Trump built a wall all right. A wall of lies and conspiracy theories built by a Russian army of trolls, an enabling GOP and a racist fan base. All decidedly UN-American. So if Regan — who I am proud to say I voted for despite not being happy with many things Reagan did in office — were here today he would say, “Donald Trump, tear down this wall!”
Stay positive and stay strong. The amount of mind control that will be thrown at us in the 6 weeks left until the elections will be unprecedented.
Don’t let the RBG seat fight distract you. We saw what the GOP is made of during the impeachment.
Our only recourse is to remain alive despite our super-spreader in chief’s best efforts and vote Biden to save America on November 3rd.
Basics: Time is running out to register. Be sure to make a voting plan as Trump is going to make voting hellish for you otherwise.
Can you feel it? America is having the saddest 4th of July weekend ever.
Most of all we Yankee Doddle Doers are sad to be leading the developed nations, and many of the undeveloped nations of the world, in the outbreak of Covid-19 and resulting deaths. And for reality deniers like our divider in chief, the 19 stands for 2019, the fateful year when the corona virus that would knock America on its fast food inflamed fat ass like an asteroid strike hit. Only this asteroid hit is like watching an amateur soccer match at 1000 frames per second.
My heart sank Friday night as I watched the Trump speech at Rushmore on FOX NEWS. Basically, Trump took a page from one his favorite books, this according to Ivana’s divorce testimony, MEIN KAMPF. Watching Trump insanely trying to link Mt. Rushmore to the protection of Confederate statues, erected as a hostile subjugating message to African Americans during the Jim Crow and anti-civil rights eras, was physically and spiritually nauseating. Perhaps knowing he’s lost the elections — if it’s done legally — Trump’s speech, surely written by White Supremacist Stephen Miller, sought to drive a wedge of lies deep into the hearts and souls of his far-right base proclaiming, “If Trump can’t have America no one will!”
As I dictated pained observations into my phone recorder, while the crowd of unmasked super spreaders cheered, my wife Elizabeth did financial reports for film funding magicians FROM THE HEART PRODUCTIONS, while keeping half an eye on Trump. Alas, such multi-tasking is not possible for me. It was then we both noticed Trumps makeup had more gold coloration in his bronzer than usual.
I sighed to Elizabeth, “Trump’s made himself into a golden god for his peeps. How I wish his brainwashed and conned fans could see he’s more like the golden calf false idol in the Bible that the lost followers of Moses fell for.” And the more I thought of it, the more I could see the sadness of what’s happened to the evangelical and New Age community can be likened to worshiping that famed false golden calf come to life. And a fatted calf at that.
A little background how I got here. I’ve enjoyed the New Age movement since writing a screenplay back around the turn of the millennium for a pilot called EVERYTHING I WANTED TO KNOW ABOUT LIFE I LEARNED FROM SITCOMS. The sitcom, written with my fiancee of the time a successful Canadian filmmaker and one of the top ten line producers in Hollwyood, centers on my fictional creation Dr. Robert Trainer, an alternative medicine hypnotherapist who sends people into old TV sitcoms to role play with the greats of black and white broadcasts that live on in our collective consciousness. TV and radio waves from these old shows is even now rippling out into deep space and they, for good or ill, will be some of the first images of use received by alien cultures of who we are.
Unfortunately, the bound to be a hit pilot we wrote never got off the launch pad because the networks deemed it a rights clearance nightmare. I argued it would be worth the trouble, but Hollywood’s elite are not into debates. As it turned out my study of the New Age movement did peak my curiosity in the Shift as it was called back them and its eccentric and beautiful people. Several years later I became fully exposed to the New Age community firsthand in in my film work during the depths of the Great Recession of 2008-2012. It was then that I made some real life New Age friends while filming some of the top players LA’s spirit community. I liked a lot of what they said about the future we were heading. Ah, those were the good old days. Today the New Age community like the rest of America is split into Trump supporters and those of us how feel we are holding to the original values of a better tomorrow for everyone regardless of race or creed.
Eventually, I had my own New Age awakening while on film assignment in 2010 in Italy. I swear there was booze or drugs of any kind involved when I saw three angels that fateful May 5th. These were 7 foot tall blue ET angels to be precise. This power and majesty that’s never left me in awe, all happened before my eyes alone in a yoga hall during a mass healing from Gulia of Santa Maria Del Sol. And I have been connecting to these thought traveling ETs for over 10 years now, and these three beings call themselves Ohom, an acronym for Open Hear Open Mind.
As always, I allow the possibility that Ohom, who I see at times as my higher hive self, is simply my own powerful and highly playful imagination at work. You see, I am not one of those New Agers who pretend to know it all. In fact, I really don’t call myself a New Ager as my consciousness work is a of blend of the old world and the new to come. Awakening at age 57 explains part of that fact. Plus what I feel is the earth manifesting a new group of trustworthy elders for the awakening of humanity.
I don’t really know or pretend to what my awakening is all about. One where I learned the power of love and brotherhood. I only know I am awake to the plight of humanity’s enslavement to the almighty dollar, a world choking on greed and pollution, a dumbed-down intellect that can no longer see truth, and that I am here to make my own small contribution to the real Great Awakening. Yes, the real Great Awakening, not the catchy title the Q psyop has sought to steal for it’s own nafarious purposes.
Looking on the bright and dark side of these strange times both at once, there’s little reason to fear a full blown civil war in a country that’s still so subservient to the ways of the white patriarchy. Nope, we Yanks are too comfortable, left and right, with our luxuries and toys to actually rebel IMHO.
Nor do I believe that violence ever leads to good. Still, Elizabeth and I support the imperfect #BlackLivesMatter with donations and free social media from BuzzBroz because our police need to rise to serving people of all colors and creed equally. In the words of the great Martin Luther King…
“We know through painful experience that freedom is never voluntarily given by the oppressor, it must be demanded by the oppressed.
The BLM protests are forcing long overdue change to happen. That change is small now but will grow greatly if the GOP can be pushed aside in the vote come November. Today’s protests are largely peaceful. Yes, things have gotten out of control at times. But an open heart will tell you that’s understandable given our black brothers and sisters seek to overcome 400 years a racial repression by our white Christian patriarchy. This generates a black anger that’s nearly impossible to contain.
Despite my firm belief that America is not heading for a new civil war some Q and Trump people want, make no mistake that the agitators both within and without the country are a danger to the heart and soul of this country.
My advice as a newly awakened elder is that instead of overly chastising our brothers and sisters in the New Age and evangelical community, allowing that some chastising is indeed needed, have heart and show some love by helping them accept and understand that they are lost in the flood of Russian, Chinese, and domestic Trump pysop.
