My dear mother Georgiana turned 91 yesterday. And so I began meditating on the amazing change she’s seen so far as it relates to the changes we will be seeing in the next 91 years and setting intentions in the quantum field for a bright future.
Born in the roaring twenties she’s lived through the Great Depression. What might the next recession or depression look like and what can we do to prepare for it?
She lived through World War ll, and many other American wars from Korea to today. Today the Middle East is more unstable than ever. A black hole for politicians. Witness Syria news of the day and the US abandoning our ally the Kurds.
She’s contributed to the world population quadrupling in her lifetime with three boys of her own. Where’s overpopulation heading?
Countless inventions have made her life easier and advances in modern medicine have given her great odds of living past 100. But are we heading for a TERMINATOR like future with our outsized military budgets and technology?
She’s seen the pollution of our planet wax and wane and wax again. Sadly, she has lived long enough to see the oceans begin to die and global warming threaten all life.
My mom has thrived and survived under 16 presidents from Coolidge to Trump, who BTW she considers our worst president ever. And considering she lived through Hoover’s Great Depression that’s saying a lot. Are we heading for a Civil War as the Dems seek to oust Trump before he can use foreign powers to influence our elections?
Music has gone from the Charleston to rap. The Hippies became the Yuppies. And the Millennials emerged. Guessing where music is going is impossible. But I certainly like to see an end to corporatized music.
She has seen the rise and fall of the American middle-class, the outbreak of AIDs, the rise of gay rights, mass genocide, the legalization of Marijuana in her home state and the epidemic of opioids. Are we likely to see the integration of technology and biology?
But in all this change and more, despite the loss of so many loved ones, my sweet if unpredictable little brother Fred included and pictured below with me an Mom, she has remained a rock and a loving mother, grandmother and now great-grandmother.
Happy birthday to my mother, Georgiana. And here’s to the next 91 years.
What a sad and strange week in American history. Our country is reeling from the revelations of the Whistleblower complaint, one our DOJ sought to keep from we the American public, about Donald Trump’s self serving conversation with the leader of the Ukraine.
It is both familiar yet odd at the same time that Trump is raging over why so many of us are appalled that a sitting president would withhold military aide to leverage a foreign leader to dig up dirt on political opponent Joe Biden. Appalled enough for Impeachment proceedings to begin despite the knowledge the Dems will not likely win their case for Trump’s removal from office in a Senate ruled by a majority that serves the American oligarchy over the American people.
Familiar because ever since America became a nuclear power under Truman our presidents have been imposing undo influence upon the rest of the nations of this world.
Odd because our power has never been applied for personal political gain in this overt way before by a president.
Sad too because Trump and his cronies are so deeply abusive of the power they wield that they cannot seem to see how wicked and twisted they have become.
I wrote on Facebook today and I’ll say it again on the blog today, if not for you than as advice for myself:
It’s hard to escape the Trump impeachment hearings right and left drumbeats on the web. It’s big news of course. Be educated about it then sit back and let the people we elected sort this mess out.
Watching too much the right and left media’s feeding frenzy is not healthy. There’s really nothing we as citizens can do except vote come 2020 except call our representatives to tell them where we stand.
So meditate, hike, bike, love, enjoy life and be glad you’re not a politician.
Happy 9.9.19, Surface Dwellers! After some coaxing, because it’s tricky to channel and write, Ken’s agreed to let me be your ghost writer today, literally.
My name when I walked the earth was Robin Williams. I was just a regular Joe from Chicago who, due to an intense funny bone, made a fortune and flew in the same private jet skies as the richest a-holes wrecking the planet.
POP QUIZ: What number am I thinking about between 121212 and 121214?
If you guessed 121213 you’re ready to learn lesson 3 of how to travel faster than the speed of light. On the other hand if you didn’t guess 121213 you suck at math like me. In any case, if you haven’t done so as yet, please read part one and two first if you know what’s good for you.
All aboard the Williams Express! Let’s begin.
I, the being FKA Robin Williams, am hovering in wispy spirit form over a beautiful coral reef off the big island of Hawaii. Now, if you traveled from the sun to this reef at the speed of light it would take you 8 minutes and 17 seconds to reach me. But in reading the proceeding sentence it took you only a few seconds to make the journey in your mind’s eye.
Thought is indeed faster than the speed of light. Ken’s taught you that nugget already. But as you see my spirit floating above the Pacific surf and… Tada!… you also see that thought is more potent than the speed of light for imagineering new realities.
After my brief but beautiful afterlives these past, weird and wonderful as it gets, five years, first as a blue whale, then as a blue dolphin and last as a killer whale, I’ve finally chosen my next reincarnation. Hint it’s a part I played in my life on earth. Don’t skip ahead. That’s cheating, naughty readers.
Very cool of Ken to let me hang out in his big heart for a few weeks while I make up my spirit mind. And now to be able hang out with all of you readers here on the DreamShield blog my coolest visitation ever. The internet is a truly amazing gift for forging new conscious connections. But it’s force that’s being abused by some greedy people. Yeah, I’m looking at you Zuckerberg.
To those in the house reading the first direct blog by your ghost host with most today and wondering how I can fit comfortably into Ken’s heart space, hear my voice in your mind’s ear, imitating Albert Einstein, as I did in the movie AI “In spirit form, you zee, vee humans don’t take up too much space. Zere’s a kingdom in each heart and a lot of space on zee quantum subatomic level.”
