The best laid plans...

Bearing in mind the nothing you read on this blog has ever actually happened. The only true facts are that I made it all up in my fertile imagination. I have a story to tell. Also the statute of limitations has run out on this not that long ago, so...Here goes.

Me and Felix always worked together. And before you ask, yeah, everyone called him Felix The Cat. But he was also my good friend. We understood one another. We traveled well together. I liked to cook, he liked to eat. I pulled more jobs, more jumps, more jacks with him than anyone else since I was a kid. Half the time we were room mates for fuck's sakes. We first met in a CYA camp up north. He was smart and big. I was smart and vicious. In case you're wondering, most of the people who do well in prison (even baby prisons like this one) are the smart ones. It helps to be big and vicious and smart. But unless you're a total basket case, being smart is usually enough. But don't take my word for it. Victor Frankl said the same thing. In places worse than...Well, worse than I've been. If they strip away every last vestige of your humanity, with what are you left? Your mind. If all you have is your mind, It'd better be well-developed. But this place wasn't a Nazi sub-camp. This place was a training program for apprentice criminals. I knew a fair amount when I got there. I knew a hell of a lot more when I left. And when I left, we had six guys working for us and a dozen more who wanted to.

What are you fucking kiddin me? We had the makings of an honest-to-god crew. And we had big plans baby, big plans. Regrettably, the Great Golden State had somewhat of a problem with recidivism in those days. An issue I understand still plagues the good taxpayers of California. Furthermore, the political climate was rather...down on criminal behavior. More so than normal. So, before too many months passed, it was just me and The Cat. We went to work. We did well for ourselves. Earned a reputation. And some decent money. Some guys we knew helped us get into jacking trucks out of Oakland, Long Beach, Portland, Wherever. For a kid from a small town like me, that was pretty intense stuff. Intense, but pretty fucking cool too.

One day, some guys we knew threw us this job. A jewelry store. Supposed to be very money. Lot's of green, lots of merchandise. There was even a hint that we had someone inside. Or at the very least, not to expect much of a fuss. A jewelry store. This was a gift.

"Uhh yeah, okay. Sure"

We got the details, checked it out and set it up. Easy squeezy. The day came, we hit the place. The guard actually said "Don't Shoot!" Every detail went down just like we planned. It was fucking beautiful. The shit was all there. The package is delivered right on schedule. We get paid, even a little extra (everyone was very happy) . Me and the Cat divied up and went our separate ways. Lay low. Enjoy. And then...

Bam...Bam! BAM! BAM! CRASH!

Hey uhhh, wake up baby. I think we're either about to be murdered by my ex-girlfriend's brothers or the cops are here. No no, that's definitely the cops. And here they are in my bedroom. With weapons drawn. I'm naked in bed and they have shotguns. This must be serious. Yeah yeah yeah I'm getting dressed. I had nothing, absolutely nothing in my pad. A little dope. But they weren't looking for a little dope. They were looking for evidence. Like the cops on TV they wished they were, they began to sift for clues. I was hauled in and they went to work on me. I knew they had jack squat, so I watched them step on their dicks for a while. I want my lawyer. They booked me in. I settled in. And waited to be arraigned. The real problem was for Felix.

Everyone knew we always worked together. It was common knowledge. If one of us got pinched. It was a foregone conclusion that they were looking for the other one. I said earlier he was smart. And he was. Smart, but not brilliant. He was (evidently) absolutely certain that we were going all the way down for this, that the cops had some damning evidence and we'd be found guilty and Tra la la. Away we'd go for 10 years in Chino, or worse. That was going through Felix's mind. Poor bastard. What was going through my mind was, "fuck man, spaghetti again?" I was at peace. My shit was stashed so deep nobody would ever find it. Nobody was going to rat. Even if they did, no one even knew the whole story. Except me. And I wasn't talking. I also wasn't losing any sleep.

