The Theosophist's Spring Break

Alas, the wise man sighed as we waited at the departure gate, we are surrounded by literal-minded people with remote-control drones where their brains should be. Never take anything literally, not even facts, especially not data, and never statistics. Graphs are not worth the graph paper they are printed on. Charts and maps will lead you astray and Venn diagrams just go around in circles. 

But don't believe me, either, the wise man added. I'm merely a secondhand encyclopedia salesman disguised as a spiritual guru. Just remember one thing: your objective should always be subjective and vice versa, or else you'll end up with lots of invective. I guess we can board now.

Like most wise men, he had once sat cross-legged in the ruins of an ancient temple, projecting an air of well-rehearsed inscrutability that was really a ruse to avoid meaningful conversation. But now he was speaking from seat B1 on the red-eye to Cancun, enjoying the extra leg room and in-flight entertainment system. A member of the cabin crew passed him another complimentary miniature bottle of vodka. 

All you can drink trolley service in the air followed by all you can eat buffet on the ground when you arrive at the resort. This is the life, he said. It doesn't get better than this. Then the wise man emptied his glass with a single gulp, covered his face with a sleep mask, and switched off his overhead light. Nirvana, he murmured. 

I encountered the wise man again two days later, while walking along the beach at sunset. He was standing waist deep in the waves, staring fixedly into the middle distance, but waved when he saw me. I didn't mean to disturb your meditation, I said apologetically. 

No worries, the wise man replied. I was actually just taking a discreet piss. Too many cocktails at lunch on top of the bottomless cappuccino this morning. My soul might be saved but my bladder is very definitely doomed. Speaking of, it's almost time for the dinner gong if you care to join me. I reserved a table at the tiki bar. They serve anything you want but I'm a huge fan of their Piña colada and crab cakes combo.

Observe the stars at night, the wise man told me as we waited for our dessert. See how they twinkle like the twinkle in the eye of some mischief-maker planning a practical joke. Imagine Jesus successfully walking on water for fifteen paces and then he suddenly steps on a banana skin that's floating on the surface. The whole Zodiac rocks with laughter. Well, that's how I became Enlightened wandering out in the wilderness, clad in nothing but my grubby loin cloth cum diaper, Lady Godiva length hair and an unkempt, flea infested beard. He gestured at the waiter. Order me a Caribbean Zombie, but with the dark rum and no orange slice. I've got to siphon the python again. 

I'm going to need a vacation to recover from my vacation, the wise man grunted when he returned from relieving himself. Fortunately, my job is emerging from a cloud of incense to spout counter-intuitive parables at credulous hippies, so it's not that taxing. And this is my souvenir, he said, slapping his bulging, over-stuffed belly. Tomorrow it's back to vegetarianism and holy water until Midsummer. Although I'll sneak in few mixers now and then, he added, indicating the two tiny bottles of airplane booze stashed in his pocket.

Shod

In the shoe store, I've never been a loafer guy. Especially not the casual, virtually shapeless canvas kinds worn without socks. And definitely not those velvet, so-called Venetian, slipper sorts that seem ridiculously impractical for negotiating canals and gondolas. Both are more appropriate for a Turkish brothel rather than city streets in the USA.

And speaking of houses of ill-repute, what depths of professional and aesthetic depravity were plumbed by the cobbler's workshop that first stitched decorative tassels on a client's loafer? Tassels belong on a Vegas showgirl's costume and nowhere else. That shoemaker was obviously aided by the wrong sort of elves.

As for penny loafers, well, even the name sounds cheap. 'Golden doubloon' loafers I might consider, but only for wearing around the house pretending to be a pirate. I'd never allow myself to be seen outside in such an insult to proper footwear. In fact, if you ask me, any shoe that lacks laces can be classified as resort-wear. 

But, for me, such rigid rule-making ends below the ankle. I'm happy to clothe the rest of myself in sporty socks, blue jeans, open-necked shirts and chore coats. I've even been known to opt for a pair of Bermuda shorts if the weather is unbearably hot and humid. So I'm not sure how or why I became a draconian tyrant about shoes. Draco himself surely wore open-toed sandals, which always leaves me wondering how any self-respecting Athenian could have taken him and his tedious laws seriously. 