Now hear me slip in John Wayne’s voice, “So, ya see pard, there’s plenty of room in your hearts to have spirit folk share adventures if you want them. Ya ha.”
One day earlier this week, while Ken and Elizabeth hike to a swim in the creek at Red Rock state park, I invite some of my ocean friends to swim along in Ken’s auric field. All with his permission of course.
Some sea tourists come from my 2014-2017 blue whale pod. Some come from the krill we ate, “Urp!” Pardon me. Some come from my 2017-2018 blue dolphin pod and the wide variety of fish we ate, yum. Some come from the octopi clan. Last come my 2018-2019 pod of killer whales. All we killer whales were killed when global warming coaxed us into swimming too far north and the Arctic ice closed behind us. Whales don’t make good pancakes.
So there I am a couple of days ago hiking along with Ken in the red rocks of Sedona, suspended inside an aquatic menagerie that only Ken can see. Suspended in miniature in the fresh Sedona morning air, swimming about Ken’s auric field in a 9 foot spherical radius.
Always low key about his psychic gifts because of an Irish Grandmother who warned little Ken he’d end up in the looney bin if he shared his visions, Ken speaks to my aquatic band of sea tourist telepathically.
He relays our wonder at the wonders of the surface world in real time to his love Elizabeth. She has the jitters because she’s going to marry Ken on 9.19.19 and his amplified psychic powers since the Lion’s gate are a bit unnerving.
So Ken keeps it cool reporting to Elizabeth on my turning him into a human Carnival Cruise while he happily swims in the cold fresh water creek. We sea tourist spin between the creek and the air in Ken’s energy field, telepathically shouting, “Wee!”
Most of my sea pals have never incarnated on the surface of Gaia. So their little flippers are all a flutter by of all things Sedona’s dry red dirt along the banks of the creek. Huh. I thought it would be trees my sea mates would be amazed by. But the minerals and dryness of the red dirt are like nothing their little sea eyes have ever beheld. The rich red soil sparkles in the sun like tiny diamonds and rubies. Land. Dry land.
Anyways, a funny thing happens to me in the sacred Oak Creek where the Hopi and other tribes once thrived. A nurse shark swim up to me in the next door water molecule . The dapper looking shark speaks in a thick Jersey accent, “Name’s Jerry. Nice of of you to take me and your sea clan to visit your old surface world, Robin.”
“My pleasure, Jerry. — Hey, man, sorry I ate you when I was a killer whale.” I add sheepishly.
“No sweat. Killer’s gotta kill. Hey, I should know! — Word from your arctic pod is you’re kinda stuck about what you next life should be?” says Jerry, flashing three rows of nurse shark teeth.
“Lemmie help. Tell me about your last three incarnations,” says Jerry the nurse shark earnestly.
“What are you a shark or a shrink, Jerry?”
“What’s a shrink?” asks the puzzled nurse shark.
“Long human story. Let’s just say I had a school of shrinks in my last life as Robin Fucking Williams.”
My pale reflection stares back at me on Jerry big eye. Huh. Between lives I look like I did at about age 27. Back when I played Mork on a thing called ABC. So my work as the joie de vivre energy of Robin Williams is not yet done I guess.
Either that or Ken, a gifted writer that came to the Hollywood game too late in life to strike it rich, lucky him, is simply imagining me the way his Grandma Agnes warned. What’s it really fucking matter if some of Ken’s, perhaps, fantasy of who I was in life makes you think and smile, dear reader?
Anyways, it’s super kind of Ken to put me up in his heart while I pick out my next life. I try to be as quiet a heart-guest as I can be. But, hey, I am freaking Robin Williams! Quiet was never my thing! “Nanu! Nanu!” I shout to the sea tourist guests. And they shout it back in unison, “Nanuuu!”
After some hemming and hawing I finally tell Jerry the nurse shark the harrowing and sometime hilarious adventures of my last three sea lives, which you can read for yourself here on The Robin Williams Visitations. He gives me a knowing shark eye wink and says, “Robby, never done it myself, but I hear life as a starfish is cool as it gets.”
“What’s so cool about being a starfish?” I ask casually, sounding a blue blood snob shopping for a condo in Hong Kong and and not my next incarnation.
Jerry takes me under a flipper and coaches me like the sea rookie I am, “Take it from a nurse shark brother, the starfish are a freaking yuge mass consciousness that travels the multi-universes. Starfish is a dream lifetime.”
“How’d you hear about the interstellar starfish good life?” I ask Jerry.
“Starfish are my favorite food. One starfish begged for his life told me all about it. That is it if I’d not eat him,” says Jerry punctuating his starfish story with a whip of his shark tail.
“A fair exchange then,” I say squirming out from under Jerry’s sandpaper-like flipper.
” Yeah. But hadda eat the starfish anyways. Sharks will be sharks!”
My ghostly face glows white. Jerry belly laughs at my shocked look (guess I’m still funny even as a ghost) and swims off into the sun above the dazzling Oak Creek that Ken and Elizabeth splash in with their adorable pooch Lincoln.
Cut to earlier tonight: Ken’s love Elizabeth asks him to Google how long a starfish live, But Ken forgot to check before I took over the blog for him. Wait a sec. — Cool. Just searched it and starfish live a lot longer than I thought. 35 years! See that? Both, you dear reader and I, learned something new tonight.