Indeed, to protect our own Trump rejecting minds, while people we’ve adored in the New Age movement have been converted into ardent Trump and conspiracy theory share-bots, we must pare our Facebook pages down to as small a Trump contingent as possible, This lest we too be subject to the weapons grade social media that Mark Zuckerberg and his ilk are virtually doing nothing to prevent. See my post here on the blog FIGHT THE PSYOP to get ten tips on protecting your mind and spirit.
My love Elizabeth, a 17-year vet, a New Ager with values close to my own, has been in shock and dismay all week that even after the horrific revelation that Trump knew of a bounty on American Troops, and that, in perfect alignment with Putin and not his own intelligence, after a weekend of golf, proclaimed it’s all a hoax anyways. Despite all this Elizabeth was devastated that some of her dear New Age friends have not budged in their support of Trump. Seems nothing short of nuke on New York might sway people from their crazy uncle in office. Nah, probably not at this point.
I theorize that the common denominator from what I see on social media is that there are a large number of anti-vax players in the New Age community and their passion for that cause that has many New Agers under Trump’s endless Russian style fire hosing. What each lose sight of is that Faustian bargains never generate good karma points or final outcomes.
Trump’s bravado, hollow jingoistic slogans, will not bring this country out of it’s dark night of soul. I invite you to join me and Elizabeth in setting the intention in the collective consciousness for a true awakening! Let’s make this time a truly great awakening grounded in the pursuit of life, liberty and happiness and dedicated the principle that all men are created equal.
Happy 4th of July, whether it’s holiday for you or not. And here are some great speeches in case you’ve forgotten what good leaders sound like.
Social media is where I make a big part of my living via my buzz biz BuzzBroz. So I have to be on the internet waaay more than I’d like. Sadly the web has become a bottomless quagmire of lies. These lies, also called Conspiracy Theories, have gotten so prevalent on social media these dark days that I’ve been forced to develop some skills for shielding my mind and heart from bad players.
Before you read on for my hard won 10 tips, please see THE GREAT HACK on Netflix. This will allow you to truly understand what I mean by the weapons grade social media. In a nutshell it is the shit storm of disinformation driving our world insane. Here’s the trailer for the amazing doc that I shared many times over the past year.
Ah, for the good old days of social media pre-2015. It all began with such promise. A way for like minded people to gather in love and like mindedness. But never did any of we early users of the medium, before it even had a name, imagine social media becoming a home for haters to gather. And, don’t get me started about foreign governments like Russia and China using social media to foment civil war and manipulate so many minds virtually unchecked.
Next, listen to Morning Joe rage for us, totally losing his cool about the hell hole social media has become thanks to the lack of ethics of billionaire bad boy and wannbe kingmaker Mark Zuckerberg.
OK, if you’re still with me you likely understand, like the Corona Virus in the near total absence of Federal leadership, that we’re all on our own to #FightThePsyop. Here are some techniques, a work in progress, that I’ve developed in my daily battle to earn a living on the web without becoming a brainwashed share-bot.
10 STEPS TO REGAINING DISCERNMENT
Sorry to be the one to tell you… but your closest friends and family may have been weaponized by the unscrupulous to share mind warping links. Be upfront. Tell your pals and fam until FB, Twitter or wherever get their act together to protect us from bad actors. Make it crystal clear that you REFUSE to subjected to the crap getting circulated on the web by Russia, Trump and, yes, the Dems and GOP alike. Warn your peeps if they don’t listen and still persist on sending you PSYOP dross that you will instantly BLOCK them on a one strike rule. Be serious about it. Your life as a free range human is literally at stake.
Speaking of blocking, be ruthless in culling out people you see sharing rotten things from dubious sources in your feed. I know from firsthand experience that this will be hard as hell. But as the debris field of junk on the web clears you’re going to be seeing stuff in your feed that you actually enjoy again.
Once you’ve cut off the flow of weaponized social media from well meaning but clueless or careless friends and family, and from strangers we call “friends” on FB, it’s time to selectively find media sources which you trust. Let your gut, a snap decision survival part of your body, evolved over millions of years, a perfect tool to snap judge the busy mile a minute web, be your guide. The book BLINK, A GUIDE TO SNAP DECISION MAKING is an awesome tool to build up your intuition to sift tact from convenient fiction on the lie infested web.
To avoid being an unwitting share-bot, use your gut, discussed in BLINK, to verify your sources’ news before you post anything to your wall or news feed. Yes, sharing vetted material takes longer. But you’ll be using your amazing gut to root out the snakes looking to twist reality for their own demented agendas. I promise you if you work hard at this that the mental fog will clear and you will learn to trust yourself again. Who knows? If you get good enough at this you might even become a trusted source of news yourself.
Look for the hidden agenda behind anything you share to your wall. Regular news and politics, right or left, is fine if it’s trusted and passes your gut and vetting. But even if a story seems very interesting, never, never share news that’s fake. Never.
Learn stories from all angles. Yes, even those stories that oppose your political beliefs. That means stomaching FOX for CNN fans and CNN for FOX fans. My amazing wife Elizabeth, 17 years military, some of that Special Ops, taught me this technique and to watch unfiltered news with here on Cspan whenever possible. Twitter, once you look past paid trolls (who usually have numerals in their handles making them easy to spot and block), is a good place to see both sides of an issues very quickly and in concentrated trending form. Lots of discernment is especially needed when using Twitter as people with hidden identities free express wildly.
Elizabeth also advises going back to the source of the story when possible.
Avoid talking heads on the news, right or left, looking to stir emotions to fill their gaping 24 hour news cycle. Be your own talking head. Weigh things. Think for yourself.
Get media from audio, TV and reading. Yes, reading. Reading makes the mind stronger.
Last. Meditate on the news. Give it time to simmer and the truth will bubble to the surface. You’ll also be transmuting the darkness that is our news into light. And speaking of light look for happy stories to share. But still make sure you vet them!
OK. Good start here. If I think of more, or you suggest some ideas I like, I will update this list.
Note that in the end people will never be in full consensus. After all we all have unique personalities and life experiences. But that’s exactly the idea here, giving ourselves the discernment power to make up our own minds and not to be programmable share-bots.
Always remember our reality is nothing more than a collection of stories which a majority of us agree upon. And since sharing creates the reality we all agree upon what you share is of vital importance that you must never taken lightly.
Sorry in advance for your pain. Re-engineering how we use social media is going to be hard on you emotionally. Some friends and family who are used to dumping their conspiracy theories and junk on your pages will moan and groan. Tell ’em to wake the hell up. Shake ’em up. Tell them how sharing lies and conspiracy theories like thri dropping by yout house and unloading dumpster of rotting meat in your living room!
We need to do on our own because billionaire social media kings are ruining our lives unchecked by hiding behind the name of freedom. Like freedom for real? Then realize that unless we the everyday users of social media learn to discern the truth of what we post we are on a path to the CWWW., the Censored World Wide Web.
