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.
Today, 8/3/19, with some update from 8/6 tossed in, I am still vibrating with the incredible Lion’s Gate energy that came through me the last three nights through the OHOM (Open Heart Open Mind) collective channel while blogging YOUR INVITE TO BREAK THE SPEED OF LIGHT – PART 2. Three nights minus the goddess I love, Elizabeth England, who is visiting family. Miss you, baby.
Now, since 2010 I’ve been channeling a number of spirits and beings — earthly, heavenly and cosmically — after my awakening in yoga hall in Italy. On this blog I re-broadcast the best wisdom from these amazing ET encounters. By far my favorite earthly spirit to channel is Robin Williams. As I write this intro his incredible spirit is sitting here in my office, patiently waiting for his coffee, a wistful smile on his famous face.
Now, about my channeling, since I cannot prove scientifically, yet anyways, that my unexpected connection to spirit is really happening, I always retain a seed of healthy doubt and invite you to do so as well as you read. Real or not, the source is unimportant. It’s the wisdom the process of channeling provides that counts. It gets me out of my head and in touch with my heart.
But to get this channeling started I first need to make a coffee for Robin. The great comedic spirit cannot, of course, drink coffee it in spirit form. Robin just loves to wrap his ghostly hands around a hot mug of java. And I am not the only living person he visits. Here’s the link on a good piece in the Huff Post I found searching “Robin loves coffee”. For the Huffpost writer, Robin’s energy came through a computer. There are other examples out there too. For me I am blessed to hear and see his ghost in the 3D. Be right back after I make a coffee for Robin and I to share.
OK. I am back with a steaming java. Robin’s in a happy mood today. “How’s the coffee, Robin?”
“Yummy in the tummy, that is if I had one anymore,” kids Robin.
“Like the chocolate almond milk I added for a change?”
“Yep. Hardly miss the sugar. Nice energy. Look, normally I love kibitzing, Ken, but can we get to why I am visiting today? ” says Robin, seeming a bit on edge. “We’re not at Coffee Pot restaurant and so I only have your energy to power this visit. We cool?”
“Coolest ever. What’s up, Robin?”
“Let’s talk addiction and how it’s destroying the planet,” says Robin. He gathers his wits, sniffing the coffee on the desk beside me. He’s here in both his new killer whale form and human form for the first time. Usually it’s one or the other.
“Please go on. I’ll keep my yap shut unless something super important occurs to ask you, Robin.”
“As there are no secrets in Hollywood, plus as I made rather light of being a junkie to the legal drug booze in my standup routines ad nauseum, I am famous, or shall I say infamous, for my drug and alcohol escapades during my salad days as a Hollywood superstar. One time I was so strung out on cocaine I did not sleep for 10 days. Never saw it coming that the fame I got conked on the head with in life by God would come back to bite me like a killer shark to a seal. Hmm. So hungry. Where a seal when you freakin’ want one? Anyhow, it was a curse when fame put drugs and booze under my big nose all too often for my feeble self-worth to resist.
Now, after a having had a LOTS, and I mean LOTS, of therapy to get and the to stay sober, way harder than getting sober, I see it all derived from my childhood trauma. Most of it centered around my dear old Pops who never loved me for who I am. Papa dearest meant well, but seemed afraid of the freakish power of my sense of humor. Always so strict you’d think he had 2X4 up his tukis. Yep, as a major corporate stiff Dad never got me or my jokes. It messed me up more than he, or I for that matter, ever knew.
Boo-hoo. Poor me. However, I am not recounting my lousy childhood that made me an adult addict for sympathy. That is not the point of our visitation today, Ken and company. — And thanks ,Kenny Bo Benny, for doing this banana bana bo bana channeling, despite your ever shrinking sense of doubt that I’m real. — No sire, killer shark. I am here to proclaim as a whale of an angel that the tragic way the refugee kids at the border are getting shit on stems directly from America’s deep seated addiction to the darkest high of all, the high of being a racist.
