Lucky Sperm Club


“The richest one percent of this country owns half our country’s wealth, five trillion; I create nothing. I own.”Gordon GeckoWall Street

I have empathy and affinity for those trying to figure out the mysteries. Recently several of these brave intellectuals have called to tell me about a new hypothesis being discussed these days. It’s called “The New Physics”.

They believe at the center of this philosophy is the notion that anything we think we can do; that just by the power of positive thinking we can achieve any desire, master any discipline. They liken this mind over matter idea to quantum mechanics; a branch of physics describing the behavior of energy and matter at the atomic and subatomic levels.

This sounds a lot more like hope than truth and perhaps they’ve misconstrued the conclusion but it’s also inaccurate to think that this axiom is anything new. A more accurate description of the so-called new physics is the concept that anything we think we will eventually do; but this doesn’t mean we are qualified to do it.

An example on the macro level: We looked at the moon and thought that someday we’d go there and then we did. But it took a couple of decades for us to be qualified to go. An example on the micro level: We see everything we do before we do it; pick up a glass of water and you’ll realize that you saw yourself doing it a nano second before you actually did it.

The brilliant twit Malcolm Gladwell, in his best-selling book; “Outliers” The Story of Success, among many grand revelations about why some people succeed, living remarkably productive and impact lives while so many more never reach their potential, he challenges our cherished belief of the self-made man. He makes the democratic assertion that superstars don’t arise out of nowhere, propelled by genius and talent: but that they are invariably the beneficiaries of hidden advantages and extraordinary opportunities and cultural legacies that allow them to learn and work hard and make sense of the world in ways others cannot.

Warren Buffet subscribes to this notion and has consistently emphasized the role of chance in getting rich. “A member of the lucky sperm club” as he described himself to Charlie Rose. He happened to be born in the right country, to the right parents, at precisely the right moment, to absurdly reward his special talent at asset allocation. Warren’s a rare bird. Few successful businessmen truly believe they owe their rewards to luck. Nothing makes a mammal more delusional than money.

Examining the lives of outliers from Mozart to Bill Gates, Gladwell builds a convincing case for how successful people rise on a tide of advantages, some deserved, some not, some earned, some just plain lucky. He also asserts that it takes twenty years to become really good or great at anything and anyone who’s gotten good or great at anything will likely agree with this hypothesis.

It’s a theory I happen to agree with as well. I met hundreds of salesmen over the years but only two maybe three who I considered great and they all had spent a lifetime honing their craft. Salesmanship is the ability to influence the opinion of others through education; an achievement that requires a variety of talents that can only be mastered by doing, over and over again. Yet without the inherent skills and talents for whatever particular quest for productive achievement we select, we may become good at it, but we’ll never be great at it. The talent is in the choice; success comes from focus and repetition.

Yet it is revelatory to acknowledge that success, at art or business or life, is an evolutionary and progressive process. Once we take the first step toward a worthy ideal, once we try, we are already a success. Success and joy result immediately in the journey and never occur at the destination; since the things we have mean less to us than the things we want.

There’s another side to this coin of course; that pesky Buddhist riddle that has driven many a Monk to sit astride a mountain top contemplating his navel; wanting, they muse; is the source of all pain. #newphysics #warrenbuffet #billgates #malcolmgladwell #luckyspermclub


Crazy Wisdom

“Sweet misery; she loves her company. She is all alone when she is in a crowd. She doesn’t care; follow you anywhere. She is mostly happy when she makes you moan.”Hoyt Axton! – – The Wanderer – Dion

Tonight the stars, bathed in swirling Aurora Borealis waves, pulsing flashes of pastel blues and greens, look like diamonds. They gift my noggin gracious reprieve from an epic shitty day; a day also made famous by the birth of the greatest man of the second half of the twentieth century. He would have been eighty-four today if he hadn’t had his worst day ever back in 68’; that tumultuous year which authored so many bad days and at least one good one since my son was born that very day. As a result, magically, that day kept me out of Viet Nam; or more accurately the obligatory one-way trip to Canada.

My day can’t compete compared to MLK’s last bad day; but when my pal Roy-boy called from the coast,upon debriefing me news of the tribe, he inquired on my state of mind and well-being. To illustrate metaphorically, I passed him an allegory.