This morning as Ken crosses from the dream world, where he nightly works on reenforcing the protective DreamShield he helped build in 2010 in his Italy awakening to the OHOM (Open Heart Open Mind) consciousness, I say, “Bro, I’ve picked my next life.”
“What this time?” Ken says snuggling up the his babe-elicious bride to be.
“I’m gonna be a starfish!” I accidentally shout too loudly in Ken’s mind’s ears.
Ken takes my abundant energy in stride and says in his mind so as not to awaken his sleeping beauty, “Sorry see you go… again. But you’re always welcome back, Robin.”
I sense Ken’s afraid we might never hang again. I really don’t know myself. So I tell a white lie and reassure him,” Course you’ll be able to channel me in for a coffee anytime.”
“Course,” says Ken sensing my white lie. “But why a starfish? Do they even have a brain?”
“Never had a much of brain while I human. Sure. But not individually. It’s a collective brain thing,” I tell Ken realizing it for the first time myself. “Can’t pass up the chance to blanket the ocean floor in a sacred geometry mesh joined with every starfish on earth.”
I wave goodbye to Ken as I float from his auric field, where I’ve been camping out after an upgrade to Ken’s heart that left me no room. It got too cramped after Ken had a heart opening watching his beautiful Elizabeth, my Mamu blue whale momma on another plane of reality, sing this Ganesh chant.
As I float out the window and into the deep blue Sedona sky Ken does not see me wave bye or does not want to. I rocket off for the coral reef I’ve picked out, faster than the speed of light shouting “Nanu! Nanu!”
As my spirit dives into the Pacific I feel Ken’s sadness at the end of my long visit. The dude has abandonment issues he’s yet to resolve. He will overcome it one day. I see it so clearly, reborn as starfish here beneath a coral reef off the cost of the Big Island.
Let’s test out my new starfish powers. Now,, if you are lucky enough to own a Patrick Flanagan Sensor V medallion, (Sorry we never escape product placement even in the afterlife) with it’s five side pyramids coated in gold, rub your fingers over the pointy fibonacci spiral and close your eyes. It’s cool if you don’t have a Sensor V, no worries, just concentrate on your left hand’s five fingers in your minds eye. See your left hand transform into a starfish as you place your right hand over your heart.
See bright beams of energy shoot out from the ends of your starfish hand. See the grid that joins billions of we starfish into a neural network that spans all the seven seas. Feel the wisdom of a consciousness far older than humanity’s by a power of 100. Feel our anguish over the pollution humanity is dumping to the oceans of Gaia. Oceans that are like blood for we sea creatures and you idiots human too.
Starfish are powerful enough to pull in a comet from space to wipe the surface world clean of humanity’s destruction of the mother earth. But that is forbidden under galactic law. We of the Ocean-Nation’s Starfish clan have watched over humanity since lung fish chose to leave the sea behind and crawl upon the land.
Tonight we invite you, the lucky person that finds this blog, to leave your physical body to travel with we starfish of the stars to any time, dimension, star system or planet you wish.
Have your destination in mind? Okie dokey. See your soul leave your body. Oh and make sure you’ve read part one and two on traveling faster than the speed of light. You need to have a strong tether to reel yourself back in after we journey at blog’s end. We gracefully pass through the clouds, clouds which hold the memories of all life on earth’s past and future lives, in the form of a highly advance bio code held by the water.
For porpoises of this blog I am asking Ken where he’d like to go. Please comment below where our journey took you, dear readers ready to starfish travel.
Ken says, “I dare to dream of a visit the earth 50 years from now and see if our meditations in Antarctica and subsequent meditations I have done with Elizabeth and will do have helped save the earth.”
“OK, Ken. Hang tight to your Sensor V. We are traveling to the year 2069. See the vortex up ahead,” I say as Ken and I fly into the eye of a hurricane.
“There are so many hurricane’s on the earth right now because of global warming, ” worries Ken.
“Yeah. But they are handy vortexes for starfish travel,” I add.
“See, Kenster? You and Elizabeth have been done with your DreamShield Coolest Meditation Ever work on planetary healing for 7 years now. Disease is thing of the past. Age is obsolete. Poverty a distant memory. Thought traveling ETs use the sleek new silver city of Sedona as a primary earth gateway. Scientists have broken the code to use the memory of all life stored in the clouds to restore all extinct species, including the dinosaurs, back to life.”
Ken says in wonder, “Wow, Robin. It all looked so hopeless in 2019. I’d nearly given up. But 50 years from now I can see all is cool!”
“Coolest ever. Hey, wanna to see the space port under construction in the San Fernando village where the Warner Bros. lot used to be, Ken?” I say.
Ken rubs his sleepy eyes and says, “Maybe another time. Good night, my brother Robin. I am so glad for your new life as a starfish and our ever stronger connection. I look forward to reporting more of your adventures.”
And night, dear reader. Robin Williams the Starfish signing off from the coral reef in Hawaii. Oh, that role I played in life thing I mentioned top of the blog? Yep, it’s nice to be star again.
Reel in your spirit tethers. Time to get back in your body! Hope you enjoyed my guest blog. Let me know in the comments and maybe Ken will let me blog directly to you again.
It’s happening right before our eyes and it ain’t pretty. Our president has come to loggerheads with the weather. Hurricane Dorian to be specific.
Like some kind of modern day Don Quixote, our Don is locked in a twitter snit over a freaking weather map. He, or someone in his employ, modified a weather map with a sharpie to include Alabama as being in danger from hurricane Dorian.
