Monday, January 29, 2007


Determination...The Little Engine That Could...Sisyphus...etc...
All throughout life, there are indelible images which serve to move us ahead.
My favorite actually occurred.
One day, back in the '70's, I happened to be walking on the beach at Plum Island, Newburyport, Mass.
It was a wild weather day. Strong off-shore winds were holding back giant waves churned up by a storm at sea.
Plum Island is a very steep beach.
When the tide is high...very high because of the storm, it creates a riptide as the perfectly formed rollers, held from breaking until the last instant by the off-shore blow, drop onto the slope, and sweep back, underwater, in a reverse curve.
As these waves break, they force a large amount of air rapidly out the front of the wave tube.
This blows back toward the beach, beneath the force of the off-shore winds.
Here's the scene.
There's very little beach left from the high tide.
30-40 mph winds are blowing very powerful waves backwards, holding them.
Until finally, with a crashing whooosh, the waves create near hurricane force winds, blowing inland, right along the surface of the sand, beneath the force of the off-shore effect.
Not a very attractive scene for one planning to set off from said shore, eh?
Well, it didn't stop what appeared to be millions of Monarch Butterflies, on their way to the Azores, from doing just that.
I was strolling along, staring ahead, down the beach, exhilerated by the incredible surf action, when, in the distance, my eyes caught sight of an orange carpet, covering much of the sand.
Upon approaching, I could see that the 'carpet' was butterflies, attempting to fly out over the churning waves, setting out for points East.
It wasn't going very well.
The most fortunate ones were high, and dry, holed up in little pockets they'd created in the sand by flapping the livin' b'jaysus out of their wings. Just like Flounder make little depressions in the sea bottom, these determined little guys had created foxholes for themselves.
Every square inch of dry sand in sight was dimpled with Monarchs.
Unfortunately, there were at least five times more gathered, than could fit on the dry areas.
If they stayed low, the onrushing wave whoosh tossed them mercilessly back, into the marsh grass, tearing most of them to shreds, leaving a gruesome, orange-gossamer ribbon along the grassline.
The ones who got caught in the updraft, and found their way into the off-shore flow of air, were thrown into the oncoming surf, smashed onto the beach, and swept away by the riptide.
Their instinctual drive to go was so strong that, after watching the scene for a while, I realized the ones in the holes waited, rested a few seconds, and whoosh, up, or down, depending on where the wave action was at the moment.
These fools were going, come hell or high water.
It was an horrifically destructive natural moment in time. There was absolutely nothing I could do.
But, because it had that car wreck quality, I couldn't stop watching.
Well, wouldn't ya just know it?
I looked Eastward, into the sky.
Of the seeming millions, a few were up there, having caught the off-shore just right, and were flapping madly, in every direction.
All their butterfly senses must have been wacked from the trauma.
More flew downward, back into the crashing surf, than flew upward, into the breeze, and Eastward.
But, by gum, some of 'em were heading in the right direction.
I can't even guess how long I stood there, transfixed...helplessly rooting them on...
But, I do know it made one serious impression.
I'm absolutely certain there has never been a worse day in my life than those Monarchs were having.
It didn't deter them at all.
Forge ahead...
here's a link to a graphic depicting the events...

Sunday, January 28, 2007

to those of the age...

