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Tuesday, Jun 27th

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Day Zero: Comet Strike

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If our clock wasn't cleaned, it was certainly reset.  That makes twice in one week.  I wasn't over Falling Back yet -- now, in mid-primal scream, I am Falling Forward, imagining many of us, holding our heads as we drop, by the battalions, parachuting in, chutes failing to open, each of us Edvard Munch, spying the ground racing up.

Somewhere around 3:00 a.m., as Eastern Shock Zone is calculated, I think it was, when it was certain -- when the curtain was pulled around the unsettling corpse of the election.

3:00 a.m. -- the time, you might remember from past messaging, when it was comforting to think someone alert, aware, and with lights-on-in-the-head, might take an emergency call for the nation, get up, get the lights on, and start working.

(Soon, of course, at 3:00 a.m., we can count on someone groggy, foggy, and with fused circuit breakers in the head, to take an emergency call for the nation, sit up, and start tweeting insults and partial-sentence rants.)

Like many, I was bleary-eyed, and maybe teary, too, and with the strong need for sleep at hand -- alas, another formerly safe refuge made impossible, another port denied.

So, I went back to old tricks, the equivalent of counting sheep:  letting my mind wander, while sleep-typing, helping words do easy circus tricks on cheap wooden chairs, for no applause or treat -- just because the words were restless, flipping and flopping around on the seismically shattered floor of my skull, a gaggle of squishy, half-deflated, somewhat wounded concepts limping and lurching to and fro...

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Quién es Más Loco? … Or … Say Goodnight Gracie Part IV

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After watching the third and final debate between Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton I agree with you … we should vote for Clinton on election day. Our conclusion is the same … but for different reasons.

I do not think if Trump were elected that the United States would succumb to Fascism.

That Has Already Happened.

It is true that the U.S. pulled back from the brink in the 30's and 50's. But the country sailed over the edge the moment the Supreme Court nullified the voice of the people and handed the presidency to George W. Bush on December 12, 2000. That's the day democracy in the United States stopped breathing and died. And Guess what? 16 years later It's Still Dead.

We could argue about whether or not the U.S. is a Fascist State, or an oligarchy, or to be more precise, a plutocracy, but that's not the point. The point is: all Americans must vote against Donald John Trump.

Because he is insane.

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Say Goodnight Gracie Part III

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It appears that unless the Universe has a couple of extra tricks up its sleeve, we're witnessing the last days of presidential hopeful, Fucko the Clown. As of today, Friday October 14th, there are 24 days remaining until the election. Is it possible that Fucko could do or say anything that could salvage his flailing campaign? Are there enough Fucko supporters in swing states to stop a Clinton win? I don't think so. But then again … this is a presidential campaign the likes of which we have never seen. The American voters, Republicans and Democrats, have been played. Not like a violin … more like a kazoo. And the tune, eerily reminiscent of Pop Goes the Weasel, goes something like this:

There is an Orange Monster, with deplorable minions, hammering at the gates of the shining city upon a hill. This beast, who had lived his entire life in ostentatiously bestial ways, recently had been shown to also treat women in a beastly fashion (surprise surprise). The outraged citizens of the shining city chose a strong, battle-hardened woman as their leader to battle the beast. But unbeknownst to the citizens of the shining city upon a hill, the leader they chose to vanquish the Orange Monster … was another monster.

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Say Goodnight Gracie Part II

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Last month looking South I saw another bad day brewing. Not surprising. It was preceded by a bad week, month, year, decade … fifteen years to be exact. The United States of America was shocked out of its fucking mind on September 11th 2001 and there is no sign it is ever coming back.

To commemorate the 15th anniversary of the attacks of 9/11 the major media booked the psychopaths, quislings, and blood-suckers who used the attacks as the excuse to launch never-ending wars. The war criminals and their minions were not in prison … they were on television. In addition to all of that the blogger driftglass observed in Crooks & Liars, “Rupert Murdoch's Wall Street Journal has turned a large chunk of its 9/11 editorial page over to one of the worst and most unrepentant American war criminals and profiteers in modern history, and his blood-drunk beast of a daughter.

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The Excellence of Less

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It was a complete surprise when I got word from the Trump campaign that I had been chosen to interview its candidate.