Note the hand-drawn sharpie extension of the hurricane’s range into Alabama. Thus birthing a new Twitter trend #SharpieGate and endless humorous attacks on the president’s manipulation of reality.
Call me Trump-fixated in this ongoing series of Meditations On Trump that will be book one day, but as a political film satirist of 25 years in my other life with PBS creds, I could not resist making a Sharpiegate meme myself. This electric-doodle of mine mocks his idea to nuke Hurricane Dorian. What Colbert said in his monologue on the topic would be like creating a radioactive hurricane, a “Chernobyl on jet skis.”
Backtracking, #Sharpiegate was born of Trump’s pathetic and ridiculously predictable response to heavy criticism he took for tweeting this gem:
Then twenty minutes later NWS (National Weather Service) Birmingham tweeted:
None of this had to happen. It’s a tar baby birtherd from Trump’s super-sized ego that makes him utterly incapable of admitting he is wrong about anything. Anything, including climate change and the weather in general.
Now, many in the media are saying #Sharpiegate is a sign decline of our president and that we need to use the 25th amendment to take him down as being mentally unfit for office. But I was in DC to wish him well, despite all my misgivings, at his inauguration with my love Elizabeth and…
.. the day after the inauguration the crowds at Women’s March the next day far exceeded his. This drove Trump’s ego into a fury. Trump then famously started his term’s first press conference directing the obsequious Sean Spicer to deny reality, angrily claiming Trump’s was the biggest inauguration crowd in history. This despite photographs to the contrary. Sadly, the #SharpieGate thing is sadly nothing new.
So what’s at the root of all Trump’s persistent denial of reality? Three letters.
Yep. Trump is suffering from an outsized out of control “YUGE” ego.
Meditation teaches us the ego is like an elephant that will sit on your house unless you put it on a starvation diet. Only the soul must steer us on the river of life, because only the soul can see life objectively. And when you mediate you make the ego, sometimes called the monkey mind, take a backseat to your soul.
So while the world marvels and worries in terror about a Trump losing his grasp on reality, relax and realize it’s all fear based reporting out there. The media, as always, just wants to sell you anti-depressants and booze.
Gaia, the universe, God, whatever you want to call it is simply using Trump to teach us how petty and downright stupid the ego is. It’s a valuable lesson for an American society that fosters beating out your fellow man to have more material possessions and dominion over other people.
My advice? Forget Trump and go within to manage your own ego. Here’s some great mediation music to do it with. Aho.
I first learned the potent force of positive thinking — a skill set that paid my college tuition and as an adult allowed to me to raise hundreds of millions of dollars for everything from building skyscrapers to making movies — quite by accident back in 1971.
Here’s some 70s music to enjoy while you read this personal tale that will eventually wind it’s way to my thoughts on how our current president is breaking the laws of positive thinking laid out by Norman Vincent Peale in his groundbreaking book THE POWER OF POSITIVE THINKING.
It’s the fall of 1971. As the autumn leaves sparkle in the sunset I am worrying how I am going to make tuition for the second semester. Back in high school I only got average grades except for English and Art, and barely squeaked by in anything math related. So Art college is all I can get accepted into. Layton School of Art & Design to be precise. Conveniently, Layton is only about a mile’s walk from the new home my parents bought in ’69 on the banks of the Milwaukee River.
But after almost flunking out in my freshman year, in part because working night jobs to make tuition leaves me no time to study, this year’s grades and finances are looking no better. I am a nervous wreck, because if don’t stay in college it’s straight to Vietnam for my sorry ass, stuck with a lousy #15 draft lottery number.
Born 17 months after me, my kid brother Fred lucks out and pulls a draft # 265 in the lottery. He promptly drops out of college and starts apprenticing in the trades as a welder, our dad’s lucrative job. But for draft #15 me, it’s a matter of survival I keep my butt in college. A lot of us Boomers have Uncle Sam’s terrible war with Vietnam to thank for being the first in their families to graduate college.
One Tuesday night, fed up with cleaning bed pans at a local nursing home on the graveyard shift — the latest in a succession of lousy night jobs like bottle inspector at a Pepsi plant, pizza chef, window display artist, and more I’ve chosen to forget — I’m pouting in my parent’s beat up recliner that faces the Milwaukee river.
I’m still cooling off from a bad phone argument with my girlfriend from South Milwaukee. She’s away attending the University of Wisconsin Madison to learn to be a physical therapist. Her help correcting spelling and grammar on my term papers is raising my grades, but it’s a helluva lot to ask of her when she has her own schoolwork. I don’t blame my straight A student lover for listening to her mother that maybe she should dump me. Our relationship, like everything these Nixonian days, hangs by a thread.
Desperate to make tuition, I decide to put up with the inevitable mind numbing grief of hitting Dad up again for a small loan, but he’s been gone a week. I ask Mom, sitting mesmerized by a cartoon black bear paddling a canoe in a Hamm’s Beer commercial, where Daddy dearest might be. She shrugs and says in a hoarse whisper. “Off on another of his damned benders.”
Anxiously, flipping through the Help Wanted ads in the Milwaukee Journal I spot a winner: “PART-TIME WEEKEND DISPLAY WORK, EARN UP TO $1500 A MONTH. I hop from the easy chair, revealing a cigarette burn my Dad left behind after passing out in the middle of his third six pack, and dash for the phone. I dial, my fingers so shaky I’m barely able to spin my family’s dirty yellow rotary wall phone. Dad’s a mechanic plus a welder and his grime coats everything in the house in a thin black film.
