If you are a band and I recently deleted you...here is why.

This is a repost from my original myspace blog:

I apologize, but it's time to tighten up the reins around here and I have, by more than half and probably then some. Sure, it was my fault but now you are clogging up my chi and I cannot take it anymore.

I was up to almost 1000 friends. I am that person that accepted every band request that came in, in the name of art. Art for art's sake, but NO MORE. I've turned to my better judgement--to the repository of my own personal predilections. Yes, I have those now and they know what they like and are tired of being silenced.

I've been sifting through the wine cellar that is my myspace friend list. I've sniffed and swirled your music, letting your tannin penetrate my eager nostrils. True, some of these were short, quick whiffs, but still, the point is that I've given you a chance before I red-x'd you. In fact, I probably hand out more benefits of the doubt than the Social Security office, but that's a story for another day.

I've been looking at your profile pics for 4 long years. Some of you haven't even logged on in all that time, some haven't even changed your profile pic. You just sit there, ogling me all day, sometimes when I'm not even home. Well listen up, Mr. and Mrs. Static-X, there will be no more waiting for Krizzle to do the next, circus trick. No more reproachful mocking of my daily high-jinks.

No more wondering "did that space-cadet lock herself out of the house again or is today's order another predictable, depressing poem about lost love? Think I'll log on, I need good laugh." WELL NOT TODAY, ubiquity. You've taken me for granted. I'm out.

Do you even exist and if you so, who are you? How are we connected, other than by this flimsy thread of high-speed internet connectivity? I feel so naked and exposed under the light of your absolute, unbarred scrutiny. I don't even know you! Yes, I know this is "myspace", a place for strangers to converge around each other's daily miseries, outbursts, sparkley tags and occasional celebrations, but this cyber-barbecue has gotten way outta hand. I've moved on to more tangible realities---namely, Facebook.

And I've called in reinforcements, as well. So stop fanning the flames, myspacers. So much voice and such little discretion. I mean, honest to God, I received a friend request from Quizno's last week. I am not KIDDING. Quiznos, goddammit. Something is wrong with this picture. It's a sad state of affairs when the fast-sandwich makers of America start reading your daily blogs and dripping their Aus jus all over your heart-felt, arcane, meanderings. GET OUT OF MY GARDEN, QUIZNOS! You're dribbling your pork juices all over my organic cucumbers. AND you are SO NOT 23 years old, from California and a Gemini. Stop taunting me with your toasty breads and layers of folded MEATS. Way to toy with my emotions! SICK.

So I thought a little myspace-fengshui was in order. That, and I upgraded to Pro on www.flickr.com, which is a nifty, little site that you might want to check out. It's more photog-friendly and has some great tools.

So, if I deleted your band, it is because you fell under one or more of the following criteria:

A) Your music is pure, unabated "ka-ka".

B) I don't remember adding you in my newfangled, manic myspace fervor three years ago. The proverbial mood stabilizers have since kicked in. You have to go.

C) The terms "nigga" "bitch" and "ho" are not presently in my vernacular, save for satirical hyperbole. Sorry, I am not THAT teacher. And if you feel the need to use those term in your lyrics, could you limit it to no more than 150 times in one song? Gracias. In addition, I already live in an economically-deprived area and I don't need to hear about how you're gonna "bust out your mac-10 and blast me". I have PTSD as it is going to the grocery store. That's not how I take my hip-hop. I have the Foundation, the Roots and Dead Prez. So thanks, but NO thanks.

D) You apparently thought you were "THE ONE" and also "THE ONLY" in addition to "WORLDWIDE" and you are clearly not. Bub-bye.

E) I love acoustic/folk/indie/rock just as much as the next gal, but Christ on a Cracker, could you please fade the introspective self-doubt down a notch or two? I'm emotional enough and I spend plenty of hours alone as it is, wandering through the fields, psycho-analyzing myself, wondering why the world is so effed up, how come my childhood sucked? Why am I in this field? Did I leave the coffee-pot on, etc?