And all of America is racist. Don’t feel superior to the White Supremacist in El Paso that went Mexican hunting in the Wal-mart. Cue my Elmer Fudd imitation of Elmer as a White Supermicist as he breaks the 4th wall, “Hu hu hu, I’m hunting Mexcicans today. Hu hu hu.” Sorry, Elmer. Just clowning to make a point.
You know one of my biggest regrets here in the after life? Not doing enough GOOD MORNING VIETNAM kind of political films. I could have made such a difference. Sure, I’d have made less money. But maybe I would not be on killer whale detail in the Arctic if I’d used my gifts and power.
Sorry to be so f’ing serious here on the usually lighthearted DreamShield blog today. Actually I am not in a good mood, Ken. How could I be in a good mood when I see the frequencies we killer whales and the other races of whale family are broadcasting to help erase addiction on this planet are going unheard by humanity at the moment? I mean, what the fuck?”
Ken here. I am mostly here. Robin or star beings I channel are never allowed to push me aside. Good boundaries are essential. And even though I am tempted to interrupt Robin here with an apology for misreading his mood as good and asking him a clarifying question I keep my mouth shut. He’s more whale spirit than human these days and he wants to get back to the Arctic where his killer whale self has already returned.
But reading my mind anyways, Robin goes on, “I hear you, Ken. Dear people reading this cool blog, my whale self is up in the arctic swimming through open damned seas! I can see through his big eyes. Where’s the fucking ice? My entire killer whale pod is stunned at the totally open seas where they have never been here before. One young killer whale, who shall goes anonymous chimes in, ‘Good riddance to the ice. This is so great for hunting because the seals have no ice to hide in. Dinner is served!’
Pardon me a sec. I am telepathically telling my brother and sister killers whale not to eat every damn seal in sight. “If we killer whales kill all the seals in this open sea there will soon be no mama seals and no more seal pups. Overeat and we let the oil burning culture of humans who caused this open to sea to kill we the killer whale people win. A lose-lose for we the good guys of cosmic proportions. Mother earth wants the killer whales to outlive the humans, who if they do not wise the fuck up and become the stewards of the earth she evolved them to be, will go extinct by their own hoggish hands.
Ah, cool. My whale tribe is listening, eating only the smallest number of seals we need to survive. Natural greed is thankfully not an addiction we killer whales have to contend with like the human tribe I was once a conscious leader of without being conscious of it. kind like that story where a mackrel, a sea lion and dolphin go into sand bar. The sand bar tender says, ‘What’ll it be gents?’ And the sea lion suddenly eats the makrel and the dolphin and says, ‘Burp.”
So how do I get this concept of caring about this world and stopping global warming across to your dense as brick human audience? I know you love my jokes, eveyone, but this ain’t fucking funny. So pardon my text shouting but…
HELLO! THE FUCKING NORTH POLE IS MELTING.
Put that message on a red MAGA cap and suck on it.
All this global warming denial bullshit is due to human addiction to an ignorant 50s era glorified by an old orange mogul with whale-sized daddy issues. An era that never really existed. An era rife with white racism so thick you could cut it with a burning KKK lawn cross. A mind controlled era of fake good ness born of a long dead era of white conquest of the Native Americans. That’s the real cause behind Trump’s ignoring global warming. The cheeseburger loving lard ass knows global warming will kill more people of color than Nazi Germany killed Jews and Poles by a power of 100.
Accept your within you white entitlement, either overt or covert, either active or passive, lies deep sickness at the heart of every citizens’ racism. That addictive entitlement is at the root cause of all the intelligent ignorance behind the denial of global warming caused by human pollution. Stop denying and start doing something about the way you are fucking up the only planet you have. Screw Elon Musk and his mission to Mars. Gamble all your money on solving earth’s global warming.
Trump is dangerous, not because he’s the evil boogey man the liberal media makes him to be, mostly for their own ratings benefit. Witness the kiss ass NTY headline TRUMP URGES UNITY VS RACSIM. #CanceltheNYT. Rather see Trump as he really is. Not a monster. Just an old fart, a duffer who can only put in a few hours of work a day. A bad hair nightmare suffering brain farts due a traumatic childhood he never did the hard work of therapy to overcome. A messed up childhood that makes him long for a racist past where he still seeks daddy and mama resolution. This even though they’ve both been rotting in an over design grave for too long to be reached.