Post WWII Baby Boomers.
The children of The Greatest Generation.
The Best and the Brightest.
We're going down in History as the greatest, most clearly pre-defined Target Market ever.
Not as the much touted generation that changed the world, rather as the generation that never got over being spoon fed their Pablum.
Stooges, in other words.
I've followed the development of this, 'Boomers as Target' phenomenon, since a short involvement with The Nostradamus of Marketing, Faith Popcorn, in the early 80's.
Faith coined the term Cocooning, to capture the tone of her Future Trend Prognostications.
Basically, she convinced marketeers to prepare for a market she would create...a market of stay at homes, who first wanted, and soon needed everything brought to them, or done for them.
Pretty clever. It worked.
But, like all good ideas turned loose in USofA, it's gotten way out of hand.
Hippie Chicks have evolved into Mall Moms. Grace Slick is Brittany Spears.
Major Dudes wonder how to get ED tablets without embarassing themselves. Moon Doggie died of Hep C.
Well, Kids, I am of the age, and I'm not gonna take it sitting down.
I say, "Rise up from your Barcaloungers, toss the remote, set aside the Ben & Jerry's, and take to the streets."
But, before running off half-cocked, like we did the last time, take a few minutes to casually roam around your home.
Open the closets.
If there's a basement, attic, or garage, take a peek.
Scan whatever yard you may have.
As you look around, do a quick tally of how much $ is sitting around, unused, and forgotten.
I bet you have a lot of useless, expensive stuff, which you really needed when it was purchased.
There it sits, collecting dust.
And, you haven't finished paying for it.
Now you have a reason to take to the streets.

here's your Anthem...

there's a sea change a comin'
comin' for us all
we're bound to get swept up in it
all ridin' on this ball

See you there.
George Bush is going to be History's poster child for us.
If that don't light a fire under your butt, join Moon Doggie.

That's about as frivolous as I get on this topic. Though, there is a certain air of ridiculousness about the whole business.
Don'tcha think?
However, it is a very serious issue.
If you are somewhere, mid to late fifties, very early sixties, you are of the age.
It's insidiously time, and experience specific.
Here's a clue.
Figure how many times you've felt the urge, but suppressed your gut feeling, and done nothing because of all your responsibilities.
Look around at all your stuff, again.
There's your responsibilities.
Psychobabblistas call it baggage.
Even though you no longer give a hoot about most of it, you surrendered many hours of your life to get it.
It's got weight, in your Pablumed outlook.
It's yours.
Take good care of it.
The marauding hordes of unfortunates, about to sweep the planet are going to need toys, tools, and transportation.
Hand it out graciously. You may survive another day.
See...I told you it wasn't all that funny.

Friday, January 26, 2007

AARRGHH!!!...part one...

She'll keep ya afloat, and buoy yer spirit, aye!

Aarrghh is a small community located on one of the coastal islands.
You can only get there by boat.
Proposals are afoot to build a roadway to the mainland, and vice-versa.
The versa part is what's gotten everybody up in arms.
"Those folks could drive here," became the battlecry.
This was usually said while gesturing all crazy-like toward the mainland.
Efforts, among Aarrghhites, to resist the causeway/bridge combo are strong.