Your mind is sacred. It deserves your very best efforts to be protected from targeted brainwashing on social media and the news in general. #FightThePsyop
Sorry for the short break between chapters. As I’ve been writing chapter 5 it’s been scary to see real-life Trump catch up to this next chapter, where Abe makes a cameo in “Trump’s Fever Dream”, by his holding a FOX town hall at the Lincoln Memorial last week. A weird choice given Abe would be a liberal Dem by today party standards.
But whoever said Trump was a student of history, or anything for that matter? He’s certainly not a student of the 1918 flu epidemic that killed millions. Tragically, America of 2020 is number 1 for the virus on earth. And yet Trump claims zero responsibility for not acting quicker and more decisively.
It’s deeply frustrating that, despite his daily epic fails, Fox and the GOP blindly support him. Combined with this unholy alliance, fueled by almost limitless “brainwashing funds”, with the Zuck’s FB support, Trump actually rose in approval polls this week. Please see THE GREAT HACK on Netflix to grasp how this terrible joke on the people is happening right before our eyes through highly targeted mind control.
Welcome to chapter 5 of my writing therapy, pard. Be sure to read chapters 1-4 to see how Trump got to this feverish point in this dark comedic fantasy that asks the question:
Would Trump catching the coronavirus have any lasting impact on our fearless leader if he survived catching Covid-19?
CHAPTER 5 – THE COVID KID
Trump blinks his open his bloodshot eyes and squints at blinding glare of surgery lights overhead. He struggles to sit up but restraints hold Trump in place.
A gowned, masked and gloved Dr. Fauci notices Trump’s struggle and says in his best soothing tone, “Please don’t struggle, Mr. President. You’re lucky your valet Robert kept you alive with mouth to mouth until the paramedics brought you here. Um, not so lucky, you’ve come down with a severe case of the coronavirus, sir.”
Trump tries to speak, but the pain is so intense he cannot.
“Do not speak! Your throat’s badly seared. Nod if you understand me?” offers Dr. Fauci.
Trump nods yes curtly.
“Now, Mr. President, serious question for which I need a serious answer if I am going to have a chance to save your life. Here goes: Have you taken any Hydrochloroquin?”
Trump nods yes sadly.
“And did you drink any disinfectants today?”
Trump nods grimly while making the hand signal for “a little.”
“Lysol perhaps?” says Fauci, visibly resisting the urge for to do face palm.
Trump shakes his head “no” rapidly.
“Sorry. Brand’s immaterial. Did you orally ingest some sort of bleach?”
Trump nods reluctantly.
“OK. It’s 2 AM. I’m gonna name some earlier times from today. Nod when I am close to the time of day you drank bleach.”
Trump nods, impressed Fauci guessed right the first try.
“Nurse, stomach pump! Stat!” an older nurse wheels over a stomach pump.
“Donald, I’m placing you on anesthesia. After pumping your stomach the nurse will immediately intubate you. That is if your damaged esophagus can handle it. But before I put you in an induced coma, uh, there’s an old friend here who must have a word with you,” says Dr. Fauci steps aside to reveal a gowned and masked Mike Pence.
“Hey, buddy. It’s Mike, um, Mike Pence, your VP. How you doin’?”
Annoyed as hell, Trump messages with his eyes for Pence to get on with it.
“Ok, Ok. Why I ‘m here. Right. You see, I’d like your blessings on my VP choice before I temporarily step into your big shoes, amigo. All very, very temporary of course until your back on the job in record covid-time,” says Pence, doing his best to sound sincere.
Trump becomes more agitated, but nods OK.
The mask-free Pence speaks up nervously, “Now, I know this is going to be a little hard for you to swallow — Geez Louise, pardon that expression! — Uh, what with how my Veep pick and you have been going back and forth a tiny teeny bit in the media, and, well, um, ah, given the fact they happen to be a life long Democrat and –”
Trump’s eyes widen with rage.
“Sorry. — Cut to the chase.– Donald, we need to reunite the country in this dark time. The markets have crashed three times in the past 24 hours. The Dow is down 5000 points. Banks are closed to prevent runs and demanding $3 trillion more in aid. Worst of all Civil War has broken out in Georgia after the second wave killed tens of –”
Pence stops his political blathering under Trump’s searing glare.
“Ok, it’s Govenor Cuomo. Andrew’s my VP pick.”
Trump writhes in agony that his fever dream about Cuomo as president in 2022 is turning out to be prophetic.
“Swell, Donald. I’m going to take your reaction as a definite “yes” and announce you’re in total and complete agreement to make Governor Cuomo my temporary VP. — Good. That wasn’t so bad now was it? Okie dokie. I turn you back of to the good Dr. Fauchster. Get well, buddy,” chirps Pence.
Enraged, Trump struggles mightily to break free of his restraints. Pence gives Trump a peck on his sweaty forehead. Dr. Fauci injects the writhing Trump. The surgery room and the worried face of Mike Pence fades from view.
Fauci’s distant echoing voice in the white void advises, “Word of warning, Mr. President. Coma dreams can be quite intense. Brace yourself… self… self.”
WELCOME TO CORONA NEVADA
Total whiteness gives was to total blackness. Trump’s blurry twisted vision of an old town of the West fades into confusing view. Town folk, half wearing western bandit masks and half mask-free mill about on the dusty street.
A masked young man and mask-free young man draw on each other FIRE. Both fall dead in the street. Trump watches in a daze as the town undertaker and town drunk, Rudi Giuliani, drags the unmasked boy towards his funeral parlor with a red front door. Rudi, waves to Trump and says brightly. “Mornin’ Sheriff Trump. Gorgeous day!”
Trump simply stares into the desert sun, fascinated as it keeps shifting back and forth between being the sun and surgery light.
Rudi shrugs his shoulders and returns to dragging his human cargo for his funeral parlor.
The masked young man is dragged off by his bereaved family into a house with a blue door. The mother of the masked boy shrieks at Trump, “You, you, you bastard. Your hate killed my baby!” When Trump does not respond to her the dead boy’s Mother wails in agony before vanishing behind the blue door of her home with a slam of the door.
The crack of the door slam stirs Trump to life. He works out a kink in back on the porch bench of his sheriff’s office and belches loudly. Trump happily notices he’s dressed as the town sheriff, tin badge, six shooter and all.
Trump blinks, fully taking in the sight of the dusty New Mexico town in Old West. Trump rustles the CORONA GAZZETTE to his face. His eyes widen as he reads the date June 1864 just as the dirty town’s church tower clock clocks strikes for nine times. “Maybe I’m on the set of Westworld?”says a puzzled Trump.
Trump’s wild west wife, Kellyanne Conway, takes a seat beside him on the bench. Dressed a frilly pioneer frock of the day, Kellyanne swings opens picnic basket and chirps brightly in a thick southern accent, “Hey, sleepy head. Have a nice nap?”