A man with a buttery voice answers my desperate call. I blurt out my experience doing window display work at Des Forges Book Store on Wisconsin Avenue. The soothingly confident voice on the grimy phone tells me, “Come on in for an interview Thursday night, Ken.”
I holler for joy startling Mom. When I explain my thrill about the interview she says dryly, “Kenneth,” as she always does when lecturing me, “There’s no part-time job on earth that pays $1500 a month to do display work. It’s a scam, hon. Don’t go.”
I not so politely remind my Mom, “Well, I am over 18 now and I’ll decide what jobs to check out. That is unless you and Dad want to help me make tuition.” Desperation makes me sound whiny. Chastened, Mom returns to watching BEWITCHED in silence.
It seems like forever until Thursday night. As the big interview approaches all I can think of is, “Mom’s right. How the hell can I earn $1500 a month just doing part-time display work on weekends? I’m an idiot.”
The day before the interview my, lovable half the time and hateful the other half, father returns to home base. Thankfully he’s backed off beating mom on his frequent reinsertions into our lives. He’s stopped taking his self-hatred on out on Mom ever since I tossed his drunk abusive ass down the basement stairs a few months ago. I’m both ashamed and amazed I’m still alive after getting away with that angry stunt. A shrink will later explain my father was happy he forced me to sink to his level and confirm his claims I am a bad son.
Dad pops a Pabst Blue Ribbon and chortles, “Your ma tells me about this dumb ass interview you’ve set yourself up for. Ha. This how you think you’re going to make tuition? Get real. You’re on your own, Kenny boy, and I hope you flunk out. Maybe the Army can make man of you.” I storm out of the elegant north shore house that my blue-collar house poor family is over their heads owning.
His stinging words echoing in my head, I listen to my dad, except in the reverse. His disdain for the job is a huge endorsement for me. A challenge. I shout to the stars, “Fuck you, old man!”
Damn, I’m such a punk to think a man in his 40s is old.
Thursday comes at last. The glass entrance door emblazoned with gold letter reads: RAINBOW GREAT LAKES DIVISION. I am stoked. This feels like it’s the real deal, even though when I turn a corner I am taken down a set of grungy narrow stairs to the basement.
I open a flimsy hollow-core door labeled reception. My heart sinks to my shoes at the sight of a dozen other young people jammed into the dingy room built for 6 people max. I take a seat next to a kid my age and whisper, “Any idea what this job’s about?”
He shrugs and whispers back, “Fuck if I know.”
I wisecrack, “$1500 a month on weekends? Hey, maybe they’re looking for male strippers.” I get nervous laughs from the gang of applicants, but I wonder in my fevered brain, “Am I willing to turn male stripper to stay out of Vietnam?”
Before I can answer, “Hell yes!” a roguishly handsome blonde haired man, not much older than we anxious job candidates, spins into the room. Dressed in a cheap looking plaid suit, the toothy dude wisecracks, “Any of you gents wanna to learn how you can make $1500 a month or even more working part-time follow me.” He herds our bewildered clan into a crummy classroom adorned in fake wood paneling, and I grow ever more anxious.
The man in the plaid polyester suit vigorously writes his name on the chalkboard, like a teacher on crack:
Now Tom asks for our first names and rapidly jots them all on the chalkboard one at a time with intense stares that seem to be some kind of memorization thing. When my turn comes I’m tempted to give a fake name but decide, “What the heck do I have to lose?” and answer, “Ken.”
Tom tells us with broad smile that never leaves his mustached puss, which does not make him look older, “Hi. I’m Tom Deere, Branch manager for Glendale’s Wisconsin Rainbow office. I’m 24 and I make seventy grand a year. More on that later. For now there’s some questionnaires for you guys to fill out before we get rollin’.”
After hearing the fantastic five figure income Tom makes, we’re all ears.
As Tom hands out questionnaires he coyly adds, “Don’t answer the last question until I give the OK.”
The questions are super easy to answer, written at 6th grade level, but give no indication whatsoever of what the hell this job is. I eye the door ready to bolt, thinking, “This dork makes 70K a year? Right. For once Dad and Mom are right. I’m outta here.”
Seeming to read my mind Tom pats me on the shoulder and says, “Relax. You’re gonna love this, Ken.” The shock Tom remembers my first name feels kinda magical and his warm hand on my shoulder quells some of my anxiety. I settle into the cheap folding chair.
A gruff Italian guy in a dried-blood-colored leather jacket slinks into the room through a half opened door. Now my overactive imagination starts to concoct a Mafia story of us all being candidates for stripper hit men when Tom speaks up, “Everybody meet Antony. — Tony, tell the guys how much you cleared working part time for Rainbow this month.”
Tony’s grimace shows he’s not loving the idea of sharing. “Tony?” says Tom, asserting some will Tony’s way.
Tony bows his head a little. After a brief internal struggle, he finally fesses up in a barely audible mutter, “Almost two K.”
“Thanks, Tony. You know, guys, Antony was a Milwaukee public bus driver before he started raking in the dough. Wanna hear how he did it and how you can make big bucks too?”
Tom cups a hand to his ear and about half of us all quickly say, “Yeah.”
Tom shouts, “Can’t hear you!”
