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Jive Talk

Bobo: How do you beat ’em jack?
Sage: You don’t.
Bobo: Whaddya mean?
Sage: You is fightin’ the wrong war, sucka!


Celine’s Laws

pyramidCeline’s Laws were maxims attributed to the fictional character Hagbard Celine in writer Robert Anton Wilson’s co-written series Illuminatus! Trilogy (The Eye in the Pyramid, The Golden Apple and Leviathan). The works, which have been described as “a fairy tale for paranoids”, fuse factual information with a hyper-imaginative, post-modernist, sci-fi landscape awash in drugs, sex, and majick-riddled fiction in a Dischordian scheme Wilson named Operation Mindfuck.

Freeman Hagbard Celine, H.M., S.H. (Holy Man, Shit Head) is a central figure in the Illumanitus! Trilogy. Celine, a Discordian Anarchist, fought the Illuminati in a golden submarine (named Leif Ericson). He designed a supercomputer called FUCKUP (First Universal Cybernetic Kynetic Ultramicro-Programmer). Celine’s three laws are outlined in his manifesto Never Whistle While You’re Pissing.

raw4Wilson was an American writer, psychonaut, libertarian, philosopher, jury nullification proponent, Church of the SubGenius member, consciousness explorer, Maybe Logic Academy founder, rational irrationalist, model agnostic, and a few other things. His role as consciousness barricade obliterator, socio-political pseudo-edifice deconstructionist, and idiocracy annihilator will not soon be forgotten.

Celine’s Laws

1. National Security is the chief cause of national insecurity

Paranoia accompanies the rise and increasing power of the state, necessitating a secret police (e.g., Hoover’s FBI). With the threat of infestation by internal subversives and foreign enemies, and the dangerous monopoly on blackmail and intimidation powers a singular agency wields, another intelligence apparatus must be instituted to monitor the former. A higher level secret police would then need to be created to oversee the most recent agency addition – ad infinitum.

This infinite “watching the watchers” regression leads to needless spying, the spawning of laws violating civil liberties, and the targeting of innocent citizens under the sweeping banner of national security. In the end, the citizen is threatened more by the paranoid machinations of Homeland (In)Security than whatever enemy necessitated its original creation.

2. Accurate communication is possible only in a non-punishing situation.

Wilson advanced the view that true “communication only occurs between equals.” In a hierarchal structure, strong motives exist for the subservient to lie, bootlick, and ingratiate themselves to their superior. Due to the imbalance of power, the inferior member must protect themselves from violence or the loss of economic security through deceit and subterfuge.

Accurate information can only be transmitted between equals. When the hierarchal dynamic exists, the inherent possibility of the use of force prohibits truthful information exchange. According to Celine’s law, any hierarchy acts more to conceal the truth from its leaders than it serves to find the truth.

3. An honest politician is a national calamity

Although absurd on its face, Celine’s third law argues that a corrupt politician is preferable to an honest one. To redress inequity, and fix the broken political system, the honest politician must implement new sweeping reforms through laws. With more and more laws, individuals are subjected to the greater possibility of criminal prosecution.

Individual freedoms are restricted with each legislative enactment which punish human interaction. The citizens, unable to keep abreast with the flurry of legislative activity, find their liberty at greater risk due to potential criminal prosecution. Though the dishonest politician may line his pockets with the monies of the people, an honest politician may pose the greater threat by unwittingly stripping them of individual rights.


Belief is the death of intelligence. As soon as one believes a doctrine of any sort, or assumes certitude, one stops thinking about that aspect of existence ~ Robert Anton Wilson


Random Thoughts

I been getting a lot of e-mails from the Nigerian phishing brigade. I reckon that they have foreseen the impending U.S. economic collapse, and are attempting to fleece the remaining 401K reserves from the lobotomized baby-boomers. I appreciate their gung-ho entrepreneurial drive, but my delete button finger is getting a little tired.

