Pine Bluff Cosmonauts

A cedar fence post angles itself slightly to the left from this viewpoint, pointing to the sun breaking through the thin pine trees above. It smells of cedar. New immigration laws dictated that this fence be part of the grand system of deterrence and eventual elimination of the immigration problem supposedly plaguing the utopia. This particular fence, like many others in the area, was substandard at best, and provided more of a way in than any sort of deterrence.

The fence post served a benevolent purpose for Gerald T. Jupiter, Pine Bluff Cosmonaut. A postcard. He kicked dirt at it to kick away time, and occasionally threw a shard at it. It clinked off dully when he did this, and gave off the usual scent. The Pine Bluff Cosmonauts, you see, had built an empire in these hills, taking over the land through litigious action years ago. There leader, Cranyon Humphries, led the charge with his team of ethnic lawyers. Therein lies the dilemma: ethnic lawyers provided them this land, now they were forced to protect it from so-called evil ethnic clans. Little action had been taken so far by the cosmonauts. One Chinese man was prevented from crossing the invisible boundary not by the fence, but by a rogue band of strong bees and one overgrown spider, affectionately called Billy. Thus little work ever was done by the cosmonauts in terms of protecting the lands, generally disregarding government protocol. Instead they focused on their own activities.

As he thought about their dissidence, a rusty leaf fell off an elm tree onto Gerald's suit. He brushed it aside and only then took action. He jetted to the steam cellar via trench coat rocketry and grabbed the salmon lantern. This item was eco-friendly and useful. Simultaneously he gathered 20 other cosmonauts as they trained on bio-cell devices and automatic bile cleansers. He removed them gently from the metallic sheen of the room they were born into and shed the rose light upon them provided by the salmon lantern. Cosmonaut HC12:L, so named because of his hairstyle, stared blankly into the TV, gazing upon Danny Devito currently involved in Don't Throw Momma from the Train, an imported aspect to Cosmonaut culture. There they gathered in the warmth of the telepathy buffet quadrant (pronounced by Gerald as "crab-rent"), ten columns of 2, wishing for an expedited end to their training. The implication of the salmon lantern pretty much spoke the necessary volumes. The steam cellar was currently humming with 300 amps of service, sent to them from the hash generator that sat atop Stone Ridge, some 100 feet above their current elevation. Cranyon was probably in his office right now, unawares of the oncoming rush. The last cosmonaut Berry Mississippi, locked his last vessel on the table of banishment and warped slowly to his post in column #10. He commanded attention with a weeping cry fit only the weakest of children. Of course, for cosmonauts, this meant strength and general integrity.

Franiak Forsepcion, the Mexican cosmonaut who insisted he was Korean, fixed up in 200 decibel earphones, sat idly by the cash register near the door. This register, and its operator, served the sole purpose of selling snacks. Franiak was not fit for other duties due to lack of diligence, and was thus sentenced to staying around the general area while making sure nobody stole snacks. what was largely unknown about him was that he only used the large earmuffs as they were as a cover up for his consistent listening of "Higher Love," a top hit from Stevie Winwood. In fact, so little care was taken regarding Franiak that he was able to quietly develop his own plan. Very quickly, and with the gaze of Gerald upon him, he sprung up, shed his gear, and transformed into Cadmium Annie, who could stand patiently and tend to cupcakes, or fly into a high-flying plan, based on the works of Winwood, and take an entire company under his wing.

That day, Gerald's authority was bent into permanent deformation, and Franiak took his pack of hungry wolves to the Northland. To the plains of Alberta, Canada, to set up a strategic base and defeat local vandal tribes. This was predicted, and later dictated in Steve Winwood's catalog of solo music. Take a short, or long listen, and this will be obvious.

Mind bending morphology

Sometimes I like to read books about psychological and social philosophy. Admittedly, I am a bad reader (and maybe bad thinker), and fail to understand the complex ideas that have to be very carefully negotiated and formed within my mind. I routinely fall into philosophical traps, and rarely get out unscathed. This makes my eyes twist in their sockets and tiny blood bubbles to rise to the surface of my brain matter. Ouch, I feel this pain in my core right now. I work through it though, on to the next page. Now some other people, like people who study philosophy professionally and or with others who study as amateurs (like The Situation from Jersey Shore), like to take a position of superiority, as if part of the job of studying philosophy is having your own philosophy (or illusion) that you are intellectually superior. This is the fuel of philosophy, and so it is a necessary evil. These people would have already thought of at least 20 belittling remarks to make regarding my first sentence alone. So be it. Hell, I even deserve it.