A good man believes he’s going to heaven and as time passes he builds a castle of his imagined destination in his mind worthy of his own personal paradise and remunerating on it often he grows evermore fond of his vision and self-assured of its eventuality. It sustains him in his darkest hours and bolsters his spirits like dream fantasies of winning the lottery.

When he spins off his mortal coil and astral-planes he dreams of his heaven, only to wake in the pit of a black room standing naked, crotch to ass, with other naked souls packed in like sardines. He looks down to discover he is standing in pig-shit up to his neck. He asks his neighbor where he is and is informed; Hell.

He is used to adapting, improvising, overcoming and most of all surviving; so quickly calculating the odds that this couldn’t possibly get worse he accepts his fate. Just then Beelzebub himself, ten feet tall and resplendent in Arnold Schwarzenegger’s oiled body, adored with red velvet tipped horns the size of  Texas long-horn cattle, he interrupts the heavy metal vomit music blaring at Ozzie Osborne decibel and announces; “attention all permanent residents; you’re daily five-minute break is over; everybody kneel back down”. That, I tell my friend, was my day; how was yours?

I’ve been to many places in my time and as a result, like the good man in the fable, I’m fine-tuned to acclimate and adjust to my surrounding with the alacrity of Woody Allen’s Leonard Zelig. This latest trip lifted me up and transported me from the West coast to the upper Midwest, from warm to frigid, from cosmopolitan and diverse to homogenous, from free thinkers on the leading edge of culture to rural farmers and hunters, from an abundance of wild women and culture to slim pickings and ice-fishing contests; from fast paced high-density residential city life to frozen still in time rural tiny town America, from living surrounded by strangers to sharing estrogen dominated environs with family; from a well-ordered and organized domicile to, after better than 100 days, still trying to find my socks. Despite the two locations both being in the lower forty-eighth; the culture shock is akin to traveling from OZ to Mars.

It’s been a rocky transition. My patience doesn’t hold when unable to regulate my natural rhythms and this reality has sent me careening off the rails, like today, more than a few times, to crash and burn in unfamiliar territory, revisiting through sense memories, anger; something I banished around the time Salk vaporized Polio.

Back then, upon discovering my original equipment was missing a safety relief valve, an essential apparatus for any Wanderer, I customized my operating system and installed one. Since then, when an emotional situation reaches DEFCON Five, my pressure reliever automatically engages, I disengage and turn away from the dark energy.

Navigating terrains with black-hole vortex landscapes that threaten to suck me in is survival gear yoga akin to adopting a Casper the Friendly Ghost dual persona. If the environment is friendly; I materialize; if my crap detector registers bad vibes, upsetting my aura; I pass right through it. This requires a voluntary reverse schizophrenia, a mental order to tell the difference between what is real and not real, to think clearly, have normal emotional responses and act normally in social situations while, if I choose, being one with those colored stars that light this beautiful night, here, yet a million light years away. #crazywiadom # keepontrucking


Patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel”Samuel Johnson

Everybody gets everything they want; the hidden truth and cosmic joke the universe plays on all of us is we can only get what we are organized to handle; bite off more than you can chew and you choke on it. Give the unprepared, desirous of a power base, stage or platform, the forum to unload their views, and watch them fold under the weight. Studying the idiot’s bloviating over the current gun control tussle would be comic relief for the sane if it weren’t so serious.

When Alex Jones finally got everything he wanted and more, he came in hot, his drones firing missiles on full auto; the moment swallowed him whole like a battleship sinking in the middle of the ocean without the ocean even uttering a burp. Having landed his magnum opus fifteen minutes, his big shot on national TV in prime time in front of millions with the light and space to regurgitate his closeted fears, the klieg lights illuminated his rants and he came unglued for Piers Morgan, and thanks to the viral phenomenon the rest of us, he’d appeared to have done train-rail size lines of bath salts followed by a quart of Jack in the Green Room while dreaming masturbatory fantasies of sexual simpatico with butt- buddies Wayne La Pierre and Rush Limbaugh. His fireworks worthy diatribe burst him and his discredited ethos spectacularly in an epic meltdown.

Like the nights when the Northern lights perform free for me; the wounded healer’s insights threw new light on where he and his legion of buckle-headed coconuts have in the past been wounded, and where by acknowledging these open sores for all to see, weary of imagined lies and secretly ashamed, spewed gibberish while gesticulating wildly their puss-filled rhetorical bumper-sticker wisdom.

