Be a Genuine Person at the Party

the roaring parties have exhaust fumes that can kill you

this energy is like a desperate dance with death

I’ve already watched this movie

about the rich and the beautiful

where social status is a currency

and the self-obsessed believe they can travel to far-away places

high, in the Andes Mountains

where death will never find them.

the party, is anonymous with laughter

We have to choose what will kill us

successful people die with their drug of choice

it’s all downhill, from their fame

like skiing on broken skis

their hair falls out

their good looks fade

their bones break

the party is over—it’s the dismal drudgery of existence

until, wrinkled with age

but the misery doesn’t have to be your own

you don’t have to stand outside of your mansion, like a crypt above ground

you don’t have to die, until your dead

I would rather be measured by

my own head

It’s not really about who’s listening

People only Pretend to listen,

It’s the sound of pleasure

that never satisfies

Thinking, someplace quiet

and not wanting, what others want

This is your own life—

don’t give it to the party

to the skeletons that dance until midnight

You are flesh

and bone

and spirit

You can save your own soul

if you dance

your own dance

when you make your own music

when you make-up your own mind

and you don’t wear it

on the outside, to look better

in a sea of clowns

who are sad when they smile.

Be a genuine person—it’s the only hope for humanity

it matters more, when you get close to death

and we are closer, than we know.

Unlocking that Special Feeling

Those who feel, that feelings are overrated

don’t know the power of a feeling.

We feel squashed by the vices of others—tightening, to control.

Feeling alive—is so rare a feeling—when we travel to unfamiliar places

or believe that we have magic at our fingertips.

Music and words come out of us like grandiosity

It’s a much-needed detachment from reality.

We have to believe that what we are doing is more important than decisions made by governments

because this significant feeling, is not so insignificant.

To feel that we matter, and to help others feel the same

is an artform—or a drug. It can’t be said plainly. It must be believed. It must be felt, to be real.

And for this feeling to be real—it requires significant proof—a major work.

But the trick is to hold onto this feeling each time you work—and there are many ways to access it

Sitting in a Ferrari, wearing a new suit, drinking espresso, enjoying a beautiful painting

and the more potent variety: playing Mozart on the piano, reading Nietzsche, exploring attitudes of the defiant and interesting

And lastly: doing it yourself, in all its glory.

If you feel like a rock star, when you are sitting in solitude

you have achieved this feeling

And it’s a feeling, I keep wanting to feel—like luck, or some mystical spiritual experience

that lands on me like a butterfly.

Success is a drug—but it’s not what we accomplish that gives us this high

It’s the feeling.

the journey can be beautiful, when you go wherever you want

As we get older, the world tries to buy us

and there is no better feeling, than never selling out.

You know you are in possession of something special, when people challenge you constantly

It’s their inane values that come out into the open—and they’re the ones who pretend to be concerned about society.

“I make more money than you do,” they say.

And I laugh inside.

They believe their value comes from the price somebody else paid for them

True Value is not bought or sold like slaves.

Value comes from an attitude—where the attitude comes from—is a mystery.

It might be what we are attracted to, and when we find it, we appraise it, like great art.

Few have the power to decide what is great and what isn’t. This comes from personal taste, and not from the critics who rely on numbers, to back them up.

Once we appraise what we value—then we go after it. In the beginning, it’s easy—until other people catch-on. As soon as they realize you have something they don’t have—they start to grab at it. That’s why I prefer to place value in invisible things.

My attitude is enormous—it feels like the first golf club I bought when I was 12 years old—and when I woke up, it was still there in my bedroom.

Being in possession of something this powerful, is uncomfortable for those who buy and sell pieces of themselves.

Your attitude comes out in how you walk, and how you talk.

People are so willing to trade their will for whatever comes along.

They work a job that pays them more money than they ever thought possible—and they have three kids—and a wife

but something doesn’t feel right.

Their will doesn’t count—because they are at the mercy of someone else’s will

and others with everything—know you have something—even though they can’t see it.

Life is a test of your endurance, and the journey can be beautiful, when you go wherever you want.

Chapter 2 A Soliloquy on Drowning

How many men fake their own death, before attempting the real thing? Almost none.

