Category: Uncategorized

God's Rant #959 - Tiny Caskets
by God

I do like human children. Their size, energy, inquisitive minds, ability to learn, and general helpless squeakiness, make the cute little germ factories a favorite among the multiverse. Babies, toddlers, and assorted other young ones who live in galaxies far far away do not have the same adorable feeble friendliness that begs for so much attentive loving care. Have you spent any time with a young one from planet Silentium-BQ? Oy vey. They don't speak, poop, or make a sound for the first 100 years. Some of my poker buddies think that's a delight. 
      Life and death is something I know a little bit about. I've been meandering through the Great Space for a long time. If you have paid attention, in the blip of the moment you've been here, then you know, I know about life and death. Although, it's clear to the rest of us who enjoy dancing the String Theory Tango and who have traveled extensively through the Great Space, human attention span is shorter than the dying breaths of a small Nova. So you may be clueless. But let's assume you are an exception whose attention span at least equals the time it takes to boil a stiff egg. Then you know, I know about life, death, and the sad state of societal inequities humans have created for themselves, which too often hasten the death of those who least expect their sudden end. 
      I also know there are plenty of smug science skeptics and smug dogmatic autocrats, who try to affect civil social change for the better. It is as if humans try to out-smug each other. If the do-gooders only knew how difficult it is to create lasting changes when your mug is full of smug. 
      I was there one quiet evening, where I sat on the salty pebbled shoreline of the Yām HaMāvet, when Life asked Death, "Why does everyone love me and hate you?” Clearly, a leading question. Not everyone loves life. But most humans are at least willing to pretend their life is worthwhile. They've mastered fake smiles and gratuitous apologies, and are taught they are uniquely special. So, Death looked deep into the conflicted brown, blue, green, and red eyes of Life and replied, "Because you, Life, are a beautiful lie, and I am the ugly truth."
      I should mention there are a few exceptional humans who are devoid of smuggy sanctimonious discourse; who know how to authentically and effectively communicate - who also understand that Death makes a fair point.
      Throughout the life and death process, most humans claim they want to be united. They claim they want to be together. One world. One big happy family. United we stand! United States! United Arab Emirates. United Kingdom. European Union. Americans United. United Way. United Nations! Ever since that Big Bang, humans have been unconsciously wanting to reunite with their DNA, now scattered throughout the Great Space. 
     The reality is, humans will forever struggle with efforts to be united, and still stumble into Malthusian's Trap and other self-imposed obstacles. Aside from how to manage a severe grudge, or what humans dismiss as "mental illness", their ability to unite is extraordinarily clannish, with one notable exception. Humans know how to unite murderers. In America, many humans still hold a strong belief that the Second Amendment relies first on the uninfringed right of the people to bear arms necessary to kill, maim, and hurt other humans. 
      I don't usually get involved in the minutia of human affairs, so kindly indulge my short, moral declamatory rant. This is less than a "three minute egg" read. My poker buddies are waiting for my next play. I hold a pair of aces and eights. Think I'll raise.
      The Americans know there can be no militia without armed people. The sequence of events that need to occur for a human government to create a militia is as follows: First, codify in writing, the right to create a militia. [For the uninformed Earthly population, please see Article 1, Section 8, Clauses 15 and 16 of the United States Constitution]; Second, ratify the Second Amendment, "A well-regulated militia . . ." yada yada yada . . .; Third, get equipped people who will join the militia; Fourth, manage the militia.
     At the signing of the United States Constitution, the equipped people who were necessary for an effective militia were humans from villages, cities, and the countryside who typically brought their own weapons to the militia. 
     The Second Amendment is quite capable of uniting murderers, killers, indiscriminate death purveyors, and a majority of politicians who enjoy what they claim the Second Amendment provides -- easy, unimpeded access to weapons of their choice. 
     And, voilà! The weapons manufacturers and others who lack the courage to display genuine integrity and who apparently need guns for profits and a sense of safety, thank the Lord that their rights are "God given."     
     Well, I call bullshit.
     Human political posturing and woeful wrangling must be put aside to end the tragic tiny casket syndrome in America. Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. understood this well when he eulogized the children lying in their tiny caskets after the bombing of the 16th Street Baptist Church in 1963. He said,  

These children -- unoffending, innocent, and beautiful -- were the victims of one of the most vicious and tragic crimes ever perpetrated against humanity. And yet they died nobly. They are the martyred heroines of a holy crusade for freedom and human dignity. And so this afternoon in a real sense they have something to say to each of us in their death. They have something to say to every minister of the gospel who has remained silent behind the safe security of stained-glass windows. They have something to say to every politician who has fed his constituents with the stale bread of hatred and the spoiled meat of racism. They have something to say to a federal government that has compromised with the undemocratic practices of southern Dixiecrats and the blatant hypocrisy of right-wing northern Republicans. They have something to say to every Negro who has passively accepted the evil system of segregation and who has stood on the sidelines in a mighty struggle for justice. They say to each of us, black and white alike, that we must substitute courage for caution. They say to us that we must be concerned not merely about who murdered them, but about the system, the way of life, the philosophy which produced the murderers. Their death says to us that we must work passionately and unrelentingly for the realization of the American dream.

