P.E.A.C.E.

I’d like to move far, far away to a distant projected reality within universal consciousness free from the tyranny of style. I’d like to find some new electrons with whom to collide. Know what? Fuck electrons. They’re too negative.

Protons and electrons always cause explosions.

You can see how this is frustrating.

I want to travel to Peru. I want to take a commercial flight to Lima, then jaunt to the Amazon on some puddle jumper operated by a seedy individual with whom I cannot communicate due to the language barrier and engine noise. The plane will groan and jostle aberrantly. I will gaze out the window at the trees below. My brain will perceive this sight as beautiful but I will be unable to appreciate the beauty due to fear of death. I will wonder what people in New Jersey will say about my untimely demise in a prop plane accident over the Peruvian jungle and I will momentarily rue my wanderlust. We will land safely, all things considered. An internal dialogue will ensue in which I call myself a mollycoddle and I will feel stupid for being so frightened. From there, I will board a canoe. There will be a semi-awkward period of silence between myself and the guide paddling the canoe. I will point out a group of large, variegated parrots. He will feign interest and I will question my decision to verbally acknowledge the birds, likening the scenario to a hypothetical tourist’s hypothetical enthusiastic reaction to seeing a McDonald’s on a U.S. highway. It will jive at the time. Later, I will disparage this allegory and regret ever thinking it. When I arrive at the village, I will be given a makeshift mattress and a mosquito net. I will engage in spiritual ceremonies with shamans and drink Ayahuasca. We will speak (through a translator) about opening my third eye. I’m not sure how long I stay. As long as it takes, I suppose.

The next time you see me, I will tell you something like: The universe is an ocean and we are all waves in the ocean. You can’t separate the waves from the ocean; they are the same. We are all one consciousness. It will make total sense to me. You will interpret my words as deep and profound, or so I will believe, but it will not really matter since, at this point, I have transcended the self. I will no longer have any interest in baseball whatsoever, but my eyes will be like mirrors and when you look into my peepers, they will reflect your ego, your attachments and all of your deep-seated fears.

If you tell people this, they will think you are as mad as a March hare. And not just your banal brother-in-law who’s obsessed with status quo, a large percentage of baby boomers, and/or wild-eyed, god-fearing Christians, but people you genuinely trust. So I keep it secret from everyone other than the three or so people whom I already told and received reactions of flabbergast in return. I will research this on the Internet and discover that this shamanistic tourism is big business in South America and there are balls-out websites dedicated to commercializing such an experience with banner ads and everything. I will feel disheartened and commoditized. Instead, I will eat mushrooms and stand at the abdomen of the shopping district with a sign that reads Jesus Saves, but Gretzky Scores on the Rebound. Some people might get pissed, some might laugh, and all parents with small children will most likely clutch their sapling’s hand a little bit tighter as they pass, but I won’t really care since I expect to have transcended the self by this juncture.

I Sip Lithium from the Nape of a Glass As Is Standard Operating Procedure

The old lady and I recently gathered all of our worldly possessions and compressed them into every knapsack, duffel bag, tattered cardboard box, and Hefty Hefty Cinch Sak we could get muster, taking our traveling gypsy show on the road yet again. Our new abode rests in a more affable locale a mere fifteen miles from our prior residence where inbred mutants who blare “I Love Rock n’ Roll” by Joan Jett in the mid-afternoon live above people like me and constantly use my washing machine despite numerous threats of physical harm. No longer is my slumber disrupted at odd hours by an angry neighbor beating down the upstairs door because he doesn’t approve of the creepy fucker’s penchant for black prostitutes. Apparently, Negros aren’t permitted in that posh environment, or so says the lusus naturae upstairs. Quite frankly, the dude should have got clocked in the jaw just for denying his half-breed son a dental visit once in his life.