“Kellyanne?” says Trump, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
“Made your fav, hon. Burgers and gravy.” says Kellyanne, uncovering her steaming masterpiece. Kellyanne lovingly tucks a napkin into Trump’s dusty shirt.
Trump digs in and speaks with his mouthful,”Wow, babe. Had this crazy dream I was president of these here United States.”
“Sorry, hon. Ya’all’s just the Sheriff of our sweet little town of Corona,” giggles Kellyanne.
“So this is 1864” asks Trump, surprised by how Texan he sounds.
“Ha, ha. All year. And we’ll be married 35 years come June 23rd next week. So now ya’all have no excuse ya’all forgit again!” says Kellyanne, sneaking a kiss to Trump’s cheek.
Trump’s badly overweight deputy, Attorney General William Barr, plops two used up paint cans, one blue and one red, on the porch. He grabs seat, mopping his forehead with a dirty white hanky. Seeing Trump’s puzzled expression Barr offers, “Finished, sir.”
“Finished with what, Billy?” asks Trump.
“Painting every dang front door in town of the Confederate homes red and the Union homes blue. Just like you ordered, sir,” says Barr.
Puzzled to say the least, Trump runs a hand though his long head of silver hair as he says uncertainly, “Lemme see, our brave Confederates they don’t wear masks, right?”
Kellyanne brightly offers, “Them Union folks are the chickens who are slaved to wearing mask and keeping their distance! Silly old blue bellies.”
“Divide and conquer. Works every time,” says Trump proudly getting into the swing of things.
“Got anymore of them delish ham sandwiches in your picnic basket, Kellyanne?” asks Barr sweetly.
“Never forget my favorite deputy. Here you go, Billy boy,” says Kellyanne offering deputy Barr a gravy soaked burger.
“I dreamed you, Billy, you were my kickass Attorney General. Way, way in the future.”
“Wow. What year, Sheriff?” ask Barr.
“2020… I think,” says Trump still dazed and confused if he’s dreaming or all this.
Seeming to read his thoughts, Barr says effusively brown nosing, “Don, you are the best dreamer in the West. It’s what makes you such a miracle maker for the good people of Corona!”
“Billy, why in all that’s holy is the dang General Store still closed?!” Trump says, angrily pointing to the General Store across the street with a freshly painted blue front door.
“Uppity Bob Jenkins says he ain’t opening our fair town’s only General Store until Doc gives everybody a checkup for the sickness. Meantime, Corona’s citizens, red and blue both, are runnin’ outta food fast and theys a blaming you as Sheriff/ Mayor,” offers Barr.
“Time to pay a little visit to our town’s freed slave,” says Trump rising a bit shakily to his feet.
A short time later Trump Trump glares over a cash register at the blue mask wearing Robert, his Black personal valet in DC of 2020 who saved his life, but who is the general store owner in Trump’s 1864 fever dream.
Trump bellows, “I don’t care if’n you’re worried about some weak old sods headin’ for the last roundup. People like you libtards gotta realize this here sickness serves God’s purpose his creatures the wolves. Thin the herd of weakness! Huh. Gotta tweet that today.”
“Tweet? Ya mean like a little birdy?” wisecracks Robert.
Trump grabs Robert by his shopkeeper’s blue apron, “Do not get uppity with me, boy! If was up to me be you’d still be picking cotton in Georgia where you belong!”
Robert shakes off Trumps hand on his shirt and angrily says, seething hate welling in his normally soft eyes, “And no doubt as a slave. Nevada’s a free territory, Sheriff Trump. I is a free man. My store. My rules. And my rule is that my store stays shut until Doc examines everyone for the desert sickness. Only way to stop swapping us back and forth tween us like danged kindergartners!”
Barr inserts himself between Trump and Robert and says in his usual deadpan droll, “Now, Robert. You, more than most in Corona, have enjoyed the good Sheriff’s protection from the Confederates in here town. Now, son, we’d never want you lynched –”
“Shut it, Deputy Barr! I give the orders in this here town! And I demand this here General Store reopen today and you get your lazy black ass back on the job, Bobby boy!” demands Trump.
“So much for diplomacy,” mutters Barr to himself.
“You know, runnin’ this little store I gets to know a lotta personal things. And Sheriff, to be honest — And it’s nice nice to be honest. You should give it try once and while just to keep us guessin’ — There’s a whole lotta things you don’t want me tellin’ your fourth wife Kellyanne about. Like, for one example, your twice a week deal with the town’s whore,” calmly offer Robert.
Dumbfounded that Robert has boxed him in, Trump sputters, “You’re gonna be sorry, Jenkins. Powerful sorry.”
“I’m already, Donnie. Sorry I moved to your hateful little red and blue crazy town of Corona. Good day gents,” says Robert taking Trump and Barr forcefully about the shoulders and escorting them out of the store with shove. Robert slams the door their faces and pulls down the CLOSED window shade.
Enraged, Trump spins to Barr, “Billy, I want a full investigation into where Robert Jenkins gets his food stocks.”
“Already done. The blackie gets most of he supplies from the Chinaman who visits Corona once a month. In fact, I have conspiracy theory all my own that Jenkins was responsible for helping the Chinese bastard spread the sickness to our fine Confederate folk.”
“This must be why Confederate folks are getting sicker faster, ain’t they?” ponders Trump, loving Barr’s conspiracy theory.
“Yup. Though a course Doc said it could also be because we red doors don’t wash our hands or –” offers Barr.
“Never you mind with them outdated Union notions! Draft up charges and serve, Jenkins. I want him hung by Sunday. Folks do love a good lynching. Cleanses the soul,” gloats Trump, wishing to himself again that the old west had Twitter.
“But the mob might want to do a hanging’ before the judge hits town again,” says Barr.
“Not another word, Billy. There’s more deputies where you came from,” says Trump chewing on a ragged cuticle on his gun hand.
Barr switches mental gears and effusively offers, “You’re a dadgum genius, sir! Pissing off Abe Lincoln himself after Robert is, uh, um, brought to justice is red meat for our upstanding Confederate citizens!”
“Our fine city of Corona will carry the vote for Nevada to join the great Confederacy and turn the tide of the war or my name ain’t Sheriff Donald J. Trump,” says Trump.
Time shifts into high gear. Citizens, masked and unmasked, race up the street as the sun rockets overhead across the western sky. Eight hours pass in the blink of an eye. Night falls like rock.
Trump happily finds himself on the outskirts of town standing beside a hanging tree dressed in a KKK robe.
Robert, his muscular neck in a hangman’s noose and hands tied behind his back, glares down at Trump from atop a swayed old horse’s back. Robert’s chiseled featured are lit by the torches of men on horseback dressed in KKK robes. Robert says bitterly, “Let’s get this party with you and your “fine people” over, T-rump.”