"We hate all the press," I was told upon confirming the invitation details, "because they always insist on quoting what Mr. Trump actually says, which simply isn't fair." Apparently, random drawings for unknown interviewers were seen by the campaign as being no worse than selecting known individuals by name, media outlet, or audience.

* * *

My body clock told me I met the candidate around midnight. (This is only a guess, as I saw no clocks in the room, when I came around, after my eyes adjusted to the light, as the black bag was removed from my head, following the flight in Trump Force Nine.)

"It's really something to meet you," I said thickly, refocusing my eyes to the well-known figure seated across the large, dimly-lit room.  He was flanked by staff and bodyguards.  My hands were lashed to the arms of the chair with zip-ties, I slowly realized.  My mouth tasted like horse blankets soaked in rusty garlic oil.

"I imagine it is," he clucked.

I remembered as much of the meeting as I could, having no way to record details, which follow.  (If the account is fuzzy in spots, I apologize.  Blame the knock-out drugs.)

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Let's Pretend Words Still Have Meaning

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When there are no major upheavals on the scene, and things are percolating along on a restful plateau, I doubt we're all paying a high degree of attention.  Perhaps we've all just gotten used to being torn to shreds, politically and psychologically, then heaving ourselves up on the bank for a bit, gasping and panting, trying to suck down more air and stay alive, for the next round.

It feels like that most days, since this presidential election contest began, back in May of 1862.  Which is to say, it just feels like that.  Or, maybe, I heard someone say that -- I'm not saying it, myself, you understand me -- I'm only saying I think I heard someone say that, and I think recently, but I am not sure I can be sure...

(This campaign-speak stuff is terrible -- once you get some on you, it wants to bond with you, mate with you, and stay stuck on you forever, like the face-creature in the movie Alien.)

Then, after we've recharged some, things start to become energized and antsy, and change starts to happen and shift once again, taking on new tones, perspectives, goals.  It is here, at the Outer Markers defining the current norms, that you and I might start to joke or kid about things "starting to get a little crazy" when occasional sneaker waves surprise us with low-impact, but unexpected, developments here or there.

Example?  The announcement that Trump would run for President of the United States.  Who could ever have taken that seriously, back then?  It would have been only slightly more believable if a cab-sized jellyfish made the announcement, too.  Remember those good old days?

Then:  More change happens, in this paradigm, which generates additional, and more elevated, events and comments.  When change is in full-on, earth-quaking mode, both the ground and horizon lines in full sway, it becomes harder to tell where the norms are, when the shaking stops in a while, or how to tell how bad the damage will be.

Example?  That would be about now, in the aftermath of Trump-as-nominee -- itself once as believable as Godzilla showing up at the GOP convention in a clown suit. With tutu, and size 4200, triple-E-to-the-9th-power, floppy shoes.

This is when we start losing our abilities to find words hefty enough, strong enough, to pack the true weight we want them to lug for us.  When we say, "things are absolutely nuts here right now," it's difficult to get a bead on what that means anymore, having moved through the increasing ranges of changing norms, from the ones and twos on the low end of the scale, and having made adjustments along the way, to the early sevens and eights.

The words have changed right along with us, too, or so it feels -- if not definitions and denotations, then certainly the connotations and the curb-weights.

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Stay Calm, We Have a White Flag

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Add another quote, maybe, to the lexicon of our self-confusion:  "We have met the enemy, and we went through the looking-glass anyway."

This explains an awful lot, to my own satisfaction, from a run-on Trump to runaway tire-fires.  We humans are our own best friends and our own worst enemies.

There's a whole growth industry now in trying to explain away human mishaps and miseries, from unexpected dumpster fires with elaborate comb-overs, to the hiring of newly-minted experts who can explain to us, on teevee, why it is that we are being bombarded by flaming drone-shrapnel wreckage and bowling balls -- or are about to be.

On Monday, an aerial Gold Rush began.  A stampede of more than 3,300 civilians had signed up to take the first-ever FAA licensing test to become licensed, for-hire drone pilots.  In a year, one report noted, we may have more drone pilots than the 171,000 private pilots now on the books.

There's money in them thar skies, especially as the notion of our sense of entitled convenience increases in parallel with our overbooked waking hours and/or sheer laziness.

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