since I moved out to this 'Golden State' and all I can think about is escaping it. Somehow, no matter how isolated and weary I become - the more endearing I seem to my friends. I am entertainment, a distraction, something to shudder about when they are alone together, the poster child for the dangers of independent thought, the emperor penguin standing alone in the vast arctic wasteland of sugar coated neural atrophy. No matter what I do, no matter what I say, no matter what I don't do, no matter what I don't say - my friends are still there for me. Some one will give me a call and see where my head is at. No matter how twisted I become. No matter how much I complain. It doesn't seem to matter. If one line of friends burns out and leaves my radar screen blank with the darkness of emptiness then soon enough some cat will fill the void. It could be a blast from the past or it could be some one I've never met. They will know my name though. The one constant that I can now count on is there will not be a beautiful woman who becomes mesmerized by my nonexistent charisma. No. There will not be a gorgeous female who succumbs to my self delusional animal magnetism. The one thing that I can count on is that I will be the only one in my bed. No matter how cold it gets. No matter how much I burn for some honey to get horizontal with, in the end, it will be just me and my book and maybe a couple ants. Welcome to my Hotel California. I can look but I cannot touch.
Maybe I am just too weird. I have no vices. I practice tai chi. I have no career. I ride a black beam. All around me everyone smokes or drinks or finds other ways to bury their time into the shifting sands of amnesia. Everyone finds some one to pair up with. They enjoy my company as they put their arms around eachother and smile knowingly, knowing that there will be a warm body to cuddle with in an hour or so. A warm body of contours to explore and for their own body to be lewis and clarked and louisiana purchased for a song and a dance. Sometimes I just want to scream and put my fist thru the liquid wall with the frustration of a surfer that never gets a wave. He gets to paddle around and watch others be in the right place at the right time while he paddles and kicks to no avail. It doesn't matter what he does. The women pass him by. They sense his attraction saturated in wilderness with their radar detecting temporal lobes. They slip around him, avoid eye contact, bypass his off topic attempts to strike up off beat conversation. They are experts in avoidance. And so he is left alone, bau; some how managing a front row seat to better see what he is missing. But what is he missing anyway? Each woman is a carefully constructed man trap. A biological time bomb set to implode once a month. But these moon driven puctuations are just the preliminaries. Sin tax. Just a warm up drill. A rehearsal. The show really begins when life is created. The zygote becomes an embryo. Then the metamorphisis begins the lover is now a mother and the male is now a horse with a bit in his mouth attached to reigns. A saddle has been placed on his back and he is pulling a cart. And do not forget the whip. And you better put some beer blinders on so you do not see what you are missing.
So then, what am I actually missing out on? What is really going on? Have I become a compulsive complainer who turns paradise into a pair of dice? Am I turning freedom into free dumb? Am I the victim of my thinking? The victim of unconscious biological processes that are unfulfilled? Am I the victim of a culture which represses sexuality as a way to encourage the collective worship of death? Video games for amphibians and horror for the land dwellers. This may all be the case but in the end I am only the victim of my own self set limitations, my own inability to get creative and transcend the hormonal prison of DNA which has been honed for 3 billion years or so.
And heaven forbid if you talk about something that is not on the railroad tracks of their wavelength. Don't expect anyone to be able to make the leap from the slow motion freight cars; because from their vantage point, the train is traveling quite fast and they cannot see the ground for the blur. Oh, and by the way, here comes Columbus Day and this means absolutely nothing to me. The only Christopher Columbus I ever knew died 3 and a half years ago on the front porch of my friend Daniel's house while Daniel sat on his Harley heading to Burning Man. He left a stain straight out of the X files which clearly gave a way his dying position - at least to me and this was later confirmed. Chris was a nice guy for a junkie. There were times when his eyes would turn black and he'd smile like a jack-o-lantern with its candle blown out. Chris was in a lot of pain most of the time. He had trouble keeping his life crazy glued together. Daniel took him in as a friend and let Chris live in one of his sheds. Chris used to walk Daniel's dog Sydney around town. Sydney loved Chris. When Chris died everyone immediately concluded that it was an overdose. But it wasn't. It was appendicitis. He'd been complaining the previous week about all this pain in his stomach and it just passed by everyone because they thought they'd heard it all before. No one knew that his appendix had burst.
Something burst in my psyche back in May and no one noticed. I have complained enough over the passed couple years to create a nice smoke screen. No one has the ability to know that something has changed on a fundamental level and that everyday is like Sunday, cloudy and grey even though there are no clouds and the sun is shining and a bird is singing and so I just want to go somewhere else. Somewhere in the middle of the ocean where I can surf and no one Knows who I am. A place where I can figure out who I am now without the past being used as a way to measure everything I say and do.
The funny thing is I might feel totally different tomorrow or totally different if a gorgeous young spirited beauty decided that I was special. This could cause some kind of chain reaction and suddenly the abandoned, blackened city sky line of my psyche would light up like Tokyo and I'd come to life and see the art of God on every wrinkle and every wind swept oily wave on C-street. Suddenly, i would no longer be irritable and intolerant of little things like some one driving too slow in front of me while cruising to oblivion. Suddenly, I'd have a smile for all infiltrating my path. Suddenly I'd become wise and confident. Suddenly I would not feel hopeless about my future. Suddenly I wouldn't feel abandoned by my soul, left to wonder the earth like a ghost. Suddenly, I wouldn't feel like I am just haunting this small town, this small island of purgatory surrounded by a country that has become hell. Is that why I am trapped in the Hotel California? Are there no angels for me?
The other night I stood talking with 3 girls. One asks: "Why don't you have a girlfriend?" I shuffle my feet and say "I don't know why and think I never will. It is not in the cards and this is the way it has always been for me so I am used to it."
The other girls do not say a thing. They just stare at the ground around their feet but I know they are listening. And the one who asked me is named Brianna and so Brianna says: "I think there is someone for everyone. It's chemical. She's out there."
I do not come out and disagree but I do know that there are plenty of folks who die without ever finding someone to love and some one to love them. But I do laugh and say, "No, I am old enough at this point to know that there is no one for me." I do not say anything more but I know that deep down I am not love able. I have gone too far in my experiments. Too far in expanding my understanding of our species and our plight and our futility; I am on this wavelength alone surrounded by friends who always manage to pair up with someone. I am the court jester, the juggler of abstraction, the unified unicorn, the omega, the point of no return, Ulysses, Odysseus and maybe that will be enough.