 From their tiny caskets, children beg adults to listen, see, and act. From their tiny caskets, children know the only answer to end the epidemic of tiny caskets is through mindful human understanding and willful binding agreements. You may have been taught and still believe that "thoughts and prayers" help. That phrase serves to numb motivation and helps keep the human lawmakers unaccountable. 
      Meanwhile, those who mindlessly spew "thoughts and prayers" feel as if they have consoled the loved ones of those in tiny caskets. They have not. So, the mass killings of human young ones continue at an incredibly alarming rate. Killing each other for inexplicable reasons has become so pathetically prevalent that a six year old child shot his first grade teacher after he learned to mimic the unhinged adults who kill.
       The most violent year in American schools was 2022. 2023 is on pace to surpass that shameful record. The unprecedented rise in child and teen firearm deaths reflects the overall increase in gun deaths in America according to your own Pew Research.
      The profiteering purveyors of firearms used to kill children and others now say, "We need more guns!" "Let's arm teachers!" That is as insane as solving the drunk driver problem by adding more drunk drivers to the road.
      "Hey hey ho ho, the NRA has got to go" were chants shouted by young ones who marched in the streets of Nashville after a mass shooting on March 27, 2023, including the slaughter of children, at a private American parochial school where people go to worship me. Did you know? Guns are banned at the NRA Leadership Forum.
      The late Chief Justice, Warren Burger, said of the Second Amendment, "one of the greatest pieces of fraud, I repeat the word fraud, on the American public by special interest groups that I have ever seen in my lifetime.”
      I am only one small insignificant god who is outraged that humans can not do better. I am disappointed in the culture that perpetuates the need for so many tiny caskets. I can assure you that planet Earth will not be accepted into the Greater Interverse Amici Amoris Mutuum Beneficium Society until you have eliminated the desire to kill each other. My dearly departed Granmama God was fond of saying, "All it takes is one bad leader to ruin it for the rest of us."
     We all know, humans have some positive redeeming traits, but are widely known to be quitters, liars, and deal breakers. Ask the Native Americans. Look at how many laws there are with regard to religion despite the First Amendment declaring, "Congress shall make no law respecting the establishment of religion." Look at what American humans declared in the Declaration of Independence, "... certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness." American humans do not really mean Life is an unalienable right. The cosmos knows, and you should too, there is no life, no liberty, and no way to pursue happiness, from inside a tiny casket. Complacency kills.
     There are many reasons I don't beam by planet Earth more often. But one reason at the top of the list is the narcissism of petty disagreements that make for the most repetitive, dryasdust, and deadly kind of societal group think. Do-gooders can not even agree on what is good. Humans yearn to be offended. Earth -- One small planet of indig-nations. And, your Global and Local Leaders who use fear and force as a means to their end, do not care enough to take action on things that matter. When it comes to caring -- enough is not enough. Want an investment tip from God? Tiny caskets.

Please email any comments, questions, or concerns to this human: kenhurley88@gmail.com

THE HUMANS, Part 1 
 Ken Hurley 

If you can read you are probably a human. F u cn rd ths, yr stll prbly hmn. 
      Polysemous as a definition for 
'human' can be, for our purpose let's agree when we refer to a human or humans we refer to specimens of the biological species Homo sapiens, who straightened their spine and walked away from the established hominin lineage about 150,000 years ago. We're still walking.
      Human life-form essentials include: Complex tool making, symbol use, language, coordinated socialized hunting and gathering, ability to jitterbug to rap, a distinct manner of smiling fulminations, and an occasional vegetarian haggis.
      Some humans offer another morphological feature of humans in that humans tend to possess a high level of reasoned rationale. Other humans, after considering that last sentence, giggle.
      We had no choice whether or not we would be human. It's not as if we could exercise free will at a buffet where we could select to become an elephant, anteater, Dodo bird, platypus, or a Neanderthal. Given the other possibilities, being human is remarkably good fortune. (Perhaps I'm biased?)
      Because we are human it is likely you, as was I, had our introduction to God at an early age. It is also likely the nature of being human prompted an inquiry into what you were told by your elders. We tend to trust our elders. Yet, it is distinctly probable the validity of the stories told about God were questioned as you grew older.
      Demographic trends suggest it is increasingly apparent that the imaginative stories about an omniscient supernatural God have since been dismissed as inadequate by a growing significant percentage of the population. Especially by those who grew to embrace an irreligious view. 
      The act of being human is known collectively as humanity. From humanity comes humaneness. To be humane is to be kind and benevolent. Humans each have the potential to display genuine, heartfelt, loving kindness or behave like a monsterous, insane, raving maniac. We each have the potential to exercise intelligent judgment or feckless folly. Likely both more than once in a lifetime. Whether or not our good or bad behavior is a motivational choice, a causal determination neatly written in our genetic code, or something else, remains a matter for endless discussions. 
      Add 'ist' to human and we have humanist. A humanist prefers an approach to life based on reason and our shared humanity. Humanists recognize that moral values are founded upon human nature and human experience not the divine or supernatural. 
      A humanist embraces the goodness of human beings, emphasizes our collective human needs, and seeks rational methods to solve human problems. To this extent, whether we admit it or not, we are all humanists.
      The phenomenon known to us as a human and the associated psychological characteristics, feelings, and behavioral traits of humans, has commonality shared by all healthy humans known as human nature. 
      Given the variety of cultures around the world, and the disparate ideologies to which humans ascribe, is it possible that all healthy humans share traits found within human nature? Yes.
      One obvious example of a shared trait within human nature is our survival instinct. From birth, our survival instinct is strong. After we are born we typically cry, scream, and flail uncontrollably in an effort to have our needs met. The wails and flails of a newborn are the language and actions of survival. A baby has no chance of survival without the attentive care of an elder.
      Every day, several times a day, as the tiny bantling grows into a tiny toddler, the little bundle of joy poops and pees freely at will. Anywhere. Anytime. Hence, potty humor was born. 
      A toddlin' young poop machine makes a respectable illustrative analogy for describing human nature. Simply put, human nature is to poop in one's pants. Fortunately, human desire, our ability to learn, recognize self-realization, and improve our human condition is also human nature.
     There comes a moment when the young poop factory, at the urging of their elders, realizes pooping in their pants (diaper, on the floor) is messy, unpleasant, and not in the child's best interests. We all know bad things happen when we lose our shit. So, acting on behalf of their own self-interest children practice how not to poop in their pants. Then one glorious day amongst applause and cheers, their practice is rewarded by success. 
     So it is with human nature. Metaphorically, (sometimes literally) we still wail and flail through our trials and errors as we develop from the toddlin' poop factory into the old-age poop factory. Somewhere along that path we gain enough self-interest, self-respect, and self-control, to be useful to ourselves and others. But, we need practice. A human's self-interest is served even when the best altruistic tendencies are displayed. 
       Let's remember, poop was around long before the esteemed philosophers Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle waxed wise about ethics, human nature, free will, determinism, and the quest for eudaimonia, otherwise known as happiness. 
     Little is known about Plato's friendly game of Pettia held weekly in the andrōn of his house where he invited his philosopher buddies and neighbors to play. 
      One of his neighbors, Shecky Karpouzis, did not say much as he listened intently to the gabfest the esteemed learned philosophers enjoyed. From time to time Shecky would overcome his muted shyness and demonstrate his quiet free will by politely offering his critique of the philosophers sapient musings by murmuring, "We're all full of shit. That's why we poop daily."
      Just like civil rights come from civil wrongs; pooping in one's pants (as yucky as it may be) seems an apt and reasonable analogy toward describing human nature from the beginning through the end. 
###

– Ken Hurley

I confess. I am a closeted Epistemologist who is considering coming out of the closet but I have misplaced my opinions and fear the judgment of other Epistemologists when they learn I’ve lost my opinions.
      I usually keep my opinions right next to the small samples of knowledge I have accumulated over a lifetime of trying to remember things and forget other things. But nope, not there. I’ve looked everywhere for my opinions. I’ve looked where I keep my sense of humor but I can’t find my sense of humor either. I recall my sense of humor was kept in a cold truck marked Good Humor. I can’t even find the truck.
       Losing my opinions and my sense of humor in the same day has caused a brain daze in which my amygdala and  hippocampus tussle with each other sending my limbic system into a frenzy making me want to fight and flight.
      How can I offer astute philosophical views regarding the nature of nature or eloquently answer, “What is knowledge?” if I can’t find my opinions? How can I explain the distinction between Ho and Hum if I don’t have an opinion? Without opinions how am I to know whether my life is properly examined or unexamined? How can I even care about the differences between empiricism and rationalism without my inordinately prodigious opinions?
     I asked a friend if I could borrow one of her opinions but I got side-eyed and face-slapped as she yelled, “Get your own opinions, Bub.”
      I asked another friend if he had seen my opinions. He vaguely recalled that once upon a time I was loaded with spitfire, well-crafted, persuasive, opinions. But that was a long time ago. He asked if I have also lost mind since that’s where most opinions are kept.
      Occasionally my mind wanders. Where it goes I don’t know. Once my mind left for a long weekend. When it returned I shuddered and felt a warm rush enter my body and heard my meandering wayward mind think, “Well, that was a hoot!”
      I tried watching Tucker Carlson to see if I could find my opinions on the TV but his skewed views sent my usually strong gastrointestinal system looking for Pepto, straight no chaser. My nervous system started to jitter and flitter when I realized Tucker is a hypocritical propagandaist who seems to be aligned with the Russian State Media yet has direct social influence over the cultural interactions of his loyal followers. Ugh!
      I looked for my opinions on my local newspaper Opinion Page but the Opinion Page is no longer in the paper.
      I scoured the streets asking strangers if they knew where my opinions went. No one had an opinion as to where my opinions might be. They all seemed to back away slowly then turned and bolted like “Lightening Bolt” Usain in the 100 meter dash.
      I once had a marble collection complete with aggies, red devils, and tiger eyes. My most prized marble was a vintage German handmade onionskin. But I’ve lost my marbles too!
      Oh, wait! I think I feel an opinion swelling within. This could be big. Oh no. Just yesterday’s burritos.
      Looks like I may have to stay closeted until I have a couple of thoughts I might cobble together to develop a new opinion or two.
      I met a sad scraggly old man in the closet who was filled with self-inflicted misery. He truly believes he embraces all the problems of this “absurd world” as he calls it. He told me he wants to become a “critical thinker.” He admits he’s good at being critical but struggles with actual thinking. He said, “It hurts to think.”
      I said, “It takes a while to learn which thoughts to dismiss and which thoughts to retain. Some people think too much and stumble over their self-consciousness.”
    He giggled.
    Pundits agree the most quotable of the Three Stooges is Curly of “nyunk nyunk nyunk” fame. My favorite Curly quote is, “I’m trying to think but nothing happens!” That’s the point, to form a reasoned and respected conclusion worthy of a gold-standard opinion one must first know how to think with enough patience and clarity to sift through the bewildering oozey, gray matter, of biased human confusion.
     I do have one free thought I’ll share from real life. Seems a likely place to get a thought. From time to time we recognize smiling fortune as the joy it is. Especially, if we are the first to quietly awake within thoughtful moments as we watch the Sun peak over the Earth’s horizon revealing the striking splendor of the sky pallette, the shifting colorful cloud canvas that evokes feelings of delightful admiration — that’s when you know you’ve got yourself a good life! A different life. Life changes with each sunrise which helps expand the limits of perception. The pensive dawn encourages energy. Energy encourages playfulness. Playfulness is one of the most responsibe things we can do in life. Responsibility is a necessity. It’s irresponsible to be serious all the time. The world doesn’t care much about our amphigoric mumbo jumbo when we are always serious. Yet, the world is there for us when we are playful. When life pokes you do you become an angry animal? How do you react when things do not go in your favor?
     Being playful isn’t a new opinion relative to living a joyful life. It is just fact.
     Ah well, if you find any of my opinions scattered about please forward them to me care of the broom closet under the spiral staircase down the hall. I’m sitting on an upside down mop bucket mumbling my new tune named, “Borrowed Imagination.”

Got opinions? Send them to Ken Hurley at kenhurley88@gmail.com
###

Dr. Smooth 
by Ken Hurley

There are days I lament my career choice of not following my dreams to become a mad scientist. The unbounded joys of working in a secret underground cave laboratory with a beautiful assistant who would call me Dr. Smooth fill my cup. And I have a big cup.
     My meals would arrive by Doordash and be left outside the lab because I’d be working late making myself invisible, which might go past 10:00pm. Do you know where your children are? Ha! Good luck trying to find them once my invisibility potion hits the market.
     Imagine, if rather than just one invisible man, the entire population were invisible. Careful where you sit! Oooh! My kind of fun.
     My invisibility potion would be strong. Whatever you first touch with your hands would become invisible for as long as some part of your body touches it. I have conquered the way to suppress the light scattering  needed to cloak the human form with glorious invisibility! Mad? You decide. It’s a scientific breakthrough by breaking the unbreakable speed of light. Einstein would smile!
     The benefits of worldwide invisibility are clearly seen. Racism would cease. Murder would end. No more wars. Government actions would really become transparent. No more suffering through another season of Jaguars Football! The “Invisible Man” in the sky would now truly be made in our image.
     Invisibility! Healthy and stealthy.
     Ah, but there’s a rub. Just as there’s a large anti-vax crowd who are led by the mindless musings of people so dumb when they hear “Drinks on the house” they get a ladder, there will be those who won’t like my invisibility potion for reasons so inexplicable it stretches credulity further than a Spandex Speedo over Orlando Bloom in full form.     
It is inevitable there will be a political divide and significant rancor amongst the “Unseen” and the “Seen.” But the shouting and online memes will soon end. The agonizing frustration caused by the futility of trying to find The Unseen will land The Seen in the looney bin singing Looney Tunes. We’re going to need a bigger bin.
    Eventually, The Seen will gain enough insight to see the benefits of being Unseen and embrace my invisibility potion with all the fanatical enthusiasm one sees when the Brazilians score a goal.
     Yes, my friends, I could have been a mad scientist who found the elusive and invisible path to world peace. But, knowing there are skeptics amongst us, I guess you’d have to see it to believe it.     

Overdue 
by Ken Hurley

Marjorie thought her punishment was unjust. She didn’t understand her offense. She sat on a straight hardback chair. Her elbows rested on the knarly old oak table in front of her.  Her hands covered her red puffy eyes. She struggled to catch her breath between uncontrollable quiet sobs. Her surroundings were unfamiliar. Where was she? She knew she would soon be made to do unspeakable things she had never imagined would happen to her. She was scared. She felt alone. Helpless. Silence was enforced. She couldn’t scream. She couldn’t talk. She couldn’t whisper.  She peeked around the room between jags of silent tears. It was large and dimly lit except for a small green-shaded brass lamp which sat on the table. How had she come to this? Why was this happening to her? 

She reviewed the events of her life to reconstruct what might have led to her predicament. She discarded the notion she was in this terrible place because she voted for Trump. This is America. We don’t convict and punish people because of how we cast our vote. She then wondered if perhaps she was here because she voted for Trump, twice?  Could that be the reason she was to suffer? Voted twice for him? She sobbed and sobbed and began to pray. But God wasn’t listening.

She was approached by a cherub of an elderly lady with a bun of gray hair atop her round head. Her eyeglasses rested on her bosom, held by a delicate gold chain around her neck that happened to lie across a small colorful dragonfly tattoo. Her fragrance seemed familiar. Lavender moth balls? Her lips pursed a half smile. Her mud-brown eyes offered a long dark gaze that beckoned — “you’re in my hands now.”

She spoke softly, directly, with immense authority and a gravelly, vocal fry, whose glottal wobbled more than a Bahamian hammock. Her finger tips were yellow. A life long Lucky Striker.

“My name is Eeee-lizbeth. Do you know why you’re here?”

Marjorie sat straight up. Frightened. Her hands trembled. She choked, coughed, and whimpered, “No, ma’am.”

“You have all the symptoms of one who needs to experience what happens in this room. You are here for remediation.”

“Where am I?” Whispered Marjorie.

“Where are you? You really don’t know? This is worse than I thought. We’re going to have to take things real slowly with you.”

“Please. Please,” begged Marjorie.

“Look around you! What do you see?” shouted Elizabeth, breaking the hush hush.

Marjorie looked left and right and swiveled in her chair to look behind her. She looked up at the high, ornate ceiling. She looked back at Elizabeth. “I don’t know?”

Elizabeth pivoted on her heels and began to pace as she muttered softly to herself, “How shall we begin? This is going to be painful.” Marjorie heard her mumbles and fear swelled throughout her body.

Elizabeth stopped and turned to face Marjorie as she commanded, “Stand!” Marjorie struggled. Weak from emotional exhaustion, paralyzed by her images of the horrors about to unfold, she slowly stood.

“Face left. Now, face right and tell me again you do not know what is before you.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I do not know,” she cried.

Elizabeth was enraged but kept her cool and then bellowed, “Books! You are surrounded by shelves and shelves of beautiful books! You are in the Great Library of America, the only known remedy for the intellectually lazy and willfully ignorant. You will be under my supervision until we decide you have sufficient knowledge and proficient application of the resources available free to you so that you can return to society as a fully functional and literate individual who can discern the difference between a swindle and a fair future. It won’t be easy. You’ll have to learn to enjoy reading. You’ll have to read authentic opposing viewpoints. You’ll have to learn to think. You’ll have to learn how to think critically. You’ll have to learn how to act responsibly toward yourself and others. You’ll have to demonstrate you’ll never vote for a individual or party that has repeatedly stood in the way of human progress. After that, you’ll be left alone. But you’ll be better prepared to pursue happiness.”

Their eyes locked. There was a long silence. Then Elizabeth spoke softly, “Meanwhile, let’s begin by reading the United States Constitution. Together. Have a seat.”

A FEW FREE THOUGHTS: Moonshine
by Ken Hurley

Let’s begin by asking, “Does this sentence remind you of sex?” Take a moment. Think about it. Sensual. Yes. Yeesss. Just a little longer. Ok, let’s continue.
     Her name is Moonshine. Her birth name was Amy but she changed her name in college to reflect her clandestine hobby of sipping bathtub gin at night with the boys in the rough near hole nine while star gazing and giggling over hedonistic leanings. By hedonistic leanings, I mean, the boys. I know. I was one of them.
      We dated for awhile in college but our arguments over which one of us was more disappointed with the other caused us to break up.
      Moonshine was a self-confessed  hyperbolic, histrionic, bloviating, boorish, boneheaded, ill-informed, exagerating, argumentative, status seeking, loud, mistrustful yet a fascinating libertine and vulgarian who was so skeptical she couldn’t even believe in herself. Piercings, tats, Kools, and leather. She’s a free spirit and yes, she is a friend.
     She wasn’t always so self-aware that she could offer such a harsh critique of herself. It took decades. She still struggles with self-identification.
     She didn’t have a pleasant manner when she realized she wasn’t getting her way. She was so self-absorbed and blinded by her ill-formed ideology that she stumbled through every pit a pure ideological approach to life has to offer. She had zero concept that the world or her friends could have different opinions than she. Yet, she was desperate to change the world.
      She worked hard at the arguments she enjoyed as long as she felt in the end she was right. She was like shampoo, only for yelling. She would yell. Repeat. Yell again. All to get her way often over the most insignificant issues.
     She thought she was right even after it was clear she was merely rationalizing to protect her hurt feelings. Like the Fox in the Fox and the Grapes fable.
    One day after she and I got into a little brouhaha (mosty ha ha for me) over who would win in a fight: Probiotics or Antibiotics? Moonshine realized the art of relaxed communication was preferable to her ways and stopped dancing with her anger. Overnight she stopped her maddening quest to change the world to fit her needs. Her dubious and doubtful outlook eased as she began to embrace the joys of life without being overly critical. She became remarkably accepting of others. She even developed an enriched sixth sense of humor. She changed herself and found what she describes as tranquility of mind. Others might say inner peace. She taught herself how to experience fully the present moment. She finally settled on a laissez-faire approach that resembeled an Epicurean Socratic Marxist. And by Marxist, I mean the Groucho variety. Her stuggles with the world ended when she learned to release, relax, let go, and laugh.
     Moonshine is an illustrative example of how one of the greatest attributes we humans have is the ability to change our mind. To do so we need to understand our own thoughts. We don’t always have to be right. And, it’s likely, most of us are not. 
     We must learn how to change our mind before we can change the world.
     Still, just as the sun rises and sets, Moonshine may indeed one day change the world. I know she tries. 
     The question remains, does this sentence remind you of sex? Take a moment.

    

Pliny the Elder
by Ken Hurley
Pliny the Elder was first called Pliny the Elder by a respectful eight year old boy when Pliny the Elder was a nine year old elementary student cracking wise with his weary old grammaticus.
      “The only certainty is that nothing is certain!” Pliny the Elder would shout in Greek then Latin as he yanked the teacher’s tunic to his ankles. Embarrassment for the teacher. Giggles for the children.
      Pliny the Elder was born Gaius Plinius Secundus (23 to 79 A.D.) but insisted that he always be addressed as Pliny the Elder to differentiate from all the other Pliny’s, most notably his nephew, Pliny the Younger. Lessor known Pliny’s are: Pliny the Middle Aged, Pliny the Retired, Pliny the Kid, and Pliny the Pleb (no relation).
      There is lots of obstinate and pervasive misinformation among historians and gossips regarding the great Roman scholar, historian, officer, lawyer, author, naturalist, corpulent and affable, Pliny the Elder. I’m here to set the wobbly record straight.
      Pliny the Elder was as respected and accomplished as one could be living under the chaotic and tyrannical rule of Emperor Nero. Take a moment to remember Nero chose suicide at 30 years alive after being declared a public enemy by the Roman Senate in Absentia. I have a friend who lives in Cognito which is close to Absentia. Nero stabbed himself in the neck. Efforts by others to stop the bleeding failed while Nero gurggled his last words, ‘Too late’.
      Wikipedia is a dominant free global online information source founded in 2001 that is often our first reference search but should not be considered a definitive source because it can be updated by any boorish schlub at anytime with good information, misinformation, or disinformation.
      Wikipedia is a portmanteau from “wikiwiki” which means ‘fast’ in that old Polynesian language of the Austronesian language family now known as the Hawaiian language; and “pedia”, which I suppose somehow relates to learning.
      Before Wikipedia, all the facts we wanted were found in heavy physical page turners like Encyclopædia Britannica, The World Book, and Funk & Wagnalls. The later was sold volume by volume in American grocery stores.
      Reverend Funk was a Lutheran Minister, a prohibitionist, and a renowned lexicographer. Coincidence has his last name evoke a state of depression, odious smells, and a music genre through a mixture of soul, jazz, rhythm and blues. The envelopes with the questions for Carnac the Magnificent were “kept in a mayonnaise jar on the porch of Funk and Wagnalls.” You could, “Look that up in your Funk and Wagnalls.” And, next time you’re in Lithopolis, Ohio, please visit the Wagnalls Memorial Library. Funk doesn’t have his own library. He does have a porch.
     Our man of the month, Pliny the Elder compliled, Naturalis Historia (Natural History), an encyclopedia of 37 books into which he collected all the knowledge he could remember or revise with proficient pedantry informed by Stoic natural philosophy paired with sips of the fine fermentation of Fiano di Avellino grapes that Pliny the Elder noted were “beloved by bees” due to the honeyed aroma and the subtle flavor of hazelnuts.
       Some historians consider Naturalis Historia  to be the first encyclopedia ever written. Other historians disagree. Of course the gossips wish it included a gossip section.
      Pliny the Elder wrote that his subject matter would be “nature, that is life.” For Pliny the Elder, “Nature is the world, both as a whole and as its separate components; she is both the creator and the creation.” He offers little to nothing relative to his speculation regarding the nature of nature.
      Unlike one of his Roman buddies, a former tutor and speechwriter for Nero, Seneca the Younger was a Stoic philosopher, statesman, dramatist, and occasional satirist, who couldn’t stop pontificating regarding his every thought. While Pliny the Elder had an aversion to blabby philosophical arguments.
       Seneca the Younger, you’ll recall, is famous for repeating one of his all time favorite piths every chance he could to anyone who would listen:

Religion is regarded by the common people as true, by the wise as false, and by rulers as useful!

Pliny the Pleb was often seen in his tattered tunic along Appian Way shouting a familar reply:

Religion leads to duplicity!
Duplicity leads to doubt!
Doubt leads to fear!
Fear leads to death!
Death leads to Religion!
And, again . . . whoopee!

Sadly, Seneca the Younger, also took his own life after the accusations over his alleged involvement with the efforts to assinate Nero became too much to endure.
       Pliny the Elder didn’t care to discuss the nature of nature in Epicurean or Stoic terms. He instead leaned toward particular pedagogy with entries like: 

The best kind of emeralds come from Scythia.

It takes six European trees produce pitch.

There are three kinds of lettuce.

Rocket [Arugula] is an excellent aphrodisiac.

Pliny the Elder gathered knowledge from his personal observations, his own prior works (such as his big book about Germany), and extracts from other works that were collected through the use of a servant who would read aloud while another servant would rewrite the extracts as Pliny the Elder offered edits and snarky remarks like, “In wine, there’s truth!” as he sipped from his terra-cotta jar a mega-pint of vintage amber-colored Falernian vinum made from Aglianico grapes grown on the slopes of Monte Massico then soaked for a week in the Mediterranean Sea. This pleased Bacchus, the Roman party god of wine, vegetation, fertility, festivity, ritual madness, ecstasy, theatre, and general whackiness.
      Which brings me to a botanical entry found in Naturalis Historia, Lupus Salictarius, today known as Humulus Lupulus, commonly known as hops. Pliny the Elder enjoyed his fine wine daily and occasionally a beer or two.
     Beer lovers take note. There is a delicious Double India Pale Ale brewed with nuggets of Amarillo, Centennial, Simcoe, Columbus, Tomahawk, and Zeus hops. Slightly bitter with a fresh hoppy aroma of floral, citrus, earthy dankness, and pine named, Pliny the Elder!
     Pliny the Elder of ancient Rome achieved everlasting fame due to his nephew, Pliny the Younger, who wrote about his uncle’s heroic, sad, and untimely death when he succumbed to gaseous fumes, volcanic ash, and smoke during the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius in 79 A.D. during his attempt to rescue Pliny the Younger and others from the explosion. Some historians (who shall remain anonymous) believe Pliny the Elder died of a heart attack while on his valiant rescue mission. The gosspis have another story that I’ll leave for another time. However, it does involve wine.
    Before Pliny the Elder was found belly up he left us with some memorably terse aphorisms like: “Home is where the heart is.” And, “Hope is the pillar that holds up the world. Hope is the dream of a waking man.” And, “There is always something new out of Africa.”
     “Out of Africa” sounds like a good title for a classy memoir about early 20th century life on a coffee plantation in the Ngong Hills of British East Africa (now Kenya). Am I right Karen Blixen?
     La fine. Arrivederci miei amici!
Please send questions or comments to Ken Hurley the Elder
###   

Destiny
By Ken Hurley

First of all, let’s clear up one thing, I am not a hero. While I may have a humanist sense for the well-being of others mental and physical strength, and at one point in life I may have been a real looker, I am no hero.
    Nor am I a teatotaler. I enjoy a small sip of bourbon which people in Kentucky still believe is the nectar of the gods. They might be right. The people in Tennessee might disagree but that’s a story for another day.
     It all happened late on a pleasant Sunday afternoon. It was a peaceful scene by the lake where the willows reflected as the smell of honeysuckle wafted through my nostrils while I walked through the park in my boxers, bathrobe and slippers, feather boa around my neck, smoking a short stogie, with a small bourbon in hand, belting out Cyndi Lauper’s, “Girls Just Want to Have Fun”. When fate, as I suppose you might call it, brought Destiny to me.
    “Pardon me, sir, but could you tell me how to get to Carnegie Hall?”
      I thought this must be some kind of a joke. Did she just call me sir? I stopped singing to gather my thoughts as I stifled a belch. I looked her over and knew this lovely person was the stuff dreams are made of. Not nightmares. The vivid good dreams. Her immense pulchritude turned my eyeballs into two big red throbbing hearts. And she needed help. She was lost. I do at least know the way to San Jose.
     I guzzled my last sips of bourbon as I squashed my cigar butt under my slipper and put the whiskey tumbler in my robe pocket and tied my robe closed. After all, I am a gentleman. I straightened my spine and said with a smile, “Well, hello gorgeous!” A line I borrowed from Barbara Streisand’s Fanny Brice.
    She returned, “Hi” with a sultry voice that could launch a thousand billionaires into space.
     And so our pithy conversation began. I offered my name and asked for her name in return. Something I learned in junior high school etiquette class where we balanced a copy of Amy Vanderbilt’s Complete Book of Etiquette on our head while we walked in circles. We would have learned more if we actually read it.
    “I’m Destiny,” she said with a look that made our chance encounter seem as inevitable as a GOP lie.
     I almost said, “Pleased to meet you, Destiny, I’m Ron Dayvous,” but nah. Spare her the pun.
     Stunned by her beauty, my thoughts raced yet were stuck inside my head. As I struggled to find a seamless sequiter to demonstrate I’m more than just a boy in a bathrobe. I babbled, “Leonard Bernstein sure could parry a baton!” Oh, dear.
     Fortunately, as chance would have it, Destiny was not put off by my appearance or lack of coherence. I circled my thoughts, cleared my mind and said, “Yes. I do. I can walk you there. It’s not far.”
     “That’s very kind. I’m late and not sure how to get there from here.”
      I gulped, took a deep breath and we began our walk through the park.
     Destiny carried a tattered violin case and a canvas shopping bag with a picture of Karl Marx on the side. Or, was it Jerry Garcia?
     Our conversation ranged from our shared inability to discern the difference among the Brontë sisters, to wondering how many Warner Brothers were there?
     She asked, “Do you believe in life after death?”
     “Of course! Lot’s of life after death. Just not yours or mine.”
    She then wondered, “Do you believe God exists?”
      “Sure! Similar to the way Mickey Mouse exists. Created to makes us feel better about ourselves.”
     “What’s the difference between “should” and “must”, she blurted.
     An odd question. But ok, I’m enjoying the walk.
    “Must” is used to express an unavoidable requirement or obligation; while “should” is used as a suggestion  that may also include, hopes, dreams  and aspirations.
     She even asked what I thought about Freethought.
     “It’s great!” I said. “But I prefer to get paid. There was a time when you could get a penny for your thoughts. And, that’s my two cents worth!”
     As we giggled through our chit-chat over the hierarchy of angels and the distinction between a seraphim and a cherubim, Destiny stumbled and fell hard. Her violin case smashed to the ground snapped open as her violin bounced out and up toward the sky. The contents of her Marx Garcia shopping bag scattered while Destiny lay moaning on her side holding her ankle.
     Despite my small bourbon intake, my reflexes were faster than a one-percenter spotting a tax loophole.
     Just before the violin crashed back to the pavement I swooped my pinky around the G string and avoided disaster.
     I turned to Destiny, “Are you alright?” She looked at me like Lois Lane looked at Superman and gushed, “You saved my violin!” Then groaned, “My ankle. I don’t think I can walk.”
     I gathered the items that fell from her bag. Put the violin back in its case. Then scooped up Destiny and held her in my arms as if crossing a threshold and carried her to Carnegie Hall where she played first chair. We made it just in time too.
     Destiny was filled with gratitude. Gratitude, a rare commodity these days. “You are my hero, thank you!”
     “Awe, I’m no hero. Just a guy out for a stroll in his bathrobe. Anyone would have done what I did in the same situation.”
    “Oh, no” Destiny protested. “You are special. And, one day with a little practice, practice, practice, you may learn to accept that you are my hero.”
     Hero? Time for a stroll to the Carnegie Deli.

