Part Two – Synopsis of Screwing the Elite to Save Us from Us

A deep end of the pond feature newly offered will be definitions of human organized geo-political based madness. The inception conception is to build a vocabulary list to eventually create an evolved altruism by narrowing down what it is not. Kinda like reverse deductive humanistic psychology gone wholistically societal in contrast to hedonism and belly button gazing sacred circling. 

If you hear a series of low hisses, it is air escaping certain punctured prideful balloons. You may consider it an intervention via words and ideas. If your brain continues to engage itself in thoughtfulness and watchfulness without weekly obsessions with DMT brews, we may have a momentary LED lighted shot at bringing you into integrated socially adept reality. 

Here together, or at odds, we will seek an operating unified cosmic theory of harmonious human group behavior over a reactionary hiding place of getting stoned on Amazonian root every week, or more, to feed your id morphing into apathetic dullards. 

The primary mission is to prove the difference between knowing oneness as a childish twit at the center of an imagined me-universe, and actualizing oneness through right social action as sober life cycling the center of the universe. It may prove to annoy some of you, and if so, then this in itself is an indicator I may be on to something.

First word up = kleptocracy. 

Referring to Russia, Daniel Kimmage used the terms: “kerdocracy” (“rule based on the desire for material gain”) or “khrematisamenocracy” (“rule by those who transact business for their own profit”).

Pundit, author, Times editor, big deal Fareed Zakaria described Russia as a kleptocracy on a July 23, 2012 airing of The Daily Show.


Youthful Gratitude of Ocean Dwellers

My social psychology teacher in grad school was actually an Alaskan fisherman with his own boat. He and his family lived in a quonset hut house with a deepwater dock to his boat somewhere in the extremities of Alaska. How he arrived at Humboldt State University (HSC, my graduate program alma mater) was because he held a masters from Columbia and a doctorate from Oxford and needed rolling capital. When he came down from Alaska to be a college professor no one knew him. I though his name was familiar (no idea why) so i enrolled in his two courses – statistics and advanced social psychology.

HSC at the time was on a four quarter system, not a semester system (dumb idea). I remember going to his first class and sitting in the room with 12 maybe 14 others. 

A robust, ruddy faced, barrel chest guy with bright blue darts for eyes got up from a desk in the front. He was dressed in baggy corduroys, a hand knit sweater, and desert boots. He went over and with oversized hands grabbed for the pole of a large fishing net leaning up against the blackboard on the back wall. He quietly padded back over to his audience standing at the foot where the rows of seats started to ascend. Looking at no one in particular he unexpectedly methodically whipped the net over our heads, back and forth, making several students emit loon sounding shrieks as the net swooped over their heads. 

When he was done affecting and infecting us with his stunt, he stationed his upright pole with slacked net next to himself, and offered, “You have four choices with me at the helm: One, you can jump ship, now; Two, you can get a life preserver and go below in the cuddy cabin; Three, you can become part of the working crew on this vessel, or Four, you can tell me the significance of the fishing net and i will give you time at the wheel.”

After several dead lull minutes of him standing there looking like an American primitive painting, I raised my hand. He took up his staff and dipped the net in my direction. 

My response went something like this, “Professor Anderson, could the net mean there is a possibility some of us will become by-catch and some of us become money fish?”

With this he walked up the side of the lecture hall, and with no further ado placed the very large net over my head. Laughter and further odd ball sounds were heard. Yet, what tickles my memory is the ozone scent of the sea as he vaccinated me (or blessed me?) with his unusual wand. 

Over the course of the next 16 months, we became friends as student to instructor. I was invited to his rented double wide trailer in the redwoods to discuss the state of humanity, eat local salmon or crab cakes, and grilled butter clams (grilled bivalves was brand new to me). I would seriously play scrabble with him, his wife, and three kids and occasionally with the date I brought along. Rain poured and pelted down while tule fog obscured sword ferns guarding the base of the redwoods outside. Inside was human mirth and informative debating.

On certain tide-proper Sundays, his clan would join mine. We would carefully crowbar off exposed rocks selected mussels from mussel colonies two hundred years old. Never taking too many from any one slippery village. Sometimes we waited for premium low tide near Moonstone Beach to not be swamped as the chill from the water could freeze your kidneys. 