Gone just like I will be one day, Ken and fans. Life goes on even after life. One day maybe I’ll simply forget I was ever Robin Williams the human and maybe start eating too many seals for my new killer whale species’ own good.
Be on constant guard for mind control from the left or right. Stay centered and stay aware of race bating and politics of distraction. At the same time ignore the endless media coverage getting done on it, droning on and on and there-fucking-by encouraging new racists stars to cut loose for the short burst of fame.
Oh, or should I say OY VEY! Keep in mind that Mr. Butter Would Not Melt in His Mouth Obama was no better a president either. He drones people. Made our social media a spy tool. Dug up sacred lands for oil. All because he too was a damaged child himself. And he too was addicted to seek power for the love of the masses with the lip service of hope and change. That cool cat was was just more genteel about it than angry grandpa bumble fuck Trump.
People, you’ve got to stop playing “me versus them” politics and realize you are all in the same lifeboat with each other whilest rich assholes in the Titanic above you sipping on champagne take a whizzes on all your dumb as dirt heads!
Robin’s voice begins to fade and he shouts,”Shit. Outta spirit juice. Bye, Ken and his coolest ever readers. Thanks for the coffee. Whale kisses.”
Please support my new film called SOAP & TOOTHBRUSHES about the plight of the refugee kids. Only 2 weeks or so left on the campaign and we have a long ways to go. Or grab yourself some enlightened tech to raise your wellness for the challenging times ahead at CoolestTechEver.com. The money all ends up in the same place helping to enlighten and entertain a weary world though thought provoking content.
Remember always that racism is hate. And hate is ultimately self defeating. Good will always win over evil. Only through love for each other just as we were born of the many races, all of us sharing the same beautiful blue world, can we make it. Yes we can, can…
Sing it Pointer Sisters.
A sad PS. Today August 6th a tragedy struck Robin’s killer whale pod in the Arctic. Stay tuned to my next in the Robin Williams visitations to hear the sad but uplifting whale of a tale DEATH AT THE NORTH POLE BY HUMAN NARCISSISM.
Join us for a look at the dirty secret behind this weekend’s $40 opening box office for ONCE UPON A TIME IN HOLLYWOOD. Warning: Spoilers ahead.
I’ve been a Quentin Tarantino fan since PULP FICTION. And I admit to taking some joy when the good guys lit up Hitler in the INGLORIOUS BASTARDS finale. But as an independent filmmaker of modest success this past 23 years and counting, albeit one who got started a too late in life at age 42 to make it big — Hollywood’s young person’s game, my friends — I have to say the unpredictable Tarantino has become, alas, as predictable with his history revisionist twist endings.
This time Tarantino feeds like a vampire on the Sharon Tate’s brutal murder and dreams of up a washed up Cowboy actor, played to perfection by Leonardo DiCaprio and his co-dependent as it gets stuntman, equally well played by Brad Pitt as Sharon’s savior from the Manson family.
Please, Quentin, if you ever read this review of a huge fan of yours depressed over the turn of your career, go back to making good noir films instead of being some kind celluloid timeline cop. What’s next for your film 10th? Uma Thurman kills Booth before he assassinates Lincoln? Samuel Jackson kills Lee Harvey Oswald from the grassy knoll to save JFK? Get back to making great stories about lowlife characters.
Now, if you were part of the establishment, AKA the Man, AKA today’s Matrix, in the 60s and 70s, you likely hated Hippies and maybe still do to this day if you have not become woke folk. I’d even go so far as to say ONCE UPON A TIME IN HOLLYWOOD was made specifically for liberal value haters, packaged in the form of Hippies.