It is not for lack of imagination, but for a lack of will. Once a man gets into this dark place—he doesn’t believe his imagination is real anymore. And this is the greatest shame—the real death. The one to follow, is only a consequence.

Many men want to get away from their problems, but they don’t have the guts to be a man at large—a man on the run.

Many, would not be missed. These are the types who trim their nasty yellow toenails once a month, and eat in bed. Society pities him, if they are even aware of his existence. When he was younger, he felt the pressure to join the rest of the rabble—like the man on the moon, but after years of brushing—when he wanted to—and forgetting to floss—he out-live his usefulness to society, but something else happened that society didn’t plan for—he found bigger things to occupy his mind.

And these bigger things, became him—it is the enlarging of his being, that cannot be rationally justified by his standing in society. It is his unquestioning sense that he is doing the ultimate—even if that is going to the grocery store to buy his dinner. When a man crosses over, into this place, he walks through society and into society, parting the crowd, like the Red Sea.

Gregson felt like a fish that had swallowed two gallons of water. Now—he needed to cough it back up. He swam to shore by the Military-grade Hum-vi, and lay on the muddy rocks like a beached whale.

“Gregson—you have a job to do.”

“Yes, sir.”

Cornel Weathers greeted him with a handshake. “We took your psych profile last week—thanks for that. Out of all our applicants—you were the only one with the psychological well-being to withstand Time Travel. Care to explain?”

“If your test says that—it must be true,” Gregson said.

“Don’t get smart with me, son. Even the special forces don’t think the way you do. Why is that?”

“Most people are trained to think, but it’s not really thinking. They think they are doing it the right way, but they have never dared to be wrong. If they attempt their own thinking, eventually—they become comfortable in the dark, and they don’t need the light on. Answers, are less obvious here, than the ones they have been trained to look for.”

“Sweet Jesus, son! What the hell did you just say?”

“Just believe the paperwork—in the end, what’s the purpose of philosophy anyway, accept intellectual masturbation—it doesn’t accomplish anything.”

“But it makes you feel good, am I right?”

“I’m ready to time travel. What’s my mission?”

“The Task Force will brief you when we get there. Until then, hang tough, Gregson, and don’t play with yourself.”

Chapter 1 Bachelor Philosophy, and Gregson’s Untimely Death

“When did we become men who fish?” Gregson asked.

“Ever since I got a girlfriend,” Murphy said.

“You mean, we spend time in the river, so you can cope with your lady-problems?”

“Something like that, and I have a surprise for you.”

“You got Bud, rather than Bud Light?”

“No.”

“You’re all secrets, Murphy—now that a woman has part of your heart. And mark my words—women are not content with just a piece—they want the whole thing. A man has to save part of himself—and never give it away. It’s the piece nobody knows about, but him.”

“Doesn’t that get lonely?” Murphy asked.

“No—it keeps me warm at night. It gives me guts—after I’ve been gutted. It never takes away. If you won’t tell me what’s going on—have a cigar.”

“Naw—I promised Dina I’d quit.”

“She’s already invaded your mind, bro.”

“That might be, but she’s beautiful to think about.”

Gregson and Murphy parked their red pickup truck at the campground, while two women walked out of the river in their underwear.

“That’s your girlfriend, but who’s she?” Gregson asked.

“Dina thought you might be getting lonely.”

“Oh—no. No blind dates. Not after the last one you set me up with.”

“Who was she?”

“The religious fanatic who talked about Satan all the time. You told me that you found her in church, and that she was a good girl.”

“Oh—well, this one is different.”

“Murphy—you’ve violated the male trust. This is our time together—without it—we may forget we’re men.”

“I don’t see how that’s possible.”

“Look at the average man in society—he gets out from under his mother’s thumb—and enjoys two years of independence—tops—although, he doesn’t enjoy it—because he’s been conditioned to feel miserable alone—then he gets with the first woman who reminds him of his mother. Pretty soon he’s trained better than the family dog—and takes his place behind it, and when he does something wrong—he has to share the dog house.”

“You’re being overly dramatic, Gregson. Come on—let’s say ‘hi’ before they guess what we’re talking about.”

“You’ll regret this,” Gregson said.

“Gregson—have you lost weight?” Dina asked.

“Yes.”

“Have you stopped eating pizza?”