Please write some more unpredictable lyrics or at the very least, add some synth to the mix. I'll even settle for some distracting noises. How about Ostrich mating sounds? Very relaxing from what I hear.

F) Same goes for some of you in the neo-soul/R&B community. I really do not need to hear another song about where you want to lick me tonight? Well maybe I do, but not 100 times over. Something risky? Courageous? different? I don't care. Lay it on me. I'll take it.

G) Your "motivational-speaker" looking pic tipped me off and it turns out you are selling vitamins, some kind of miracle elixir or better yet, can clue me in on the secrets of "how to get rich overnight". I'm much more interested in learning how to breathe, macrame or sleep. Gone Baby----GONE.

H) You recently bulletined a promo for the extremely low-budget "strip-club" (oops, i meant to say "premier urban gentleman's club) commercial you did and I'm not talking about you AT ALL, Fancy Ray.

I) My doom, black, grind-core, Metal phase has ended. Sorry for my fickleness. I was reliving my adolescence. It's over (for now).

J) My dog told me to delete you because you're "cheap".

J.a) (For the laypeople) I emailed you...over a 2 weeks ago about getting together or an otherwise important matter. I see you've read the email. I understand your busy, but you still haven't gotten back to me via phone, email or otherwise. I'm not a dentist. I don't pull teeth for a living. Peace out.

K) And lastly, I realized that your profile is host to a giant picture of you or someone you respect highly in a cute, little thong, "shakin' that ass"- "poppin' it like it's hot" and your last 20 comments are links to free ringtones and Coach bags. I am SO done with you. You should have seen this coming. Drop your key in the mailbox, please.

So there you have it. I've allowed my wine cellar to devolve into a broken-down, communal Winnebago and I need you to stop throwin' your used "scratchies" all over my dashboard. I love you all -- myspace or not, but I'm lettin' ya off at the next stop. We are all in this together, no matter what, so please do not be offended. It's ONLY a website and I know somehow you will find it in your soul to carry on without me.

Paz, Luz y Amor.

Eternally yours,
Krizzle

Sometimes you feel like a complete and utter senile-headcase

Tonight I arrived home to find my backdoor completely wide open...swingin' in the rainy breeze.

My first reaction was "WTF!??? Literally, I screamed the letters "W-T and F.

I cased the place. Laptop, check. Bass, check. Creepy dude with a knife, uncheck.

What? Huh? Then I hear LOUD knocking on the walls. Can't tell if it's coming from the basement or the tenant nextdoor. I run out to the bulkhead, phone and knife in hand, ready to unleash a heavy crescent kick to the face.

Actually, that's not entirely true. I figured it was the plumber or something and if so, had he let himself in? Cuz that would not be cool at all and I would be reading Mr. Roto-Rooter the Tenants Bill of Rights from Rote. Root. Roto?

Bulkhead was closed with leaves all over it. So I knock on my neighbor's door. She and her partner are banging stuff (or possibly each other--she was kinda sweaty) and she apologizes profusely to which i interject, explaining my whole mental lapse. And then she asks me if she can use my parking space tomorrow b/c she is moving......back to Maryland. I'm like "of course". But in my mind, i'm thinking wow..she literally just moved here in August. Oh well. Seasons change. People change. And then they move back to Baltimore, I suppose. Must be the crabcakes. I personally am having a fantasy about Nashville right now. Don't ask me why. I don't like country, but I like Tennessee. Not the part that still reminisces about the Civil War, but the other parts, like Nashville. This one time I saw a bear in the Smokey Mountains and I made Theron come out of the tent with me so I could pee. That was funny, because I ended up peeing too close to Kevin's really expensive tent and..well...I didn't get attacked by a bear! That's the important lesson here, kids.

And I honestly DO NOT recall leaving the door wide open and unlocked. I have to lock the bolt with the key. I mean, who forgets that?

Answer=ME.

Yea, in my sleep-deprived rush out the door with like 6 bags (minimalist by even my standards), a coffee, water, a kong, and a dog, it appears I forgot not only to lock my door, but also to close it. Yay, senility!