Paris Hilton has stepped into the ’08 Presidential foray, albeit in a defensive posture. The pudding brained senile warmonger Repukelian sinator invoked her image for one of his despicable Atwater/Rovian style smear ads. Paris said she will “see you at the debate bitches.” I think that is kinda cute.

The Bush/Cheney crime family fascists are still up to their old shenanigans. Civil liberty deprivations, the unconstitutional surveillance of innocent Americans, and the demonization of the Iranians all being on the front burner. Once this evil cabal sews up the Caspian oil pipeline, then we will know peace.

Does anyone really give two shits about the Chinese Olympics? The OIC turned a blind eye when the Chinese laid down their totalitarian demands. 300,000 spy cameras, censored Internet access, state-provided cell phones, hotel surveillance. The OIC said they did not want to get involved in politics. When you award the Olympics to a human rights depriving police state, you made a political decision.

The 2001 FBI Anthrax probe is a running joke. This government’s limited hang out story has been falling apart at the seams since it broke. The FBI’s hang man, Bruce Ivins, was conveniently suicided after being serially harassed by government operatives. His son was offered 2.5 million and a sports car to roll over on his pops. When feds have their media convicted hang man, who needs a trial? The sheep will eat it up and sleep well knowing that their mail boxes will be free of bio-toxin hazards.

It’s easy to get buried
In the past
When you try to make
A good thing last ~ Ambulance Blues – Neil Young


American Myopia

I came across this picture today. My first thought was that the artist is probably giving way too much credit to the average American (and their geographical aptitude). Does the randomly selected college student have any clue about the Soviet Eastern Bloc states? Do they know about the forcefully acquired neo-colonial Pacific territories? Do they teach the kids these days about the nefarious global divide and conquer strategy employed by the Wall Street stooge FDR, Papa Joe Stalin, and Winston Gin Blossoms at the Yalta Conference?

The media psy-op brainwash machination is currently in overdrive. Iran is the supposed evil-doer that, if left unchecked, will usher us into apocalyptic nuclear oblivion. The dogs of war are being savagely whipped by the Neo-Con humanity destroyers who are desperately seeking their War of Terror hat trick. Considering that the CIA forcefully overthrew Iran’s democratically elected leader in 1953, and the U.S. gives over 3 billions dollars of military and financial aid a year to their antagonistic neighbor (with over 140 nuclear missiles), rational individuals can sympathize with the need for an Iranian defensive deterrent to U.S./Israeli aggression.

A majority of U.S. citizens, who are the benefactors of an economic hyper-power with the World’s greatest military arsenal, are blind to the responsibility this power requires. It is not hard to understand why my country is loathed on the World stage. The aggressive threat of force wielded by the maniacal sociopaths in the U.S. government is a symptom of diplomatic impotency. The inability of those in power to negotiate with the other kids in the sand box is a sign of inherent weakness. The problem is that, at some point, a bigger kid is going to come by and thrust their faces into the cat shit in the corner. Power wielded unjustly, and without respect for the weaker among us, has the tendency to create horrific unforeseen consequences due to the alliances of the subjugated.

That ends my political rant. Here is a lyric that sums up my current emotional state.

Waiting for the sun to shine
And you know sometimes it gets so painful
Just like talking to yourself
When everything don’t seem to have no rhyme or reason we all go
Waiting for the sun to shine
~ Van Morrison (Straight To Your Heart) Like A Cannonball


Acute Schizophrenia Paranoia Blues

The Kink’s album Muswell Hillbillies is helluva record. Ray Davie’s prescient lyrical pronouncement on the 20th century mechanical nightmare, the oppressive welfare state (with their civil servants dressed in gray), and the technocrat-engineered computerized community was a bit ahead of its time for 1971. But then again, so was Orwell’s 1984 and Huxley’s Brave New World (but Georgie and Aldie had some inside scoops on the upcoming agenda).