Not so for The Cat. Usually I was the twitchy one and he was the calm one. The way it worked was I paced the floors and spazzed out over every little ridiculous detail right up until it's time for the job. Then I'm as cool as the other side of a pillow made out of cucumbers. Felix, on the other hand, was Mr. Jello-Puddin Pops through the planning stage but was lucky to make it through the actual job without having a full blown seizure. This time was different. Of course. He was on the run with no idea what the cops had. I had the benefit of having been interrogated. Generally, when dealing with the cops, it's not too hard to figure out patterns to which questions they are asking and which ones they aren't asking. After about 20 minutes, I knew they didn't have shit. They just figured we must have had something to do with this deal, or some other deal and they had lot's of activity and blah blah blah. They were fishing. I wasn't biting. I was staring down the business end of a misdemeanor and a violation of my parole which was ending in 74 days. So. I was looking at the real possibility of three whole months, hard time. I did the math in my head. Yeah, okay.

"Listen uhhh, hey there Officer Crew Cut? Like I was telling the other cop earlier? Can I go back to my cell now? Lunch is in like an hour and if I don't get my baloney sandwich and kool-aid, it fucks up my whole day."

But my partner didn't know this. While I was busy being a drain on society, he was busy freaking the fuck out. His thinking ran more towards, "The goons have found Tom! Open up Harry! We dig. Round the clock." In other words, the Cat was gettin' the fuck outta Dodge. Right this minute. There was another thing about Felix. It's only worth mentioning because it plays a pivotal role at this point in our story. Felix was Jewish. Orthodox. His grandfather was a Rabbi in Haifa. Guess how fast he was on a plane to Israel?

Yeah, about that fast.

So how do you like that kick in the balls? Felix is soaking up rays in Tel Aviv and dancing the nights away, with pretty Israeli chicks (I assumed). I'm sweating my ass off in the Kern County Jail, awaiting transfer to god-knows-where on a parole violation for the chickenshit they found in my apartment. And if the story ended there, I'd have one more friend. But god-knows-where was all fulled. So I didn't get transferred anywhere. Just short of five weeks in the can, all the charges were dropped due to lack of evidence. I was sentenced to time served for the dope, and I got a ticket home. To my sad little life, my fucked up apartment, a stern talking to from my asshole parole officer, my bitchy girlfriend doing what she did best, and my 45,000 green american dollars.

That's the lie about best laid plans. That they oft go astray...It ain't true. They oft do not go astray. And the money end of this one most certainly did not. Nothing like getting paid to brighten your spirits. I told you they had nothing. I told you I hid it so deep no one would ever find it. Both me and my boy beat those charges like a rented fucking mule. We walked out clean as a Safeway chittlin. And aside for a few hiccups, it looked like it was going to be a good year. The Cat heard it was all happy good times. He said that he would be home soon. He was busy having a good time spending his end in Israel. He'd be back.

But he didn't come back. Not soon. Not late. Not ever. Apparently, a couple months after I got out of jail, Felix received some official correspondence from the Israeli Government. The Army part of the Israeli Government. The silly fucker went and got himself drafted. Drafted right in the middle of a particularly nasty stretch of a particularly nasty war. He called me after he got out of basic. He was upbeat, but he sounded scared. That was the last time we spoke.

I never saw or heard from him again. A couple years later I talked to his sister and learned he was killed in a rocket attack. Felix the Cat was a criminal. A good one. Smart. A damn good thief and top-notch muscle. But none of that was enough to keep him from ending up with his guts splattered all over some worthless fucking rocks in southern Lebanon. He was 26.

I still miss him.

On Holiday Confessions or Why I Can't Be Blackmailed.