I'm told we peak intellectually at 20 years of age. So I guess I don't feel so alone in saying "it's all downhill from here, people!" And now I can exuse my own stupidity. It seems to work for lots of other people, why not me? It's my fucking turn!

Seriously. I need some Algebraic Algorithms or something. Cryptography, Symbolic Computation, Robotics? I'm not too sharp since I've not taken a class in over a year. I misspell A LOT. I prob. just mispelled "mispell'...and possibly "LOT".
I feel like a stoner who doesn't smoke pot. I feel like an Elder with a penchant for being 30-something.

But alas, I now have the satisfaction of knowing my neighborhood is fairly innocuous or just can't be bothered with my pittance of material aquisitions. My camera was with me, of course.

There is one little kid that rides around here on his bike all the time that is a little bit of a pest. Today I tried to take a photo of him, but he was wearing a mask. He's a cute little kid until he opens his mouth. The kid curses like a rodeo clown. I would curse a lot if I were a rodeo clown, too. I mean, at that point, it's fair to say you've earned it. You're in a clown costume getting chased by an angry bull. That's a rough gig, but I digress.

There it goes again.

And I did try out a crescent kick last night, missing Tina's face by an eight of a centimeter. I didn't mean it, Tina. I'm sorry I made you cry and crouch down in the fetal position, melting into a quivering ball of protoplasm. I will think next time before I unleash my Kung-Fu fury on you like that. I mean, sometimes I just gotta let out my inner David Lee Roth, you know what I mean? You know what I mean.

It's an incurable condition that cannot be helped. Don't even TRY to fight it.

You know why? Because I’m a superhero. I’m Batman. The End.

I love my nephews and Tina's sneakers and Chris' Tuna Casserole and Jazz and my new bass. Pow! Pow! Pow! POW! POW! POW!!!!!!

Guess i'm not the only one having Halloween withdrawals:

to the dude at daddy’s ..(not mick or glen)..feel free to kiss my derierre.

I went in there tonight to buy a gig-bag for my beautiful, new candy-apple-red bass.

I should have talked to Glen as planned, not you, you moron, but alas Glen was busy being a human being, unlike you, you complete ass-clown. But you asked if I needed help and I said "yes."

I should have known better when you said you "only had hard-shelled cases" that you were lying. You are a music store. When the fuck do you sell out of gig-bags? That's like going to the bank and there out of money. Are you serious? You can't be serious.

But here is where you really added insult to injury.

When I declined the purchase of the $115 dollar hard-shell case, (ultimately, because of you)...don't feign that maybe there's stock of gig-bags at another store, run over to your computer just to add levity to the charade , press one key and instantly discover that you actually do have gig-bags in stock....2 left in fact..in this store! Did the computer say YES, CAROL!?

And then you're all like "wow, i must have missed that before". You clearly have mistaken me for Sally Slopsocks who resides at 12 Gullible Lane, Totally Naive, Massachusetts. Nope. Not this Sally. In fact, you might have a retained a customer had you just been a tad more honest. No, not even the fact that you know my brother (who alone has leveraged thousands of dollars at your store) phased your little piddly.

So, bite me.

Here's what you were really looking at, you pig-face:



Then you run out back for 10 seconds and magically the 60 dollar gig-bag appears. It's like it was right back there all the time and you totally missed it! WONDERS NEVER CEASE! I guess the gig-bag fairy made an impromptu landing. I was really impressed in particular when that unicorn flew out of your ass, as well. Amazing trick!

And for the future, I will not be shopping at your establishment ever again, which is sad. You ruined it for everyone. It's like you let out a big fart and now the room has cleared. Nice job.

For anyone who is interested, I now by all of my gear and accessories on www.musiciansfriend.com. They are courteous and helpful and don't resort to used-car-salesmen tactics to make an extra 10 bucks in commission.

If you do, however, decide to still shop at Daddy's, ask for Glen. He is good.