Indeed, what’s painfully missing from Tarantino’s 9th film’s narrative is that Mason’s cult does not in any way genuinely represent the Hippie movement anymore than Nazis represent the German people. This makes the film an intoxicating ticket for conservatives and a brainwash for unsuspecting liberals who dig Tarantino. A win-win for the Trump era’s race bating, sexist, hate based politics.
And come on Brad Pitt, not cool you playing a character who got away with killing his wife and Leonardo as the ultimate wife killing enabler. I know Tarantino loves to study the underbelly of the world but unlike PULP FICTION where Samuel Jackson’s character experiences an awakening and mending of his wicked ways, there’s none of that in ONCE UPON A TIME IN HOLLYWOOD. Leaving the characters of Leo and Brad rendered as hopelessly sexist.
As life worked out I was, unlike my film career where I was a little too old, a little too young to be part of the Hippie movement. I was high schooler in the late 60s and a college student in early the 70s. By 1974 I was married at 22 in and having kids by the tender age of 27. Hippies were passe’ for me. I was busy being part of the Yuppie movement and became real estate millionaire who built a skyscraper and Oprah’s Harpo Studios by 38.
Tarantino, born in 1963, was all of six year old at the start of the death of Hippie movement that the Mason Family murders triggered, with some help making a connection not really there from the establishment media. Do the math, Tarantino missed the Hippie movement entirely when it gave way to the Yuppie movement by the time he was old enough to drive.
My bet is Tarantino’s only picked up on the Hippie vibe from old movies for the most part when he was a video store clerk with lots of free time on his hands. Or perhaps his parents used Hippies as some kind of parental scolding, “Do your homework, Quentin or you’ll end up a damned filthy Hippie!”
Tarantino’s connecting Hippie-hating to the most notorious commune leader, the Hippie Satan himself Charles Manson is frankly akin to making a movie about life in Oklahoma City with the heroes stopping right-wing Christian Timothy McVeigh’s bombing as a condemnation of Roman Catholics and vets.
So I say shame on Tarantino and Sony tapping into hate for liberal values of our current divided society and making a film bordering on a PSYOP. ONCE UPON A TIME IN HOLLWYOOD with its all white main cast — aside from the fantasy of white guy Brad Pitt kicking Bruce Lee’s ass — suffers from misguided Hippie hate and spoils an otherwise good movie. Even if this 9th film from Tarantino it does not come close to his mad story structure skills at his peak of 90s filmmaking.
Who is more racist? The white bigot that displays his racism openly or the so called enlightened white person who remains silent and complicit in the face of racism? Meditate on that one.
As Trump desperately seeks reelection, with the aid of Russia, and any other foreign power seeking his favor, all with the agenda of seeking to divide Americans into tiny helpless camps, the Kraken of racism has been set free as a potent form of PSYOP.
(If you want to learn about the PSYOP we are all suffering from, right and left alike, see our sister website for our review of THE GREAT HACK.)
I hope you agree, the above meme is one of my better political satires for my Facebook.com/KidsTalkPolitics . But if you’re a liberal feeling superior to the Trump and his loyal racist backers, don’t. As Americans, left, right or center, we’ve been complicit in racism all our Yankee Doodle history.
After now years of meditation on these unsettling Trumpy times, where we all find ourselves mired in a ticking time bomb of a present that passes like molasses. Our dirty laundry of white racism, thanks to our Heyoka president, is now fully outed to the world and heavens.
My wise ET, Earthly and heavenly spirit guides unanimously tell me Donald J. Trump, and I am no fan dating way back to my own real estate mogul days, is nonetheless playing an important part to wake America up to the sad fact we stole this land from the millions of natives who lived here for thousands of years before the Vikings first discovered this land to the uncharted West. Our racism is up for healing. And meditation is more vital than ever to pierce the veil of lies we’ve loved under for centuries dating back to 1492.
Upon Columbus’ arrival in America he immediately denigrated natives, ones with an incredible culture, in mistaking them for citizens of India and arrogantly dubbing them Indians. Later, even when we white folk knew that to be wrong, we stubbornly stuck to calling Native Americans Indians.