Trump bows obligingly and smacks Robert horse on the butt. A distant rifle’s sound splits the air and the rope above Robert’s hangmen noose is cut free by the ace shot. Hands tied, Robert kicks the horse and races off, vanishing into the desert night.
In the distance a man in a stove pipe hat holsters his rifle and rides off into the starry desert night after Robert.
Next morning Trump addresses a crowd of Confederate citizens along with a smattering Union people,”As a lotta you know Corona’s token negro and General Store Keeper, Robert Jenkins, escaped a hangin’ last night.”
Townspeople mutter angrily among themselves.
Unfazed, Trump brilliantly riffs, “But what you fine Confederate folks don’t know is letting Jenkins escape was my plan all along!”
The stunned crowd stares at Trump in dazed silence.
“You see, I hired me the best Pinkerton detective west of Mississippi to sharp shoot off Jenkin’s necktie and now the dumb nigger’s bein’ tracked to the source of the tainted goods that have brought sickness to our fine town of Corona, birthplace of the greatest beer on earth!”
The Confederate citizens cheer wildly while the Union people all do face palms.
A few hours later, as measured by old church’s rusty clock, Barr and Trump once again enjoy Kellyanne’s burgers and biscuits on the Sheriff’s porch. Barr asks nervously, “Sheriff, that story about the Pinkerton…”
“One of my best whoppers. But, Billy boy, I ain’t got no clue about who really freed that nigger. All I really want is for people to be able to buy damned toilet paper. Me especially!” says Trump, wondering if toilet paper exists in 1864 because of the puzzled look on Barr saggy face.
“Well why didn’t you say so, Sheriff? I got a secret TP stash. Back in a jiff ” says Barr escaping up the street, exhibiting a bad limp.
Kellyanne turns to Trump, her face filled with confusion “Whatever is spin doc, hon?” asks Kellyanne lovingly.
“What you called me yesterday, hon. You said, ‘Kelly Anne, darlin’, my order to reopen the town, spin doctor it.'”
Before the unsure Trump can answer with some fresh bull, the town executioner, town undertaker and town drunk Rudi Giuliani, stumbles up and happily volunteers with drunken bow, “Madame, I will have you know that yours truly invented the spin doctor profession to help win Andrew Jackson’s re-elction back in, I think it was, 1830. To spin doctor refers to one such as me creating the best story by, um, reorganization, shall we say of the alternative facts… Wait sec, can either of you fine people spare a dime for a thirsty man? All this spin remembering has me parched. ”
Before Trump can answer, an out of breath pimple faced teen wearing a cowboy style MAGA hat runs up to the trio and shouts, “Sheriff Trump! Sheriff Trump, the Covid Kid just rode into town and he’s comin’ a gunnin’ for ya!”
“Oh my God, Donnie! Whatever shall we do?” worries Kellyanne.
“If by we you me mean me: Nothin’.” says Trump with his customary shit eating grin.
“Nothin’?!” says Kellyanne.
“This here reality is just what my 2020 doc, that fuck Fauci, calls a fever dream.” chuckles Trump.
“What you drinkin’, Sheriff? Cause I want me some,” slobbers Giuliani.
BANG! Trump and the shrieking Kelly Anne are splattered in blood from a bullet hole in Giulani’s forehead, “Funny. All of sudden I got a splitting headache.” Rudy falls face first to the dusty street.
“Sheriff Trump! Ya no good orange bellied coward. I am callin’ you out!” shouts the Covid kid holstering his smoking gun, his gruff voice muffled by a blue bandana mask
“Fair gun fight, Kid?” says Trump calmly, not believing any of this is real but playing along for kicks and hamming it up for Kellyanne.
“Fair? What in hell do you know about fair, Donnie boy?” snarls the Covid Kid.
“Ask poor unarmed Rudi, about fair, you monster,” sobs Kellyanne.
The Covid kid laughs at Kellyanne, “Ha. Rudi’s mouth is a legal weapon. Hmm. Wonder who undertakes the undertaker?”
“Ha. Thought you just lived in mirrors,” says Trump getting to his feet.
“I live in you, you idiot. I am your damn conscience! Now it’s finally time for me to take over the show, pard, ’cause you never listen to me, here in 1864 or in 2020. But tell you what, you don’t deserve it but, yeah, let’s make this a fair fight,” offers Mirror Trump.
Trump pats his gorgeous white stallion and says coyly, “But, kid, I already run the show, my body, my town, my rules. What’s in a gun battle for me except maybe a tombstone?”
“Opps. Forgot. Always has to be something in any for you don’t there?” Off Trump’s smug nod the Covid Kid offers, “OK, You got certain childhood memories, painful even to your elephant hide, I can make those go away,” says the Covid Kid dryly, mirroring Trump’s own insincerity.
“Your bluffin’.” chuckles Trump.
“And you should know all about bluffin’,” says the Covid Kid snapping his fingers, He and Trump become transparent spirits observing Trump’s dad Fred Trump impatiently giving a math lesson from hell to little Donald using coins.
Fred says menacingly,” Donald, Donald. That’s eighty cents! I asked you to show me ninety! Now do it! And no more help from me!”
Little Donnie places 3 quarters on the table and Fred smacks him on the back of the head. Donald cries and Fred whacks him harder, shouting, “Unless you can learn basic math I am sticking you in a school for retards! You a winner or a retard, Donny boy?”
Donald bursts into tears and Fred’s expression softens,”Aw. Did I make you cry… little girl?”
Already having seen enough, Trump turns sadly to the Covid Kid and says in a hoarse whisper, “Ok. Make all my bad memories of Dad’s abuse go away and we got us a deal. Pistols at 20 paces at high noon.”
The Covid Kid snaps his fingers and the two Trumps are back in the Nevada town of Corona in 1864 facing each other 20 paces apart.
“Just to be square, I kill you in this dream you die in the real world. At least the Trump we’ve all come to know and hate dies and I take over.”
Mirror Trump says, “Have it your way. Hell it is.” He points to a shop window that lights up to show a reflection of Trump being intubated in the real 2020 world, causing Trump of 1864 to choke and gag.
“No fair. What happened to our gunfight?” says Trump breathlessly.
“We draw when the church bells strike 12,” says Trump’s mirror image the Covid Kid.
The storefront image fades back to a regular reflection of 1864. A tumbleweed blows across the street between the two Trumps.
“For starters, Soon as I take over this burger bloated body of ours I am painting all the doors of this nightmare of yours purple.”
The church clock towers makes the first of twelve strikes. Hidden above the Sheriff’s office Deputy William Barr takes aim a Mirror Trump’s back. Barr mutters a pep talk to himself, “Boss wants this to look good. Fire on 11 and a half. Fire on 11 and a half.”