Oh, and while i'm on this rant. it's amazing to me that some Americans still think Iraq is responsible for 911. And now you're just thinking we are way to deep into this war to justify, but at first you were like "yea, bomb those motherfuckers". Please stop eating in public restaurants. And while you're at it, now might be a good time to take a permanent vow of silence. At the very least, please become a recluse, so I don't have to listen to the sound of your brain cells pleading for mercy. Thanks a bunch!

mi profesor, Martín Espada and strange walk-in clinics

It's been a long time since I took Latino Poetry in 1998. Time has brought with it several jobs, several moves and several shifts, but Martín Espada is one of my favorite poets and will always be.

I got a chance to hear him read today. Here's a few of the pieces he read:

Jorge the Church Janitor Finally Quits

Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1989

No one asks
where I am from,
I must be
from the country of janitors,
I have always mopped this floor.
Honduras, you are a squatter's camp
outside the city
of their understanding.

No one can speak
my name,
I host the fiesta
of the bathroom,
stirring the toilet
like a punchbowl.
The Spanish music of my name
is lost
when the guests complain
about toilet paper.

What they say
must be true:
I am smart,
but I have a bad attitude.

No one knows
that I quit tonight,
maybe the mop
will push on without me,
sniffing along the floor
like a crazy squid
with stringy gray tentacles.
They will call it Jorge.


..>..>..>..>
..>



Alabanza: In Praise of Local 100

for the 43 members of Hotel Employees and Restaurant Employees
Local 100, working at the Windows on the World restaurant,
who lost their lives in the attack on the World Trade Center

Alabanza. Praise the cook with a shaven head
and a tattoo on his shoulder that said Oye,
a blue-eyed Puerto Rican with people from Fajardo,
the harbor of pirates centuries ago.
Praise the lighthouse in Fajardo, candle
glimmering white to worship the dark saint of the sea.
Alabanza. Praise the cook's yellow Pirates cap
worn in the name of Roberto Clemente, his plane
that flamed into the ocean loaded with cans for Nicaragua,
for all the mouths chewing the ash of earthquakes.
Alabanza. Praise the kitchen radio, dial clicked
even before the dial on the oven, so that music and Spanish
rose before bread. Praise the bread. Alabanza.

Praise Manhattan from a hundred and seven flights up,
like Atlantis glimpsed through the windows of an ancient aquarium.
Praise the great windows where immigrants from the kitchen
could squint and almost see their world, hear the chant of nations:
Ecuador, México, Republica Dominicana,
Haiti, Yemen, Ghana, Bangladesh.
Alabanza. Praise the kitchen in the morning,
where the gas burned blue on every stove
and exhaust fans fired their diminutive propellers,
hands cracked eggs with quick thumbs
or sliced open cartons to build an altar of cans.
Alabanza. Praise the busboy's music, the chime-chime
of his dishes and silverware in the tub.
Alabanza. Praise the dish-dog, the dishwasher
who worked that morning because another dishwasher
could not stop coughing, or because he needed overtime
to pile the sacks of rice and beans for a family
floating away on some Caribbean island plagued by frogs.

Alabanza. Praise the waitress who heard the radio in the kitchen
and sang to herself about a man gone. Alabanza.

After the thunder wilder than thunder,
after the shudder deep in the glass of the great windows,
after the radio stopped singing like a tree full of terrified frogs,
after night burst the dam of day and flooded the kitchen,
for a time the stoves glowed in darkness like the lighthouse in Fajardo,
like a cook's soul. Soul I say, even if the dead cannot tell us
about the bristles of God's beard because God has no face,
soul I say, to name the smoke-beings flung in constellations
across the night sky of this city and cities to come.
Alabanza I say, even if God has no face.