I suppose we can make an exception for Italians wearing loafers, but only in the south and when lounging beside the sea. 'Dolce far niente' is a very good excuse, after all, and only a fool would argue with its wisdom. Besides, it would be rude and unseemly to impede your neighborhood passeggiata by kneeling down in the middle of the sidewalk to re-tie a shoelace that's come undone. 

On second thoughts, perhaps I should begin envisaging myself as a loafer guy. When all is said and done, it seems that sitting at cafe tables in the sun while talking nonsense and pontificating is all I'm good for in these days of enforced retirement. And that's the loafer lifestyle in a slip-on nutshell. Thank you for letting me talk this out with you. I'm thankful for your time.

The Star Gazer's Almanack

I'm a very poor planner. My daily 'To Do' list may as well be written in invisible ink and blueprints for my future fade as soon as they're unfolded. And I'm pretty much legally blind when it comes to Vision Boards or manifestation maps. 

Going forward, I'm just stumbling around in the dark with a faulty flashlight. Someone who shall remain nameless always neglects to replace the dead batteries. There are sleepwalkers with a better sense of direction than me.

Fortunately, I have a lucky star to follow. It's named Unsirius and sits in an obscure constellation called The Leprechaun, forming the tip of his long beard and illuminating that proverbial pot of gold. 

How do I know it's my star? Well, it's only visible by observing the night sky through the wrong end of a telescope, from the middle of the Bermuda Triangle, and only when it's raining. I'm the only person who does that, as far as I know. 

And how do I know it's also lucky? I don't get wet when I'm following it, that's how, even though I obviously didn't plan to bring an umbrella with me.

So I go here and there, wherever my star leads me. I do this and that whenever my star winks. And I remind myself, as Ralph Waldo Emerson claimed, that life is a journey and not a destination. 

Being about mid-journey now, I've accumulated many pictures of roadside attractions along the many circuitous routes I've taken: memorable people I've met; breathtaking buildings I've visited; beautiful landscapes I've walked through; out of focus snapshots of good times I can't quite remember.

But mostly there's a scrapbook filled with selfies of me imitating a Mediterranean wayfarer disembarking from his private yacht. Perhaps that's who I've always wanted to be: the Sailor from Gibraltar approaching the Port of Shadows. 

But ambition lost at sea, dream overboard, castaway on a desert island of what might have been. I lack the energy and motivation to maintain that kind of A-list lifestyle. I'm certainly a man of leisure these days. I just don't own a boat and couldn't afford to pay the crew anyway.

It's Spring now. The season of new beginnings. My star is shining on Erewhon Avenue, as usual, directly above the alfresco tables of the French cafe about halfway down the street.

Take a seat, the starlight seems to indicate, you've done enough already. The only plan you need to make this evening is when to move inside to the bistro after finishing your apéritif.

Machiavelli The Scrivener

"If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face—forever." So wrote George Orwell in his novel, 1984.' 

Reading in my safe, terror-free teenage bedroom, I often used to wonder what kind of boot it would be.

A traditional Nazi jackboot? 

Or a trendy desert boot designed to conceal the threat to our republic behind an aura of nonchalant hipsterism?

A muddy hiking boot maybe, for intimidating rural insurgents in the mountains? 

Or perhaps a furry Ugg boot worn in feminist controlled dictatorships? 

An authoritarian astronaut's anti-gravity boot to future-proof any nascent Stalin's off-Earth autocracy? 

Wellington boot for history buff tyrants who conduct their brutal repressions via live action re-enactments of the Battle of Waterloo? 

Thigh-high river wader for reigns of terror focused around the Venetian lagoon? 

And what about a Das Boot, for confused German film students with a poor command of remedial English? 

Submarines aside, I guess it doesn't matter what type of boot it is, as long as we're talking about a size twelve with steel toe inserts.