So, yeah. The other day I was exploring my new terrain in search for the local market where I could exchange American currency for fresh produce, frozen chicken, and the yogurt that comes with the crushed cookies and/or Nestle Crunch pieces to mix in and create a delicious treat when I stumbled upon a street lined with log cabins. I also needed to get cat food. But to see so many homes constructed with logs was relatively intriguing. One mile later, I came across this:

What does this cryptic message mean? And who are the zealots who devoted the time and effort to design a bed sheet banner to brazenly portray this message to passers-by? I mulled it over for a few days. Is this some kind of anti-Christian bulletin? Some sort of twisted anti-war cryptogram? The apocalyptic warning of a crackpot soothsayer? I was entertaining myself imagining the possibilities, but I had to knock on the strangers’ door, introduce myself, and express my interest in the sheet tied to their trees alluding to some ambiguous disaster. A woman hesitantly opened the door and looked me up and down as if I had just crawled out of the primordial ooze.

“Hi, I’m Sparky,” I said. “I moved down the street a week or so ago and I pass your house everyday. I am just so curious about that sign. Church Chernobyl…what’s that all about?”

She asked me where I moved and I explained in greater detail. She appeared more comfortable once she established I am legitimate quasi-neighbor with a genuine interest in her cause as opposed to some big city rapist who wants to steal her identity and sell her jewels for money to buy meth.

“So you hate the church, huh?” I asked. That’s when she educated me on the brouhaha stirred up by the adjacent United Methodist Church which can be seen from her front yard, thus presenting the prime opportunity for her to shake her fist at the building while explaining her hostility. Get a load of this shit. The church has embarked on a deal with T-Mobile to install a cellular tower base in the church’s steeple. As a result, churchgoers have become concerned about the health risks associated with this business venture, going so far as to enlist independent industry experts in the field of RF radiation to analyze the decision. The upside of this is members of the congregation can now communicate with God via text message during mass. I suggested to the woman that the church should open a Starbucks in the front of the chapel and the pastor can bless the Frapuccinos. Coca-Cola can buy ad space on the back of the pews and they can probably get a couple extra bucks from Carl’s Jr. if the pastor wears the fast food chain’s logo on the front of his pulpit robe. She found absolutely no humor in my musings. Not even a little bit. Nothing cute or clever at all.

Remember: Jesus contacts all his homies on the Sidekick 3, so you should, too! Hallowed be thy rollover minutes. Repent or perish.

Born to be Mild

Allow me to turn back the clock about fifteen years or so to a strange wrinkle in time when the fashion appeal of flannel shirts extended beyond the Midwestern states, but before the dark days of Swing music’s reincarnation (which, in my opinion, may have very well been the first sign of the apocalypse and a warning from above to prepare for the Rapture, though two Catholic priests and one Baptist minister have since refuted this belief), and introduce you to a former hometown firebrand named Christian Lord. That’s right: Christian Lord. This is legitimately the name that appears on his birth certificate. Ergo, the kids in school devised clever nicknames for him like “The Good Shepherd” and “Son of Man.” To this day, Christian is still somewhat of a high school legend in Eastern Pennsylvania. Stories are passed down from one grade to the next about the kid who religiously (no pun intended) ate near-fatal quantities of acid everyday during school hours. His provincial fame was solidified senior year when he had a “bad trip,” stripped off all his clothes in Physics class while yammering about amphibians, and sprinted out of the building, not to be seen for two weeks. Last I heard he dropped out of Towson University during his sophomore year to devote all of his energy to his lifelong passion – magic. Yes, magic – pulling rabbits out of hats, swallowing fire and all that happy horseshit. Supposedly, he’s a local Penn Jilette of sorts and generates more income than most people my age with master’s degrees and MBAs. This miscarriage of justice, coupled with the fact that I never liked the imbecile, overwhelms me with resentment. He is the most loathsome creature walking on two legs. I haven’t seen him in about nine years and, if I had my way, I wouldn’t see him for another nine lifetimes. Unfortunately, I rarely get my way.