Now we all shout back, “YEAH!” in unison. The group energy changes. We’re all in the palm of Tom’s hands. Soft hands I can see have never seen hard labor. I look at the fresh scar from a serious wound on my left index finger, a lifelong souvenir of my bottle inspecting night job at the Pepsi plant.
Tom pulls a little machine out of a box. It’s about the size of beauty parlor’s hair dryer bonnet with a chrome dome. An air slot is mounted over a brass colored base. It all sits atop clear plexiglass basin filled with water. The damed thing looks like an astronaut from a B sci-fi movie.
Tom flicks the switch and a gentle breeze flows from the noisy gizmo, stirring the stagnant basement air. Pollution is a huge issue in 1971. Tom demonstrates this air cleaner is dubbed the Rainbow because it filters out particulates through water. I’m sold.
Tom draws a line down the center of the chalkboard. He labels one column SALARY and the other COMMISSION. On the salary side Tom writes “$500 a month”. On the other Tom takes his time to diagram how by selling 30 $399 Rainbow air cleaners a month we can make $1500 a month in commissions.
He casually adds, “It’s easy to sell Rainbows because we do all the hard work of making the appointments. You simply visit potential customers and display what this beauty can do. The Rainbow has been around since the 1930s. Stellar reputation. Gents, I promise you it sells itself.”
I wonder, “How the hell has a company I’ve never heard ’til now been selling air cleaners since the 1930s; way before air pollution was a thing?”
Then Tom adds pine scent to the water. I have a pitiful sense of smell, so the fragrance of this forest scent is magic. A memory of a happy family visit to Whispering Pines State Park, when I was two and Mom and Dad were still in love, warms my heart. My worries vanish in the piney fresh smelling air.
“Ok,” Tom instructs we eager applicants, “Time to fill out the last question. Write S if you wanna work for Rainbow on a monthly salary of $500. Or write C top have the chance to make 3 times that much on commission. Ah, but wait! Hold your pens. Almost forgot to show you why the Rainbow is even more of a synch to display.”
Tom takes the grill off the Rainbow, whips a hose out of the box, and proceeds to vacuum the cheap carpet. “That’s right. The Rainbow not only cleans your air… drum roll please… it cleans the carpet.” Tom displays away, and now I finally get this ain’t window display work! I almost say “Fuck!” out loud but manage to hold it all in with a giggle internally at my dense take on the help wanted ad for “display work” that brought me here.
“Now fill out the last question, S for salary, C for commission. Tony will grab your questionnaires on the way out the door. Night and thanks for coming, gents,” says Tom bowing out the door, not giving us a chance to ask questions.
My Bic pen hovers over the questionnaire. I’m pretty shy and I think, “Better $500 a month than nothing on commission.”
I am about to write S when Tony pipes up, “Guys, I ain’t never sold nothin’ before. But if a freakin’ bus-driver-dego-whop like me can sell 40 of these Rainbows a month and knock down a legit 2 K you can too. My advice? Check C for commission.”
Feeling a little nauseous, I check C. First to make the big decision I head for Tony at the door. As I hand him the questionnaire I ask, “When will I know if I got the job?”
“Mr. Deere will hit you up quick if you’re in. If you don’t hear nothin’ in the next 48 hours, well, you’re toast,” says Tony with a mischievous grin.
When I get home Mom barely notices me slip in. She’s glued to BONANZA on her new color TV.
Recently, after a terrible fight, one that ended up with a visit from the cops, cops who always let Dad off easy even after my Mom is left black and blue — a thing still going on today in domestic abuse cases all too often — I ask her, my voice ash, “Ma, why don’t you divorce Dad? He’s going to kill you or me if this shit goes on much longer.”
Her terse answer, “Can’t afford to leave your father. He’s a good provider.”
Mom spots me pouring a milk at the fridge and asks, “How’d the interview go, Kenny?”
The dirty yellow wall phone rings before I can answer her. I’ve just gotten home so I don’t expect it to be Tom Deere on the line when I say, “Hello?”
“Tom please. Ha. You make me feel like I’m fifty. Congrats! You got the job.”
I cover the receiver and holler for joy, “I got the job, Mom!”
“What kind of job?” says Mom dryly.
“Selling home air cleaners,” I quickly tell Mom, leaving out the vacuum cleaner part of the Rainbow out.
“Sales? You get a salary?” Mom asks, her mouth full of potato chips.
In an instant the risk I am taking sinks in. It’s sell or off to ‘Nam and good chance I’ll die or be fucked up like the students I meet coming back the States after a tour of duty. The poor vets remind me of zombies. I shake off my fear and get back to Tom on the phone, dodging Mom’s fateful question, “What’s next?”
“Come in Saturday 9AM for training.”
The training is surprisingly good. My shriveled self esteem begins to blossom. I’m clumsy at first but soon I’m stunned to discover that I’m a natural born salesman. Thanks to my mother’s well-off side of the family buying machines as I train, in a matter of weeks I am the #1 part time Rainbow salesmen in Glendale. A title I never give up. It’s my first win-win experience of my life as my many aunts and uncles all love their Rainbows. I learn the lesson to offer customers advice on the best products and let stuff from vacs to skyscrapers sell themselves.
Even my hard case father is begrudgingly proud of the fact I’m learning to be a good provider like him. Tuition becomes a breeze and I even have enough money left over to, I shit you not, own a classic Lincoln Continental on campus.