I love that part of Thanksgiving where someone announces that they need to make an announcement. There are two parts here. The Announcement of the Announcement, and the actual Announcement. Both are key. Because if you catch the full Announcement of the Announcement, the Announcement itself may be anti-climactic at best.
Cousin Michelle says in a clear voice, "Excuse me, everyone...I need to make an announcement." I'm pretty sure I can go back to pouring my drink. She's a lesbian and that's her ladyfriend Cindy, no Sharon... "Well, there's no easy way to say it so...I'm a lesbian. This is my fiance Cheryl. We're getting married in February. I hope we can all be understanding and adult about this"
Right, it was Cheryl. Didn't Michelle come out last year? Yes, I thought she did too. So was Cheryl that blond girl that was at the Fourth of July barbecue? Or was that someone else?

The only thing worse than a NSSA (No Shit, Sherlock Announcement) is an IDA (Impending Doom Announcement). "So, as you may have guessed, our Java Juice franchise took a pretty serious hit this year. Seems people just weren't ready for real espresso mixed with fresh fruit juice." Be careful here. There may be a request for money later.

So, here's my butt-slobbering confession that everyone already knows. The question is not whether or not I fit the clinical definition of "drug abuser". I do. The question is whether or not I really am one. I am. Like most Holiday confessions, everyone who knows me, already knows all the details. And Thanksgiving it is, so...why not. Yes, I'm a drug abuser. One might even say a Drug Addict. Although that's a bit harsh. I can quit whenever I want to. I simply choose not to. Because when I do you all lock me up in whatever facility is deemed suitable to my detention. Which leads us to shocking revelation number two. It's no longer a question of whether or not I'm mentally ill in the colloquial, clinical or classical sense of the term. The answer is simple. Yes, I am. Psychotic, that is. Crazy. Maniacal even. My personal favorite is "Crazy as a shithouse rat". But then I also dug "blue-eyed devils". The relevant question is, how crazy am I today?

Not generally on the high side of terribly dangerous. Although that's always possible, I'm not, as a general rule, armed or dangerous. I'm pretty much on the less destructive side of dangerous. This is a fact well known by all my friends and family, the staff at several local hospitals, a few not so local hospitals and all five law enforcement agencies with jurisdiction where I live, including the fucking US Navy. To quote Pete Townsend "My name is Bill and I'm a headcase." Only my name isn't Bill. What's wrong with me? Lots of things. How about we go with,
Atypical Neurological Disorders of Unknown Origins.
That's geek-talk for all my ancestors were mostly psychotic, alcoholic, inbred, malnourished savages who painted themselves blue and chased wild pigs. Things went down hill from there. The black death, small pox, semi-annual famine for decades, forced migration. That sort of thing, repeated for centuries. can lead to some rather strange genetic anomalies. Like me. Unless you buy the Navy Lab Experiment Hypothesis. But don't get me started.

The fact that this is common knowledge about me is probably one of the most liberating things in my life. Everyone who really knows me knows who I really am. Most of it is a matter of public record. That means I can't be blackmailed. "You got naked pictures of me? No? You wanna buy some, motherfucker?" And fat people are hard to kidnap. So I'd keep a close eye on your wife. I'm not afraid of public embarrassment, not really. You want to see something really embarrassing, read the transcripts of my last divorce. I mean, talk about gory details. Everyone already knows I'm a freak and a deviant and probably shouldn't be trusted with anything more powerful than a small car, a microwave and maybe a cat. Everyone already knows I just might be found wandering the beach at 3am with a bottle in one hand and a severed fish head in the other. The beach is closed after dark, in case you're wondering. I mean...Fuck off with your "What will the neighbors think?" Bullshit. If they're my neighbors, they seen worse than this before. I live at the end of a dead end street for a reason.