Alabanza. When the war began, from Manhattan and Kabul
two constellations of smoke rose and drifted to each other,
mingling in icy air, and one said with an Afghan tongue:
Teach me to dance. We have no music here.
And the other said with a Spanish tongue:
I will teach you. Music is all we have.

from Alabanza: New & Selected Poems --> --> --> --> --> --> --> -->

..>

Martín Espada

A MAYAN ASTRONOMER IN HELL'S KITCHEN by Martín Espada
A Mayan Astronomer in Hell's Kitchen is the title of Martín Espada's new book. The title reflects the cultural and linguistic mix in which Espada lives, shuttling from his Puerto Rican heritage to Old Guard Connecticut.
The book begins in Puerto Rico with the poet's relatives. These include a dying grandmother and a cousin whose stock of miracle cookware fails to heat the family dinner. About his father in Brooklyn, the poet writes:
Sometimes I dream
my father is a guitar,
with a hole in his chest
where the music throbs
between my fingers
("My Father as a Guitar")
Espada also writes about a magically real politician ("The Governor of Puerto Rico Reveals at His Inaugural That He Is The Reincarnation of Ponce de Leon") and the mixture of foreign birds in a luxury hotel in San Juan:
The White cockatoo from Australia
twirls tricks with a hostess
. . .
the scarlet macaw of Brazil
yammers a joke about pina coladas
. . .
the peacock of India
skitters around the koi pond
. . .
the frostbitten turkey from North Carolina
thaws in the kitchen
("Ornithology at the Caribe Hilton")




Poet, Essayist, Editor & Translator

Sandra Cisneros says: "Martín Espada is the Pablo Neruda of North American authors." Espada was born in Brooklyn, New York in 1957. He has published thirteen books in all as a poet, essayist, editor and translator. His eighth collection of poems, The Republic of Poetry, was published by Norton in October, 2006. Of this new collection, Samuel Hazo writes: "Espada unites in these poems the fierce allegiances of Latin American poetry to freedom and glory with the democratic tradition of Whitman, and the result is a poetry of fire and passionate intelligence." His last book, Alabanza: New and Selected Poems, 1982-2002 (Norton, 2003), received the Paterson Award for Sustained Literary Achievement and was named an American Library Association Notable Book of the Year. An earlier collection, Imagine the Angels of Bread (Norton, 1996), won an American Book Award and was a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award. Other books of poetry include A Mayan Astronomer in Hell's Kitchen (Norton, 2000), City of Coughing and Dead Radiators (Norton, 1993), and Rebellion is the Circle of a Lover's Hands (Curbstone, 1990). He has received numerous awards and fellowships, including the Robert Creeley Award, the Antonia Pantoja Award, an Independent Publisher Book Award, a Gustavus Myers Outstanding Book Award, the Charity Randall Citation, the Paterson Poetry Prize, the PEN/Revson Fellowship and two NEA Fellowships. He recently received a 2006 John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation Fellowship. His poems have appeared in The New Yorker, The New York Times Book Review, Harper's, The Nation,The Best American Poetry. He has also published a collection of essays, Zapata's Disciple (South End, 1998); edited two anthologies, Poetry Like Bread: Poets of the Political Imagination from Curbstone Press (Curbstone, 1994) and El Coro: A Chorus of Latino and Latina Poetry (University of Massachusetts, 1997); and released an audiobook of poetry on CD, called Now the Dead will Dance the Mambo (Leapfrog, 2004). Much of his poetry arises from his Puerto Rican heritage and his work experiences, ranging from bouncer to tenant lawyer. Espada is a professor in the Department of English at the University of Massachusetts-Amherst, where he teaches creative writing and the work of Pablo Neruda.
So I picked up Alabanza (actually, he was giving away 3 of his books), which means "Praise" in English. He signed it for me and we chatted a bit. I told him when I taught high school English in Lawrence, that I read his work and work from his list of poets to my 5th grade-level readers and they loved it. It was those rare times that they actually quieted down and listened.

We read in both languages. It made my heart soar.

And then, because of all the stress of dealing with this slumlord, I've come down with a sinus infection. I was turned down at 3 walk-in clinics in Lawrence today because of my insurance. Not that I don't have insurance, just because my Primary Care is in Medford. Thought I would save myself the gas. I ended up having to go to Medford anyway, because they would have seen me, but I would have paid out of pocket and I had no cash on me. I'm sure the MD would have been more than happy with the cash. And, I'm not griping for my own behalf because I'm one of the lucky ones in this country with insurance and I had other options, but if you live the El Barrio and you're sick, then this is it. Maritza, the nurse who managed intake was more than welcoming albeit overwhelmed with sick patients. I thank her, even though it didn't work out. I would have paid the cash, but all I had was a check. She saw my book..."Alabanza..."! she exclaimed.