“No. I’ve been pumping iron.”

“I’d like to introduce you to my friend, Emma.”

“Oh—nice to meet you.” Her hand was like a wet willow branch. It made Gregson feel clammy when he shook it.

“Did you bring the worms?” Emma asked.

“A Royal Coachman—the trout in these waters eat flies. Worms are for bottom-feeders.”

It was normal for Gregson to size-up women without their clothes on, but he was in the mood to fish. Dina had already caught his friend. They were not there to catch fish, but to catch men.

“Gregson—why don’t you warm yourself by the fire?” Emma asked. She wore purple panties, and had pale skin. Her brown hair made her look like a creature of the water.

“The river is calling me,” Gregson said. “I’ll catch dinner.”

“Come back, buddy—girls don’t bite.”

“Nope—you do—they’ve already caught you.”

“You can’t stay out there in the stream for long,” Murphy said.

“Can’t be caught,” Gregson replied. He walked out, into the rapids, with his waders. Slimy stones caused his feet to slip.

“Ahhhh!” The current took him.

“Gregson!” Murphy yelled.

But the PI vanished.

The Most Important Thing

I left the heater on last night

with the window open

Most people aren’t very observant

including myself

We are lost in what we want

and nothing else matters

not love

or the present

We can’t fight this fundamental need

but we might be able to surrender to it.

It’s comforting to know, something could be happening under the noses of the people I know, and they wouldn’t know

Any changes that happen, within ourselves, we must advertise, or so we think

“I’ve started this new diet—where I eat salad every three hours.”

or “I’ve decided to work-out three times a day.”

or “If I write three times a day, I’ll become a writer.”

Nobody really listens—including ourselves.

I had this dream about running into somebody I know in the department store

wherever I went, they kept bumping into me, but we didn’t want to talk to each other

Eventually, I had to say “Hi” because the coincidences were too high

and we were forced to eat lunch together—being polite.

It’s not that I dislike this person—it’s just that I am very uncomfortable being around them

for no apparent reason.

I trust these feelings—and I no longer feel guilty.

I’m thankful that my higher self, chooses my friends for me.

We must decide what we are going to do with every day of our lives

and if you have that—you have a life.

Without some grand purpose we have built-up in our minds—life is just a prison

and death is a reprieve.

I’ve spent years unconsciously—selecting bits and pieces of characters—fictional and real—who I would like to be

they all are strange—in their own way

and I have become them—something I admire.

Whether or not this life is sustainable—only time will tell

it laughs at us all, and to laugh with time

is to do the most important thing

each day.

Epilogue

“Booker—I want you to make darn sure the President gets his cup of coffee in the morning!” Cornel Weathers shouted.

“Yes, sir!”

“And make sure he gets a blood test too.”

“I’m on it!”

“Vick—how did you get the Lazarus Vaccine?”

“In my living room, late at night—a hot nurse gave it to me.”

“That’s what we need.”

“What’s your blood type?” Vick asked.

“Type O.”

“Same here,” Gregson said.

“I’ll draw my blood, and give you both a transfusion.”

“It should give us some protection against death. We might be able to live thousands of years, if there isn’t a nuclear holocaust.”

“Won’t you get bored?” Vick asked.

“Are you kidding—I’ve only played 1% of the golf courses in the United States—and that’s not counting the world. You know—I just had an idea—Murphy is Type O. If I give him an injection, he’ll survive.”

“What are friends for?”

Friends keep each other alive,” Gregson said.

The End

Chapter 8 Blondes with Big Knockers are not to be Trusted

“How do we get inside the White House?” Vick asked.

“I’ve got a security clearance,” Weathers said. “We’ll drive up, and then knock on the front door. You boys will have to put-on uniforms. Gregson looks like a general, and you can be a corporal.”

Red lights in the cabin turned yellow. “We’re approaching the target area now. Get in.”

Gregson strapped-on his seatbelt, extra tight. Falling in a vehicle that weighed over a ton was not his idea of a soft landing.

“Okay—Green!”

The Cornel hit reverse and the Hummer entered free-fall. “Let’s hope I packed the chute right!”

“What?”

A black canopy expanded above them, and they floated toward the Washington Monument.

“We’re going to get impaled on that thing. Can’t you steer us in a different direction?”