Trump catches a glint of Barr’s rifle in the hot noon sun and hides a grin with some false bravado,”I got nickname for your tombstone: Goodie Two Trumps.”
The church tower gongs five. Mirror Trump’s gun hand twitches over his silver six shooter. “After 73 years of nagging you to do the right thing, I am one conscience that’s done talkin’. Shut it and get ready to draw, ya mangy old coot.”
Kelly Anne runs to Mirror Trump’s side and pecks him on the cheek, “Can I watch you kill the blowhard?”
Trump says, “You’re fired, Kellyanne,” as he angrily blows Kellyanne off her feet. Her dead body splashing into the horse trough.
“Marriages just don’t stick with you do they, Donnie? ” says Trump’s mirror conscience in disgust.
Barr sees mirror Trump did not break his concentration as the clock strikes 9. Barr quietly cocks back his shinny rifle’s firing hammer. As he does another gun behind Barr clicks back it’s hammer. Barr spins in terror to see none other than Abraham Lincoln has the drop on him.
Abe says grimly “Justice is served, Deputy Barr,”and fires six shooter. Bam! Barr falls off the roof of the Sheriff’s office and crashes through the porch roof.
Mirror Trump, the Covid Kid, flashes a thumbs up to the grinning Abe Lincoln atop the Sheriff’s office a thumbs up as the clock strikes 10. Trump quick draws and fires on mirror Trump’s turned back 2 strikes ahead of the agreement. But his shot goes wide and takes out his beloved white horse.
“So predictable. Too bad your bad dad Freddy never taught you to shoot straight, amigo,” The Covid Kid chuckles as the clock strikes 12. BANG! Mirror Trump fires and Trump’s throat erupts in a gush of blood. Trump falls to his knees in the dusty street, gasping for air, unable to talk.
The Covid Kid gloats over the dying Trump,”For once I get the last world. Hurry up and die, Donnie boy. The world needs the better you, namely me.”
All fades to black. Trump blinks his eyes open in a luxurious hospital room. He spots a smug Kellyanne reading a PEOPLE’S MAGAZINE, complete a fresh photo of an intubated picture of Trump on the cover. The headline reads:
KELLYANNE EXCLUSIVE: TRUMP INTUBATED!
Trump tries to speak, but the tube down his throat only allows him a gagging gurgle and he passes out without Kellyanne ever noticing his brief awakening from the fever dream.
END CHAPTER 5
REAL FEVER DREAMS
Sadly Covid-19 patients can end up intubated in an induced coma on a respirator for weeks on end. The odds of a virus patient ever regaining consciousness drop daily the longer someone remains on a respirator. Strangely, Trump’s terrible fever dreams of choking and dying over and over again in elaborate ways I depict in this story are something I intuited weeks ago before this story from Atlantic.
Bottom line, avoid getting this damn virus no matter what the media or politicians playing with your life tell you. Above all avoid Trump’s insane false macho attitude of it being OK to allow people catching the virus to build herd immunity. All while it’s not even scientifically yet known if we the people can catch this damn thing more than once!
Stay distant, wear masks no matter to pressure from the misled right-wing nutjobs and wash your hands often.
As Elizabeth and I socially-hibernate — better than social-distancing, right? — here in Sedona, I am in touch with my ancestral spirits, spirit guides, earthly ghost guides, ET spirit guides, multi-dimensional hozenflatters (their name not mine) more than ever.
Within my overcrowded skull, my pantheon of spirit guides are saying, in their own unique and sometimes annoying voices, that as a species humanity is being called into thinking in new ways and transforming into greater love and trust in each other. Love always wins in the end because it’s what we come from, in some form both dark and light. Take that, fear mongers!
But, big butt, much as I love what I am hearing from spirit it’s been hard to listen to as the news is so overwhelmingly negative and FEAR BASED. Ekart Tolle calls this a time of “collective adversity.”
Each day we watch the vast majority of our PAC and lobby-bought politicians — Governor Cuomo of New Yoprk state, has been an awesome exception BTW — from local dog catcher to DC player, fail us in a myriad of ways. We’re like a society of Charlie Browns. Our leaders, all Lucys, keep yanking the football of well-being from us over and over again. And yet we keep taking that emotional spill over and over again, like we’re caught in time loop of Charlie Brown style idiocy.
Yeesh. As a psychic person it’s terrifying to watch our “leaders” make bad choices that have us heading like lemmings off a timeline cliff. Feels like watching a slow motion tsunami getting ever closer to overwhelming our hospital system in the next week to 10 days. This can be avoided by isolating but not enough Americans, old and young (especially) alike, are doing so.
Unfortunately, this is thanks to a large to an anti-scientist president who just does not get he needs to be leading, not hiding the truth, and looking for ways to feather his nest and the 1 percent’s. Indeed, now that the elite he serves have fed from of the FED trough at taxpayer expense Trump’s ready to have everyone back to work and back in church by Easter. Wha?
Add to this mainstream media hysteria the many weird conspiracy theories our spirit pundits are spinning at this time and its enough to make you feel as lost as a kitten in dog shelter. Yes, what we are hearing from the Ickes and Wilcox’s of the world have a grain of truth. But come on! This whole massive pedo arrests thing as a plan to snatch all the bad people under the cover of the Coronavirus is just plain nutty.
Especially when in the players we have a crook like Barr in charge of the DOJ, who wants to steal more of our rights. Are we seriously to believe Barr under Trump — who both let pedo-king Jeffery Epstein be murdered or suicide to escape justice in prison — are heroes who are going to bust pedophiles? NO! Only a psyop could be this convoluted. Wake up, spirit friends. Seriously.
I hate conspiracy theories in general, but especially those targeted at our open-minded spirit community because many good people get snared in these twisted dark fantasies, AKA psyop, AKA targeted weapons grade mind control media.
Despite being wise to the psyop Q-Anon game, it still amazes me when I meet a spiritual person who is pro Trump! Why? Because to be pro-Trump a spirit person must ignore refugee kids held at the border by his administration, Trump’s impeachment for holding aid from the Ukraine for dirt on Joe Biden, disregard for nature, his thousands of lies and on and on darkness.
MY CONSPIRACY THEORY OF LIGHT
So allow me, if you will, to share a counter-conspiracy theory of light I’ve dreamed up for you about the basis for people of spirit getting sucked into the Trump camp by a vortex of lies.
See your spiritual Trumpy spirit friends as having volunteered, on a higher level of reality, to partially return to slumber, numb to all the evils of supporting Trump entails, to be secret agents, secret even from themselves, as catalysts of the light and love. Each are then inserted into a very core of a dark consciousness founded on greed and hate which Trump is not the be all and end all, but who simply represents the dark energy rotting America from the inside. Ohom, my ET spirit guide has been telling me since Trump won that he will have an awakening in office. Perhaps the death toll of the virus will be the trigger. Or perhaps Ohom meant Trump’s awakening will be a dark one.