Bubba awoke one morning to a vision of this ugly concrete and steel erector-set spanning the three miles of tidal marsh, separating Aarrghh from civilization.
Not one to pass on a clear vision, Bubba set to work preventing the apparition from coming true. He sure as hell weren't havin' no such thing loomin' over Aarrghh.
Fred, down at the barber shop, was a big reader. Bubba went to Fred's to discuss the future of Aarrghh.
Fred recalled something about Riparian Rights. This was an old set of laws, regarding what could, or couldn't, be built along navigable, inland waterways. Aarrghh was not exactly inland, but, in the minds of those at Fred's, the mainland was. The marshland was considered brackish, so perhaps fresh water rules could be deemed to apply.
Aarrghh wasn't even really an island. It was a naturally occurring mound of sand which the tide moved around. Theoretically, the water running between the mainland and Aarrghh is a Tidal River. The 'enviros' will surely pipe up with something.
These thoughts got the ball rolling.
Bubba immediately adopted the Riparian Rights concept.
He became 'Bubba the Riparian', Defender of the Sovereignty of Aarrghh's Shoreline.
The discussion, at Fred's, went round and about the topic for several days. Much was also said at Bubba's Bait and Tackle.
Along with selling fishin' gear, and doin' mechanikin', Bubba sold fuel, was the dentist, and, when Fred was in jail that time, Bubba took over the barberin'.
Oddly enough, the time when National Geographic did the photo shoot, was during Bubba's barberin' tenure. All the pictures of Aarrghhites, in their rural nonchalance, show folks with Bubba barbered hair.
No wonder those on the mainland wanna come to Aarrghh so badly. With dental work, and hair, by Bubba, Aarrghhites are a wild lookin' bunch.
Tourists would feel like they'd done Appalachia, South Florida, and half the Banana Republics, with a trip to Jamaica thrown in along the way.
It was a tough decision for ol' Bubba. All those tourists would surely make him a rich man.
While there was only one liquor license in Aarrghh, owned by the VFW, Bubba had always held onto a little Rheumatiz Medicine, which he sold in case of ‘emergency’.
Bubba's Bait and Tackle would make one hell of a saloon for the tourists. Bubba already knew the procedure to claim rights to the next license.
Even though his liquor sales had always been illegal, he was next in line due to Grandfathering. Laws are weird, but they work, if understood.
He could see the greenbacks floating off into the sunset as he began the 'Bubba the Riparian' campaign.
Truth be told, Bubba already was rich. Hell, he'd just recently buried the third of those stainless steel suitcases full of loot. His storage unit held untold value. And, there wasn't but a few tourist dollars in the whole mess.
Bubba had an amphibious Duck.
He drove it to Alacort, the closest shore community, two, or three times a month, carrying passengers, contraband, and who all knows what else.
Bubba often made $500 for the three mile drive to shore.
Sometimes, the ride back would pay even better.
If Bubba knew what you were up to in Alacort, which he usually did, and, if what you were up to left you holdin' extra cash, the return fare could double.
This was the money Bubba buried. There was over $100,000 in cash, and the stuff at the storage facility would easily bring in that much again.
As the days passed, Bubba began to think about the fact that almost all the cash and other loot he'd accumulated came from folks he knew.
Laura, who had lately, begun asking around town for loans, credit, and any other assistance she could get, had given Bubba at least $20,000 over the years.
In her day, Laura ran with a pretty wild bunch. They paid handsomely for a few days on Aarrghh.
They called it ‘chillin'. Bubba dropped the crowd off at Whitney's Salvage, gave ol' Hugh Whitney a bottle of Jack, and $50, and told them he'd return in 72 hours.
Whitney's had been there forever.
Situated on the bluff, overlooking the marsh, it was a very elegant junkyard.
The visitors stayed in old trailers and campers, which were electrified, comfortable, and facing the most gorgeous sunset alive.
The hulks of some very classy old Detroit Iron were positioned carefully about the property. Barbecue pits were tended constantly, and there was a wooden walkway which led out to a tidepool.
Hugh Whitney tossed an onion bag filled with gurry and a few large rocks into the pool each day, at first high tide.
By low tide, when the water was only a few feet deep, and easily accessible, visitors waded in the tidepool, gathering crabs, fish, lobsters, and other goodies.
It weren't much, but Laura's crew loved it.
Laura wasn't from Aarrghh.
She'd simply stayed behind after one of the outings with her wild bunch.
Folks figgered that if she'd been smart enough to find Aarrghh, bring nice folks to spend their money, and then just send them away, so she could stay in peace, she must be O.K.
She was, for several years.
Then, as sudden as suddenly, she stopped being industrious, let her appearance lapse, and began performing the role of Village Beggar.
She never asked for much, but it had to come from the in your face, hand-to-mouth method she'd adopted.
Bubba decided that whatever she was up to, it was intentional.
She never asked him for anything. And she knew that he had taken quite a bit. Laura was about something.
Bubba was certain. It drove him batshit, not knowing what it was.
After stopping by the shop for a bracer, Bubba drove the ol' Chevy Pickup to Laura's shack.
The shack stood just outside the perimeter of Whitney's Salvage.
Ol' Hugh was too territorial to let her squat on his land, but, she had the only reasonable access to her place over his turf, and it set up a little higher, so the view was even better than that from the trailers.
Bubba drew alongside Hugh's porch, gave him the obligatory Jack and $50, and passed toward Laura's without exchanging a word.
Hugh was living in his own private dementia, and that was that.
Someday Bubba, or someone else, would drive up to the porch and Hugh would be Post Mortem in the rocker.
At least, if it happened today, he'd go with a smile on his mug, and half a yard in his pocket.
Laura was outside, bundled into piles of coats and sweaters, wearing several pairs of sweatpants. She was barefoot. It was about 40 degrees. There was mud and slush everywhere.
Her look, when she recognized Bubba, went from a purely joyful grin to a confused scowl, almost instantly.
Sadly, her face froze into the scowl before she could allow the joy to creep back in.
"Whatcha want, Bubba?"
"Hey now, Laura. Ya'll know anything about promotin' concepts? I recall hearin' you sayin' sumthin’ about promotin' concerts. That anything like the same?"