Gonna lock me up? Well, I suppose if the good tax-paying people of this County are willing to foot my medical bills for, whatever length of time...Okay. I'm not afraid of being locked up. I once spent 26 days in the shittiest part of Santa Rita. That's the Alameda County Jail. That's Oakland for those of you keeping score at home. I was the only white man in the tank. Nobody fucked with me. I've rotted in tanks, cages and cells all over this fine nation, and a couple others as well. I can do my fucking time. You'll expose me as a psycho? Hah! That's my favorite. Look, I have been in hospitals and institutions all over the Western US. You know what I know about mental hospitals? Some of them are a lot like doing time. Except friendlier and there's girls. And usually better food. What else you got? Sue me? You'll take me to court and get my stuff. You'll mess up my credit. I can only assume from that attitude that you've never seen my credit score. Or a list of my assets. Okay, if you want to wet your beak you'll have to get in line behind Sallie Mae (that bitch always drinks first) the fucking IRS, the Great State of Oregon, my last two lawyers, my ex-wife, my ex-wife's lawyer, my last three landlords and a dentist in Whogivesafuck, Idaho. So, good luck with that. Give me a call from time to time. Let me know how things are going over there. I worry about you guys. That's tough work getting money from a guy like me. See, this is why I don't worry about identity theft. If someone steals my ID, I don't think they're going to get very far with it. I mean, I was using it earlier today and I had quite a bit of trouble just getting here.

So what else you got? You want to threaten me with violence? Please...Don't insult both our intelligence by even copping that bullshit attitude. Look, I will fuck you up. I'm not fucking around and I know how. If you laid awake at night and thought about it for a year, you wouldn't dream up as many ways as I already know to seriously fuck you up. So let's not dot that eye. M'kay? It's costly and pointless and I don't need anymore sin on my head. Even if you did get to me...The people I know are fucking insane. They'd simply hunt you down. You think to come after my family? Their guys are like my guys times ten. Those crazy motherfuckers will bury you in the desert and then go get TacoBell. When girls hit on me (hey, it happens, from time to time) I tell them that "I love my wife very much I'm very happy in my marriage and I could never in a million years cheat on her". Some girls find that a turnon and they try harder. So if that doesn't dissuade her I tell her the really bad news. I have a hideous skin condition that might make you scream if you see me naked. That usually works. If she still persists, I go for the jugular. "Yeah but see when my wife finds out (and she will), she'll just make a couple quick calls and have us both killed. Which would way suck. I am not even fucking kidding. So, thanks but no thanks." Let's all just count down and everybody be friends and have another beverage. Otherwise things probably won't end so well.

Look, bottom line...I'm not afraid to die. That may sound strange. Because I love life, I wallow in it's simple mysteries and it's mysterious simplicity. I love my family. I love what get to do and I love the people with whom I do it. And let's be really real folks, everyday north of dirt is a good fucking day. If I didn't believe that I wouldn't be teaching people how to save lives. Yeah, that's what I mostly do. I administer and teach in a program that teaches people how to save lives. So I'm not some pessimist with a death wish. Far from it. I'd like to live to be 100. That being said... If I gotta go, it might just as well be this trip as the next. Or as Michael Crichton wrote. "The Old Grandfather wove the skein of your life long ago. Go and hide in a hole if you like. You won't live one minute longer." Of course, he was paraphrasing something a holy man said a couple thousand years ago. "Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life?" So, yeah. Death is the greatest trip of all. That's why they save it for last. I've seen a lot of people die. Some horribly, some peacefully. Everyone does it eventually. How hard can it possibly be?

Gonna sentence me to drug treatment? Okay. I can walk into any NA or AA meeting in North America, pour myself a cup of bad coffee and feel right at home. I've been to a lots of meetings. Lots and lots. For many years I lived the clean and sober dream, a follower of Bill W. I learned a lot there. I learned that it's a religion. But don't tell them that. They get kinda spikey about that. Here is something no one else will ever tell you. Totally true. There's way more recovery in AA, but NA has way hotter girls. In case you're wondering. And if you want to get laid for sure (and I mean For Sure Lead Pipe Cinch laid) go to an ACA meeting and cry. Indeed, the three best scenarios for getting laid in the world are as follows :
1. Go to a wedding - Any wedding will do. This one never fails. If you can't get fucked at a wedding you need to lower your standards.
2. Go to an ACA meeting and cry - Again, we're talking sure things here, so don't expect supermodels or even non-broken people. But you will get laid.
3. Hottie Date Where You're Clearly Out of Your League- Two choices here. A hockey game or a fight. Either one works. Both of you get insanely drunk. Take a cab home. This will lead to no-holds-barred butt-slobbering monkey sex all night long. But I digress.