Alex followed the unmasking of his true character performance with a U-Tube jeweled presentation, filled with obsessive and paranoid delusions that some as lofty as Mayor Bloomberg had sighted him for termination and would use “crack heads” and secret police to rub him out. Alex will no doubt recoil and retreat to the safety of his fifty guns for protection when he’d be better served to offer ninja crack heads a few ten-dollar vials of crack to distract them while he beats his retreat and then his meat in wondrous orgasms of fantasy fulfillment for having glimpsed his apoplectic end of times visions.

The object lesson unveiled shows us the futility of debating the frightened and the better way to uncover the deranged and hypocritical rabble-rouser who warn us of death from the sky that will surely rain down on us all, from parties certainly too busy to be concerned with us like presidents and the like, and simply allow, as Piers Morgan rightly did, the unhinged to have their say and in the process show us all their true underpinnings.

That whack-job wanna-bees like Alex Jones and his ilk should be denied firearms or for that matter sharp objects can no longer be denied by anyone with a shred of sense and a desire for self-preservation; after viewing what would be in store for us were we to adhere to his ugly, ignorant and dangerously lunatic fringe views.

Some say it was Napoleon who counseled “never interfere with your enemy when he is making a mistake”. I would amend that to “when he is committing suicide” which the gun-fetish mob, who, if they had their druthers would shoot our cities into post-industrial apocalyptic landscapes, did and apparently want.

In September 1963, Governor George Wallace, made famous for settling the issue of segregation by standing in a doorway of a school in Alabama and baring black students from attending, was similarly unmasked when President Kennedy federalized the Alabama National Guard and ordered some of its units to the university campus. Attorney General Robert Kennedy sent his aide to face Wallace saying “the president wants you to make him look ridiculous”. Nicholas  Katzenbach ordered Wallace to move and he stood aside; the black students were allowed to register for classes.

Wallace then sent state police to Huntsville, Mobile, Tuskegee and Birmingham to prevent public schools from opening, following a federal court order to integrate Alabama schools. Helmeted and heavily armed state police and state National Guard units kept students and faculty from entering schools. Following civil disturbances resulting in at least one death, President Kennedy again nationalized the Guard and saw the schools integrated.

On March 7, 1965, state troopers with dogs, whips and tear gas tangled with blacks during a voter registration campaign who were marching from Selma to Montgomery. The violence, which an entire nation saw on television, helped mobilize enough support to enable President Johnson to win passage of the landmark 1965 Voting Rights Act.

The current dilemma of unfettered access to guns troubles the heart and makes some want to turn away from the menacing reality thinking the forces arrayed against a proper resolution are overwhelming. But by allowing those who favor the madness to air their view in public; things will eventually turn right.

“When I despair, I remember that all through history the ways of truth and love have always won. There have been tyrants, and murderers, and for a time they can seem invincible, but in the end they always fall. Think of it–always. –Mahatma Gandhi

New Earth Project

“We are star-dust. We are golden. And we’ve got to get ourselves back to the garden”. – Woodstock – Joni Mitchell

An urgent transmission arrived from the Mother Starship this morning, words and film announcing a new Atlantis being born, a fresh beginning to match a newborn year, unfolding the full-out vision of collectives dream-spawned from Commune’s founded three decades ago; where sun-drenched seaside beaches in far away idyllic paradise beckon future-blossoming pioneers.

These visions warm my soul and bring forth an oasis from the tortured and cynical poets invested in the Sylvia Plath Effect that bleed from magnifying the minutia of their own lives; their dark valleys holding deep shadows surrounded by mountains on all sides too high to scale.

The news rescues me and sparks a fire in my heart that illuminates my path forward; a respite as well from the environs that surround me; where suicide can be accomplished by just walking outside where you won’t be found until May when the birdwatchers smell you rotting; transformed from a meat-Popsicle to a defrosted human-being roast.

Not long ago outside my writing window a yellow sun blasted through the cotton-candy clouds and powder blue sky settling on a whale blue lake surrounded by green; now, Vincent’s palette paints skies of blue and grey pressing down a pure white snow-covered lake surrounded by dark stands of trees that look like mountains.

Noisy snowmobiles pull sleds filled with tents and provision, lines and hooks to fortify and amuse tiny fat men who spend the day shivering. There were six of them earlier; now at three o’clock in the afternoon and the temperature at its nadir, soon to begin its decent to minus 16 degrees, the rest, true ice-men, stay; some say they’ll be there all night.