Laura laughed out loud, right through the scowl.
It seemed to startle her when she heard her own laughter.
Bubba looked straight into her eyes.
Ooops! He caught Laura looking girlish and happy.
This was either a great new beginning, or the continuation of extreme confusion. Only time would tell.
For today, Laura's discomfort at being caught in the act of joy, had ended any hope of furthering the Riparian Rights issue.
Bubba simply said, "Nice ta see ya'll. I come by to look in on ol' Hugh, and you were nearby. Later.", as he drove slowly away.
Laura returned to her scowling and puttering.
Her mind was racing, her heart aflutter. But, she let Bubba go.
He got back to the shop and asked Ernie if all was well.
Ernie responded in the affirmative.
The place could have been vanishing, board by board, in a hurricane, and Ernie's response would have remained positive.
Bubba often wished he could attain Ernie's state of mind.
While most considered ol' Ernie to be a little slow, and 'tetched in the haid', Bubba valued the composure with which Ernie faced life.
He was also a great dock jockey. Ernie invented Dinghy Dancin'.
Bubba had a few floats in the water, leading to the gas dock. The walkways and railings, heading to the floats, were surrendering to nature.
Ernie made his way out to the dock by stepping onto the siderails, and into several small dinghies along the way.
These narrow fishin' skiffs were as tippy as all get out. Ernie was a big guy.
The Dinghy Dance became a famous Aarrghh event, as others tried to walk the walk.
There were a few young kids who made it look like X-Games. But, Ernie was still the undisputed 'Stay Hi-Stay Dry' champ.
The kids splashed water everywhere.
Ernie barely allowed the boats to move as he skipped from rail to rail.
Plus, he was the only one Bubba allowed to touch the gas pump. So, he had a form of job security. Bubba felt that Ernie was a guy you'd always want on your side.
Bubba could feel the thinkin' come on.
It was so totally un-natural, and un-necessary to waste one precious moment lost in thought, while living in Aarrghh, that actual, essential thought, for a purpose, was almost painfully startling.
The brain would come back on, but the reception got fuzzier and fuzzier, more and more difficult to tune in.
There was little to be said for thinkin' among Aarrghites.
Right about then, Bubba decided to drive back out to Laura's. She could do the thinkin'.
Bubba figgered, "Being from 'away', she might still have the knack."
Laura did still have the knack.
In fact, she'd been doing the Village Beggar act in hopes of someone asking her to come up with a plan, rather than skulking around town, in tatters.
Bubba was unaware of Laura's exact intent, but he'd sensed something.
When he returned to the astounded Laura's shack, she was drunk on half the Jack Bubba had left with Hugh Whitney.
This time, she couldn't hide her joy.
She tossed off all but the ‘glued-on by bodily secretions’ T-Shirt, and a pair of silk Long-John's. These were pretty much a second skin on Laura.
Bubba gasped at the perfectly adorned body, actually blushed, and sat back onto his seat. Right there on Laura's front lawn.
He was floored.
Laura giggled, threw back her hair, and fell to the ground beside Bubba. She laughed outloud until every molecule of her being tingled.
"Concept Promotion, huh? What do you know about concept?"
Bubba grinned, and said, "Heard the word a few times. I know it means projecting thoughts into the public consciousness. Whatever that means."
Laura sat up, crossed her legs in front of her in a lotus positon, and slapped her hands on her thighs. "Can I do anything with a concept? Huh! Where you been hidin', Son? Hell, we bin' knowin' each other for over twelve years, never so much as beyond Hi, Fine, Nice ta see ya. Now were gonna do concept. Don't get a nose bleed over rushin' into things, Bubba."
"My good Lord, Laura, you are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. You'll have to excuse my stammer. I need to concentrate for a few seconds.", Bubba stammered.
Laura had the bottle of Jack, with two good swallows left. She pretended to slug one down, but just took a sip before handing the rest to Bubba.
He drank it, and asked about Hugh.
"He's in happy-happy town, sleeping peacefully. We talked about the time I brought those bikers, with their Harley's, and a noise abatement rule got passed over Labor Day weekend. Hugh loved that one. He's dreaming about the babe we hooked him up with, trying to sway his vote. S.O.B. wouldn't play along, though. He resisted the unabashed, never challenged, Queen of the Trailer Hitch. Good ol' Hugh", Laura responded.
Bubba thought about Hugh's dream for a moment, and returned his attention to Laura. "Have you heard about this roadway to the mainland?", he asked.
"Yeah, if you folks don't get organized pretty damn quickly, we'll be fightin' over parkin' spaces within a year, or two. I don't want that, Bubba. I've tried to keep a very low profile here, but, in case ya'll didn't notice, the Beggar act started right about the time those suits came for a look-see. I been tryin' ta be among ya'll, lissenin."
"You're among us all, Laura. No-one considers you an outsider. What do you think would work?"
Laura scrunched up her nose, and said, "Well, I heard about the Riparian thing. Legally, you'd be makin' law. That's always tough. But, with you as 'the Riparian', and me as the spin doctor, they'll never get past the test borings. By the way, why are you the only person, other than Yours Truly, on this entire sandbar with good teeth? And, we'll talk about my outsiderness later."
Bubba chuckled and said, "I can't work on myself. I go all the way to Richmond twice a year for my dental work."
He then thought even more about the fact that he was the rich guy, with good teeth, a business, a valuable piece of property, and now, possibly, Laura as his...dare he think?...girlfriend.
Without further consideration, Bubba announced to Laura that she was in charge.
He would perform the role of 'Bubba the Riparian' exactly as she directed.
He said, "Girl, I have over $200,000 in liquid assets. There are 120 people livin’ out here. I'm going to give every single one of them $1000, even those in favor of the road gettin' built. That leaves me with $80,000, plus, the business, and the value of the property. If the road gets built, the property value will skyrocket. I'll sell and go lookin'. If it don't, I can still live here forever. I'm goin' whole hog for the not gettin' built plan."
Laura had a Big City flashback right then.
Was Bubba too good to be true? Or, was he as fake as the big time Wall Street/Rock 'n Roll guys? She thought, "Nah. I believe in the guy."
Laura asked, "What's this I hear about a causeway?"