Acute Schizophrenia Paranoia Blues is a number I can identify with. Maybe it has something to do with my constant battle with compulsive reclusivity, paranoia, and a compromised mental health gene pool. Maybe I just dig the 20’s era inspired New Orleans jazz licks. Either way, I appreciate the Kinks putting it to wax. Enjoy this live version from ’73.

I’m too terrified to walk out of my own front door,
They’re demonstrating outside I think they’re gonna start the third world war,
I’ve been to my local head shrinker,
To help classify my disease,
He said it’s one of the cases of acute schizophrenia he sees.

Well the milkman’s a spy, and the grocer keeps on following me,
And the woman next door’s an undercover for the K.G.B.,
And the man from the Social Security
Keeps on invading my privacy,
Oh there ain’t no cure for acute schizophrenia disease.

I’ve got acute schizophrenia, paranoia too,
Schizophrenia, schizophrenia,
I’ve got it, you’ve got it, we can’t lose,
Acute schizophrenia blues.

I’m lost on the river, the river of no return,
I can’t make decisions, I don’t know which way I’m gonna turn,
Even my old dad, lost some of the best friends he ever had,
Apparently, his was a case of acute schizophrenia too.

I got acute schizophrenia, paranoia too,
Schizophrenia, schizophrenia,
I’ve got it, you’ve got it, we can’t lose,

They’re watching my house and they’re tapping my telephone,
I don’t trust nobody, but I’m much too scared to be on my own
And the income tax collector’s got his beady eye on me,
No there ain’t no cure for acute schizophrenia disease.

No there ain’t no cure for
Schizophrenia disease


The Cruise

My teenage weekend warrior beer-benders expanded to the week days. The boredom of my domicile enclosure warranted new and exciting drunken exploits. When my keepers drifted off to sleep, I would commandeer car keys, and drive off into the night in dangerously altered states. Sometimes I would pick up a mate for the ride, more often these were solo cruises. I would silently back the stick-shift car down the driveway in neutral and start the car when it was out of the earshot of my handlers. If I wasn’t packing the sauce, I would direct the car to the nearest watering hole or law violating provider.

I experienced several near death experiences during this time frame. Having the dangerously erroneous conviction of teenage immortality, an unhealthy adrenalin junkie jones, and an alcohol muddled brain, I put my life (and many others) in severe peril, usually behind the wheel of a 2 ton machine. One circumstance stands out in particular.

Me and my buddy, the “Don”, had embarked on a night of heavy beer drinking. Unfortunately, I was behind the wheel. A belly full of sauce and no place to go was the night’s theme. The “Don” lost his glasses hurling outside of the passenger side window going down the interstate on ramp. My next memory was being across town not far from my house. We were on a straight 30 m.p.h. speed limit road that ended at a stop sign on an abrupt curve. I told the “Don” (who was passed out at the time) that I was gonna see what this fuckin’ car could do.

Luckily, the car was a 10 year-old Honda civic with only about 75 horse power. Nonetheless, I managed to hit about 80 miles an hour on the straight away. Unfortunately, I had not planned on the rapidly advancing curve and stop sign. When my muddled brain caught up with the physical reality of my predicament, it was far too late. I was rocketing toward a giant steel support for electrical power lines anchored on a concrete island at the end of the road. I slammed on the brakes and hit the curb violently, which propelled the car through the air between the steel support and the anchor cables. Upon landing, the car skidded through an intersecting street and landed perfectly in a parking space at a oil change establishment.

The car was dead and was suffering from a broken rear axle due to the impact. I was oblivious to how close I had come to either an immediate death due to sudden impact, or a messy decapitation. The “Don” awoke, looked over, and asked “what the fuck just happened.” I told him everything was cool. In my disoriented confusion, I suspected the car had run out of gas.

I flagged down a bar-fly floozy looking for fresh teenage meat. She drunkenly invited me in her car after hearing my desperate plea. I intended to go home to get a gas can so she could cruise me by a petrol station to refuel the crashed vessel at the scene. The bar-fly pulled up in front of the house and I told her to wait for a minute. Unfortunately, my mum interdicted me at the front door in her nightgown with an obscenity-laden tirade. The floozy took her cue and fled the scene. Mum picked up the “Don” and dropped him off a few doors from his crib (per his wise request).