My kid brother Fred seems to down on my selling to earn my way through college. A jealousy takes seed in his mind that contributes to killing him one day as he drowns his rage of never making big money in drugging and drinking. Fred never copes well with my entrepreneurial successes compared to his playing it safe as a master welder on salary plus overtime. Also, he never sought therapy to heal from Dad’s epic physical and mental abuse like I did. Hell, I had a fleet of therapist help me rise from the ashes when my $162 million skyscraper project ruined me and my marriage.
My offer to set my little brother Fred up in business, him welding sculptures I’d design fell on deaf ears. Sad. He was so talented. I really regret not pushing my Gemini brother to do that. He simply was not prepared for the Obama years when America’s jobs left for China. Being laid off finished him off.
Back to 1971. My girlfriend hates my Lincoln’s big sidewalls, but she loves our expensive dates. She will become my wife over the objections over her mother. And one day my ex-wife to her mother’s delight.
So weird my wife’s mom hated me one for not being a doctor, like she said it right to my shocked face. A constant thorn in my side, even my becoming Chicago’s #1 commercial real estate broker according to the Chicago Times 15 years later and making her baby rich, never earns my mother-in-law-from-hell’s respect.
As part of my Rainbow sales training I am given some wonderful books to read by Mr. Deere. All of which add to my successes in life, including the building of Oprah’s Harpo Studios and developing a $162 million dollar skyscraper. Sadly, I lost touch with Tom after I graduated college and no longer wanted to sell Rainbows. He took it kinda hard I left to be an interior architect. But the most amazing of these books is Norman Vincent Peale’s THE POWER OF POSITIVE THINKING.
By the way, later as I become the number one part-time sales person on the Great Lakes region for Rainbow, I learn from Tom the only question he ever checks is C. If an applicant is willing to work on commission. Applications checked S for salary are placed in the circular file.
TRUMP’S ABUSE OF THE POWER OF POSITIVE THINKING
Now, I don’t know if Trump’s father was even half as abusive as my messed up drill sergeant dad, but it’s well known Trump’s father Fred was a hard-case father. So much so I think Fred Trump may have shattered Donald’s self worth. In fact, as junior shrink after so much therapy, I theorize the Don’s daddy issues made him the crazed narcissist we all either love or hate today.
As for me, it will be my “accidental” introduction to the power of positive thinking that serves to rescue me from the bone crushing barrage of mental negativity that my father subjected me to from birth. I remember reading these words at age 19 of Peale’s and feeling it a godsend, a life raft that saved me from a life depression and anxiety like my brother’s:
“Believe in yourself! Have faith in your abilities! Without a humble but reasonable confidence in your own powers you cannot be successful or happy.” ― Norman Vincent Peale
Note that I italicized humble but reasonable. Assuming Trump read the same book, a bit of stretch given his dislike for reading, and like me he learned how to rebuild his self worth from an abusive father through the power of positive thinking, it’s obvious Trump has either forgotten or intentionally ignored that self-belief has to be humble and reasonable.
Now, this might not sound like big deal, but without the restraints of being humble and reasonable in one’s confidence, positive thinking has a dark side. Indeed, without tempering, someone with the gift of charisma can literally become a confidence gamer or a con man, as Trump has.
My friends, there’s a simple reason conning people is illegal: It works all to well. So don’t be hard on a loved one or pal who has been taken in by Trump’s abuse of the power of positive thinking. You see, humans are conditioned by millions of years to trust our tribal leaders.
Especially, leaders who act with great confidence, as to having the greater welfare of the tribe at heart. Trump, unfortunately, is far from humble. To me he comes off as a compulsive liar. It’s sickness. I worked for one who shall remain anonymous as he’s as vindictive as Trump. “Buh-lieve me,” as Trump likes to say. Yep. These kind of mind fuckers lie for sport.
How disgustingly different the modern world that rewards lying leaders with wealth and fame is from the caveman days when the tribe stoned or hung bad leaders. Leaders today who are truthful are as rare as the 1 million endangered species Trump could give a shit about.
Lest you think Trump’s our first unethical leader, well, please read some history. To my heightened sensitivity as an abuse survivor, Obama, the drone president, the oil president, the surveillance president, was not much a more truthful a leader than the Cheet-oh Jesus as he being called, Trump. Nope. Pretty boy Barrack was just way smoother at his political con game. Still is. Though he has nothing on Bill Clinton for being a charming liar. Reagan? Don’t get me started. What a mess we’ve been in for decades.
Folks, and I am sure you know, Super liars are in charge of our world and it must change. Humanity can no longer function this way. We, the stable clan of geniuses who have created so many endangered species are now on our own endangered list. So thank your lucky stars the clumsy buffoonery of Trump has ruined lying for all future leaders. That’s where I see some hope.
The Amazon is on fire. The vast majority of scientists and his fellow G7 leaders are telling Trump that the environment is in crisis. But “the chosen one” prefers to proclaim that it’s all a Chinese hoax. He tells his followers to support fossil fuels, avoid solar power, avoid “cancer causing” wind power. He joyfully invites his loyal followers, a loyalty he does not deserve as he’s sticking it to most of them, to think positive as he proclaims global warming is liberal lie. “No biggie, so keep on gas guzzling, everyone!”
Trump’s irresponsible lack of humble leadership is a horror show on a scale never witnessed before in human history. And sadly it comes at a time when we can least afford it. The clock is running out fast on humanity’s ability to shirk off its responsibility to Gaia.