We must never forget that we white people have murdered indigenous Turtle Island peoples in numbers comparable or greater the the Nazi’s did in the holocaust against the Jewish people. We abused a trusting people with whom we made and then casually broke treaties whenever it suited our white agenda. We disrespected great tribes by allowing our white politicians to set up natives up to fail and live in squalor on reservations to this day and for the foreseeable future. Witness DAPL under Obama and Trump. All while we proclaimed to be righteous Christians to God.
When you take a good hard look at it the border crisis of today is a virulent continuation of centuries of white arrogance. The undeniable fact is the only borders we white Americans respect are our own white ones. Unabated, since we began sailing the seven seas, we whites have decimated indigenous lives from the North Pole to the South all the way around the entire planet. The really crazy thing is the white nations war with each other to be leader of the whites.
And don’t get me started on the arrogance of slavery and mistreatment of all people of color and gender in our checkered racist white past. We’ll save that for a future blog.
Let’s face the ugly music. We whites are all complicit in a sick society founded on racism and maintained by brute force and lies.
Here’s a way you can see it more deeply. I was taught in my awakening that we tend to hate someone whenever we see our own weaknesses in that person. And what better way to describe a complicit media and social media gone bonkers hating on Trump?
In case you missed it, this was rough week for Lady Liberty. Trump place the race card and called out four Congresswomen of color when he tweeted that if they didn’t like how things are run in a America to go back home to their countries. I am 100% sure he knew all four women are Americans, three born here. So this is classic race baiting on Trump’s part. And the media and Congress swallowed it hook line and sinker.
Less than a handful of ultra-complicit Republicans joined Congressional Dems in issuing Trump a rebuke for his racist tweets that has no teeth. But as if that were not enough, Trump first backed away then praised North Carolina Trump rally goers who chanted SEND HER BACK. Disgusting.
RENOUNCE YOUR RACISM
Rather than falling for Trump’s game to gain your attention with his race baiting for attention and vote, a twisted form of #fakeracsim, it’s more helpful to take some action. Meditate on the change you want to see. You are far more powerful in the field of the planet’s collective consciousness than you know.
But meditation is not enough in these time. So please do some 3D stuff. Call your Congressmen and ask for more than their lip service to reign in racism. Join a protest! In my case I am making a protest film called that calls attention to the plight of refugee kids at the border. Yes, I said refugee kids. Calling these innocent illegals, or immigrants is falling for the racist brainwashing.
Over the course of my 23 years as a filmmaker I’ve specialized in political and protest content. Here are six of my short films, ranging from the comedic to the tragic, you can watch free on YOUTUBE.
The first one on the playlist and my fans’ all-time fav is ZACK’S MACHINE. It’s the tragedy of 9/11 told through the eyes of a puppy. It stars the amazing voice talents 5 time Golden Globe and 4 time Emmy winner Ed Asner as the lost WTC worker Zack’s father.
Ed’s health has not been great of late, so no promises, but fingers crossed I can get him to play the part of the cranky former Border Patrol agent, and antagonist for the film, Karl. If not Hollywood is filled with actors of great stature who will be drawn to all the roles in this important film. Standby for amazing announcements on what I believe will be an Oscar worthy short. At least that’s my goal. Not out of ego but because an Oscar will bring great exposure to the plight of the migrant kids.
Add to these power-packed shorts three feature length political documentaries from the POV of America’s kids, one of which that aired on PBS as the lead in to the 2000 presidential debates and the two other racking up 11 million views on the web and it’s easy to see I thrive making savvy political content to entertain and inform the masses.
For the past year, on and off, I’ve been writing a dark story about the plight of the immigrant kids being separated from their parents. A recent New York Times expose (they and the post seem to be the only real journalists left doing deep investigative work) has show mistreatment of kids has not not stopped but gotten worse. And now that the screenplay is finished I need your help to getting my seventh and most important political protest short film made and into the collective consciousness.
SOAP & TOOTHBRUSHES is a modern-day Western that tells the story of a lone social worker bucking the system to help immigrant kids at the Texas border.
Take a read of the WGA registered screenplay here: