A Rant About Marketing

A Rant

I deeply resent THEM, the marketing people, playing on my fears.  It all came home to me as I was watching a  smarmy Grecian Formula commercial.  First, a sexy female voice-over says "She'll never know, even though she runs her fingers through your hair". A man and woman are happily embracing.  The girl purrs "ooh, I love your hair. It's Soo sexy".  Then the man looks directly into the camera and winks.

Right.  I get it.  He uses Grecian formula.  He scores. In order to sell thousands of tons of this diabolical scalp acid the marketers saturate us with the implication that we won't get laid by beautiful women if we look old. 

Women are treated far worse.  Every day they’re told that if they get a wrinkle or two, they're ready for the crone-heap, they can go out to the shack in back and start stirring newt's eyes and lizard scrotums into a big pot. 

The evil that seeps up from the black heart of our commercial culture is so insidious that we become zombies under the influence of something we can 't hear, smell, taste, touch or see.  We should spank these greedy marketing people on their tush.  We need "re-education camps" for advertising execs. They will attend mandatory  therapy sessions administered by ex-con hermaphroditic junkies. 

Who the fuck do they think they are?  Scaring me into wanting to buy Rogaine?  Telling me my sex life is over if I lose a few patches of hair.  I've ACTUALLY thought about it.  I refuse to give in, I won’t be a victim of faux peer pressure.  Instead I’ll spend the money I’ve saved not buying Rogaine and I'll go to Venezuela to get a face lift by Doctor Mendoza.  This jovial man is a world famous plastic-surgeon.  He has worked miracles on hundreds of Miss Universe contestants and many Hollywood stars.  He is also a philanthropist who donates part of his time fixing up hare-lipped urchins from the streets of Caracas. 

If you’ve reached a certain age you realize that the world has been going progressively more psychotic.  Nothing is genuine anymore, everything is used as a shuck.  I got a flyer from a so-called "Green" investment firm.  They want me to invest my money in their mutual fund, and I should do so because they only buy “Green Stocks.”  Uh huh.  I was born yesterday.  The most tender ministrations of the most altruistic do-gooders have been turned into Wall Street spam.

Even if I had money I would feel queasy about investment.

I can't help but feel as though the whole banking and finance system will go through a REAL meltdown around the year 2014 that will result in all the world's money winding up in Rupert Murdoch 's underground strong-room.  He must be like Mr. Burns on The Simpsons. 

I wonder if he wrings his hands. 

Rainbows In The Morning

      I live in an RV and I love the lifestyle.  It seems appropriate to our times.  It's "green", economical (if you know what you're doing), and it has the feel of living in an alternate universe.  Sometimes it's isolating. There's a sense of being separated from the "real world".  But the "real world" is such a madhouse that I can only handle it in small doses.  Yesterday morning I got up, took one look at the amazingly fluent double rainbow and ran for my camera.  I used a super wide- angle lens, which, at 12mm focal length, adds considerable distortion.
      That's all right.  Distortion can be a good thing.  Who, or what, in this world is not distorted in some profound measure?

     Visit my photography website at www.artsdigitalphoto.com

The Oprah: Religion In The Future

           A thousand years from now the Twenty Eighth Dalai Lama and the Fourteenth Oprah will have a  meeting at Spirit Rock Meditation Center in California.  The Fourteenth Oprah will be only eight years old, but she will sit upon her dais with gravity and balance.  The Twenty Eighth Dalai Lama will attempt to bow lower than the Oprah, but she will always be able to out-bow him, being only four feet six inches tall and much more flexible. A carefully selected group of people will have been invited to this significant gathering.  Several thousand more will be trying to get through the security barriers designed to protect the august presence of the Dalai Lama and The Oprah. 

            This meeting of the great religious leaders of the East and West will be the second meeting of a Dalai Lama and an Oprah in three centuries.  The Thirteenth Oprah was a snarling cantankerous woman who loathed  pompous spiritual ceremony. She was a great trial to her attendants.

            All kidding aside, I think there should be established an office of The Oprah, at the death of the present Oprah, and that there should be a matriarchal spiritual guide for the world.  I watch Oprah because she represents the course of the mainstream spirituality movement in America.  It is no accident that

her constituency is composed primarily of middle class women. This demographic has sufficient time
and motivation to turn its angst into self improvement.  

            Having no knowledge of Oprah's personal and private behaviour, I must nonetheless pay tribute to someone who has consistently presented an accessible level of transformative thought to the American public.  It may be maudlin, sometimes embarrassing and even, in a sense, pornographic. I can't help cringing when couples in deep trouble attempt to have therapy in front of twenty million people. I can barely prevent snot from running out my nose when Oprah all but guarantees that our dreams will come true if we passionately persist in following our bliss. But anyone who honors volunteers, who rewards the silent, invisible, tireless workers who are attempting to help other people is okay by me. She helps writers and encourages the act of reading.  She trots out new teachers and gurus who then go on to their own syndicated TV shows. Her phrases can go into the lexicon of future Oprahs.  “Big, Big!”  “Lightbulb moment.” “I got a chill!” “Remember Your Spirit.” 

            You go, girl.

The Self

Be a person

whenever you get the chance.

Be new.  Distinguish yourself

from primal ooze.

Form intelligence,

pursue it with outrageous diligence.

What an opportunity!

To exist

as a discreet form,

a single mind,

may be rare as a precious gem.

Some gurus teach

that there is no self.

I think there’s so much self

that it’s easy to suffer

mistaken identity.

There is a self to be.

There is a mind to think,

a body to feel

a soul that is real.

Wave flags of your own design

crazily, where no one can see them.

Wave yourself in all your colors,

dance until you are without breath.

Be a person,

don’t hesitate. 

Don’t be one of those pallid beings

who die without filling up

with madness, with tragedy and passion,

with glorious mistakes and profound learning.

This is it, your big chance.

Be a person.  Be afraid, be brave,

be wrong, be right, it doesn’t matter,

just be

what you are and invent everything else

as you go along. 

Compassion Found Dead In Senate

Reuters, AP

            Compassion was found dead on the floor of the Senate early this morning.  An employee of the Capitol’s maintenance staff, Dizzy Tilton, found the body as he was sweeping debris down the center aisle.
          “I seen it comin’ for a long time.  It wasn't no shock." said Mr. Tilton, who has worked in the Senate for thirty seven years.  

            The body of Compassion, best known for such hits as “Wake Up Before It’s Too Late,” and “I Seen the Devil And It’s You,” was sprawled across a large number of  seats in the Senate. An anonymous source in law enforcement told this reporter that as many as fifty knives were used in the killing.  The FBI and the Secret Service say they have no suspects at this time, but a thorough investigation will be mounted as soon as a committee is formed to decide who will lead the inquiry.

            “There’s plenty of evidence”, said Special Agent Dawn Zerle-Light, “There are fingerprints on top of fingerprints.  Seems like everybody wanted Compassion out of the way.  The timing is suspicious, I must say.  Only last week, Wisdom was blown to pieces in the House.  Officials in Congress are trying to pin the crime on lobbyists. Of course the investigation won’t start until the end of the current filibuster.”

Three Poems

Three  Poems

Hummingbird

At the tip of my nose

there is something sweeter

than any earthly perfume,

yet I cannot smell it.

Every time my eyes blink

a vision appears

of splendor beyond imagining;

I see it not.

At the ends of my fingers

is a touch filled with love

deeper and truer than any devotion

I can conceive.

Yet my hands hang loose

connecting with nothing.

If I turn around,

it is behind me.

If I look over my right shoulder,

it hides at my left.

There is nothing for me to do.

You will show yourself

when you wish.

I know you are here,

hiding in music I can’t hear,

loving me

as the lover I have never found,

obscuring yourself

in the clarity I have sought

but not achieved.

Sometimes I am discouraged,

but not deterred.

You are here, you are here,

waiting for me to stop the drama.

I can’t find you by any effort,

though you embrace me like a coccoon.

I can’t smell you, see you, touch you,

catch you, hold you,

love you, discern you,

sense you in my breathing,

achieve you in my dying.

I can only exist as I find myself,

nothing more.

You would not have made me this way

unless it was your will to do so.

You would not hide yourself

so close to me,

unless you intended yourself to be found.

Hunted By The Hawk

Make joy from stones.

Make wit from mud,

make humor from blood.

The tiny finch flies crazily,

for the sheer fun of it,

though it knows, each morning,

that it’s hunted by the hawk.

We too, each morning,

are hunted by the hawk.

 No Title

I wish I was still young and beautiful.

I am glad, however, that I am not the person

I was, when I was young and beautiful.

For a while, I didn’t recognize myself

when I looked in the mirror.

Who is this man,

whose hair has fallen out,

who grunts when he gets out of bed,

who limps where he once danced?

Then, I began to

accommodate to what a life really is,

to what a person can become,

to what I have become.

I still look at the young and beautiful,

I still envy the wildness of their feelings,

but pity the wildness of their feelings.

I have been gored soundly and with

thudding impact by the untamed bull of life. 

When I was young and beautiful,

I was cruel. 

When I could dance,

I danced for attention,

not for love. 

Now, occasionally, some rhythm

takes me, and I still undulate,

a few steps, back and forth.

Those few steps are worth

more than every dance I danced

when I was young and beautiful. 

The Psychic Speaks

             

            Fox’s cell phone tinkled its cascade of musical notes.  I was at the computer and Fox was behind me on the couch.

            She listened for a moment, and responded, “Yes, this is Fox D-----.  Yes, I do work with animals…..”.  More words were spoken on the other end, and Fox interrupted.  “Wait wait.  All I need is the dog’s name at this point. If I want other information, I’ll ask.  Sometimes knowing too many facts will taint my reading.   Just give me a few minutes.  Let me see if I can contact the dog.  His name is Mikki?  Okay.”

            Fox rested the phone on her knee, straightened her posture, and seemed to be staring at a spot about two feet in front of her eyes.  Her eyes were de-focused as she loosed her imagination into a receptive mode.  Her breathing grew deeper, and there was a tingle of energy in her nerves, as if she had been switched on to some current that now raced through her body.

            She picked up the phone.  “I see a male dog, very small.  A Yorkie, maybe. No, don’t answer me, just let me talk until I’m finished.  There’s a fire, and he’s running.  The area looks like San Diego, maybe the suburbs.   Forest fire, trees burning near this house.  His family’s house.  There are mom, dad, and two kids, the kids are about nine or ten. Mikki’s their baby, they love Mikki.  The fire comes and the parents bundle the kids into the car.  They can’t find Mikki.  The kids are screaming where’s Mikki, where’s Mikki?  But Mikki’s hiding behind a shelf in the garage, he’s so scared.  The sounds of the trees burning, the crackle is very painful to his ears. The car pulls out of the garage and Mikki chases after it, gets out before the garage door closes.  He runs and runs after the car, and the kids see him, they’re screaming at their parents stop for Mikki, stop for Mikki, but the parents are scared, they don’t stop.  The fire is really close. Mikki sees the kids faces, crying as they look out the car’s back window. Mikki runs until he can’t keep up with the car, but he keeps following their scent until he loses it.  His paws are bleeding he’s run so far, but the fire is now distant, it isn’t threatening any more.”
            I could hear the voice of the person through Fox’s little cell speaker.   “Oh my god,” I hear distinctly.

            A sheen of sweat coats Fox’s forehead.  She speaks with urgency, words come out fast, a torrent of words.  “Mikki can barely walk but he’s so thirsty and hungry that he keeps moving.  He’s in a place where all the signs are in Spanish.  There are a lot of people, crowds walking, and Mikki’s afraid.  He stops behind a restaurant or a fast food place and there’s dirty water in a bucket and he drinks it. There’s a dumpster with food garbage, and there are other animals, wild and scary…”

            I’ve seen this happen before, but rarely with such elaborate detail.  And what  a story!  It’s like some Hallmark or Disney movie, but Fox doesn't deal in fantasy, she doesn't make up stories.  I've learned to trust her, though it took a while.

            “A man comes outside and sees Mikki” Fox continued.  “He brings bowls with some hamburger and clean water and beckons Mikki to come inside a little fenced area where he can eat without being bothered.  He leaves Mikki there and goes back inside.  Mikki crawls under some wooden crates and goes to sleep.  He wakes when his paws hurt too much.  He can barely walk.  He stays in this place for a while, until his paws feel a little better. Then some men come and load the crates into a truck, and Mikki hobbles out through the open gate and goes down the road.  Some kids see him and one of them catches him before he can hide.  He tries to bite but he’s too weak to defend himself.”

            Fox stops here and begins to weep.  A sound comes from the phone.  I can hear the woman on the other end also weeping.

            “It’s okay,” Fox reassures.  “I just can’t believe how these kids treated Mikki.  I’m not going to tell you that.  You don’t need these images. They drove around in a car playing loud Spanish music and laughing. They treated Mikki like a toy. Mikki bit and fought, so they tossed him onto a busy street.  He just managed to get to safety.  He tried to hide behind some barrels, but a man found him and took him with a net on a pole, took him to a place with a lot of dogs barking, a lot of fear.   After that Mikki somehow got a lucky break..  He was moved once more to a small kennel. He was treated well and his injuries were looked after.”

            Fox slumped, exhausted.  Her color was grey.  She was breathing hard, as if she had been Mikki and had run all that distance, suffered all those trials.  Tears pooled at the point of her chin.

            The woman on the phone was speaking.  Fox responded.  “No wonder Mikki would go nuts when he hears Spanish.  Do you hire people who speak English?  Can you get them to speak only English?  Yes, that would help.  Mikki’s not going to like the sound of Spanish.”

            She listened for a moment.  “Don’t hold that against him.  No wonder he bit you when you tried to clean his paws.  His paws will always be sensitive.. Where did you find Mikki?”

            Fox listened.  “So the San Diego Yorkie Rescue got a call from United Hope in Tijuana?  Amazing.  I can tell how much you love Mikki.  Do you smoke?  I didn’t want to tell you this, but I guess it’s relevant.  Those kids burned him a couple times with cigarettes.”

            Fox listened to the answer. “It doesn’t matter.  Mikki can’t tell the difference. It’s still smoking.  You’ll have to smoke somewhere Mikki can’t see you. Anything to do with smoking will scare him, and he’ll get aggressive.  Was everything done to try and contact his original family?”

            Fox listened, nodded her head.  “You have to do that.  You have?  That’s good.  Maybe they lost their home, who knows?  You did your best.  Well  .now you have Mikki.”

            I could hear the effusions from the woman on the phone.  She was weeping. Fox was weeping.  Every part of the story she had gotten from Mikki could be corroborated.  He had been picked up by Tijuana Animal Control.  A group called United Hope For Animals was patrolling the kennels when they found Mikki.

            The new place was filled with people who cared for Mikki, soothed him and loved him. He had no tags, no collar.  His feet were lacerated, and he had cigarette burns on his body.  He was nursed back to health, and then a picture of him was posted on the internet.  Three months passed with no one to claim him, then he was put up for adoption.  That’s when Fox’s new client saw him online and drove to San Diego to bring him home to Northern California.

            I can’t explain how Fox achieves these readings, these transfers of information from an animal’s experience into her own.  Science scoffs; but I see it happen, I see her readings corroborated time and again.  Science is not adequate to encompass such mysteries, so science says, “Impossible.”

            Everything is possible. At first I thought Fox had a few loose screws.  I thought she was an elaborate fantasist.  But she got "hits" time and again, way beyond statistical average.  I learned to suspend my disbelief, to trust Fox's abilities.

            Sometimes, Fox can describe an animal’s experiences without having met the animal.  All she needs is a name or a photograph.  What is going on here? This isn’t a television show, this isn’t a gimmick.  It happens and it has real consequences.  Animals are re-united with their people, pets are healed of old trauma by having a witness.  All kinds of strange things happen in Fox’s universe.
        All kinds of strange things happen everywhere.  Why not here, in my own home?