It's not like there's a hole in daddy's arm where the money all goes. There was. Years ago. But I had kids and it's all healed up now. Still, the fact remains, I do take a lot of drugs. As the end my forties draw nearer, I don't know that's a such bad thing. Better living through chemistry. They certainly make me feel better. Both God as well as The Medical Industrial Complex knows there's enough shit wrong with me to merit just about any prescription I want. Including any of several dozen painkillers, tranquilizers, sedatives, herbal remedies (including marijuana). It's not like I go looking for drugs. They come looking for me.

If one considers that when I didn't take any drugs at all (an experiment I tried for over 15 years) I'm no less crazy than when I take all the drugs I want. I am, evidently, a whole lot less friendly when I'm not using drugs. And when I say "I'm a whole lot less friendly" I mean, "I'm a raging fucking maniac." Anyone who really knows me, knows that if I was happy and laid back(or even appeared to be happy or laid back) chances are I was geezed to the sleeves on something, baby. If I was being difficult, an asshole, unfriendly, snotty or short-tempered...I was clean. There are six exceptions. But they are only exceptions in the technical sense. They all get me high. Just not from external chemicals. These chemicals are the ones my brain makes. With help. Love sex art magic reason and teaching. In that order. Once I have those things in my life, and at least two rungs of Maslov's Ladder, my next question is: "Let's celebrate! Break with the kush and open that wine! We have red and white? Open the red and pack that bong!"

So yeah...I see red rats (a term from olden days for a crazy person) and I get high a lot. And I'm also bald, about 20 lbs overweight and have bad skin. The whole red dots thing from a few months ago? They're still there, quite a bit worse.

Uhhhhh let's see, what else can I confess...On Facebook someone answered a question about me asking if they thought I had a deep dark secret. One of my secrets is that I have a list fetish. Here's one.

Top Five Deep Dark Secrets About Me:

1. I always cry at weddings and funerals. So don't ask me to do yours, because I can't. I won't. And I don't.

2. I have never, in my life, had the hiccups. I have hiccuped once or twice, while eating too fast, but a real case of the hiccups? Never.

3. At last count, I've slept with five of my Facebook friends. Not since they've been on Facebook, obviously. One is current, of course, my wife. But others are from the past. It's awkward when FaceBook says "poke so-and-so" and I think, "Yep, I did. "

4. Do not fuck with me. I fuck back. Hard.

5. I do, in fact, know the meaning of life.

Happy Thanksgiving All.

Scarey Monsters

I made a remark a bit ago about Sarah Palin. I had to look up what toy company made Barbies. So I googled Barbie Dolls. Holy fuckin snappin assholes they got a lot of shit about Barbie Dolls. Turns out, it's Matell. But goddamn, people. Settle down with the Barbies. Okay? They're just dolls. You want to know what I know about Barbies? Their hair clogs bathtub drains. Same thing with My Little Pony. I've known that for years. I am a man of many daughters.

I got nothing...

I got nothing...That's not true. I got something. I just can't get it out of the ends of my fingers in a way that makes any sense. Even the ad copy and press releases I wrote last week came off as weak and stilted. I've always written whatever I felt. I feel uninspired. So...fuck it. It's me and my girl's anniversary. I'm going to go get laid.

Ahhh...Much better. Nothing clears my mind like a good fuck. Maybe smoking too much herb is my problem. I smoke a lot. More than most people. Scored a few ounces of AK-47 which I've been busily destroying in a series of small fires. Watching the president talk makes me think I smoke too much weed. He'll be giving a speech about some issue of vital importance. I'll be listening with great interest. Then the thought hits me. Jesus, Mary and Joseph hangin off the fuckin cross that guy's got big ears. I mean, they're like the size of little legue catcher's mitts. If I ever met the First Lady (not likely but it could happen) instead of being gracious and dignified, I'd just blurt out "Let me ask you a practical question Mrs Obama. Where do you buy earmuffs for guy with ears that size? They got a special section at the Big and Tall Store I don't know about?" And then I drift back in.