Christian Rock
By Ken Hurley

There are moments when I yearn for the days before there was Christian rock. When Elvis was King and analysis of the leitmotifs regarding the tonal significance of what the bassoon was saying at the New York Philharmonic was a fun Sunday afternoon.
    The churchy charlatans of the days when rock ‘n’ roll began still live amongst us. If not them, certainly their offspring. (They breed.) These pulpit pabalum spewing chuckleheads decided that rock ‘n’ roll must go because Satan was behind it all. Their hatred of rock ‘n’ roll as a savage jungle display of human vulgarity was rooted in their sense of self-supremacy.
      Apparently, the Supreme Devil himself could jive tap his foot to The Andrews Sisters, Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy, but shouldn’t act allTutti Frutti or wiggle a toe in Blue Suede Shoes.
    Yet it was the “holy spirit” that moved so many Christians to gyrate with uncontrollable jackhammer intensity at their Southern Baptist church services. The preachers thought wiggling to Little Richard was blasphemy but shaking to the spirit of the Lord during church by someone who looked afflicted with an epileptic seizure was God in glorious action.
     Elvis (anagram: Evils) when asked to explain what he did on stage when it was seen as scandalously licentious said, “I just sing like they do back home.”
     Ray Charles deserves a whole lotta lovin’ for intentionally merging “sacred” and secular music. He modified gospel songs into R&B wonders. He changed a few words, went upbeat, added a touch of human sensuality and turnedTalkin’ ’Bout Jesus into Talkin’ ’Bout You; This Little Light of Mine became This Little Girl of Mine; It Must Be Jesus became I’ve Got a Woman.
   Yet rock music owes some of its success to the Christian faith even though later the Christian faith co-oped the musical style as another way to appeal to believers who might also add a few shekels to their coffers.
     It’s the drumbeat! “A backbeat you can’t lose it . . .” as Chuck Berry sang. Many of the rhythmic notations began in Africa; became work songs, blues, gospel, rock, then Christian Rock. Eventually, most of the fearmongering from the pulpits regarding the evil demons of rock ‘n’ roll subsided.
      The hippie craze helped inspire the “Jesus movement,” where Christ was portrayed as a bearded, long-haired, sandal wearing, tie-died, peace and love, activist dude, who wanted to be your personal savior. Jesus Christ became a Superstar. And, just like that, lots of Christian congregations were rocking and rolling. Even Bob Dylan became born again.
      Like a ship at sea named Beauty Rest, rocking and rolling is still good. As Duke Ellington wrote, “Music is My Mistress.”  And, as MC Hammer sang, “It’s all good”.
     So what was all the fuss about?

SONG REVIEW: Hey Baby
“Darkly dancing across the keys, Kenny Bunco and the 12 Notes’ “Hey Baby” brings a Bluesy, Jazzy sound to life beneath a lyrical depiction of mortal beauty wrapped up in indulgence and fatigue – couching observations of recklessness and self-abuse in the appreciative double-entendre depiction of an angel about to take flight! 

     The feel and flow of “Hey Baby” is mesmerizing! Sparingly applied keys sit well in the mix with walking bass and dutiful drums in order to give rise to Ken Hurley’s uniquely engaging vocal tones – illustrating a portrait of a woman approaching the end of her rope with reckless abandon through characteristically colorful and stylistically gripping deliveries. Ceaselessly moving piano carries the torch between verses, maintaining a brilliant balance between levity and languish in keeping with the theme.  Skillful performances keep the pace brisk and the vibe strong as the nearly improvisational tone of Ken’s lyrical flow holds listeners rapt!

     Flirtatiously darker themes and accompanying musical drives lie at the core of “Hey Baby” – making it easily accessible to fans of more experimental and independent versions of Blues and Rock and especially to those that enjoy well-played piano at the center!

     Kenny Bunco and the 12 Notes’ Love and… shows a diverse range of stylistic ability and a genuine creativity at the helm – prompting eager ears towards whatever the artist produces next! Excellent work! – Jon Wright

About the Reviewer:
Jon Wright is a trained multi-instrumentalist, vocalist, and music educator with nearly twenty years of experience in the field.