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Friday, October 05, 2007

Justice cannot see

Bardo Surfer quote of the day: American politics “has often been an arena for angry minds.”
-historian Richard Hofstadter.

Great article in truthdig: Justice is Blinded by Rage

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Thursday, October 04, 2007


"No pennies, no bag, no receipt." Then I smile, chuckle and sometimes mention the bag island twice the size of Texas floating somewhere in the Pacific. But, of course, I still have generated trash via my water buffalo yogurt container and organic think bar wrapper. Well, we do what we can? That's one reason I enjoy the Farmer and the Cook experience so much, I can eat there without generating any garbage. But, I drive their in the black Beam with its 20 miles per gallon price tag footprint.

After a week away from the ocean due to some swollen lymph glands in the throat, I've been out the last two days. My fear of regression proved unwarranted on yesterday's session. I managed to pop up and stick nine out of ten attempts. Had some long rides and ended up paddling close to a thousand yards without getting tired. And then today. Initially a bit frustrating. These waves were more for longboards. But I persisted and finally stuck a steep foamy drop. Caught on the inside, I let a wave bring me in so I could walk back out instead of paddling against the current. Easy paddle out and then I am back outside. This time I catch a bunch and with 2 stellar waves that have enough face for me to skateboard and tap the lip all smooth like a cat.