Once enough mussels were collected we would steam our bounty in pots full of cut limes, herbs, strings of seaweed from the beach, and Pacific Ocean water tended over driftwood fires. Slurping up the tasty salty cooked innards while slugging down cheap wine munching on loaves of sour dough bread was better than any fare served at a five star gourmet cafe. Banana cake or wild Himalayan blackberry cobbler would finish off the meal, usually baked by me (I possess a sweet rack of teeth, not just a sweet-tooth). As dankness and mist gathered and the ocean flattened at high tide, we would draw near to now a larger fire to spit out made up on the spur of the moment tales or recite awful poetry (theirs not mine, of course). 

There would be no other humans for miles. Our laughter and teasing zingers would expand in environmental impact as the jugs of wine were passed around and spliffs were not bogarted. 

What my first Professor A taught were basic life skills how to morph from immaturity to maturity without losing your sense of humor or lust for understanding human behavior, no matter if your role was therapist and/or captain of the sea.

I held onto many of his suggestions during the thin gruel and thick puke of my life. At times, one of his repetitive comments yawled like a gale wind, “If you’re f**king going to keep your wisdom secured under a basket for Chr*st’s put some holes in it and let it become your lantern.”

Without fanfare I post-graduated (with honors) and exited the scene for Central America to work and travel. When i was done with this madness, I returned to Gringolandia. Eventually, I called to Mckinlyeville to see how Professor A was doing up in the lost coast of Humboldt County. His 14-year old son answered. His radio announcer voice stated his father had gone back to Alaska but there were cardboard boxes of books with my name plastered on them waiting for my pickup.

I still have some of these books, here in my library. Many came into my possession autographed by their living famous authors. The photo below reminded my heart of those glorious moments when learning from a master of social psych was almost better than getting a life bird.

Screwing Your Way to Saving Humanity


Our species continues its slow-mo descent into its own dismissal.  The epic cascade is suffering downward. Quality of life squishes up for the pinprick chosen elite as it evaporates as a mega-mirage for the rest of humanity mired in doom and gloom. I am not a doomer. Although on pesky days, if you read my paranormal posts in social media one might easily label me a prepper. I am a post-prepper. I exist in the epilogue.


When I had my breakdown/through about America I was lounging upstairs in my Tara of the North 1840 Greek Revival house. It was circa 1988. Snow piled up against the columns on the three-story portico and as the storm progressed the white out began to blow up against elongated windows covering the bottom portion of the glass. The icy blue snow banks continued constructing for days, not hours. Realizing the temperature was howling at forty below, the naked expansive sugar maples and thin needled evergreen trees swayed in the storm showering off their layers of white stuff so as not to break or crash from the weight of frozen acidified water.


I listened to the snarky constant hiss of the oil-fired steam radiators while sitting at my drawing table supposedly working on a cover illustration for Maui Murders.  The juxtaposition of tropical icons on the board I was painting and the February western Catskills ice storm cometh may have been a portend. Eventually, I would leave the four seasons of the East Coast and move to Costa Rica, the land of two seasons, green and green wetter.


My concern was immediate – paranoia wondering if there was enough fuel in the tank for the heating system in the white giant of a house. While sitting in my studio room, my apprehension migrated to a larger view.  What would have to happen for our species to get off the petro ride?


Now, it is 2014, and I have an answer. Third world civil societies want our plastic bags, our plastic toys, our plastic clothes, our air-conditioned interiors, our designer cars, and other hipster imagery. All this crap is marketed and shoved down the gulping throats of emerging economies based on dirty oil as the basis of human finances on Earth.  There is no regard for mass destruction of just about anything to purchase a lifestyle intrinsically glued to oil and gas. Dirty oil smacks down, fracks, drill baby drills, everywhere, and everything, to carry forward a manifest destiny so arcane and species suicidal most into science have concluded this is the 59th minute of our species.


What changed me from artsy NY designer, Hamptons espresso house operator, politico conservative radical American consumer to serenity breathing jungle hermit was not one momentous occurrence.  The slaying of a cultural dream takes a few decades in time, activities, and discontent.  I do remember bopping around in the Atlantic Ocean fluke fishing and seeing the pollution on the ocean’s horizon a new density of putrid brownish ochre color. Then looking up and seeing nothing but jet airplane trails crisscrossing everywhere like a visual tangle from a childhood nightmare. Putting my rod in the port side holder I got up to stand at the rail. Gazing into the jade colored shimmering waters, I saw an epidemic of jellyfish, billions upon billions floating. If you know anything about marine ecology, this is a horrific sign. I sat back in my chair, silently befuddled. We continued to drifted for fluke off Westhampton Dunes, New York. As Capt. Arthur started up the engine, it triggered a realization. The apocalypse had happened and no one noticed, not even me, Ms. Super Aware Bird Woman.


The Sea ‘N Aye Dog, was an all oak wood, lap staked, Mackenzie. The craft was built by hand in 1964 by a person who designed and constructed Mackenzie’s, his name was Mackenzie. The 24-foot long beauty was a Cuttyhunk named after the upmost famous Striped Bass hot spot on the planet. A rough water boat designed with an aft tiller and a normal pilot wheel with a shear line beauty as pretty as any yet safer than almost all others.  The aft tiller allowed one to stand in front of the transom and back down on a fish in the slap of surf exactly where big stripers hung out munching on incoming lines of bay shrimp.


Stay with me, the boat is a metaphor, eventually, I am hoping yet with writing the occasional loose end or line allows you dear reader to envision on your own.  This is my definition of prose.


The task-at-hand is our species is not going to awaken from its appalling apathy and arse ‘ole addiction to oil. The status quo of convenience is blocking the channel.  We are crammed up on turtle island spewing out gunk, roaring around mowing down tree scapes, piercing the back of the turtle at every angle and as deep as 30,000 feet. Our lot is more impressed with power transmission lines than breathing clean air, drinking pure water, or living in harmony with our fellow gravity-stuck flora and fauna. Those who get the harmony part are too busy escaping through altered states of consciousness or like me jumping up and down on digital soapboxes preaching to the choir.


The poorest Sudanese wants a house made out of cement, a cell phone, and a chance to work on the latest pipeline. Get it? The elite has socially engineered a global army of slave soldiers and you and I are luckily in the forward platoon. We are all Chinese workers in a factory larger than Montana. We just do not know it.


Luck of the genetic code, you and I are assigned the comfy kitty kat section of the mother ship while four billion plus of our own kind exist in squalor and creeping crud. This is by design, dear ones. The mission of madness and the psychology of psychopath politics have no room for social consciousness in its prospectus to rape and pillage the resources of the third rock from the son/sun/Ra. No matter what the level of education, the astute understanding of one’s particular pinpoint of effort, and the reality the oceans are dying, Homo sapiens keep running around the gerbil wheel chasing the golden carrot.


My ’88 ah ha moment probably arrived before most of you were born if you follow me on Twitter. Impotently speaking, seeing the burning bilging forest from the Silicone Valley cubicle is probably my own fault. I am one of those. You know the kind of human that must find the friggin’ underlying cause. Questioning authority and raising a ruckus is imprinted upon me.


We comprise a subspecies of a rare breed. Yet, somehow we are linked, all eight of us, via social media. Since we do not tolerate intolerance, nor do we buy into the con job, or mental masturbations, we move with grace and articulation.  Not stealth like, more elegant and obvious, if you can take off your blinders for more than 140 characters.


Social consciousness is passé. We are hip to the rudeness we are out of sync with the master planned community of dirty oil. In our own self-imposed Nilo LED lit marginalization we hold ranks tougher and kinder than the UN. Social media is the conduit of the awakening. As much as I would love to be on the cure all be all edge of a story of species survival for us and the other beauties on Earth, I do not foresee an ark, even one filled with DNA containers, surviving.


Homo sapiens are no longer alive. We died a few decades ago, the obit is not quite complete so it has not been published. I propose it was when Jimmy Carter was POTUS the tipping point occurred with our ta da this is the end swan dive into the abyss for our species, and the others. JC was blamed and buried by the hatred of others who could not abide a guy with ethics and genuine concern as the compassionate brilliant leader of the free world. If you did not see the Jesus analogy, do not worry, it is too late anyway.


I leave you with this poem written by a Welshman. I do not know if this is true but the name he publishes under is about as Welsh as one can get. The Welsh tried to become free from the English hundreds of years ago. After getting the bangers beat out of them the lesson of Welsh independence is they married into the crown, subversively spreading their eggs and sperm into the monarchy.


The Prince of Wales is called the Prince of Wales and not the Prince of Ireland, or Scotland. Herewith could be a lesson on how to change the humanity death archetype. Those with the anti-oil pivotal paradigm gene marry into the current globalizing oligarchy. We have at least three more generations. If we begin to fuck/screw/fornicate/charm/tip toe, our way into the realm of swells we may just breed those into existence who will manifest what Jimmy Carter actualizes.


How Do You Do That?


When I awake, before my eyes are yet open,


I see pictures


Of Dante’s levels,


The unfaithful, choking on the foul worms of deceit,


Liars, upside down in boiling oil,


The slothful hauling rocks,


Two headed demons feasting on thieves,


Souls, screaming as they cascade into the cacophony below.




The picture of you comes to me,


The sun lights up my curtains,


The sweet perfume of summer blooms


Fills the room.


Morning birds


Sing morning songs


All is well with the world.



How do you do that?




Owain Glyn







A Love Story Down the Drain – Honor Turns to Stone

(Before you begin to read, click on and begin the music, please)

Somewhere in the marine aqua lit lounge act in the spacious pinkish sky John G. Clancy, Jr, Esq. is snorting like a camel while standing semi-upright with a long neck Irish beer swashing in his hand. There are several empty shot glasses turned upside down on the 1890’s bar. While boisterously telling an Irish fable, or recanting a football play of note he also is listening to his client (see below) sing the blues. 

A couple of times, i was back stage with Clancy (late ’70s), and after powdering our noses way too much, drinking way beyond excess, we elegantly slow danced to Boz performing live on stage, giggling in his other’s ears.

I was one of those who never lost my poise when high. I acted my way through life. See, i never had a problem cause the folks around me where the booze hounds, coke heads, and crazier than me ones. This is denial. It was fun until it became life threateningly sad. 

Ahh, Boz, you are there, i am here, Clancy remains in our fractured hearts. 

“Slow dancer, only you can set me free.” 

Clancy was my running buddy. There was never a hint of romance between us until one day he drove up in an over the top expensive sports car with Marc Libarle, Esq. driving. Clancy tapped on my back door (Santa Rosa, California). I came out onto the redwood deck by the hot tub and my dearest drinking buddy shakily got on his knees. It was Spring. It was 2 PM. It was sunny. It was a Tuesday. Drunk and stoned in a trashed designer suit with a Hermes tie splattered with last night’s dinner, tears spurted from Clancy’s goofy eyes. His normally booming voice was low, slow, and gentle. I barely heard his words. His weepy bloodshot eyes held my concerned green ones.

Clancy begged me to come with him, anywhere, right then. 

“Let me steal you for my life, my Bonnie Lass by the Sea, please understand. It is now, or never.” 

I cannot listen to Boz without thinking of the many good times and the happiness Clancy and I shared. We had each other, but there was nothing about flesh or sex. It was a communion of two intellects and two souls too stoned as two prideful balloons floating above the rest of humanity. We were one hubris but two bubbles, so oddly attached, we did not notice. 

I sent him away. We never saw each other again. He wrote and published a few erotic articles about me (or at least this is what others told me). I never read Playboy, or the other mags of this ilk.

Enjoy the music. Boz is as smooth as it gets. Clancy called his client, the San Francisco Tuxedo. If this was true, then Clancy was the right coast (NY) version and Boz, the Alabama incarnation. 

Clancy’s obit is the first comment (see further below). The last time I had any contact with him I left a six-pack of iced down imported beers at his trailer in hotter than the dickens Heber City, Utah. He had been driven there by Warren Hinckle and others because HC was a dry town, in a dry county, in a dry state (No alcohol in Mormon-land except at private clubs as there are zip public bars). 

When I read Clancy’s obit, it was after writing a slow mo mail to Marc and receiving a curt return email yet with no response to my question, “How is Clancy?” Sensing my friend had left the realm of the breathing, I found his obit on the net. Clancy never wore a seat belt. We would regularly go through horrific screaming matches over this detail. I drove my sports car like a race driver (graduate of the Bob Bondurant School of Race Car Driving). Friends called me Bonita Granatelli (as in Andy), and most of them would not get in my wheels. 