To learn more about Bubba, and his crew, stay tuned...

Author's Note...there are four more completed segments following the one above. The five pieces, combined, are an intact piece. The current conclusion leaves a number of choices open to expand, and extend the tale ad infinitum.
ASAP, I'll put up a separate blog, with the complete text. Links will connect the two.
Try this. Editing in progress...



This piece was originally written in the mid-eighties...the result of my exploration into ologies and remains unedited...amazingly, timelessly, timeless, eh?

Millions of Earth’s most pressing problems solved.
All in one fell swoop.
Kineticism is awareness of the energy stored within all objects.
It's value lies in extending that awareness into action.
Kineticism, fully realized, leads to ease of being.
That's a good thing.
The concept stems from things I learned while very young.
It was the 1950's.
We were in the midst of a much ballyhooed new direction for humanity.
I looked at the direction mankind was headed with the outlook of an American Indian, born in the wrong century.
My favorite viewpoints were held by the Hopi, Zuni, and Navajo.
These tribes had far reaching views.
My version of their outlook was close to anthropomorphic.
Inanimate objects took on living qualities.
The universe became recognizable.
I later came to realize that the spirit within all objects, as viewed by the American Indian, was actually an innate recognition of Cosmological Theories.
Their relationship with nature was so close that the Indians sensed the inner movement of atomic particles.
They felt the oneness of all physical objects.
Indians were aware of 'vibes'.