Looking ahead, perhaps we are not social-distancing but socially-hibernating, as I wrote top of the blog. We’re certainly in a chrysalis locked away from one another. Try to see that when we human butterflies emerge from the cocoon of our homes, and hug each other like its D-Day, we are going to bring a whole new consciousness into this glorious world. And Trump’s hate based politics will have no place in that shinny new world. Night.
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Can you feel it? America is at the global epicenter of a low tide for the forces of good. It came to full light today in the bankruptcy filing of The Boy Scouts of America in the maelstrom of the horror that over 100,000 Boy Scouts may have been sexually molested by Boy Scout leaders.
The Boy Scouts are following the lead of many Catholic Archdioceses that have filed for bankruptcy protection from similar sexual misconduct against unsuspecting youth. Sadly, if this betrayal of basic human rights is happening in our upper echelon social and religious establishments we must conclude this is the tip of the iceberg in a plague of sexual abuse happening across America and the world.
This low tide for the good is also evidenced in a lawless corporatacracy running our world off the climate change cliff, cheered on by the followers of the poster boy of greed and power gone mad after his tragically farcical Senate trial.
Elizabeth and I enjoy C-Span as a way to avoid the filters of the media’s slanted coverage. But to our horror we saw a Congressional hearing this week about the rise of White Nationalism in the armed services. Incredibly, we learned, along with the shell-shocked bipartisan panel, that there is no provision to reject a card carrying member of the Nazi party from joining the military!
At this low point I offer the blog over to my spirit guide Ohom for wisdom on how we climb out of this black hole in our ethics field. Ohom…?
OHOM’S (OPEN HEART OPEN MIND) ADVICE
Hello, Ken and friends of Ken. I am ready to share some observations as a frequent ET thought travel visitor to your beautiful world.
Know in your heart of hearts that the sickness you are seeing has been in America’s soul from its inception. So rejoice in darkness coming to light. For a wound cannot heal unless the sickness is drained. And although this experience is most unpleasant it is the first step in true healing.
Know that all happens in divine order. It is inevitable that the darkest night becomes the new dawn.
Stay positive. Relish in meditation, song and laughter as it makes you ready for the beautiful global awakening growing up to overtake the ugly establishment.
Be a beacon of positivity to those in despair.
Visualize the world you’d like to see manifested rather than focusing on the death of the old ways.
Love each day and love each other. Your future is bright and cosmic. High tide is coming with more freshness and vitality than you can imagine.
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/
As the right and left media roils for ratings in this strange era’s, love him or hate him, craziest presidency ever, I just received some surprising insights from my ET spirit guide Ohom (Open Heart Open Mind) as to what our meditations in 2017 at the Trump inauguration looked like on spirit plane.
It’s January 20, 2017 again. Elizabeth and I nervously stand amongst the mostly MAGA hat wearing crowd, sporting instead our CME penguin hats. Each time Hillary appears on camera the crowd jeers, “Lock her up!”
Two grizzled beer drinkers jeer each time Obama or Michelle appear on the Jumbo-tron nearby. It’s an ugly scene. Neither Elizabeth or I really want to be here. This is not the America we grew up in. And it is especially not the one Elizabeth served 17 years in the military to defend.
But we have dutifully followed Ohom’s simple instructions to go to this “largest ever” inauguration, and hold space of love for Trump in this power intoxicated crowd. We do our best to bless Trump’s presidency; that it ultimately be good for the planet, or to at very least do as little harm as possible.
Oddly, I sense this crowd, one that should be elated on this first day of the Trump administration, is deeply defensive. They literally can’t seem to believe their man Trump really won, even though he’s up on the big stage getting sworn in; Melania frowning behind his back on the Jumbo-tron screen perched atop scaffolding.
But there something’s very different in this particular meditation replay of the inauguration. A mental replay I’ve run countless times for over 2 years now, trying to make sense of what our crazy mission accomplished in the light of destructive programs for the environment and humanism rolling out almost daily from Trump via Twitter.
THE INAGURARTION TRANSMUTATION MEDITATION
Today Ohom is finally showing me what really happened energetically that fateful day, sealed within the scared Masonic geometry layout of DC. Deep within the low vibrational inaugural crowd, cozy in our own bubble of bliss, sweet Elizabeth and I hold a space of love; just as Ohom guided.
Our loving meditation crystalizes moisture from the light rain that begins to fall. Our love meditation becomes a diamond-seed that burrows into the wet grass beneath our cold feet. Soon a translucent white energy tree rapidly grows beneath Elizabeth and me. The rapidly growing energy tree sweeps us high above the bristling Trump clan.
My view to the dais greatly improved, I gaze towards the red-faced Donald J. Trump giving a speech former president Bush later observed, “That was some weird shit.”
Agreed. To me this all feels like the birth of the apocalyptic era right out of FALLOUT THREE; a video game that takes place in a mutated and ruined Washington DC 200 years after World War III.
I flinch as Trump’s weird shit “America First” address deeply disrespects Obama’s legacy. Trump behaves as though he’s not inheriting a booming economy but a “smocking” wasteland.
Looking ahead to the dais, I see two other white energy trees carrying other pairs of meditators high above the oddly fidgety crowd. I wonder to myself, “Maybe the Trump fans are nervous they elected a thin-skinned guy with his trigger finger on the largest nuclear arsenal in history?”
Amazed by this new feeling compassion towards the desperate-for-change Trump’s base, I look back towards the Washington monument. Nine other white trees carrying meditation pairs grow rapidly. The procession of 12 inner lighted white trees leads all the way from the dais to the Lincoln Memorial.
The wise Ohom never let any of our teams know we are working as a meditation group of 12 tree riding pairs until now. I may never know their names, but Ohom tells me the dozen meditation teams represent all races, male and female, and sexual orientation.
Soon, all twelve energy trees are large enough to join their rapidly leafing branches above us the meditation teams. Loving energy pulses through the umbrella of white trees, downloading into the anxious crowd below.
Now all of our teams of meditators hold space for one thing: that the Trump presidency, messy as its likely to be, never result in a launch of World War III.
Ohom tells me telepathically as I write, “Take heart, Ken. All of Trump’s many disconcerting acts he has and is yet to commit during his presidency are in actuality a sacrifice to your planetary conscious. The Mars energy of war that has dominated your world since the fall of Atlantis is dying. Trump is but a servant to accelerate its end.”
Even knowing I’ll fail to recall all this and fall at times into anger at Trump’s efforts to get our collective goat, I feel blessed to finally have this gorgeous vision to wrap my head around as to Trump’s higher purpose and hope you do too. This has been a tough two years for we moderates, plus liberals and many conservatives alike.
But whether it’s 2 or 6 years until the Trump era finally ends, the blink of an eye in the cosmic grand scheme, look for an overnight flip to the next era. One that will make the loving 60s look passe!