After a century of these stress-outs over seatbelt application, Clancy and I decided for the Buddha sake of our friendship, we would ferret out someone to drive us when we went partying. The entire time we hung out together Clancy never drove. I assumed he had lost his driver’s license. Since he had been married three times, any property, law practice, or reputation was also crashed on the rocks at the headlands of alcohol and drugs. 

I have been around high class to bottom of the barrel passionate justice seekers. The advocacy and politics of participatory democracy and civil rights attract swimmers from the deepest end of the pond.

Clancy was the premier empathizer of those who suffered injustice, not including his famous clients such as Hunter S. Thompson, Boz, the Oakland Raiders, a Brit who photographed Vietnam and had a plate in his head to prove it, and several Afro American women who had been raped by their infamous husbands/lovers or music managers. 

He made me regularly go with him (me in a rented nun’s outfit and him dressed as a priest) to an orphanage and hold art classes while he read stories like a blaring fog horn over the chaos of the art projects. Clancy called these forays, Sacred Sanities for the Unseen. I was Sister Bon. He was Father Jon. He was Catholic. I was Zen Presbyterian. The kids loved us. We brought pink colored cardboard boxes stacked inside with cupcakes and cookies. 

Clancy existed on the flickering edge of a candlelight at once surreal and then festive as a Dali painting. 

Take another piece of my heart. 

“Why do all things have come to an end? I don’t know, Lord. It’s the blues, it’s all i was left with.”


John G. Clany’s Obit

“A talented author and dedicated attorney, John G. Clancy Jr., 69, was killed on Saturday, Oct. 1, 2005, when his car overturned on U.S. Highway 84 between Ghost Ranch and Christ of the Desert Monastery in New Mexico. He was ejected from his car when it rolled and was declared dead at the scene. Mr. Clancy was not wearing a seat belt.

He was returning home from a business trip to Santa Fe.

Mr. Clancy was born in New York City to John Gerard and Edna (Lyons) Clancy on Jan. 24, 1936. He earned his bachelor of arts from Fordham University and his law degree from Columbia University.

After clerking for a federal appellate judge in San Francisco, Mr. Clancy entered private practice. His client list was eclectic. In addition to commercial litigants, he represented clients pro bono, and he represented professional football players and writers, including his longtime friend Hunter S. Thompson.

“He was intensely passionate about justice, about fairness and about equity,” said his brother, Martin Clancy.

The week before his death, Mr. Clancy had submitted a report on prison reform in New Mexico to the state’s lieutenant governor. He also was in the process of getting funding for the Institute for Effective Prisons, which he founded.

Mr. Clancy was a writer himself. He had many articles published in magazines, including Harper’s, The Atlantic Monthly, Sports Illustrated, Scanlon’s and Rampart’s. He primarily wrote about politics and sports. “He was probably one of the biggest football fans that ever lived,” his brother said. Mr. Clancy moved to Colorado in 1984, while continuing to practice appellate law in California. He taught courses in criminal justice and political science at Fort Lewis College for 14 years. He was also active at St. Columba Catholic Church. Mr. Clancy married Judy Campbell, the proprietor of Smelter’s Coalroom, in Aztec in November 1984. They met when he was negotiating for the National Football League’s Player’s Association when the players went on strike in 1982. She was making cowboy shirts on the Navajo Reservation and went to Albuquerque, where the negotiations were taking place, to find models for the shirts. He is survived by his wife, Judy Campbell of Durango; daughters, Claire Clancy of Durango and Katie Clancy, a student at New York University; brother, Martin of New York City; and sister, Phyllis Clancy of Staunton, Va. A rosary will be said at 6 p.m. Thursday at St. Columba Catholic Church. A Mass of the Resurrection will be celebrated at 11 a.m. Friday, also at St. Columba. Burial will take place at Hillside Cemetery in Silverton. In lieu of flowers, the family requests that donations in Mr. Clancy’s memory be made to the Carmelite Monastery, 5660 South 151 Street West, Clearwater, KS 67026.”

— Durango, CO Herald 23 oct 2005