I remain fascinated by the notion of viewing today through the eyes of one who instinctively senses The Continuum.
Because, simply put, everything we recognize as physical is made up of the same rotating spheres, revolving around larger rotating spheres, ad infinitum, along with the space in between.
The bodies create the hum.
The space absorbs and disseminates this hum.
'Vibes' are the hum.
I have heard this referred to as the Music of the Spheres.
Ironically, I am of the age which experienced the onset of consciousness raising via drugs and spiritual awareness.
It's amazing how much of what has come from this new awareness is directly rooted in the point of view held by the American Indian.
LSD was a rerun.
Plus, I outgrew the moccasins and fringed leather garment phase around 1960.
So, Tripped Hippie is a 60's phase I skipped.
Many of those whose consciousness got psychedelically altered beyond the individual's ability to grasp, have found solace in the religion of the Tibetans.
Other than a few culturally based variables, Tibetan Bhuddism is not much different than Navajo beliefs.
Another haven for tripped out souls is Scientology.
L.Ron hit one here.
He simply took the sacrifice vs. reward aspect found in every belief system and added a new dimension, that of aggressive neurosis.
A great many of those lost to their trip are very aggressively neurotic.
Scientology suits their needs.
Scientologists get their reward without having to stop being the jerks they all realize that they are.

All of which leads back to Kineticism.
If you are a tripped out, aggressively neurotic jerk, it probably won't help.
You'll be forced, by your own self, to acknowledge such behavior.
You'll realize the disharmony your presence is causing in the 'vibe'.
But, being such a person, you won't recognize how to fix this problem.
Kineticism doesn't claim to fix things.
It simply rejoices in that which needn't be fixed.
The Aborigines, sitting at the base of Ayer's Rock, in "The Right Stuff", sending cinders into space, for John Glenn, still give me goosebumps.
Aborigines have Kineticism.
Many years ago, I saw a TV program about an ‘Abo‘ who'd gone 'walkabout'.
After his 'walkabout', he found, in a wasteland akin to the Lunar Surface, trinkets and amulets he'd placed beneath some rocks.
Years of windstorms, rain, and who knows what other outside forces had altered the terrain considerably.
The ‘Abo’ came near to the place where the loot was stashed, did some Aboriginal deep thought, inner vision thing, then walked over, bent down, and recovered his stuff.
That's Kineticism.
One thing Kineticism is not, is a system to be abused.
It's impossible.
Abuses, by those controlling belief systems, come from the fact that those in control know something which their followers do not.
At least that’s what the followers believe.
Oftentimes, those followers may be persuaded to take nefarious actions in implementing what those ‘in the know’ preach.
Whether the systematic, multi-tiered hierarchy of The Masons, the arcane labyrinthe of Catholicism, Islamic Fundamentalism, or, take your pick.
Religious Orders are just that, attempts to place a sense of order on the perceived chaos surrounding us.
Kineticism finds the balance within the chaos.
And, simply, appreciates the miraculous harmony.
These 'Orders' were established at a time when very few humans had access to higher knowledge.
They represent an assuaging of the fear borne of ignorance.
Today, with even the most obscure knowledge available to everyman, these 'order from chaos' systems are beyond outdated.
They are harmful.
Millions are born into belief systems over which they have no control.
Should an individual question these bestown beliefs, the first decision said individual must make is to refute all he or she has been taught.
This taints whatever choice the person makes with the stain of refutation.
Once born into an absolute system, a thinking individual must start off on the path to their own outlook by saying goodbye to those who presented the absolutism.
The choice between family and community, the presenters, and a solitary path to who knows where, often leaves the questioning human nowhere.
Kineticism simply fails to acknowledge the value of any belief passed on from a time of darkness.
The people who offered these beliefs are long dead.
Their outlook was based on their time.
Their time is long past.
Their outlook is useless today.
It, too, should be allowed to pass.