“We go where the wind take us.” They nearly got draped on the enormous erection, but a breeze blew them, and they landed in the soft turf.

“Now—we just drive through the main gate. Show them my ID badge.” Weathers gave Gregson his White House Pass.

When they got to the front door, a black butler greeted them. “My name is Booker. His excellency—the President—is in his bed chamber right now. He’s entertaining cheerleaders from his alma mater.”

“They’re about to cut his manhood,” Vick said. “We’ve got to stop them! If the President loses his balls, the United States won’t be able to stand-up to its enemies.”

Gregson smashed through the bedroom doors with his shoulder. The president was being smothered by Kara and Kristina, while Sarah tested a pair of sewing scissors behind him.

Weathers pulled-out his handgun, and shot both Ks in the head. Momentarily, Sarah mesmerized the Cornel with her big knockers. He was hypnotized. Vick also was losing his mind. All of his blood left his big head and rushed to the small one.

Gregson spent years making himself invulnerable to feminine whiles. He pulled handcuffs from his pocket. “You’re under arrest,” he said.

“But I didn’t know they were underage!” The President shouted.

“Not you—the alien!”

“What? You mean I just had sex with aliens?”

“I’m afraid so. You used protection, right?”

The President drew a blank.

“Well—they live for thousands of years and copulate more than humans. Their technology can’t keep up with their diseases. Viruses keep mutating. You probably have an STD 1000 times more potent than syphilis.”

“How do I get treated for that?”

“I’m sure you can cook it up in a lab somewhere.”

“It’s dangerous to keep this one alive,” Cornel Weathers said.

“I know—but there’s more of them, and we need to know the extent of their plans. Vick—you’re half alien—read her mind.”

“Oww, ahhhh, yessss,” Vick said

“She’s mind F-ing him. This is useless.”

“Stay with it,” Gregson said.

“Okay—I can see their plans—I can read her thoughts. They want to breed with us. It’s the surest way to conquer the human species.”

“I’m okay with that,” Gregson said. “As long as I’m hooking up with a 10—who cares?”

“You would have sex with an alien, if she was a hottie? There’s no hope for the human race.”

“They know how to defeat us—that’s for sure. Any suburban male would gladly surrender to a woman with big knockers. It’s the soft power of seduction,” Gregson said.

“No—it’s hard.”

“Well—I’m going to put an end to it,” Cornel Weathers said. “With my gun.” He pulled it from his holster and shot her in the head. Now we have to spread the word—blondes with big knockers are not to be trusted.”

Chapter 7 Cigars, and a Masculine Man’s Motivation

“So, what you’re telling me is that we have to get to the President of the United States before the aliens seduce him,” Gregson said.

“Yes.”

“And if he’s like JFK, they’re already pregnant with his baby.”

“Probably,” Vick said.

“And if he’s like Bill Clinton…”

“We don’t have any time to lose.”

“Gregson—we can’t all fit into your BMW—we’ll have to take the Cornel’s Hummer.”

“I can have a military transport plane pick us up and fly us over the capital,” Weathers said. “Let’s hope the President has strong character.”

“The Presidency is all about power, sex, and money. We can only hope he knows what he’s doing in the bedroom, war room, and bathroom.”

“Bathroom?”

“Yeah—when our economy goes down the toilet.”

“Isn’t this the guy who printed 6 trillion dollars, threatened three nuclear powers with holocaust, and fondled a man in the bathroom—thinking he was a woman?”

“You’re right. We’re fucked.”

They left the pro shop. Gregson gripped the steering wheel—he always wanted to be at the heart of Bagdad in one of these beasts. Heavy metal music and 50 Cal machine-gun shells.

“Does this thing have a radio?” Gregson asked.

“Of course—it’s our primary means of communication.”

“Well—let’s Rock-N-Roll.”

Gregson was doing 30-over the speed limit—and no cars honked. It might’ve been the military-grade vehicle he was driving, but he was pretty sure it was the machine-gun turret up top. The best way to protect yourself from society, is to carry a big gun, and let the liberals see it.

When they got to the airport—Vick and Cornel Weathers couldn’t wait to get off the ground—that meant—Gregson wouldn’t be behind the wheel.