We are the richest country in the world. What have be become? This looks more like a place where one would go to buy used, plastic furniture than a health-care office.

So I say Alabanza! to you, Maritza, the nurse from the walk-in clinic on Franklin Street.

Tenga un bueno el fin de semana, Señora. Paz.
Hispanic Heritage Month 2007

Silence

When I was a young girl, I cherished words.

A door-to-door salesman came to the house and sold us one of those New World Dictionaries.

I wish I knew where that dictionary is now.

I highlighted the hell out of it.

Growing up, we always had books and vinyl records around.

We also had an aged encycolopedia collection.

One day our family cat, Mr. Whiskers, brought a snake into the house.

I found it days later in our collections under "Alice in Wonderland".

I found solice in books and records.

We always had Motown, and John Denver and Joan Baez and the Beatles.

Lately, with all of this election madness, bulletins, blogs, cell phones, voicemails, emails, snail mails, traffic, malls, road construction, talking, I can't help but wonder..is anyone still reading? Are folks still listening to records? Is anyone slowing down to speed up?

And I'm lucky if I can get eye contact from my nephew if he's got the game-boy going.

Recently, a friend described his perfect soulmate. He said "knows that Silence is Golden".

It truly is. Going inward is Golden. The only way out is in.

I need to do it more.

So I'll shut up now.

Enjoy.

Oingo Boingo, Scientology and Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory

Apparently, I was the only person on the planet that didn't know acclaimed film-score composer Danny Elfman was in/was 80's new-wave band Oingo Boingo from 1976 to 1995. Not until Mr. Eddy Dyer recently informed me of this tasty nugget.

What? Huh?

Christ, I watched enough MTV. I guess I just never put the two together.

I got to thinking. I know, scary. Danny Elfman is the uncle of Jenna Elfman and Bodhi Elfman, a well-known, celebrity-scientologist couple who somewhat recently went ape-shit on a director because he was wearing an anti-scientology t-shirt.

Well, knowing all the weirdness that has been reported about scientology, including Alister Crowley, Xenu (the dictator of the "Galactic Confederacy" who, 75 million years ago, brought billions of his people to Earth in DC-8-like spacecraft, stacked them around volcanoes and killed them using hydrogen bombs) and the death of Lisa McPherson, I remembered this fact!

Remember that Oingo Boing came out with that song "Weird Science"? No? Well, here it is in all it's spectacular 80's glory.

Now....

This is an e-meter or what I like to call "The Bad Decision Machine" not much unlike the "bad egg machine" that escorts Veruca Salt down the garbage shute.

*cues Willy Wonka soundtrack*..the non-Elfman version, of course!