Five Movies About Native Americans That Featured a White Man As the Main Character.

1. Little Big Man

2. Jeremiah Johnson

3. A Man Called Horse

4. Dances With Wolves

5. Last of the Mohicans

Kind of Bitchy

"So many of the women you dated were bitches."
She declared. "You must like bitchy women."
Our eyes met. I wasn't saying a fucking word.
"I guess that's lucky for me. I'm kind of bitchy."
A good husband knows when to shut the fuck up.

The things you read on facebook...

She said she felt violated by the Swine Flu swab.
Guess where they stick that Q-Tip for the clap?
I remember experiencing that once because
One of us, no both of us, were fucking around.

Ultimately the blame lies with me, I was older
Should have known better. She was just a kid.
She smelled like honey blond hair and candy.
No harm. Negative results. I met a cute nurse.

Her

I knew it was her right from the start
We met in a place I've never been
In a place that no longer even exists.
She went by fast, too fast for a good look.
I saw what I needed to see.

She was married to an Austin bluesman
Guitar player, Johnny Iforgethisname.
Me? I was busy being busy. Busy being me.
A thunderbolt is not easy to ignore.
I'd seen what I needed to see.

But I wouldn't see her again for years.
Because ignore the thunderbolt we did.
Time and turmoil eroded the memory.
Eroded, but not erased. Dormant. Sleeping.
I knew what I needed to know.

Then chaos, marriages and buildings collapse.
Lives uprooted, shoved around the map
Like the little green army men of the gods
I land in a desert. It's cold, desolate, beige.
I found out something I needed to know.

She's right around here. Just up the way.
A couple of e-mails. She offers to set me up.
With a friend of hers. Guess she's still married
She's going to chaperone. I immediatly say yes.
I was about to learn something I didn't know.

It's dark in the club. House music is too loud.
Everclear is singing "Heartspark Dollar Sign"
I claw my way into the loud smoky darkness
And I see her. She's waves. Smiling. beckoning.
Now to find out what I want to know.

Hugs and introductions. My date is blonde.
But she has red hair, in pigtails, with striped
stockings and a red on black sweater with skulls.
Rectangular geek girl glasses and her scent.
And I remembered what I once knew.

How's hubby? What's happening with his band?
"We've been divorced almost two years." What?
You know the smoke in this club is so loud
It sounded like she said she was single.
By now, even the cocktail waitresses knew.

I was a man of action, and a total slut
I slid in, close to her. She slapped my hand!
"Keep that thing away from me! I don't
Know where it's been." I zigged and zagged.
She already knew all the tricks I knew.

She called me a player, a joker and said
She didn't come all this way to play or
Tell jokes. What did you come to do?
She brushes me off. She's smarter than me.
That was something I didn't know.

more coming....

Something Old

I wrote this two years ago. Those two years are gone. Three left. They're making movies out of it now.