Fat chance, eh?
So, with all of the issues, suffering in turn for salvation, humble understanding leading to nirvana, relinquishing oneself in the name of piety, etc., etc., considered, Kineticism requires only that your very being be at ease in whatever surroundings you may encounter.
This is possible because you will feel total confidence in your beliefs.
This confidence comes from knowing that it works for you, because you made it up.
At ease in your surroundings, empowered with confidence, you can proceed on any chosen path, with a strong reason to hope for the best.
There you have it.

try this page next...

Wednesday, January 24, 2007

Enviro Mental

Today's guest columnist is Art Dif, Billionaire Enviro Mentalist.
Art has recently returned from a trip aboard Gaia Two, Earth's first Personal Spacecraft.
It was epiphonic.
Prior to Art's epiphony, he had used his billions to make more billions. His was a simple philosophy. It worked well.
Since returning, Art has gone Enviro Mental.
I'll let Art tell the rest...

Good Day!
Thank you for this opportunity.
I'm Art Dif.
My first order of business consists of inviting my fellow Billionaire Enviro Mentalists, Ted Turner, and Richard Branson to the table.
You've heard of them. I'm sure.
I'm the newbie in this media exposure biz. It's only been a matter of months since I woke up to this new calling. The time since has all been spent absorbing, and considering. There's a lot of confusing, conflicting stuff to toss around.
For instance, Al Gore, one of the so-called leading voices of our environmental conscience, claims we will get the rest of the world to follow in our newly developing Enviro Mentalist Nation footsteps through 'Moral Authority'.
We, in our greater wisdom, will set a shining example for the rest of the world to follow. Nations all over the globe will alter their ways, in emulation of our Morally Authorized lead.
Cripes! That ol' boy is flat out stupid.
His attitude is exactly why USofA is so friggin' hated.
Nobody has looked toward USofA for any Higher Outlook since guys like Al's Dad ran the show. They pretty much dumped Pandora's Box all over the place, and left the mess for us to clean up.
Yet, this Bozo son of an Influence Peddler, who, more and more, resembles a lurching undertaker, came a few crooked votes from being The President, and gets huge attention for whatever issue enters his gourd.
I think he's a crazed lunatic with a forum.
What do you think?
Is his POV correct?
What do I know?
With my vast resources, and near religious zeal for the topic at hand, a great deal can be done. But, I need feedback before proceeding.
Turner and Branson have serious media clout. With access to their outlets, our combined financial resources, and my new found enthusiasm for what seems certain to endure as the topic of the milennium, we can certainly open avenues of discussion...which lets folks in.
One thing I've learned in my recent research binge, is that countless individuals have invaluable insight, when provided the opportunity to express theirself.
It's amazing what you can learn.

Here's the invitation.
Let's sit down.
Here's what I far...

We can still save our niche.
Get over Man v. Nature. It’s a no-win situation. We are nature.
Everything we do, everything we have ever done, is part of the natural course of events.
We can’t waste decades trying to undo our actions. They’re part of the course.
Otherwise, they never could have happened.
For example, using the planet’s natural resources, such as petroleum, generating energy, reducing drudgery, and improving ‘quality of existence’, was brilliantly symbiotic, for a while.
Unfortunately, as seems to be our way, we overdid it. Greed led to abuse, and excess took over.
From the first oil well, to excess, to complete abuse and potential self-destruction, in three generations.
That’s it.
It’s who we are. It’s what we do.
Our quest to reduce drudgery, by utilizing the planet’s resources, has gone horribly awry.
The future will be a series of increasingly reckless battles, over control of the dwindling supply, unless we change our outlook.
In the big picture, the entire reign of King Petro Chem will become an insignificant blip on the screen.
To those of us living during Petro Chem’s reign, it is the ‘be all and end all’.
At least it will be if we refuse to smarten up.
Change our demands, and supply will follow.
That’s the natural course of events.