Travel beyond the stuffy, cold, and oppressively cruel world of academic philosophy for a moment, however, and you might stumble upon a few who at least seem a little more approachable. For example, Robert Anton Wilson. I've read some of his other paranoid conspiracy pieces and have enjoyed them mainly because they are better writte than others, and he seems to be more firmly grounded (maybe an oxymoron) than other conspiracy theorists. Plus mind control, cults, and secret power societies make my neck tingle. In a good way. So, needless to say I was more than willing to pick up a book that Wilson authored that wasn't what I was used to seeing from him. This book, Prometheus Rising, is based on a PhD dissertation that he did at some defunct California university. It's mainly written to support Timothy Leary's circuit model of consciousness, which I have no experience with outside of this book. Doesn't matter, this is not a fucking book report that Lavar Burton put some 8 year old kid up to do against his will. I need not go into details. But, essentially, the importance lies in the general message of the book: creep out of your robot-like shell and live like you're supposed to. Evolve. Don't fight it. No message seemed to be more perfect in light of the current political and social climate. Perhaps, however, I am an easily brainwashed robot falling into Wilson's philosophical web trap of belief. As I said earlier, I am prone to this. Whatever, in any case, it's not like I'm going to act on anything. We're very well-conditioned in here and our compliance is required by law. I'll get up tomorrow at the sound of the alarm at exactly 6:30, commute to work, work on stuff that has little meaning, fuck with peoples' minds, buy some shit at Target, and watch Glee. So will you.

Peace Sells... and I Rust in Peace

I discovered that when I fail to post for over 1 month, I get crazy emails that say things like, "Lock in-rates as low as 3.25%." This likely has nothing to do with my not posting, I understand, but I figured this can be useful information to anybody. Good luck with your finances you greedy scum face.

Now, I recently was gifted a copy of Dave Mustaine's autobiography. And, yes, this encouraged me to write a post. First of all, if nothing else, this, along with AHL hockey games, has allowed me to be distracted from depressing political, work, or Jersey Shore discussions. And, since I'm not having a baby, do not agree with conservative policy, and do not have the desire to purchase real estate, I'm eliminated from conversations with my peers in this culture. Fuck. Anyway, this was my first introduction to rock autobiographies, something that I have to admit I generally view as frivolous, self-centered promotional devices. And yes, it was that all that. But hell, would reading or seeing the biography of one of our country's forefathers be any more educational? I doubt it. Don't worry, this is not a political tangent, it's just a light face slap inflicted upon most pop culture figures. Believe it or not, and partially because many of them are promotional tools, most of these figures possess neither interesting or important biographical characteristics. I'm not being critical, it's just that most people are fairly banal, just like you and I, and I guess that's why we relate or why they're pop culture icons. Fine, but I don't need a polished book to read about that stuff, no matter who it is. I can find it spending time with people I know, which I would mostly rather do. The only benefit of a book as that I can put it down and never pick it up again, something that's more difficult to do with people like you.

I have to admit though, that book was interesting. I found myself wanting to hear about the self-centered, insecure junkie, and power driven Mustaine. That is America, and maybe the human condition one could argue. In summary, Mustaine suffers from a sick tendency to compare his success to Metallica's. In fact, it probably drove him to do great things, and really stupid things. He hates Lars Ulrich's smarmy little face, and once tried to punch through Hetfield's face. The latter was nearly a success. Every 20 or so pages seemed to be success story related to his fists of fury. He kicked the shit of approximately 30 other people, and really never lost. I think he had a feud with Vince Neil once, and maybe Axl Rose. No doubt he would have unleashed hell on them. Successfully. So, he fought a lot, then did a bunch of heroin at various times, and went to rehab a lot. His pinnacle of success, in my mind, is Rust in Peace, in his mind it's finding God and Jesus. In many passages he ridicules the twelve step programs he's forced into and suggests he was brainwashed. He feels superior to them. Then, it's not entirely clear if he feels like he was wrong all along, but finally he finds Jesus through them, and is saved. Okay. He won't even play a show with a black metal band these days.

So, like many others, he submitted to a higher power, or realized that's what he had to do as he hit bottom. So, in this lies a semi-important lesson for me: Mustaine explained to me the problem of most heavy metalers - the majority of them come from chaotic and broken lives and they seek acceptance, a power greater than them. Some of them find it in the music. Some, like Mustaine, search endlessly and frantically, destroying and creating along the way. Then, at the end, they find Jesus. Jesus. The crutch for man. I know Jesse Ventura said this, a little more scathingly, but in many ways he was right, and Mustaine is living proof. His insecurities, illustrated through rivalries of power and drug use, finally culminated in his discovery of a higher power. It was an introspective into the condition of man, an introspective that wasn't a surprise, but was comforting in some way that showed the commonality in the common man. So for that, you get an 'A' Mustaine. You've finally succeeded. Not in his being great (although he is, mainly due to his writing of the song Hangar 18) but in his painting a picture of human vulnerabilities and the eventual final solution. Jesus: God only knows my personal insecurities will eventually find an antidote in you.