But Orwell was ever so slightly incorrect, of course. It isn't a boot we need to fear but a bot. An internet bot, from Russia or China or even Arizona. 

And it won't be stamping on a human face. No, it will be doing the informational equivalent: posting on social media.

In other words: "If you want a picture of the future, imagine an AI bot commentating on a human Facebook feed —forever."

To be fair, the blog post you're currently reading can't claim to provide much better content than the imminent AI bot dystopia. 

All I've done is waste your valuable time with a list of whimsical boot possibilities for 21st Century Caesar's shopping list.

Mind you, if any 21st Century Caesar is reading this, please consider me for a role in your propaganda department. I need a job. 

00AD

As eldest Elder and Scribe Emeritus of South Cashville Mega Church, the Lord has commanded me to authoritatively translate the New Testament into contemporary Evangelical-English, customizing its formerly wishy-washy contents to fit our own highly personal prejudices and preferences about this modern world we currently share with zillions of sacrilegious scumbags whose existence we can't tolerate. 

In his infinite wisdom and mercy that works in mysterious ways, God has also instructed me to "highlight the NT's latent eroticism and make the whole thing more commercially upscale." Consequently, I'm adding a lot more exciting 'cinematic' chapters and premium tier parables that do not appear in the original, lame-ass, bleeding-heart source material. Let's just say my new versions of the gospels are more James Bond than King James, more Palm Beach than Palm Sunday. Although my Book of Revelation is still pretty similar to Tyndale's sixteenth-century rendering of those super fun events we're all looking forward to. Hallelujah!

But I don't blame Mark, John, Matthew and the other guy for their usually uninspiring and often tedious scriptural efforts. After all, they wrote before the invention of movie cameras and special effects, so it's not the Apostles' fault that innovative, big-budget blockbusters such as The Spy Who Loved Me and Octopussy weren't screened in Judean theaters to demonstrate how to construct a fast-paced thriller, and why their unfortunately primitive, prudish and sanctimonious Bible stories lack car chases, high-tech gadgets, exotic locations and passionate sex scenes with foreign love interests. 

Not that my New Testament transforms Jesus into a typical, close-up ready 'man of action.' For example, my Messiah doesn't kick the moneychangers out of the Temple himself. No, my King of Peace controls an invincable squadron of Kung Fu Killer Disciple Drones (KFKDDs) that fight all his righteous battles for him. Meanwhile, he's relaxing at the beach club in Galilee, seducing all the hot babes gathered at his feet by turning water in Vodka Martinis, shaken not stirred, and challenging the evil Pharisees to coups of baccarat. Blessed be his name!

One crucial improvement I've made is that Jesus doesn't die in the end. He escapes to Alexandria with a suitcase full of cash and Foxy Foxdalene, the most beautiful woman in Judea. Honestly, that whole gloomy crucifixion thing is such a downer. What were the Apostles thinking? Forget about them, my unputdownable translation of the New Testament should be available from Amazon and all good bookshops this Easter. 

The price tag of $666 in Bitcoin might seem slightly expensive compared to most other instantly downloadable ebooks, but it took me several weeks to spice things up to a level acceptable to God, especially those dreary Letters of Paul to the Thessalonians: not worth the price of a stamp in their earlier form, if you ask me. All that hard labor at the coal face of the Lord doesn't get done for free, you know. 

Furthermore, you can consider your purchase to be a donation to the very Holy and Sacred cause of spreading the Good Word far and wide. So why not withdraw all your retirement savings and buy as many as possible? You too can feel like an Evangelist for just the cost of a small second house that you'd only rent out to blasphemous lefty students anyway. Amen.

Off White Collar

I'm no clothes horse, more of a clothes donkey, possibly even a clothes ass, but I do try to take pride in my personal appearance as far as anatomically and financially possible.