Take it from a man who worked his way through college selling Rainbows to stay out of a war he did not believe in, versus the one in DC who gamed the system with a fake story about bone spurs: We need a total reset in 2020 with young people taking the reigns from the old who cannot fully grasp that our very existence is at stake. Sorry Joe and Bernie/
You might be wondering, sitting there in the eerie glow of your computer screen, numb after reading a never ending stream of Trump’s mind-altering tweets, soon to be amplified and rebroadcast by an inflamed right and left media, both scarce on integrity in the quest for niche revenue,”How the heck can Trump’s believers still be supporting him?
Worse, you’ve been blindsided by an uncle, a lover, a parent and/or friends who, no matter which of Trump’s latest train wrecks you share, provocatively itching for a fight at dinner, only responds, “Pass the mashed potatoes.”
The good news? You’re not alone.
Before we dive in, I do not suggest you share this blog with your personal Trumpie. No, this blog is just for you; the oh so bright bulb who sees Trump for the imperfect human old dude he truly is, versus the fire breathing orange dragon he is made to be in the media, out for ratings dough.
Looks like we made it to facing up to the cold hard fact that having our friends and family firmly entrenched in the Trump column is no simple matter.
A GUIDE TO REGAINING YOUR SANITY AFTER YOUR FRIENDS AND LOVED ONES FELL UNDER TRUMP’S INFLUENCE
First thing to realize about your recently, or not so recently, minted Trump supporter in your life is not to shame or blame them for their belief Trump is a hero. Realize they are on their own spiritual journey and have not grown horns and a tail because they like Trump’s, uh, unique style.
In case you’ve been blissed out in Bali and missed the memo, it’s a low grade uncivil war out there, spirit folks, and Trump’s brash thorny persona is oddly comforting to some people in your life. He’s the meanie-in-chief while they go about having a normal life.
Or perhaps the Trump backer in your life may have fallen victim to the fact that most humans LIKE to hear what they WANT to hear. You have to admit that Trump, love him or leave him, does a helluva job of keeping up the morale for his troops with a constant flow of lies they want to hear.
You see, and you will see more and more and more of the new Mr. T whether you want to or not each day up to and past November 3, 2020, win or lose, because Trump has amassed a huge war chest for his 2020 elections. Accept (talking to myself here too) that his MAGA loving peeps, and the corporations that play both sides, believe he is doing something that serves their agendas enough to give him buckets of unprecedented cash to be all up in our faces.
Will Trump win in 2020? Who knows? The Dems certainly are not winning despite what polls might say, because Trump backers typically do answer honestly who has their vote to some stranger on the street or over the phone.
Rather than bellyache to your main Trumpie, or falling into despair and frustration,do something positive with your own gifts. Shameless plug: That’s why I am making a protest film called SOAP & TOOTHBRUSHES about the plight of the refugee families. The hero is a Christian Republican for whom the mistreatment of kids has been her breaking point. All donors will be featured in a special thanks in the film’s credits.
Trump’s 2020 war chest treasure allows him to outspend all the Dems combined, plus all celebs vying for the media spotlight, dozens of times over. Add to this cyber onslaught the conservative fear and fantasy provider FOX News, and their near 100% 24/7 backing for anything Trump says or does and, well, and it is far too its easy to see life is not going to get any simpler during these overheated elections.
Bottomline it’s more important than ever that you seek to eat right, exercise, get out in nature, share love with real people and stay upbeat. Gird your auric field with frequent meditation and prepare to be fire hosed!
To help you #fightthepsyop I highly recommended viewing the brain cleansing documentary THE GREAT HACK on Netflix.
Watching THE GREAT HACK series offers the gift of greater sympathy for Trump backers who could be under heavy influence from the highly intelligent people who invented propaganda, namely the Russians.
Now, one can hardly blame the Russians for retaliating after the decades of USA meddling in their affairs. So please save your righteous indignation and join with me in lovingly asking the Ruskies in meditation, “OK, you got us in 2016 but we won’t be falling for the Psyop again in 2020. Stop please, comrade.”
And speaking of the righteous, the evangelicals, maybe you’ve been scratching your head how they can support Trump after he cheated with porn star Stormy Daniels while Melania was pregnant? For one possible answer on this paradox, one the goes deeper than the “Trump’s our anti- abortion champion” schtick, I suggest you watch THE FAMILY on Netflix.
In this compelling documentary — not as well focused or written as THE GREAT HACK but still amazing — you’ll learn about the secret purpose of The National Prayer Breakfast.
This brave documentary correctly points out that every president since Eisenhower has been party to prayer breakfasts run by members of The Family. Which in turn supposedly uses this access to power to place people indoctrinated into their convenient version Jesus, an angry Christ on steroids, to quietly infiltrate key leadership positions in all levels of government, banking, law, religion, etc. The Family, hiding in plain sight, plays a long game of influence that will blow your mind with its deep reach and Machiavellian zeal.
Well, after reading this blog, and seeing THE GREAT HACK and THE FAMILY for yourself, I hope the world makes a little more sense.
Remember that this blog was for you. Go easy on the Trumpies in your life. Only time, circumstance and fate will awaken them not you. Soothe yourself that the world has not gone mad. Stay centered. Yield neither to far left or right and the extremes of either are not good for your mind and spirit. Aho.