I realize that my outlook approaches Gumpness in its obvious simplicity. But, simplicity got me to this position.
Simple starts the ball rolling.
Thanks, again...
Art Dif
Billionaire Enviro Mentalist

NOTE...Ted Turner is getting too old for this conflict. He bowed out after commenting that we were headed for cannibalism. It's probably for the best. The Mouth of the South hasn't been the same since his unfortunate encounter with Janey.

Tuesday, January 23, 2007

Media Planting...

My media planting career began in 1968.
It's a simple concept, dependent upon the ever increasing hunger of the media.
That ever increasing hunger should make it ever easier to do, eh?
Think of the rising level of demand since '68.
This should be a piece of cake.

The event which brought this notion to light for me, occurred while tending bar at King's Tavern, Harvard Sq...1968/69.
Among the regulars were a motley crew, referring to themselves as The Harvard Sq Racing Association.
They raced for their barstools, as far as I could tell.
Right alongside the Racing Association sat the Neiman Fellows for that season.
The Neimans gobbled up the local flavor, buying the boys drinks, and jotting notes.
I won't bore you with a list of particulars, right now.
It's a whole 'nother tale.
Suffice it to say that revolution in the streets was fomented via the boys spinning a very realistic yarn, which the Neimans projected on to "Time", and actions took place.
The hunger made it real...even with the delay necessary for a weekly periodical to shout the story.
Again it should be easier now.

So, avoiding the temptation to carry on, telling stories about Harvard Sq in the 60's, and all that, I'll conduct my current project right here, just to show you how it works.

stay tuned...there'll be fantastic T-shirts, posters, and all sorts of great prizes soon.

If I can maintain your interest for a while, you will be rewarded, least...
The Media Planting Project will improve humanity's basic outlook so dramatically that all will benefit.

Plus, by sticking with it from the start, you'll have all the cool loot...which should bring a pretty penny on ebay...more on this later...stick around and I'll tell you how to do, it's to your advantage to return regularly.

I've been Media Planting ever since that fateful day.
There's been a lot of retracing steps, cultivating, nurturing, etc.
It's come full circle.
Time to harvest.

This is Media Planting...


Saturday, January 20, 2007


There's a sea change a comin',
comin' for us all.
We're bound to get swept up in it,
all ridin' on this ball.
Since what you see, is what you get,
learn to see it all...

It's time to acknowledge expansion as the fifth basic human need.
For years, there were three accepted, sex, and shelter.
Recently, most have begun to recognize intoxication as the fourth.
These basic requirements have ruled our lives, since the dawn of time.
Until they are taken care of, nothing else happens.
There has also, always been expansion.
Now, as we rapidly run out of places, expansion seems impossible.
We have lost a large portion of ourselves.
A basic human need, while not yet extinct, lies dormant.
We run ourselves ragged, trying to prevent extinction of species we've endangered.
This about to become endangered by the loss of expansion from our collective psyche.
We've messed with our own well being.
By now, we should have achieved the awareness to take action.
The ability to do so, is tempered only by willingness.
Yes, even in these treacherous times, with our hackles up, and our nostrils flared, awareness of the balance must be kept in perspective.
Surviving the treacherous times won't matter, without all five needs intact.
With a basic motivator lost, the survivors won't be Homo Sapiens.
They'll be some new, unrecognizable, devolved branch of Humanity.
Even without the dreaded Nuclear Armageddon, Homo Sapiens is well on the way to extinction, by our own foolishness.
History is. The Future can include escalating levels of clarity, leading to a brighter outlook, or become pure, straight to the brain, agenda driven hocus-pocus.
Hunker in the bunker, or cast off for ports unknown. It's our call.

NOTE...this is my earliest posting...January of '07...everything here will make more sense when you realize the problem starts with the does the fully absorb the concept, click 'newer post' below...continue to do so as you read ensuing'll be reading it as it was thought leading to another...until the links take you back to today.

or, return immediately to real time... Shoreline Earth