“Just drive our Hummer up inside her,” the Cornel said. “She’s a big bitch but she’ll let us in.”

“Yes, sir!” Gregson parked in her rear.

“Now, attach the cables to the parachute platform.”

“We’re not going to jump out of this thing, are we?”

“No—we’re going to drive out, over DC.”

“You’re shitting me?”

“That’s what it’ll be like.”

The roar of the C130 caused Gregson to get aroused. It was a like a woman, being turned on. When all of her weight lifted off the ground, Gregson didn’t feel so self-conscious. They were airborne.

“When the lights turn yellow—get into the truck—and when they turn green, I’ll hit the reverse, and pull the chute. Until then, let’s smoke.”

The Cornel pulled three cigars out of his pocket. “Gentleman—we’re going to save the most hapless, corrupt president in history, so that he doesn’t end the West and the rest of the world. Why are you doing it, son?”

“I’m 70-years-old, Cornel. Now that I can live forever—I’d like to get laid again. How about you, Gregson?”

“Same here—the aliens are right. The suburban male lives for sex and dies for sex. It’s a masculine man’s motivation.”

Chapter 6 Nuclear Holocaust and the Male Organ in Outer Space

Playing golf with a psychic was like fumbling with an atomic bomb—if you got the football, you wanted to be sure that you knew what to do with it—otherwise, you could get buried under bodies. Gregson was in the presence of unlimited energy—a hybrid in full possession of his imagination with human nature as fickle as a feather blowing in the wind.

“Vick, I don’t know how I feel about you.”

“Most people don’t know—and they don’t know the world is going to end.”

“What?” Gregson asked.

“Tomorrow. Aliens gave me the Lazarus Vaccine, but it won’t do me any good—nuclear holocaust is coming.”

“Why?”

“How I see it—the President of the United States wakes up without his morning coffee. When that happens, several caffeinated members of his cabinet suggest the country is at war with China. He believes he has already been attacked, so he orders def-con 1. China sees the heat plumes coming from our nuclear submarines. They launch their orbital ICBM and destroy DC like Sodom and Gomorra. We launch, and like a fission reaction, other countries launch in exponential retaliation, until nothing breathes.”

“Can we prevent this?” Gregson asked.

“We need to talk to Cornel Weathers.”

When Gregson and Vick got to the pro shop, Weathers had already called a cab. He walked away from the pay phone, and sat in a booth.

“You don’t use a cell phone?” Gregson asked.

“Are you kidding—they can track you, if you have one of those. What are you boys still doing here?”

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“Okay.”

With the beret off, Gregson noticed his crew cut and electric eyes. The Cornel had a scar running across his chin. He looked like Mel Gibson.

Is there a point to your visit?”

“Vick believes you can prevent the end of the world.”

The Cornel looked at the 70-year-old psychic, like he was reading his mind. They stared at each other, for over a minute.

“Can I tell him?” Vick asked.

“Go ahead,” Cornel Weathers said.

“Okay. Weathers works at Area 51. He was sent to this golf course to investigate me. Alien activity has escalated in the last few weeks—and the US Military believes, they are acting as a third party to instigate a nuclear war. If the human race is divided—we are no longer a threat. Probing has reached an all-time high. They are studying us.”

“Is there a connection between the murders in suburbia—and the alien probing?” Gregson asked.

“Yes—they want to study our motivations. They have been abducting military officials for years, but now they want to study the suburban male. He is the greatest threat.”

“Really?” Gregson asked. “All they do is watch TV.”

“Exactly—each one of them is just waiting for an alien invasion. They all want to be heroes—it’s sublimated—when the aliens come—it’ll be like a volcanic arms race. Aliens believe the suburban male has no fear. That’s why they shot that man on his riding lawn mower, and severed the vital organ on the captain of the football team. Apparently, most of male motivations come from our desire to have sex.”

“How did the aliens get close enough to kill him?” Gregson asked.

“Cheerleaders.”

“You mean he had sex with aliens?”

“Yes—and they experimented on him, sexually—then they severed his manhood.”

Where did they take it?”

“Outer Space.”

“That’s why you should always get a DNA Test before getting some strange,” Gregson said. “I thought the serial killer was University educated—and wanted to be male.

“Yes—the aliens are questioning their identity.”