What would you do if you found out you had about five years left to live? And what if you knew, for a fact, that it was true. And when I say "about five years" I don't mean it as in maybe on this day or that day or within a 2 month time frame, plus or minus. I mean the date. The time. Exactly.
And, as long as we are speculating, let's assume there wasn't a single thing you could do about it. Nothing. On this date and at that time, that's it. And let's assume that if you tried to tell someone they almost certainly would blow you off, maybe with a polite chuckle or a witty comment at best. But overall, they'd refused to really believe it was going to happen. And even if they did believe in the general idea they would, almost without exception, believe that not only don't you know, but that it isn't even physically possible for you to know the exact date and time. Assume that some people would believe you, once in a while. But they were most likely already looking at the same stuff you were.
Five years is not a large chunk of time. But, five years is enough time to achieve just about any reasonable goal. Maybe something you've always wanted to achieve but the years just passed and you never found the time. Three years is long enough to get a college degree in damn near any major you choose, provided you're willing to work your ass off and go to summer school. Long enough to become a passable expert in some subject. Long enough to learn a trade. Long enough to to do something at least moderately important. Long enough to become the person you know you were meant to be. Five years is long enough to change your life in a very deliberate manner. More or less.
So...
Would you just shoot for as much joy as possible(whatever that means to you)? Become a hedonist. Or as much wisdom? As much knowledge? Would you try to help the less fortunate. Would you simply go to the temple and pray. Perhaps you'd choose to devote the time you had left to God, or Good? Would you seriously re-consider your beliefs about the afterlife, about heaven and hell as it relates to your life thus far. Perhaps you'd dismiss this most common version of the afterlife as nothing more than an antiquated myth, meant to scare people into compliance. Maybe you'd do just the opposite. Move into a "there are no athiests in a foxhole" mentality? Mybe you'd try to wring as much hedonistic pleasure as you could from this existance. Or maybe...You'd just keep on doing that thing you do. Because, what the hell. It got you this far. It'll likely carry you the rest of the way through.
Not an easy question to answer, if we answer within the parameters of this hypothetical situation.
There are two reasons I'm asking this question. First: I've been reading a lot about this idea (it's sort of a hobby type thing for me) and I think the answers given can tell a lot about a person. Second because I'm bored and it's cold and it's snowing and I'm supposed to be packing stuff (we're in the middle of moving) but instead I'm sitting here writing. Bad Husband! No Pizza! That last part was a joke. Honey...if you're reading this I worked my ass off all day and just wrote this in little bits and pieces between incredibly heavy loads of crap I haven't seen since the last time we moved. I'm kidding. Not about moving stuff I haven't seen since the last time we moved (that part is true), but about the second reason I'm asking the question.
The real second reason is more, shall we say, written in stone.
What is possibly the most accurate calender ever devised by humanity is the Mayan Long Count. See, the Mayans (using the the Long Count Calendar) predicted a whole bunch of astronomical occurrences, eclipses, solstices, equinoxes, star movements, the return of comets and that kind of stuff. And they were always right. Exactly right. Every single time. Not within some acceptable margin of error. Absolutely correct. 100% of the time. So, obviously, it's a pretty reliable calender. The Mayans also predicted, using this calendar, significant events within human history. As with any prophetic proclamations, they are subject to varied interpretation. But, it is not a huge stretch to say they are clearer and more reasonably believable than say...Nostradamus, St Malachi (who, coincidentally, predicted that the next Pope will be the last Pope) or any of a few dozen others.
The really weird thing about Mayan Long Count, with all its accuracy, is that it features something that is not generally seen in calenders. It ends. On an exact date. At an exact time. What is supposed to happen after the precise moment that the Mayan Long Count Calender ends? Well... that's hard to say. One, somewhat commonly held, theory is that the Mayans, using the Long Count, were talking about the end of time, the end of the world and everything on it. Including us. That they were predicting what might be called the ultimate pucker-time.
That exact moment, as predicted by the Mayan Long Count is, in the Northern hemisphere where the Mayans took their readings:
6:08 am, December 22nd, 2012. UTC (Zulu time)
No kidding. This is factual. That is the precise moment that the Mayan Long Count Calender ends.