{The central practice of Scientology is "auditing" (from the Latin word audire, "to listen"), which is a one-on-one communication with a trained Scientology counselor or "auditor". Most auditing uses an E-meter, a device that measures very small changes in electrical resistance through the human body when a person is holding onto metal cans and a small current is passed through them.[17]
The auditing process is intended to help the practitioner (referred to as a preclear or PC) to unburden himself or herself of specific traumatic incidents, prior ethical transgressions and bad decisions, which are said to collectively restrict the preclear from achieving his or her goals and lead to the development of a "reactive mind". In one form of auditing, the auditor asks the preclear to respond to a list of questions which are designed for specific purposes and given to the preclear in a strictly regulated way. Auditing requires that the preclear be a willing and interested participant who understands the questions, and the process goes more smoothly when he or she understands what is going on. Rule #19 of the Auditors' Code demands that an auditor makes sure that the practitioner fully understands the question[18]. Per the same Church policy, auditors are trained not to "evaluate for" their preclears; i.e., they are forbidden from suggesting, interpreting, degrading or invalidating the preclear's answers. The E-meter is used to help locate an area of concern. Auditing is not to be mixed with other practices[19].
Scientologists have said that they received benefits from auditing including improved IQ, improved ability to communicate, and enhanced memory. They have also said that they are generally more happy after auditing.[20]
During the auditing process, the auditor may collect personal information from the person being audited. Auditing records are referred to within Scientology as "PC (preclear) folders" and are said to be stored securely when not being added to during auditing sessions.[21] The Auditors' Code states that an auditor promises never to use the secrets of a preclear divulged in session for punishment or personal gain.[18] The Church maintains that its auditing records are kept confidential, although in one instance (16 December 1969) a staff of the organization authorized the use of auditing records for purposes of "internal security".[22] Supporters of Scientology assert that no actual violation of the Auditors' Code has been documented[23] and such a violation is a high crime under Scientology law.[24] Court Declaration, 1985: "5. The Court refers to GO 121669 for justification in saying that the clergymen-penitent does not apply for the time period during which Armstrong was a member of the Church. The Court refers to GO 121669 for justification for abolishing the clergyman-penitent privilege. Yet nowhere does the program call for a) external dissemination of the preclear folder or b) use of information against anyone." However, a California court ruling recorded that ex-members of the Church of Scientology knew that "…the Church has in its possession his or her most inner thoughts and confessions, all recorded in pre-clear (P.C.) folders or other security files of the organization, and that the Church or its minions is fully capable of intimidation or other physical or psychological abuse if it suits their ends. The record is replete with evidence of such abuse."[25][26]}

During the 1960s, Scientology was accused by the United States government of engaging in medical fraud by claiming that the E-meter would treat and cure physical ailments and diseases. A 1971 ruling of the United States District Court, District of Columbia (333 F. Supp. 357), specifically stated, "the E-meter has no proven usefulness in the diagnosis, treatment or prevention of any disease, nor is it medically or scientifically capable of improving any bodily function."[20] As a result of this ruling, Scientology now publishes disclaimers in its books and publications declaring that "by itself, the E-meter does nothing"[21] and that it is used specifically for spiritual purposes.}
These findings basically sum up my main problem with organized religions, in that they take myth, fable, metaphor and translate them into literal fact (aka pseudo-science). And I consider myself a spritual person and even watch some of these new-age guru's do it too. The point of mysticism is that it lives in mystery! It's not palpable.

So, if it is true that a machine can measure my bad deeds or say, that God will strike down upon me if i "sin" or that, I'm going to hell if I don't redeem myself..then yes, I am going to live in a very fearful state of mind, which renders me unable to create or act compassionately. Or, instead if I can understand what the core message is... that it's awesomely rewarding to do good deeds, even invisibly, and that they come back to me, that thinking/acting with compassion change my inner and outer landscape, then I don't have to live in this anectdotal, child-like fear----that we're not all really going to get stuck, like Mike Teavee in the Taffy Pulling Room with little oompa-loompas trying to redeem ourselves or in the 7th circle of Purgatory in a river of burning blood. Same difference, really.

Although, Oompa Loompas are kinda cool now that I think of it. And yet, we all know how Willa Wonka ends. Veruca, Augustus, Mike Teavee, Violet Beauregard et al return to their respective, spoiled lives and all the little nifty, scientific tests were merely a ploy to test the honesty of Charlie-the boy with the heart of gold. But since Willa Wonka is essentially based on the seven deadly sins, it be interesting to assign disciple-like names to each and every one, except that Eddy mentioned during the filming, they all had some huge midget-sex-orgy..or maybe that was the Lollipop Guild. In any case, I think midget-disciples is a fabulous idea, but I digress.

So there you have it. Weird Science=Scientology? This is all too much.

I'm seriously handing this over to the Gods of Cruel Irony.

"So shines a good deed in a weary world"---The Candy Man




Styx is a river which formed the boundary between Earth and the Underworld, Hades. Etching by Gustave Doré, 1861.


Augustus Gloop drowning in Mr. Wonka's chocolate river