And as the barrage of negative news and policies continues 24/7, I suggest you tune out to the ratings driven chatter and join with us in meditation for a better tomorrow. Vote when the time comes but don’t obsess over all this until November 3, 2020 is closer. Advice to myself as much as you, dear reader.
Wow. It’s only been handful of days since I almost left the planet. My 3rd March NDE (what’s my issue with March?) happened this past Wednesday. A Wednesday like any other. Elizabeth and I had gotten up and off to hike with our rescue dog Lincoln shortly after sunrise. We were back home before 8 AM and making breakfast.
I like to take my supplements before I eat so I gathered them up from the many bottles under our counter and did what I’ve done many times; popped a bunch of them in my mouth at once. Then it happened. I began violently gagging.
I staggered over to the sink to try to barf them up. My stomach wretched deeply but no luck getting the logjam of supplements free. Elizabeth asked if I was OK and next thing I knew I was on the hard tile kitchen floor face down; blood dripping from my mouth and nose.
I tried to get up but both my arms were numb. Elizabeth shouted, “Stay down, Ken! You passed out and smashed your head! Are you OK?” I was confused because the last thing I remembered was choking on supplements by the sink.
Soon a team of 6 paramedics were crammed in our Sedona kitchen. As they began strapping me into a stretcher, the lead paramedic examined my eyes with a small flashlight. “Normal contraction in both eyes,” he told his clan of rescuers. Elizabeth gave a grateful sigh of relief as he asked, “What happened?”
After I recounted my stupidity of taking too many supplements at once I was told I’d suffered a hard lesson about a part of my body I’d never heard of before, the Vagus nerve. Pronounced like Vegas, but not as much fun. It wraps around the esophagus and choking can trigger it. It’s used by wrestlers to induce a sleep hold.
For a guy who had a vision in a past near death as kid this 2019 NED was nothing like that. It feels more like reboot. I simply was here one minute, gone briefly, and then back with no visions of where I went.
The paramedic asked me as blood dripped from my mouth and nose, “Who is our president?”
“Sadly Trump,” I responded. My gallows humor got a few smiles according to Elizabeth and showed them I was going to be OK but they still insisted I go to the ER for Xrays and a CT scan. My heart was acting up a bit with what they hoped was a trauma induced an atrial fibrillation.
Each day I am recuperating rapidly. The outreach of love and support on Facebook and in real life has been deeply touching and began while I was briefly in the ER. Thankfully all the tests were good, nothing was broken and I did not suffer ever a concussion. And with all the healing energy that came my way my heart happily returned to its normal beat in a matter of hours.
Man, I remember chuckling when George Bush passed out choking on a pretzel that triggered his Vagus nerve back in 2002. Well, it’s not so funny now when I feel the pain in my neck head and shoulders from the fall, a lot better each day, that makes it a challenge to type right now.
The painful lesson I happily pass on: Take your supplements one at a time or end up like me and W.
During my stay at Malibu’s Great Spirits Ranch, hosting events and running social media for the bulk of 2012, I was blessed to meet many amazing stars of the LA spirit community. One of those LA stars is now my partner in love, biz and life, Elizabeth England. We’ve been living in bliss together now for three years, nestled in a lovely home in Sedona.
As we work round the clock to get the word out about an amazing line of EMF protection devices that literally save lives on our new CoolestTechEver.com e-commerce site, it can be easy to actually forget that magical time. A time when all of us in the yoga and meditation community across the planet were looking forward to the end of the Mayan calendar with hope for a new era in human awareness.
In that heady time, there was lovely woman named Annelise (Annalisa) Balfour who visited the Malibu ranch a few times for GSR events. Her mega-watt smile and contagious positive attitude made her a stand-out from the crowds who visited the 14 acres ranch, perched high above the city of Malibu in the Santa Monica mountains. Annelise was curious about my ET spirit guide Ohom and we had great conversation about the mission of the DreamShield to assist in gently elevating human consciousness through meditation.
Yesterday, amidst all the hype on FB surrounding the mid-term elections, which gratefully succeeded in the Dems taking the house to put some check on 45, I was shocked to learn that sweet Annelise had passed away from breast cancer. It instantly put all the nonsense surrounding Trump and our crazy-making politics into perspective.
Monday, at Ross Pittman’s of ConsciousLifeNews.com’s weekly power of eight meditation event, I asked the group to help Annelise on her journey. Everyone eagerly agreed. As soon as we all closed our eyes and dropped into our heart space I connected to my dear spirit guide Robin Williams; now enjoying an oceanic afterlife as a killer whale, after short reincarnations as a blue whale and a blue dolphin. Robin, who calls himself Nanu these days, volunteered to help in the group meditation.
Robin found Annelise’s spirit wandering the beach in Malibu. When she spotted Robin they connected telepathically and he playfully invited Annelise to swim out and climb aboard his back and hang onto his dorsal fin. Annelise happily accepted Robin’s invitation and soon they were off!
Annelise gleefully clung to Robin the killer whale like a mermaid born for this. Robin dove deep and soared up, flying from from wave to wave. Annelise laughed with carefree joy as the duo glided on the wind and waves.
Now Robin dove deep. Deeper and deeper, down to the bottom of the ocean he raced. At first Annelise worried about air but then chuckled she no longer had the need for mortal breathing. She gasped as up ahead a small portal of golden light opened, a glittering beacon on the dark ocean floor.
Robin told Annelise, “Sorry. Too small for me. This is as far as I can take you, babe. Enjoy your journey to the center for the earth!”
I watched the vision from the Sedona meditation circle with a giddy smile as Annelise’s spirit accepted Nanu’s whale of an invite and dove into the golden portal. Her spirit easily glided though the layers of the earth, gaining in power. Soon she arrived at the planetary core. But instead of hot magma she was amazed the earth’s core swirled in molten gold.
A large golden lever that stuck out from a golden column beckoned to Annelise. Free of mortal hesitation, she pulled the golden lever sharply down. To her joy a wave of golden energy sailed from the earth’s core rocketing out to the surface and kept right on going throughout the solar system and the whole universe.
The vision ended and I shared the story with our Sedona meditation group. Others shared visions too of her powerful presence. And I felt immense gratitude for the abundant health of my love Elizabeth and the mutual support we give each other as we continue to grow and develop as leaders of the conscious community.
Today, America awoke to a renewed Congress, blessed with 100 women of many races and creeds who, to record turnouts, were elected yesterday. Thanks for helping make that happen, Annelise and my coolest ever mediation Sedona pals! Safe journeys on whatever you are up to next on the other side, Annalisa. I have a feeling your part of your work will be helping heal the idiotic divides between the people.
Oh, and I’ll pass your thanks onto spirit guide and killer whale Nanu, AKA Robin Williams.