Nevertheless, I'm always dissatisfied whenever I study my reflection in a full-length mirror. Why does the expensive silk shirt I bought suddenly seem cheap? Why is there sheen on my sport coat lapels when there should be shine? These black shoes are too formal to pair with these green and burgundy polka-dot socks. Furthermore, my left pant leg is too short and the right leg is too long. I wanted to be the new Beau Brummell but I just look Bow-legged instead. I can't go out looking like this.

Time to summon my inner quick-change artist. So I slip into a different shirt, kick the formal shoes off, yank the socks over my long-suffering feet, pull on other some other pants, step into dark brown loafers, thread a casual belt though droopy belt loops and try to hide everything beneath a dark blue blazer.

Yet that damn mirror still denounces me as the complete opposite of the fairest of them all; the absolute bottom of the city's best-dressed list. Hmm. What if I roll my sleeves up, tuck the shirt tails in tighter and unbutton another button down from my already gaping open collar, taper the trousers to my ankles, adjust the hem on everything, then switch it all up from plaid to stripes or perhaps just plain old plain pattern?

Alas, none of these alternatives will reconfigure my disheveled silhouette into an acceptable shape. They are all conventional clothes in my regular size, so why do I appear to be wearing clown shoes, jodhpurs, and an off-the-shoulder peasant blouson? This might be a fine uniform for nine-to-five in an Oriental harem but it's not really appropriate for a downtown office, not even on Casual Fridays. But I have to leave now or I'll be late for work.

Of course, despite looking like Sinbad the Sailor, I'm still the most put-together and debonair guy in the conference room. My colleagues resemble a ramshackle gang of grimy vagrants who've just rolled out of their moth-eaten beds.  Such are the disgraceful sartorial standards in the modern workplace that even an unstylish chump like me might be Cary Grant compared to his slovenly associates.

No wonder the writing is on the wall for our doomed business, except the writing is printed in Comic Sans on an unwashed 'The Dude Abides' tee-shirt. Honestly, who would want to hire such an unfashionable and unprepossessing group of  unkempt deadbeats? Bring back the Man in the Grey Flannel Suit before it's too late, even if his suit is polyester nowadays and not exactly made-to measure.

Yes, I'm no clothes horse, but at least I'm hanging around the stables, wandering up and down the paddock, trying to qualify for life's rodeo.

The Old Haunts

Take a wander through your old haunts. Observe the disheveled specter of the rag-and-bone man driving his horse-drawn carriage of unwanted junk through this gentrified neighborhood. Witness the forlorn gypsy phantom with her wilting bundles of lucky heather locked outside our exclusive gated community. See the obsolete lamplighter's ghost searching recently repaved roads for the last of the long lost gas lamps.  And then there's me, a solitary shade cast across the dark facade of the shuttered town diner, like some sort of gloomy Edward Hopper oil paint figure, watching a trio of circus clowns wrangle their unwieldy stepladder as they unfurl a plastic banner over the diner's old neon sign: Caffe Tepid, opening soon. So farewell scrambled eggs with a side of sausage; hello guava parfait, I guess.

Although, truth be told, I've not frequented the town diner for several years. I used to, back in its heyday of gleaming chrome and red leather upholstery. But those mid-fifties fixtures and fittings were ripped out when the original owner died, replaced by laminated wood and polyvinyl. Obnoxiously loud music and ugly kitsch decorations invaded every booth and counter, and nobody bothered to refill the napkin dispenser to refresh your coffee. Elvis had left the building and some untalented punk rock group made themselves at home. Where there had once been lines around the block at Sunday brunch, in the final days there were only a few grimy students debating if they should order a ride-share to MacDonalds instead. Such is the fate of anything old fashioned or unique in the remorseless march of twenty-first century progress.

But surely this is how history is supposed to happen; the way of all flesh, as the saying goes. Once upon a time, even the rag-and-bone man, the gypsy, and the lamplighter all enjoyed their time in the sun. For many moons ago, the rag-and-bone man was selling the latest gadgets door to door, city people considered the lamplighter's evening chore to be an amazing urban innovation, the roving gypsy's lucky heather remained wild and unpicked on the moor; and even I thought the town diner was the most happening spot in this damned town. But not now. Things change.