That's Five Years, Three Weeks and less than One Day from when I am writing this.
So...What would you do? Assuming it was true.
Does this missive mean I believe the world is going to end on that day? Don't be absurd. I mean, let's look at this from a historical perspective. If the Mayans were so dang smart why did their culture collapse around the 10th and 11th centuries CE after developing for a paltry 3000 years? Most Mediterranean and Asian cultures, most of them about the same age (really starting to gel about 1800-2000 BCE, or so) were just just getting up a good head of steam in the 11th century. The Mayans were already, more or less, in a state of societal collapse by then. And where are they now? Nowhere really. Their language is spoken here and there. Fragments. Their way of life has been, generally speaking, overtaken by run-of-the-mill Central American culture. Their offspring are scattered between Mexico, Guatemala, Honduras, Belize and Costa Rica.
A strange thing happened during the 10th and 11th Centuries. Huge numbers of Mayans just stood up and walked away from their cities, their homes, their lives. Mayan culture was devastated. It never recovered. Bits and pieces of the Mayan way of life echoed through the lush green mountains and valleys of the Central American jungle for a few hundred years. Other societies, some using similar architecture, concepts and languages, sprang up in their place. But the huge Mayan cities, the ornate temples carved with religious symbols were already overgrown by the jungle when Cortez and his ilk arrived 400 years later. Almost all Mayan books that had survived were burned by the Spanish. A couple are still to be found. And of course, the stuff they carved in stone is still there. Archeologists have diligently dug out the cities and temples, chopped back the vines and creepers to reveal once more to the prying eyes of science. We're still finding new stuff every few years.
The History Channel will tell you anything you want to know about this stuff. But, the real point is; what kind of a freaky, hocus pocus culture would do something like that. Walk off into the jungle, taking almost nothing but the barest essentials, and start over from scratch? That's crazy. What's even nuttier is the idea that some quirk in their religion, some crisis of faith, some real or imagined potential catastrophe, probably linked to the Long Count Calendar, was the reason they abandoned their cities. You remember the Long Count don't you? That precisely accurate calender that says time ends in around five years.
So...Just for shits and grins...What would you do if you had roughly five years left to live? Fa reals. No polite bullshit. A brutally honest answer.
Me? Hell, I dunno...Probably shoot for all I could do to be there person I was meant to be. Which maybe I already am or maybe that's too vague of a pretense. Maybe there's no such thing as "the person I'm meant to be". Maybe that's just human self-importance in action. Hard to say, really.
I guess I'd try to make up for some of the pain I've caused some people who's only sin was caring about me. On the other hand, going for the joy would probably be high on my list of options as well . I seriously doubt I'm already the person I'm "meant to be". If I am (and that's assuming it's even a valid supposition), I'd need God to tell me I am. Personally, directly, with no ambiguity. I'm just not that zen. That's what I'd shoot for and probably see some moderate success. But, most likely, I'd pretty much whittle away the time doing that thing I do and hope for the best. I'm not that ambitious of a guy.
Besides...It's all just a load superstitious mamba jahamba from a few, relatively advanced, tribes living in the jungles of Central America a thousand years ago. Just another version of cosmic mythology. Right? And every day I trust my life to Sir Isaac Newton. He said the end is coming in 2060. When I'll be 99.
There's probably nothing to it.

All Saints Day

Do you ever pray to the Saints?
If you are or ever were Catholic,
you understand what I'm asking.
If not, it's okay. I'm not Catholic
The Saints don't seem to mind.

They're reputed to be conduits
Who can put in a good word
Get me out of jams. Fix tickets.
Do I believe in the Saint? Maybe
I believe I want them to be real.

I pray to St Jude, Patron of Lost Causes
And police officers. Jesus' brother.
Or St Joan of Arc. She helps martyrs,
militants, prisoners and visionaries
Those who are ridiculed for their beliefs.

There's St Brigid. A Pagan Goddess
With 12 virgins and an Eternal Flame.
Remade a midwife at the birth of Jesus
The virgins became nuns. She looks after
Poets, fugitives, scholars, sailors and babies.

How about St Teresa of Avila? Ecstatic.
Penetrated by the Spirit. The soul's acsent
Somewhere between Hopi Creation Myth
And making mad sweet passionate love.
She watches over those who've lost parents.

Or her boyfriend. St John of the Cross.
When he wasn't having the living shit
Kicked out of him, by the Church
He wrote poetry, amazing poetry.
He's on mystical theologians and poets.