I ran away for a few days and crashed at my best friend’s house while contemplating my next move. An unemployed teenager with only a black t-shirt, a pair of jeans, and a pair of shoes was at a major disadvantage, so I opted for my prodigal son fate. A decision had been made for me in my absence.

A phone call to my probation officer had necessitated an immediate juvenile hearing. My parents chose the option to relocate me temporarily (until further plans could be made). I was sent to a group home for teenage run-aways, throw-aways, and societal rejects. The house was a massive duplex on the edge of downtown. It was run by a naive, but well-meaning ex-hippie couple.

We watched telly in the living room, had a Nintendo, and ate well-prepared meals. I had designs on an attractive (though obviously emotionally traumatized) little broad who lived in the group home. I remember thinking how easy the prey was, and in light of this, how meaningless the conquest would be. She was damaged goods. I didn’t need to compound her misery with another manipulative ball-driven sexual endeavor.

Life was easy there, but I was jonesin’ hard for squares. One day, I joined the group home director to refuel the minivan. We drove several miles away to the gas station. As my addictive luck had it, we ended up at the one joint where I could obtain coffin nails on credit. I successfully pleaded with my handler to pay for the petrol at the counter. My man Fred was on duty and doled me out two packs of Camels with the promise to pay him on Tuesday. I could almost feel the warm smoke and toxic chemicals sliding down my welcoming esophageal tube.

When we got back to the crib, I unpacked the squares and hid them in the moulding near the ceiling of my room, behind the baseboards, and tucked them my clothes in the dresser drawers. We had room searches and I expected some of the soldiers to be found (casualties of war are expected in any conflict).

After killing a de-filtered square outside playing basketball, I was called in for the inquisition. I smelled like smoke and they wanted the evidence. I grabbed a few fags out of my room and handed them over sheepishly. Luckily, the room search was not thorough enough.

I shared the room with a 9 year-old Black kid. I pitied him and his plight, but that night I had to make sure he understood the terms of our arrangement. As he was falling asleep I walked over to his bed and stared him in the face. I told him I was gonna kill a square, and that if he breathed a word, he would be smothered in his sleep. I proceeded to fire up the sin stick and blew the smoke underneath a closet door. Daddy’s heart beat was racing and I felt real good. The kid knew what was good for him by keeping mum the next day, and that made me real proud.


When the Music’s Over

Recommended companion reading – “The Birth of Tragedy” by Friedrich Nietzsche

When the music’s over
Turn out the lights

For the music is your special friend
Dance on fire as it intends
Music is your only friend
Until the end

Cancel my subscription to the Resurrection
Send my credentials to the House of Detention

I got some friends inside

The face in the mirror won’t stop
The girl in the window won’t drop
A feast of friends
“Alive!” she cried
Waitin’ for me

Before I sink
Into the big sleep
I want to hear
I want to hear
The scream of the butterfly

Come back, baby
Back into my arm
We’re gettin’ tired of hangin’ around
Waitin’ around with our heads to the ground

I hear a very gentle sound
Very near yet very far
Very soft, yeah, very clear
Come today, come today

What have they done to the earth?
What have they done to our fair sister?
Ravaged and plundered and ripped her and bit her
Stuck her with knives in the side of the dawn
And tied her with fences and dragged her down

I hear a very gentle sound
With your ear down to the ground
We want the world and we want it…
We want the world and we want it…

Persian night, babe
See the light, babe
Save us!
Save us!

So when the music’s over
When the music’s over
Turn out the lights

Well the music is your special friend
Dance on fire as it intends
Music is your only friend
Until the end
Until the end
Until the end!

When the Music’s Over – The Doors

Johnny Peepers

----> is a socio-pathetic degenerate with a penchant for cheap booze, ruphy-laden broads, and dim sum soup.


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