Back in the rat house, I continue to watch the world thru the lens of the internet. What I see makes me want to turn in to Jonathan Livingston Surfer. Maybe that is what I am? Or is that what I am already? I do not know how anyone can have any hope for the future with the way things appear to be going. Maybe it just isn't as bad as it looks. Maybe, I am just feeling somewhat hopeless because I am not finding any work and my savings have dwindled to the point of uncomfortableness. I know that being a man, I am supposed to be making all kinds of dollarinos, making all kinds of deals, own all kinds of real estate, wear suits and ties, blah, blah, blah. Instead I have chosen another path. In fact, I am on no path at all. I am bushwacking thru the back country, mostly thru the desert and I am like a camel, some how finding a way to live with out the sultry water. It is almost like I am climbing a sheer rock face with no rope, no partner and no net. It is when I look down and see where I am that I get depressed. When I see that I am all alone and that there is no way for anyone to actually understand where I am. No way for anyone to get to where I am. No way for anyone to understand me. This is why ignorance is necessary for the survival of this particular species. Us humans have gone so far out on a limb that the gravity of common sense must be ignored or-

We must face the truth of our aloneness. This truth is the ultimate terror. This fear is the root of all war.
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Shepherd Fairey "nineteeneightyphoria" {link}


The chevron/Burma connection {link to story}

Wow, it's all about oil. Go figure
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Wednesday, October 03, 2007

'Go out that way'

It was the third show, a Sunday afternoon performance. We'd rehearsed about 4 weeks or so for our little production and it had all paid off in the dividends of laughter. Vince and I managed to click on that day and even though the audience was small, the applause was loud and sincere as we made our curtain call. I smiled and mouthed a silent thank you before spinning around and slipping behind the curtain with my trademark layedback flourish. I went to climb over the bed, which had not been in my way the previous times of exiting, when the actress waiting in the wings said: "Go out that way." I complied and quickly shot in the direction of her finger when all the lights went off. Adrenaline coursed thru my veins as I hurriedly felt along the wall for what I hoped was a door or doorway or whatever. Who knows what I hit but something made a rather loud crashing noise. I glanced over my shoulder and was relieved to see that the curtain was hiding my futile attempts to get off the stage. Disorinted and filled with wonderment, I finally determined where I was and managed to find my way safely backstage with out any further mishaps.

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Banksy {link}


Monday, October 01, 2007

Dirty Monkey

Out of the blue, I started getting calls from Skip's cell phone. I have to tell you, it was pretty strange, grunting and screaming that sounded just like a monkey. These bizarre phone calls began taking place about one month ago. They occurred once in a while mostly during the day. One of them took place at 3:33 AM and was so disturbing that I began to turn my phone off before going to sleep. My calls of inquirey went unanswered. But, it still should not have been a shock when I saw Skip the other day with his new friend: Dirt. I am like: "Skip, you gotta be kidding me, not only did you find a monkey, but then you go ahead and name him Dirt?" Skip just shows me his toothy grin and pauses long enough to take a long inhale off his funny ciggarette.

"Yeah, isn't he cute? In fact I am now calling him Dirty."

So, there I am, down by the beach, having just finished a sweet sesh on my 5'11 fish, stoked and still buzzing from the natural high and suddenly find myself running in to Skip and his new pet from South America: Dirty Monkey.

"Skip, I am in a bit of shock here, isn't that kind of inhumane calling your hairy friend: Dirty Monkey?" Skip's only reply is a raspy laugh punctuated with a dry cough. That's when I notice that Dirty has been stacking rocks all along the shore. Skip smiles at my amazement but doesn't say anything. "So what kind of monkey is he?"

"He is a Cebus capucinus. He lives off bugs and fruit."


Suddenly, Skip whistles and yells: "Dirty! Get your ass over here!" Dirty Monkey scrambles easily over the round river rocks which line the ocean shore and is soon sitting on Skip's shoulder. Skip hands him his tobacco and a rolling paper and within seconds, little Dirt rolls him up another ciggarette.

"Wow, your set, what's next? David Letterman?"

"Nah, what do I want to waste my time on that crap? No way, I'm teaching him to dig and sweep. Before you know it, I'll be relaxing in the shade, drinking Doctor Skipper and shouting out commands to Dirty."

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